Rock Art in the Landscapes of Motion: Proceedings of a session of the 20th International Rock Art Congress IFRAO 2018 in Valcamonica, Italy 9781407359892, 9781407359908

Table of contents :
Front cover
Title page
Copyright page
Of Related Interest
Contents
Foreword
1. Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations:
1.1. Raison d’être, or an introduction to the introduction
1.2. Theoretical landscape, or landscape theorised
1.2.1. Towards a landscape paradigm?
1.2.2. Many landscapes, manifold approaches. . .
1.2.3. A place for ‘place’
1.2.4. Landscape: what is next?
1.3. Archaeologies of movement, mobility, and motion
1.3.1. The notion of motion
1.3.2. Archaeologies of movement
1.3.3. General mobilisation
1.3.4. Moving landscapes
1.4. Rock art in the landscapes of motion
1.4.1. Making landscapes
1.4.2. “Drawings on rocks, the most enduring monuments”
1.4.3. Fixed, but truly immobile?
1.4.4. Epilogue: rock art in the landscapes of motion
1.4.5. A short outline of the contributions to this volume
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
2. Between Arrest and Movement: ‘Mobile’ and ‘Stationary’ People and Their Rock Art in the Western Desert of Egypt (Third Millennium BC)
2.1. Introduction
2.1.1. Rock art and epigraphy in Egypt
2.1.2. Scope and range of the studied material
2.1.3. The Western Desert of Egypt: selected aspects
2.1.4. The Dakhla region and the far south-west
2.2. Case study 1: Dakhla Oasis
2.3. Case study 2: Abu Ballas Trail
2.4. Recapitulation and final discussion
Acknowledgements
References
3. Off the Move: On the Phenomenon of Rock Images
3.1. Introduction
3.2. Confronting the phenomenon of rock images
3.3. Things to do with rock images
3.4. Paradox of frozen movement
3.5. Sedentary images
3.6. Conclusion
Acknowledgements
References
4. Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers:
4.1. Introduction
4.2. Analysis of rock art and rhythm
4.3. Body and space
4.3.1. Participants and chronology
4.3.2. Interaction and social organisation
4.3.3. Settlement patterns
4.4. Environment: site, size, configuration, connection, and setting
4.5. Development of action: flow of movement, progression, energy and pauses in moving along Calabozos
4.6. ‘Rhythms’ of making petroglyphs at Calabozos: body structure, position in space, space of action, movement path, time and energy
4.7. Movement, rhythm and time among hunter-gatherers
4.8. Difference and commonality: a rhythmical interpretation of Guaiquivilo rock art
Acknowledgments
References
5. Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape: A Case Study of Mount Coto de Sabroso, Guimarães (Northwest Portugal)
5.1. Introduction
5.2. Location and environment
5.3. History of research at Mount Coto de Sabroso
5.4. Archaeological context
5.5. Theoretical approach and praxis
5.5.1. Praxis
5.5.1.1. Survey and study of the rock art engravings
5.5.1.2. Photography
5.5.1.3. Geographical survey
5.5.1.4. Photogrammetry and 3D modeling
5.6. Data
5.7. Discussion of data and interpretation
5.7.1. The engravings at the top of the mount
5.7.2. The engravings at the base of the mount
5.8. Iconography and chronology
5.9. Final considerations
Acknowledgments
References
6. In the Middle of Nowhere: Geoglyphs, Caravan Routes, Social Conflict, and the Visual Demarcation of Travel Routes Across the Northern Chilean Atacama Desert
6.1. Introduction
6.2. Conceptual framework
6.3. Study area
6.4. Materials and methods
6.4.1. Formal analysis of the motifs
6.4.2. Survey techniques and spatial analysis
6.5. Results: geoglyphs in the Lluta Valley of northern Chile
6.5.1. Locational characteristics of geoglyphs
6.5.2. Technical and formal characteristics of motifs
6.5.2.1. Anthropomorphs
6.5.2.2. Zoomorphs
6.5.2.3. Objects
6.5.2.4. Non-iconic motifs
6.6. Discussion
6.7. Conclusions
Acknowledgements
References
7. Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs,
7.1. Introduction
7.2. New rock art in Lakeland
7.3. Dating and context
7.4. Rock art and movement
7.5. Rock art and rough-outs
7.6. The axe factor: moving mountains
7.7. Routeways in a mountain landscape
7.8. Discussion
Acknowledgements
References
8. Bronze Age Footprints and Shoeprints, Celestial Cults and Pilgrimages in the Northwest Iberian Peninsula
8.1. Introduction
8.2. Geographical setting
8.3. Data
8.4. Chronology
8.5. Interpretation
Acknowledgements
References
9. Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin
9.1. Introduction and historical background
9.1.1. Inka history through the lens of archaeology
9.1.2. Inka history through the lens of ethnohistory
9.1.3. Inka arrival in the Titicaca Basin
9.1.4. Inka rock art as wak’as
9.2. The rock art sites
9.3. Discussion
9.3.1. Rock art among the Lupaqa and Inka
9.3.2. Rock art today
9.4. Conclusions
References
Contributors
Back cover

Citation preview

B A R I N T E R NAT I O NA L S E R I E S 3 0 9 2

2022

Rock Art in the Landscapes of Motion Proceedings of a session of the 20th International Rock Art Congress IFRAO 2018 in Valcamonica, Italy EDITED BY

P A W E Ł L. P O L K O W S K I AND FRANK FÖRSTER

B A R I N T E R NAT I O NA L S E R I E S 3 0 9 2

2022

Rock Art in the Landscapes of Motion Proceedings of a session of the 20th International Rock Art Congress IFRAO 2018 in Valcamonica, Italy EDITED BY

P A W E Ł L. P O L K O W S K I AND FRANK FÖRSTER

Published in 2022 by BAR Publishing, Oxford, UK BAR International Series 3092 Rock Art in the Landscapes of Motion isbn isbn doi

978 1 4073 5989 2 paperback 978 1 4073 5990 8 e-format

https://doi.org/10.30861/9781407359892

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library © the editors and contributors severally 2022 Rock art at Karkur Talh in the Egyptian part of Gebel Uweinat, including the representation of a small donkey caravan on the move (photo courtesy of Flavio Cambieri) cover image:

The Authors’ moral rights under the 1988 UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, are hereby expressly asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be copied, reproduced, stored, sold, distributed, scanned, saved in any form of digital format or transmitted in any form digitally, without the written permission of the Publisher. Links to third party websites are provided by BAR Publishing in good faith and for information only. BAR Publishing disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

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Contents Foreword............................................................................................................................................................................. vii 1. Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations: An Introduction to Rock Art in the Landscapes of Motion............ 1 Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster 2. Between Arrest and Movement: ‘Mobile’ and ‘Stationary’ People and Their Rock Art in the Western Desert of Egypt (Third Millennium BC)..................................................................................................... 23 Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster 3. Off the Move: On the Phenomenon of Rock Images................................................................................................ 61 Gernot Grube 4. Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers: A View from Guaiquivilo Rock Art, Southern Andes, Chile................................................................................................................................................. 71 Francisco Vergara Murua 5. Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape: A Case Study of Mount Coto de Sabroso, Guimarães (Northwest Portugal)................................................................................................................................................... 93 Daniela Cardoso, Giorgos Iliadis and George H. Nash 6. In the Middle of Nowhere: Geoglyphs, Caravan Routes, Social Conflict, and the Visual Demarcation of Travel Routes Across the Northern Chilean Atacama Desert........................................................................... 109 Daniela Valenzuela, Luis Briones†, Paz Casanova, Indira Montt, Thibault Saintenoy, Marta Crespo and Pablo Mendez-Quiros 7. Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs, and Route-Ways in the English Lake District......................... 131 Kate E. Sharpe 8. Bronze Age Footprints and Shoeprints, Celestial Cults and Pilgrimages in the Northwest Iberian Peninsula..................................................................................................................................................................... 153 José Moreira and Ana M. S. Bettencourt 9. Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin .............................................................................. 163 Jessica Joyce Christie Contributors...................................................................................................................................................................... 181

v

Foreword This volume contains the proceedings of the session Rock Art in the Landscapes of Motion, organised and chaired by us, together with Heiko Riemer, during the 20th International Rock Art Congress IFRAO that took place in Valcamonica/Darfo Boario Terme, Italy (29th August to 2nd September 2018). The session gathered 24 participants, and 12 presentations were given. The present book consists of eight contributions, which are extended and revised versions of the original papers delivered during the session, preceded by an extensive introduction to its topic. The motivation behind organising the session and, subsequently, publishing this volume stems from our involvement in archaeological investigations in a specific region, where the question of mobility and movement is particularly relevant. Both Frank Förster and Heiko Riemer have been involved for many years in archaeological research in Egypt’s Western Desert, where rock art has long constituted one of the key elements studied by their expeditions. They are also the editors of the book Desert Road Archaeology in Ancient Egypt and Beyond (Cologne 2013), which clearly demonstrates their interest in the question of relationships between material culture and mobility. Paweł L. Polkowski’s research has been carried out in the Dakhla Oasis, a smaller area within the same geographical region, and one of the great oases in Egypt’s Western Desert. His studies have concentrated on rock art corpora of various periods and their embeddedness in the landscape. His current project Rocks in Motion: Research on the Dakhleh Oasis Petroglyphs in the Context of Paths, Roads and Mobility addresses some of the key questions raised in this volume, focusing on rock art/movement interrelations and their consequences. The question of the entanglement of rock art and motion, which we all have tackled independently, has sparked our increasing interest in various theoretical and methodological aspects of this broad topic. Eventually, it led us to Valcamonica where we could discuss manifold research problems and challenging questions and positions during our session. We met other scholars dealing with similar research problems, but not necessarily using the same set of theoretical assumptions. The contents of this book reflect both this general situation and the open-minded scientific atmosphere very well. It not only offers a broad geographical and chronological range of subjects, but also presents different approaches to these subjects. We consider this theoretical non-uniformity to be an advantage, and a peg on which further discussions can hang. The work on this volume was long and arduous, mostly because it was abruptly paralysed by the COVID-19 outbreak. As the world was struggling, so were we and the contributors. Closed universities, libraries, offices; cut-off from various resources; personal issues, anxiety and worries – all of these and other factors contributed negatively to the process of editing the book. Although we committed to lead the project to a successful end within reasonable time limits, the pandemic and its consequences impacted our work with great force, thwarting our plans relentlessly. Eventually, the project, started in 2019 but arrested in 2020, moved on and the final result is now in the readers’ hands. This is a fitting place to express our immense gratitude to the contributors, who not only decided to share with us their papers and thoughts, but also demonstrated great patience in the wake of the above-mentioned obstacles and delays. We hope that this book will compensate for their effort and longanimity. We also thank Heiko Riemer for his contribution to the organisation of the session and his further help in the editing process. Finally, we wish to thank the BAR editing team, especially Tansy Branscombe and Jacqueline Senior, for their continuous support and smooth collaboration, as well as the anonymous reviewers. The Editors Poznań & Bonn, 30th May 2022 vii

1 Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations: An Introduction to Rock Art in the Landscapes of Motion Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster Abstract: During the last three decades of rock art research, the contextual importance of landscape has been strongly emphasised a number of times. It seems to be an axiom now that rock art should not be perceived as an isolated phenomenon but rather as a spatially embedded one. It is particularly the analytical category of place which has become an interpretational tool for many scholars, allowing for various considerations on rock art ‘fixity’, thus researchers may focus on this alleged stability and spatial relationships rock art has with other landscape features and agents. However, one may argue that place is not as stable and fixed as it may seem at first glance. Such loci are often connected with paths and roads, or actually, they form parts of these routes. A place then may constitute only a node point of countless paths used by various agents. Features such as rock art belong not so much to a landscape of endurance and fixed relationships but to a landscape of motion, full of ephemeral links and relations. Motion affects rock art in a number of ways, from acting human agents to acting animals, weather phenomena, changing lighting conditions, objects and other rock art. Hence rock art, apparently stable, is subjected to movements of those entities. Moreover, one cannot approach rock imageries other than through movement, so if one side of a coin is a landscape of endurance, then the other side could be labelled a landscape of motion. This introductory chapter aims at providing a theoretical and methodological overview of the discourses on the three basic and interdependent notions this volume deals with: landscape, motion, and rock art. We attempt at describing the main ways of conceptualising each of these notions in order to sketch the current theoretical landscape in rock art archaeology. At the end of the chapter, a very short outline of the contributions to this volume is given. Keywords: Motion, movement, mobility, landscape, place, rock art, perception, Val Kilmer and the moving station 1.1. Raison d’être, or an introduction to the introduction

day of a survey, equipped with a backpack and sufficient amounts of water, I was journeying from site to site on foot. Rocks were taking on shapes, paths were emerging, rock art and other remains of the past were becoming increasingly familiar. New images started to emerge in places I had passed by many times before. Walking, climbing, even falling, were developing in me a better knowledge of the area. The movement of the sun could reveal, as well as conceal, the images. Wind and sandstorms were influencing both my perception and the rock art itself. When I visited those places for the first time, everything was still – the silence was poignant and the landscape was dead. When I had my last day of the survey three years later, I was leaving a vibrant place, full of life (animals!) and full of rock art that – now I could be sure – was inseparable from the rocks it was applied to, inseparable from the paths leading to it and, most importantly, inseparable from my movements which had become firmly interwoven with those places (Figure 1.1).

It is probably common knowledge among rock art researchers who experience anthropogenic imageries in the landscape: such an experience always involves some kind of movement. Whether this means climbing a hill, or just following the depictions with one’s eyes, it is always about mobile engagement with seemingly immobile rock art images. And, one could argue, all these movements do not only have an impact on the perception but are also part of the broader meaning of rock art – meaning that transcends the physical outlines of painted or carved depictions. This paramount role of movement in approaching and comprehending rock art is a notion that has been seeded some years ago in one of us (PLP), largely for a trivial reason. Having a rock art survey to carry out in a remote desert area in one of the Egyptian oases (Dakhla), but having a lift only as far as the tarmac road leads, I was forced to take long walks into the desert each day. Sometimes three, sometimes eight kilometres one way to the sites and then back again. Every

This book is an outcome of pursuing that notion, as well as finding a similar fascination with movement and 1

Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster

Figure 1.1. Walking in the desert. Rock art research in the Dakhla Oasis, Western Desert of Egypt (photo by Paweł L. Polkowski).

motion in other scholars, who share similar experiences and concepts. First discussed during the IFRAO Congress in 2018, our ideas have undergone further development reaching their, for now, final state in this volume.

right. This theoretical development roughly commenced as early as the 1960s, but gained a real strong impetus in the 1990s and 2000s (e.g., Bender 1993; Ingold 1993; Tilley 1994; Gramsch 1996; Ashmore and Knapp 1999; Ucko and Layton 1999; Anschuetz et al. 2001; Johnson 2007; David and Thomas 2008; Denham 2017, to name just a few publications either theorising the notion of landscape, providing useful overviews on the subject or – ­usually – both). Simultaneously, if not earlier, the concept of ‘landscape’ (as well as of ‘space’ and ‘place’) has been the subject of theoretical reformulation within other disciplines, such as geography1 (e.g., Tuan 1977; Cosgrove 1998) and anthropology (e.g., Rodman 1992; Hirsch and O’Hanlon 1995; Feld and Basso 1996; Ingold 2000), which have heavily influenced the archaeological discourse. Despite some scholars arguing for a holistic “landscape paradigm” in archaeology (Anschuetz et al. 2001), a definite understanding and definition of ‘landscape’ has never been universally accepted. Hence various notions of, and

In this introductory chapter, we will broadly discuss three basic keywords featuring in the book’s title: landscape, motion, and rock art. We devote a major section to each of these topics, trying to account for a multiplicity of approaches and definitions. It all serves to sketch a very diversified theoretical background that forms a matrix to which the current research may refer. We finish this chapter with a brief outline of the contributions to this volume, while our case studies are presented in the following chapter (Chapter 2). 1.2. Theoretical landscape, or landscape theorised 1.2.1. Towards a landscape paradigm? There can be no doubt that one of the most influential developments in archaeology, particularly on a theoretical level, has been a broad redefinition of ‘landscape’ that has made it both a conceptual background for studying past ‘behaviours’ and an analytical category in its own

  See Wylie 2007 for a helpful interpretative overview of the notion of landscape within the domain of human geography, encompassing Carl Sauer’s cultural landscape tradition, approaches inspired by cultural Marxism, structuralism and post-structuralism, phenomenology, ActorNetwork-Theory (ANT) and hybrid geographies, to name just the most influential movements. 1

2

Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations approaches to, ‘landscape’ have been regularly advanced, criticised, or sometimes merged and transformed.

subjectivity, as in the case of various postprocessual and other concurrent theoretical conceptions.

1.2.2. Many landscapes, manifold approaches. . .

One of the themes introduced to landscape archaeology considers a landscape as a particular gaze and as an arena of social tensions, especially in regard to interrelations of power. This is an approach investigating the ‘politics’ of landscape (e.g., Bender 1993 and the essays therein) and one that has been particularly developed within feminist and postcolonial studies (e.g., Leone 1987; Hauser and Hicks 2007; for a brief overview, see Lydon 2008). Landscapes ‘vibrate’, being full of ‘tensions’; they are ‘contested’, and they are negotiated by largely disconsonant forces. Landscapes can be ‘designed’ in order to exert power over other parties; yet also those subjugated can resist those in power by manipulating a landscape. In this regard, Jane Lydon brings to our attention the Western imperialism and its colonial landscape rhetoric such as, for example, the notion of ‘wilderness’ that implies cultural emptiness and a primordial status of a given landscape (Lydon 2008, 656), which is surely at odds with various natives’ conceptualisations of their lands. Such an approach in landscape archaeology seeks to unmask conflicts, inequality, and a particular cultural gaze residing in landscapes or representations thereof.

Historically speaking, the approaches advanced from the 1960s to 1980s were often developed with a desire to transform archaeology into a branch of ‘exact science’. Environmental archaeology,2 which gained a real impetus with the advent of the ‘New Archaeology’ movement, focused in particular on human-environment relationships and, consequently, on recognizing various adaptive strategies of people coping with ‘nature’ (Pişkin and Bartkowiak 2018, 3). It considered landscape mostly in terms of its physicality, treating its various features (such as relief, soil, topography, etc.) and forces (like climate and typical weather phenomena) as capable of governing or structuring past human behaviour. Within this field, landscape has been usually equated with ‘natural’ or physical environment.3 This was also the time of developing the so-called ‘off-site archaeology’ and regional studies of settlement patterns, which resulted from a better recognition of the ‘spatiality’ of people’s actions. A primary interest of archaeologists in economic aspects of past societies sparked the development of various ‘middlerange theories’, such as site catchment (e.g., Higgs and Vita-Finzi 1972) or site territorial analyses (e.g., Bailey and Davidson 1983). Within this framework, landscape, or rather land or territory, was considered a reservoir of resources exploited by people and analysed in terms of efficiency of such exploitations. The landscape was thus providing opportunities but, inevitably, remained rather inert and detached from human agents.

Other approaches to landscape challenged the mainstream currents by advocating the abolition of the Cartesian dualisms in thinking about the world. This mostly concerns a movement rooted in phenomenology4, which in the field of archaeology has been advanced over the years by Christopher Tilley (e.g., 1994; 2004; 2008) and other scholars (Casey 1996; Thomas 1996). This approach, or better set of approaches, has influenced not only the way the landscape might be defined but also the very methodology that, in this framework, has been largely reduced to a researcher’s lived experience gained through a direct corporeal engagement with landscapes.5

Another shift in the conceptualisation of landscape was brought with the development of the postprocessual or interpretive archaeologies, which were more focussed on meaningful aspects of places and landscapes, rather than in their purely economic or structural dimensions. Nevertheless, a fast increment of various approaches, leading to a vast theoretical plurality, has resulted in an accumulation of differences, or even incongruences, between various conceptualisations of landscape – even among those that centre on the human body and

  Phenomenology, from the outset, was conceived of as an alternative to the rational and objective philosophies of modernity that have pervaded much of the Western thinking since René Descartes had prioritized the Reason – a defining event which paved the way for ‘objectivity’ to become the virtue of science, and for various structural dualisms (body/ mind, subject/object, etc.) to be granted impregnability in our thinking about the world. This thinking is thus deeply rooted in both modern science and everyday ‘common sense’. What phenomenology offers instead, broadly speaking, is a description of reality as experienced – in other words, as phenomenal. Its proponents seem to argue that the world cannot be approached in any other way than through a direct experience, and it is the body that is a vehicle of perception (not just the mind). This philosophy calls into question a detached objective observation of science and instead offers a neither objective nor subjective knowing of the world that always happens in the midst of the most basic unit, that is – in ‘place’ (for an explanation of phenomenology and its particular congruence with anthropological practice, see Casey 1996). While some archaeological landscape studies uphold (deliberately or not) a division between ‘natural’ and ‘cultural’ landscapes, the other simply talk about one ‘landscape’ that is indivisible. For instance, Bernard Knapp and Wendy Ashmore (1999, 20) write that “[w]hatever are own traditional views, it is now clear that landscape is neither exclusively natural nor totally cultural: it is a mediation between the two and an integral part of Bourdieu’s habitus, the routine social practices within which people experience the world around them”. 5   On application of phenomenology in landscape archaeology, see Johnson 2012. 4

  This urge to recast archaeology into scientific discipline, as noted by Umberto Albarella (2001, 9), is explicit in the case of environmental archaeology and its long-lasting interest in the ‘natural world’. In his critical evaluation of the state of the art of this sub-discipline at the dawn of the 21st century, Albarella wrote: “Rather than embracing the idea of an archaeology that investigates a world in which natural and cultural elements could not be disentangled, archaeologists have chosen to relegate the study of the natural world to a branch of their discipline, in order to keep the Culture predominant. In other words, environmental archaeology is the price that archaeologists have paid to the NatureCulture debate.” 3   Currently, environmental archaeology more commonly refers to social components when studying human–environment relationships, often departing from a concept of straightforward ‘natural’ determinants and causes of human behaviour or action (cf. O’Connor 2001; Evans 2003). However, a distinction between environment (nature) and social interaction (culture) is usually clearly sustained (Hamilakis 2001, 30–34; see also n. 4). For an elegant, critical and concise historical outline of developments within this discipline, see Pişkin and Bartkowiak 2018. 2

3

Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster A similar line of reasoning can be found in the ‘relational’ theory of landscape, or the ‘dwelling’ perspective, proposed by Tim Ingold (1993; 2000). Developed in the field of anthropology, it has been widely applied in archaeological practice and theory (e.g., Thomas 1996; see also the essays in Rajala and Mills 2017). Ingold has introduced the notion of ‘taskscape’ which, to put it simply, “is an array of related activities” (Ingold 1993, 158) that has a multi-temporal dimension; hence “the landscape is the congealed form of the taskscape” (Ingold 1993, 162); or, as he further explains, landscape and taskscape are simply one and the same thing (Ingold 2017). In his approach, landscape is neither natural nor cultural; it has a great temporal depth, and by providing ‘affordances’ to all organisms inhabiting it, the landscape enables an ever-unfolding field of relations.

Thus, similar to ‘landscape’, also ‘place’ can be considered a highly popular term, but one that is often differently defined by scholars, and thus – again as landscape itself (cf. Gosden and Head 1994) – remaining vague (Woolford and Dunn 2014, 114–117) (Figure 1.2). In general, place is often understood as something more particular than landscape which has a more encompassing nature. Place is, perhaps, considered more tangible. Some scholars will equate it with site, for instance, as a particular parcel of space. For others, place will represent physical qualities of a given locale. For yet other researchers, place can be understood as sediment layers of meanings, values and memories, which brings to light its intangible element. The ambiguity in conceptualization of place becomes particularly evident when discussing its ontology (Casey 1996, 14). Whereas for some researchers place (and consequently landscape) seems to consist of two separate substrates – a natural environment (even if active and influential) enshrouded in a cultural cloak (as it seems to be the case in works such as Fleming 1998; Anschuetz et al. 2001; Anyon et al. 2005; Lozny 2006) – others will claim these substrates to be inseparable8 (Ingold 1993; Casey 1996; Gramsch 1996, 32; Thomas 1996, 83–91). Doubtlessly, different conceptualizations of place are usually well attuned to specific aims of research. GISbased spatial analysis will find a better ground in the Cartesian concept of space (but see below), whereas methodologies based on a walking survey can benefit from applying more bodily-experiential approaches. Some recent advancements in archaeology challenge the older notions of place by proposing alternative ontologies (sometimes equally old) that can be collectively named as relational. Those propositions tend to grasp place as an event (Casey 1996), as a knot or vortex of lifelines (Ingold 2007), as an entity emerging in movement (Bolender and Aldred 2013), as an entity dependent on social actors and their mobility (Sheller and Urry 2006), and in many other ways. These perspectives are to a large extent mutually compatible, although they differ (sometimes substantially) in some aspects. As they all refer, in one way or another, to mobility, motion and movement, we will come back to them later.

Landscape theories that acknowledge corporeal subjectivity as central to experiencing an environment (both by people in the past and by researchers today) gained momentum in the 1990s and left a significant mark on the global theoretical landscape of archaeology itself. Even though many, if not most, landscape studies have not been based upon phenomenology,6 a considerable number of studies have successfully transplanted this philosophical current’s premises into archaeology. Still, others ended up with similar reflections, but derived from other theoretical currents (cf., e.g., Johnson 2012, 275–276). 1.2.3. A place for ‘place’ Within archaeological landscape studies, often regardless of their theoretical foundation, it is ‘place’ that has been gradually gaining focal attention. The notion of place has become one of the analytical categories deployed to counter the predominant Cartesian notion of space (Ingold 1993; Tilley 1994; Casey 1996; Thomas 1996, 83–91); or, being defined as a milieu inscribed and layered with strata of meanings and memories, to provide interpretive tools to account for the plurality of perceptions within past and present societies (Rodman 1992; Stoffle et al. 2003; Bowser 2004; Lozny 2006; Branton 2009). Of course, the archaeological inquiries into ‘place’ had been undertaken long before this conceptual transition (e.g., Binford 1982), but in a spirit that could give little chance for interrogation of places as social, meaningful and value-laden entities. Hence, ‘site’ and its ‘territory’, both considered measurable and objective, would become more and more often substituted by ‘place’ and ‘landscape’, irreversibly connected, qualitative and meaningful. This modern anthropological and archaeological interest in places has left palpable traces not only in a myriad of articles and books with the key word ‘place’ in their titles (e.g., Feld and Basso 1996), but also in the form of special issues of journals dedicated entirely to this theme.7

1.2.4. Landscape: what is next? To conclude, then, that we may think of a linear evolution in scholarly understanding of landscape, as if one concept always substitutes and eliminates the previous one, would be, no doubt, a fallacy. Landscape in all its facets continues to be variously conceptualised by researchers. However, three major views (and a myriad variants thereof) appear as dominating: (1) landscape defined as physical environment (external), (2) landscape as a way of seeing or a gaze (internal), or, as phenomenologies and other relational or non-representational theories propose, (3) landscape as a surrounding world that is neither

  Phenomenological approaches to landscape have also met various criticisms; see, e.g., Brück 2005; Bintliff 2013. 7   See, for instance, two issues of the Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, vol. 11 (1–2), dedicated to “Recent Advances in the Archaeology of Place”. 6

  Cf. n. 4.

8

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Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations

Figure 1.2. What is a place? Is it a particular locale? Sedimented layers of meanings? A knot in the meshwork of interwoven lifelines? One of the numerous petroglyphic loci in the Negev Desert, Israel (photo by Paweł L. Polkowski).

fully objective, nor subjective. The first notion does not require a subject, as a landscape is out there anyway; the second, quite the contrary, is entirely dependent on a human spectator in whose mind a vision of landscape is envisaged; the last one also implies a subject, albeit one that is engaged in the world, and not detached from it, thus a participant, not a distanced viewer.

notions, is still a subject to vital theorisation, while its ‘readings’ and understandings remain as diverse as the entire theoretical tradition and scholarly contrivance allow them to be. This brief overview helps us emphasizing a synchronous plurality of rivalling or, more and more often, supplemental conceptualisations of landscape that can be employed in archaeological studies. It provides us with a framework for, and an explanation why, the case studies presented in this volume – although all of them investigating ‘rock art in the landscape’ – do this each along their own theoretical lines. Finally, it helps us to conclude that this multiplicity of approaches coincides also with the quite tangible impression that theoretical ‘quarrels’ in archaeology have recently substantially settled down, at least when it comes to disputes over the grand theories (Thomas 2015). Hence, instead of looking for an all-encompassing theory that would also assist in a definitive conceptualization of landscape, many scholars seem to have started searching for particular landscape ‘features’ that could lead them to new interpretative avenues. One such theme is associated with the concept of ‘motion’ and the recognition that, although landscape’s primary ‘unit’ – place – appears

If we were to observe any kind of gradual, and to some extent directional, change in the concept of landscape, it would perhaps reside in increasing recognition of human and non-human ‘agency’ inherent in place and landscape, of either essential or relational character of its constitution. Hence, with now more than twenty years of the 21st century having been passed, we are dealing with a large accumulation of concepts and approaches, some being rooted in theoretical developments of the 1960s to 1980s, other sprouting from discourses of the 1990s, and ultimately enmeshed with various new – or old but revised – conceptualisations born during the past two decades. And despite the announced “death of archaeological theory” (Bintliff 2011; contra Thomas 2015) or “the third science revolution” (Kristiansen 2014), postulated by some scholars, landscape, as so many other 5

Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster 1.3.2. Archaeologies of movement

often as fixed and stable, it is in flux, even if this ‘motion’ is, again, conceptualised in various ways: both in terms of natural ‘reality’ and human perception. One way to understand places and landscapes is to understand the flows and movement(s) occurring within them, if not co-constituting them (cf. Sheller and Urry 2006; 2016; Ingold 2007; Aldred and Bolender 2013; Edgeworth 2014; Gibson 2015).

Archaeologies of place and archaeologies of movement constitute only an apparent dichotomy, and, no doubt, archaeology has been preoccupied with ‘movement’ for a long time9 (as is shown, for example, by the preoccupation of early archaeologists with migration, see below). Mobility was studied by processual archaeologists, who considered it a factor in archaeological patterning (Binford 1982; Kelly 1992; see also Close 2000). These studies, however, regarded movements as a given group’s responses to external pressures, and they often theorised mobility typologically (e.g., mobility as residential vs logistical). This kind of research approach envisions “mobility as part of the broader adaptational programme” (David et al. 2014, 1169). A different, and perhaps more attentive, attitude to movement and mobility can be detected in more socially-oriented approaches blooming since the onset of the postprocessual period. It is, for instance, fundamental to phenomenological applications to both archaeological methodology10 (a moving-bodyresearcher) and theory (moving bodies as subjects of analysis) (Tilley 1994; 2008). In many cases, however, ‘archaeology of movement’ has been more about shifting one’s attention from fixed ‘place’ towards dynamic ‘motion’, although not necessarily leading to substantial changes in underlying theoretical assumptions.

1.3. Archaeologies of movement, mobility, and motion 1.3.1. The notion of motion In such a pluralistic theoretical landscape, notions of movement, mobility and motion, just as much as those of space, place and landscape, are not defined universally. Perhaps one should start with the statement that, albeit often treated synonymously, these three terms actually refer to slightly different things. According to the Oxford Dictionary of English, mobility can be defined as “the ability to move or be moved freely and easily”, movement is simply “an act of moving”, whereas motion refers to “the action or process of moving or being moved” (Stevenson 2010). All of these definitions are closely related, but the main differences in meaning are clear: whereas movement refers to an act (= event), motion can signify a process or state; while movement is a performed action, mobility and motion can equally describe a passive condition of a person or an object which is moved. Archaeological literature deals with these notions variously and, depending on the context, either applies them on equal terms or relies upon specific meanings.

It is mostly during the last two decades that we can observe a substantial increase of interest in the notions of movement/ mobility/motion within archaeology and anthropology. This is reflected, expressis verbis, in the titles of books and articles utilizing phrases such as archaeology of mobility (Sellet et al. 2006; Barnard and Wendrich 2008; Beaudry and Parno 2013a), archaeology of movement (Gibson 2007; Insoll 2009; Aldred 2014a; Gibson et al. 2021), and – including this volume – landscapes of movement, mobility, or motion (Snead et al. 2009a; Ur 2009; Schmidt 2012; David et al. 2014; Correa 2020; for social sciences and architecture, see Sen and Johung 2013). Certain themes, such as migrations,11 are, of course, already deeply rooted in archaeology, and what we can observe is a further refinement of, and elaboration on, both existing methodologies and interpretative inquiries. To such surely belongs the theme of mobility of hunter-gatherers (David et al. 2014), pastoralists (Cribb 1991), and other hybrid-

The application of one of these terms, mobility, appears as particularly well established in archaeology. It is usually employed to encompass various kinds of habitual, repeatable and corporate movements, often considered as tactical or strategic for a given group’s subsistence; it is then a patterned movement (see below). Movement and motion seem to constitute much less codified terms in archaeological writings and, apparently, happen to be employed more intuitively. There, the former certainly refers to a broad spectrum of phenomena and thus is applied quite often, whereas the latter is only rather sporadically used. But motion is a term that features in this book’s title for a reason. In its encompassing capacity, it is understood primarily as an envelope term for all kinds of movements that one can think of when studying past worlds, including their imageries. “Rock art in the landscapes of motion” is thus the broad scientific setting we are going to deal with. We intend to mobilise, or make more dynamic, the picture drawn by archaeology and, particularly, our vision of rock art. But the theoretical scope of motion-oriented research is, like the one of landscape, full of avenues and paths that allow scholars to conceptualise archaeological material in various ways. In order to provide a background for this volume’s case studies, we thus offer a brief sketch of the concepts and significance of mobility, movement, and motion, as notions employed in social sciences and, particularly, in archaeology.

  In fact, Dalakoglou and Harvey (2012, 460, 463, n. 2) acknowledge archaeology for its long interest in “roads, trails, and paths” what – in their opinion – differentiates it from sociology and anthropology that have been showing increased interest in these issues only recently. 10   Although interest in the archaeological dimension of ‘movement’ has also been a feature of much less theoretically oriented studies; see, for instance, Fowler 1998. 11   Migration, both as a topic and as an explanatory concept, lies at the root of archaeology (Beaudry and Parno 2013b, 2–3). A recently renewed engagement with this theme re-orients, however, the inquiries towards, for instance, social and political aspects of migration, often investigating power relations behind (forced) migratory movements, and extends these archaeological explorations chronologically into modern times (see the collections of papers in Driessen 2018; Gori et al. 2018; see also the special issue of the World Archaeology journal entitled “Mobility & Migration” [vol. 46, issue 4] and editorial by van Dommelen 2014). 9

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Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations economy ‘non-settled’ peoples. The movement here is mostly equalled with a given group’s strategic mode of mobility and the resulting archaeological patterning (Barnard and Wendrich 2008), largely following, in this way, the processual school. Such studies often dwell more upon collective movements across the landscape and their functional nature, rather than investigate individual experiences, inevitably idiosyncratic and of a less organized nature. They increasingly recognise, however, that various modes of mobility not necessarily result from an adaptation to deterministically understood external factors, but can constitute an outcome of deliberate community choices and motivations that may differ from needs or pressures in the sphere of ‘economy’ and ‘subsistence’ (Wendrich and Barnard 2008, 8–10; for various aspects of mobility in prehistoric sedentary societies, see Scharl and Gehlen 2017).

of domesticated animals and humans has been, then, shared and interdependent, and – at times – mobility of the latter relied on the former to a high degree (Förster 2015; Clarkson et al. 2017, 303; see also Gooch 2008). The materiality of routeways is often less influenced by people than by animals that tread and carve the paths into the soil, sand, or vegetation (Figure 1.3). Archaeology, linked since its very beginning first and foremost with the study of material culture, has always been interested in the movement of objects. By analysing their ‘movements’ as reflected in distributional patterns, archaeologists tend to infer about the mobility of a ‘culture’ and in consequence – of people. However, along with advancing the concepts of ‘biographies of things’ and, more recently, ‘itineraries of things’, researchers started to pose questions reaching beyond the simple distribution of artefacts understood as markers of human movements (or often just presences) – it is their mobility and the resulting transformations to their significance and meaning that prompted scholars to shift their attention from anthropocentric issues to “travels and itineraries of things” (Hahn and Weiss 2013).

Another group of studies exploring some already wellestablished topics, but increasingly introducing novel methodologies and points of interest, is dedicated to the investigation of roads and routes12 with their largely offsite nature (Gibson 2007; Snead et al. 2009a; Alcock et al. 2012; Riemer and Förster 2013 with further references; Paprocki 2019). Research into routeways may significantly vary in scale, from complex regional or supra-regional road-networks (e.g., Dorsey 1991; Fowler 1998; Laurence 1999; Ur 2009) down to individual routes or legs thereof (e.g., Witcher 1998; Förster 2015; Gibson 2015; Davies and Welsby 2020). Such road archaeologies (Förster and Riemer 2013) develop an interest in manifold aspects of roadways as lines of communication, trade and supply, etc. – their construction, maintenance, use, historical, social or political significance, and so on – drifting away from a purely topographic approach. Apart from functional and economic aspects, it is particularly the social and political dimension of roads and paths, and consequently, of the inherent movement along with them, that has been studied recently, with various topics brought to the forefront, such as habitus of daily movements (Gibson 2007), routes as shaping human landscapes (Zedeño and Stoffle 2003) and influencing socio-political structures (Ur 2009), active role of roads in relations of power (Witcher 1998; Gibson 2015), or ceremonial paths of rituals (Insoll 2009).

Within a large part of the recent scientific literature, we can, thus, detect three main (interlinked) research topics associated with movement: movement of people and animals, movement of objects, and the recognition that movement takes place in landscapes.13 We can also observe a gradual shift in emphasis from purely functional-oriented approaches to movement and the related infrastructure (e.g., roads) towards a more detailed recognition of its social embeddedness. This unfurling archaeological interest in movement has coincided with the intense discourse on the notion of landscape (see above) and, to a large extent, both these conceptual threads have been developed in a discursive symbiosis. As Erin Gibson (2007, 64) puts it: “Landscape and movement, just like place and landscape, are not separate entities, but are interwoven concepts.” 1.3.3. General mobilisation But there is still more regarding the development of movement studies in recent years. Firstly, we are witnessing a technological breakthrough that considerably expands the range of scientific questions that can be posed to the archaeological record (Kristiansen 2014). In addressing issues of mobility, archaeologists can now apply various sophisticated modern techniques. Some, like GIS (Global Information System) studies, have been developing gradually over the years, and with the progressively increasing resolution of acquired data and new digital tools, they offer ever more ways of detailed

Moreover, movement is not a trait exclusive to humans; and as much as it may sound trivial, it bears important implications for archaeological theory and practice. So, even though road archaeologies study ‘movements of people’, it almost goes without saying that researchers also investigate animals and their mobilities. The latter have often constituted an inseparable element of road traffic, be it during deep prehistory when hunters followed the tracks of their prey along their habitual paths, ancient or more recent historical times of cattle drives and trade caravans, or the onset of the modern era. The movement

  Note that this triad of topics is well reflected in the arrangement of themes of the volume edited by Beaudry and Parno (2013; Objects in Motion; People in Motion; Movement Through Spaces) and features among subjects in another recent collection of essays by Jim Leary (2014a). 13

  A very useful overview of older and more recent literature on the research of past roads in a global perspective can be found in Snead et al. 2009b, 4–9. 12

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Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster

Figure 1.3. Saharan routes have been trodden by pack animals for millennia. Here, a modern donkey caravan in northern Sudan, shortly after its departure from the Nile bend at Debba, is aiming for Darfur (end of September 2010; photo by Frank Förster).

research and for the modelling of past mobilities (cf. Polla and Verhagen 2014 and the articles therein; Seitsonen et al. 2014; Kohut 2018; see also below). Similarly, the question of mobility is addressed by physical anthropologists who can infer about motional habits and mobility strategies of people not only by studying pathological changes in human bone structure (e.g., Davies et al. 2014) but also by analysing strontium and oxygen isotopes in order to trace inhabitancies and lifetime movements of individuals (e.g., Gerling 2015). These new advances enable archaeology to delve into areas previously inaccessible and to extract information of unprecedented high resolution. However, such hard-science applications to archaeology do not always follow concurrent developments in social theory and, albeit they elicit new data of high granularity, they sometimes run the risk of interpreting them through the lenses of older paradigms (but see, for instance, Gillings 2012 for linking GIS with social theory, and Hu 2011 for a discussion of the contribution of GIS to the generation of theory).

some of these new approaches. If we only look at the world from a proper perspective, they argue, we should be able to grasp movements everywhere and in variable temporalities, as landscape and place are in a constant process of becoming. This broad philosophical backdrop seems to influence, or even underpin, two distinct research approaches in particular. The first one is Ingold’s (1993; 2000) anthropological theory. The mode of movement that is particularly foregrounded by Ingold is walking (Ingold 2004; 2007). This is the basic way of getting to know one’s environment, and as such, it seems to be well suited to archaeological inquires (both as a method of research and as an investigated phenomenon). In his conceptual framework, Ingold recognizes a deep temporal nature of landscape and he emphasizes movement as the key element in both experiencing and constituting the former. This perspective is strongly connected with the existential phenomenology of Martin Heidegger and his concept of ‘dwelling’. Ingold challenges the mainstream rational epistemology also by introducing concepts such as ‘wayfaring’ and ‘meshwork’ (Ingold 2007). As wayfarers, he purports, we all live along our own paths, which he conceptualises as lines along which we are perceptually engaged with and within an environment (here understood as all that surrounds us). Where the strands of people’s (and animals’) ‘lifelines’ meet and interweave, knots do emerge – and these constitute places. Hence, in Ingold’s theory, places are not bound and confined entities connected by paths, but are

Secondly, also a strictly theoretical discourse on movement, motion and mobility has recently gained momentum. The trajectory of the impulse leads, as is often the case, from philosophy through the social sciences to anthropology and archaeology. An increasing recognition of various dynamics structuring our entire reality – including antifoundationalist intellectual currents deconstructing the notion of ‘settledness’14 (Massey 2006) – underlies   Doreen Massey (2006, 46) points to the fact that a landscape is continuously shaped in an ongoing process and it can be “imagined as provisionally intertwined simultaneities of ongoing, unfinished stories [. . .]” and that it is “the (temporary) product of a meeting up of trajectories out of which mobile uncertainty a future is [. . .] negotiated.” She gives an example of a particular mountain which, due to constant movements 14

of tectonic plates and various temporalities of these movements, is never at rest. Massey points to the problematic nature of notions such as ‘indigeneity’ or ‘localness’, asking how anyone can claim their rights to any place, since every place is always on the move. We are all perpetual immigrants on this planet, she seems to suggest.

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Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations paths in themselves. Landscape is a meshwork of all these interwoven lines and, according to Ingold, to understand them one needs to be ‘in’ the world, not ‘above’ – the latter being what the rational and objective perspective wishes to achieve. The concept of places as knots in a complex meshwork and flows of materials is a theme that finds increasing attention from archaeologists. One encounters it, for instance, in Marc Edgeworth’s studies, in which he investigates the effects of mutual relations between humans and non-human flows and agencies, such as rivers (Edgeworth 2014).

ideas within social sciences. Drawing on other theories (e.g., complexity theory and social practice theory; see Sheller and Urry 2016), advocates of NMP are turning to different conceptualisations of the social: one that is heterogeneous and comprised of human and non-human agents constituting complex, fluid and dynamic networks. These hybrid social agents, including objects, information, technologies and people – being in movement on various scales and in sundry ways – constitute dynamic systems. This, they argue, is “dwelling-in-motion” (Sheller and Urry 2006, 214). But still, this motion operates owing to “systems of immobility”, that is “immobile infrastructures that organize the intermittent flow of people, information, and image” (Sheller and Urry 2006, 212) or, as still others call them (Hannam et al. 2006, 3), the ‘moorings’.

Although Ingold’s set of concepts currently enjoys a sound reception within archaeology and related disciplines (Knappett 2011; Edgeworth 2014; Gibson 2015), there is a theoretical programme that receives perhaps even wider recognition (Aldred 2014b; 2017; Bolender and Aldred 2013; Leary 2014b; Sørensen 2015; Antonites and Ashley 2016; Leary and Kador 2016; Kristensen 2019; see also Dalakoglou and Harvey 2012). This movement – nomen est omen – is derived from a reflection on the inherent and constitutive role of mobility in all aspects of modern reality. Thus, the impulse has come from social sciences that have announced the ‘new mobilities paradigm’15 (henceforth NMP) (Sheller and Urry 2006; 2016; Hannam et al. 2006; for the ‘mobility turn’ in the sole context of geography, see Cresswell and Merriman 2011; Adey 2017), since “[a]ll the world seems to be on the move” (Sheller and Urry 2006, 207). This is not a paradigm in a strict sense (although see Sheller and Urry 2016), but rather a conglomerate of theories and methods that are combined to study mobility understood as part and parcel of social relations and not as a parallel or a discrete axiomatic phenomenon. Under the banner of NMP, researchers are determined to transcend a dichotomy between ‘sedentarist’ and ‘nomadic’ theories; they attempt to deconstruct the notion of ‘fixity’ and to study “the constitutive role of movement within workings of most social institutions and social practices” (Sheller and Urry 2016, 11). One of their aims becomes the disclosure of mobility as weaved into relations of power, whereas by conceptualizing mobilities through the prism of nested or overlapping networks, NMP also redefines the notion of place. Places, then, are not “separate from those visiting”, but relational and dependent upon people who visit them: they are “places of movement” (Sheller and Urry 2006, 214; cf. Cresswell and Merriman 2011, 7). In this reasoning, the proponents of NMP seem to come close to Ingold’s approach to place mentioned above, albeit they differ on various other aspects.

As NMP is a direct scientific answer to socio-technological realities of the 21st century, this body of concepts should not be applied to archaeological material directly and uncritically. Archaeology definitely needs to find its methods and themes, if taking inspiration from ‘new mobilities’ concepts, rather than copying their goals and solutions (Aldred 2014b, 21–22; Antonites and Ashley 2016, 475). As Oscar Aldred (2014b, 26) aptly remarks: While social sciences want to observe an actual movement as it happens now, archaeology works with the mobility “that is materialized” – i.e. movement that “already happened”. But there is still much to borrow from the NMP current. Mobility is not a trait exclusive to the modern era and, albeit it is surely dependent on a historical context (Sheller and Urry 2016, 12), it has always co-constituted the human modus operandi in the world. Hence the urge for a better understanding of the very mobility as one of such constituents, as soundly advocated by NMP, seems to be a reasonable subject for archaeology. Various authors (e.g., Aldred 2014b, 23; Sørensen 2015) recognize that archaeological (re)presentations of the past often run the risk of being too static and stable, and thus a leap towards a new vision of mobilities might be one answer to this alleged danger. Such an attitude helps, to borrow Aldred’s expression (Aldred 2014b), to ‘mobilise’ material culture16 (see below). NMP puts a strong emphasis on the materiality of movement – including ‘moorings’ or ‘immobilities’ that enable it – thus this approach meets archaeology at its core (Kristensen 2019). But this is also about mobility “as a subject in itself” (Leary 2014b, 4; see also Sørensen 2015), so about a shift from treating mobility as a mere factor in explaining other phenomena (like migration accounting for a cultural change) to mobility as a fully-fledged topic in itself.

One of the philosophical concepts that NMP wants to break away with is Martin Heidegger’s concept of ‘dwelling’, the application of which, as Mimi Sheller and John Urry (2006, 208–209) suggest, redounds largely to cultivating and anchoring the ‘sedentarism’ and ‘stability’

  When presenting his fieldwork in Iceland, Aldred (2014b, 34) describes a trail flanked with cairns: “So while cairns have a fixed, material presence in the landscape, when they are viewed through practices that actually involve motion, they become mobilized, as it were. Mobilized in the sense that they were viewed multiple times, each time differently, at particular junctures along a route bringing into play different forces.” 16

  One of the outcomes of NMP formulation are new scientific journals named Mobilities and Applied Mobilities, whose first volumes were issued in 2006 (Hannam et al. 2006) and 2016 (Freudendal-Pedersen et al. 2016), respectively. 15

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Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster 1.3.4. Moving landscapes Movement/mobility has always been present in archaeological inquiry, but – as much as it can sound paradoxical – it was all too often represented in a somewhat static manner. As with landscape, one cannot suggest that a certain evolutionary line of conceptualizing notions of mobility and movement has occurred over the last decades. Yet, some trends seem to be detectable. One such line of change in the perception of movement within archaeology perhaps can be seen in a gradual shift from ahistorical pattern-oriented mapping of movements to tracing actual movements of groups and individuals, contextualized and history-embedded. This goes hand in hand with a lesser interest in the modelling of optimal and least-cost mobility strategies (e.g., Herzog 2013; White and Surface-Evans 2012), to some extent replaced by a stronger appreciation of the conjectural nature of movement with its own internal logic or even lack thereof. One observes also that movement, as a research theme, is no longer exclusive to humans. There is a growing number of studies dedicated to movements of things, whereby the latter are not treated as sole markers of past human presence but rather as entities with their own biographies and narratives. One deals, then, with a gradual ‘mobilising’ of a landscape by recognising more and more agential powers inherent in it; it is a shift in archaeological thought from the movement of people to the movement of things, and, eventually, to landscape-as-movement that results from the reflection on the highly mobile modern world we all live in. The “moving landscapes”, be it a metaphor as Ömür Harmanşah (2011) has it or taken quite literally as in Massey’s (2006) writings, become an important focus of today’s archaeological inquiry into the past. We have come to the conclusion, it seems, that everything is in motion, or at least some kind of motion affects everything. How to argue with that, if even ‘theory’ is considered mobile (Lucas 2015)?

Figure 1.4. Rock art in the landscape. A hand motif at the Boca Negra Canyon, Petroglyph National Monument, New Mexico, USA (photo by Paweł L. Polkowski).

One of the first and seminal works that successfully weaved together rock art and landscape studies was Rock Art and the Prehistory of Atlantic Europe by Richard Bradley (1997). The book explored not so much the rock art motifs and iconography per se, but rather their diverse spatial relationships, with topography in particular. Bradley offered the reader a vision of a ‘patterned’ landscape of rock art, full of regular associations, as the research was set at identifying “[. . .] the hidden structures that governed [rock art] creation and its use” (Bradley 1997, 154). The main contribution of this work, and others that followed (e.g., O’Connor 2006), was putting forward reliable arguments that would emphasize the importance of place and landscape for understanding petroglyphs. Although only briefly, Bradley also took into consideration a ‘symbolic’ dimension of rock art landscapes and their “many levels of significance” that would be synchronically and diachronically laid down on rock art and other landscape features (Bradley 1997, 218).

1.4. Rock art in the landscapes of motion 1.4.1. Making landscapes A development of landscape archaeology quickly affected rock art research (Bradley 1991), for it gave it a new impetus by showing that studying imageries and iconographies alone cannot bring answers to all the questions (Figure 1.4). This analytical ‘marriage’ of landscape and rock art has born numerous studies and influential publications, and it may suffice to mention here only some of those announcing this connection in their titles: Rock Art Research as Landscape Archaeology (Bradley et al. 1994), European Landscapes of Rock-Art (Nash and Chippindale 2002), The Figured Landscapes of Rock-art: Looking at Pictures in Place (Chippindale and Nash 2004a), or Rock Art and Sacred Landscapes (Gillette et al. 2014). Of course, in view of the plurality of landscape definitions and methodologies in archaeology, as discussed above, one is confronted with a diversity of understandings of the landscape–rock art relationship.

This old but newly re-conceived concept of the cultural landscape, re-established with the onset of postprocessual archaeology (see above), has had a particular reverberation within the field of rock art research. The view that landscape is an intangible mental construct, or a cultural 10

Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations veil enshrouding nature, has led many scholars to conceive landscapes as socialised (Taçon 1994), inscribed, marked (David and Wilson 2002; O’Connor 2006), signified (Nash 2000), or signed (Bradley 1997) through the practice of making rock art. In this line of thinking, rock art production is often thought of as a mode of ‘place-making’ (e.g., Arsenault 2004; Harmanşah 2011; cf. Frederick 2014, 69).

or enculturing power implicitly relies on this conviction and may impede us from appreciating the role of other factors and agencies in the whole process of landscape unfolding.18 A part of the story that we risk missing is agency of landscape in general and rock art in particular. This is one of the motives of a growing body of scientific contributions that try to find a better balance between human actors and their various non-human counterparts. In order to grasp a landscape’s constant change, i.e. its ‘motion’, some scholars explore rock art as a vital element of ontologically different past worlds, in which images are not mere representations but, literally, living and active entities (e.g., Porr and Bell 2011; Zawadzka 2019). Still, others seek for rock art’s agency in its qualities and traits (such as visibility, texture, colours), either its ‘materiality’ (e.g., Ljunge 2013; Polkowski 2020), or as derived from its emplacement in a landscape (e.g., Wallis 2009; Jones 2012). Despite some differences, all these approaches tend to grasp a complexity inherent to landscape, in which agency is not necessarily an essential but rather relational attribute and thus cannot be reduced to sole human enculturing activity. Although studies in this spirit are also met with criticism (e.g., Helvenston and Hodgson 2010), they nevertheless offer a dynamic vision of both past and present rock art landscapes.

In rock art studies this enculturing role of rock art can be detected, among other themes, in the notion of ‘sacred landscapes’ (e.g., Arsenault 2004; see also papers in Gillette et al. 2014). Petroglyphs and pictographs allow people to transform places into sacra; they become physical markers of an otherwise often impalpable sacred space. In other words, they have the capacity to anchor beliefs in the landscape, if only one is capable of decoding rock art’s meanings. In such reasoning, rock art images are material signs referring to immaterial concepts, signs that adhere to places and landscapes like magnets on a refrigerator door. Suggesting that rock art could have acted as a powerful tool in the hands of people helping them organize and negotiate their worlds no doubt was an important step in recognising human agency. Yet, in line with a recent theoretical reflection (e.g., Wallis 2009; Jones 2012), one may object that this approach of emphasising a volitional nature of human action has had a side-effect in the form of unintentional relegation or disregard of other sources of agency. Hence, along with viewing rock art as something fixed and immovable (see below), the offered vision of rock art in landscapes appears at times as too static: although people might be active and mobile, rock art itself remains anchored and passive (in the sense that it acts only according to its maker’s intention), or, as Robert Wallis (2009, 50) puts it, such an approach “tends to characterize humans as agents, landscape as a resource, and rock art as an enculturing device”.

1.4.2. “Drawings on rocks, the most enduring monuments” This heading, borrowed from the title of David Edward’s (2006) article on Nubian rock art, encapsulates one of rock art’s fundamental qualities. Not long ago, rock art started to be particularly appreciated for its virtue of fixity and the resulting durability (Chippindale and Nash 2004b). It would be difficult to disagree that the nature of most rock art as (still) existing in situ is truly an asset, for a researcher can directly study “pictures in place” – even if this situs may have changed drastically since the time of rock art execution (Chippindale and Nash 2004b, 8). This anchoring in landscape is then, apart from the imagery itself, often a major starting point in an endeavour of interpretation (Figure 1.5).

Such an attitude is already detectable in the cited work by Bradley (1997) and often explicit in other studies (e.g., Döhl 2019). Here, rock art is perceived as occurring in a given landscape for a particular purpose, namely enabling communication between people. As Bradley puts it when discussing the Atlantic rock art: “Rock art could only have functioned as a medium of communication if it had been distributed on a predictable basis” (Bradley 1997, 79). Therefore, in such an approach, rock art is first and foremost a conveyor of particular meanings. A tool in the hands of people, it becomes fixed in the landscape and acts on behalf of its makers. Such a raison d’être and ‘function’ of rock art are, of course, probable, and in some cases even certain, but one may get the impression that, once executed, rock art will statically endure conveying an encoded and unaltered message, as if it were universal to any spectator.17 The notion of its ‘place-making’ quality

This fixity of rock art has proved to be an asset in all kinds of landscape or spatial studies that look for distributional patterns in a wider area (Bradley 1997; Hyder 2004). Topography and geomorphology, considered particularly changes of cultural associations and, usually, occurring diachronically. In other words, although meanings can be multiple, both simultaneously and in time, they are nevertheless established and fixed by a group’s collective agency and will. 18   One has to note that Bradley (1997, 217) is flexible in his approach to rock art as a place-making device, when he writes that: “There is no reason to suppose that the importance of a particular rock was created by the addition of carvings; just as likely, these emphasised the meanings of somewhere that was already significant [. . .].” This does not change the fact, however, that a place, in order to be significant or meaningful, requires a sole human agent who becomes a ‘place-maker’ singlehandedly.

  Of course, Bradley (1997, 155) acknowledges a fluid nature of rock art’s meaningfulness, but he seems to conceive it as being determined by shifts from one group of set meanings to another, prompted by the 17

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Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster

Figure 1.5. An example of rock art ‘fixed in place’: a snake (?) motif in Mesa Verde, Colorado, USA (photo by Paweł L. Polkowski).

‘unchangeable’ and thus factors still approachable today, are often regarded as features that have been perceived and experienced similarly by people in the past. If we can neither date rock art precisely, nor easily access its meanings, we should at least be ‘sure’ of its physical setting and the various implications of this situation (like distance between sites, their elevation, or the type of rock in/on which images are placed). Distribution patterns, such as those showing associations of rock art with specific soils (e.g., Bradley 1991), geology (e.g., O’Connor 2006, fig. 3.13), water sources (e.g., Döhl 2019, fig. 4), or topography (Hyder 2004), may tell us something about choices in rock art placement and its significance.

integral part in GIS studies20 of rock art already for some time, another ingredient of this book’s title – motion – can be much better appreciated with a recent advancement of analyses such as ‘viewshed’21 (e.g., Fairén 2010; for viewshed analysis in general, see Wheatley 1995; Wheatley and Gillings 2000; Brughmans et al. 2018). All of this provides an opportunity to evolve a rather static vision of various landscape patterns (e.g., rock art & resources) into a more dynamic correlation of a virtually moving observer and changeable visibility of analysed features – in this case rock art. In this way, a sort of ‘fixed’ visibility (like intervisibility between two different fixed features) is exchanged for a ‘mobile’ visibility, which may enhance our understanding of how rock art could have been seen, perceived, utilised and, generally, experienced under various conditions. Viewshed analysis, together with virtual reality modelling (e.g., Cassidy et al. 2019), builds also a kind of a theoretical and methodological bridge between various computer-based analytical techniques and the archaeologies practised ‘on foot’ (Wienhold and Robinson 2018, 792).

Moreover, this seemingly fixed and exposed nature of rock art also allows for conducting analyses regarding its visibility, accessibility, etc. Applied already within early landscape studies (e.g., Bradley 1997), this kind of inquiry has been recently strongly enhanced along with a further development of GIS-based techniques and technologies19 (see above). And as much as landscape has been an

  Another type of movement-oriented GIS-based inquiry is the leastcost path analysis; see for instance White and Surface-Evans 2012. 21   For differences between ‘line of sight’, ‘viewshed’ and ‘visibility’ analyses, see Popelka and Voženílek 2010. 20

  For a most recent and concise overview of various GIS-based analyses in rock art research, see Wienhold and Robinson 2018. 19

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Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations Not surprisingly, such an experiential type of inquiry as ‘phenomenology’ has quickly recognised rock art’s embeddedness in place and landscape as a suitable field of exploration (Tilley 2004; 2008; Firnhaber 2010; Ljunge 2010; 2013; Horwitz 2017). Whereas GIS-based studies, however complex, are usually about patterned landscapes, phenomenological experiments tend towards a re-enactment of past experiences through a bodily engagement of a researcher. The latter approach would be, thus, more about ‘discovering’ a uniqueness of qualities of particular rock art places by means of ‘being out there’, rather than about patterns discovered in maps and models. Movement appears here as a paramount device. We see, then, in one of Tilley’s (2008) studies how walking from site to site, not to mention a movement across a rock art locality itself, can influence the ways in which pictures are perceived and understood (Figure 1.6). This field method appreciates movement not just as a subject of study, but as a principal means of conducting research (see above). It is, in Tilley’s (2008, 262) words, “embodied kinaesthetic meanings” that can be unveiled in a direct experience of rock art through a whole array of a researcher’s movements, and even gestures, inspired by rock art and other landscape features. Of course, rock art studies have always been conducted ‘on foot’, but the phenomenological apparatus has equipped this routine with a particular reflection on a subject’s bodily experience and the paramount role of movement in the perception of landscape – even if most “phenomenological walks” appear as subject-centred, considering mostly a perspective of a perceiver. A partial criticism of Tilley’s methodology comes, for instance, from Magnus Ljunge (2013), who finds fault with it for taking insufficient account of the importance of ‘materiality’ of rock art, and consequently its agency, in explicating petroglyphic sites’ histories. Nonetheless, phenomenology-inspired studies weave into their narratives the three key notions of this book: motion, landscape, and rock art. Despite this, more and more rock art studies, even if not referring to phenomenology at all, acknowledge today the importance of the researcher’s bodily engagement in the process of fieldwork research.22 And of crucial importance for such bodily experience is movement, which is aptly summarized by Michael Firnhaber (2010, 4):

Figure 1.6. Rock art images, as well as topography and other features, may directly affect the way a visitor can move across the site. Naquane Park, Valcamonica, Italy (photo by Paweł L. Polkowski).

or as a post-processual ‘gaze’ (observer in front of rock art in the field), rock art is always approached, perceived, thought of, used, and ultimately abandoned by human agents, usually its creators. But can rock art be considered itself in motion? And what would that mean for the research? 1.4.3. Fixed, but truly immobile?

As we can see, movement/motion in rock art research is most often studied from an observer’s point of view. Whether this is presented within a ‘palaeoeconomic’ framework (observer put in front of a distribution map)

A US-American action comedy film from 1984 entitled Top Secret! contains a particularly amusing scene that takes place at a train station. There, the protagonist, performed by Val Kilmer, sits in a train, while his documents are being checked by German soldiers. After his papers are accepted, the train departs and the main character watches the soldiers through the window as the train slowly passes them by. All seems to be in order, until a few seconds later it turns out that it is the station that moves away and not the train that remains in place. Apart from the fact that this unexpected turn has a comic effect on the viewer, this anecdotal scene can serve us here to introduce the question of relational motion: for what appears to be static can be mobile.

  For instance, Aldred’s claim that „contemporary archaeologists are surrogates for past bodies, and quite literally through them it is possible to inhabit past movement” (Aldred 2014b, 31; his emphasis).

To a large extent, the above refers to what Aldred (2014b) calls ‘mobilising’ of material culture (see above). Even if a given landscape feature is considered immobile (e.g., a rock

“Too often, researchers do not begin to record rock art until they are standing right there at the base of the rock. Instead, we should consider a visit to a rock art site to be a journey – one which may have had a significant impact on the meaning of the site itself.”

22

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Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster outcrop), in the process of a subject’s bodily engagement while moving within a landscape this feature becomes mobilised when perceived from various directions and distances, and under changing circumstances. For Aldred (2014b, 34), the cairns studied by him in Iceland are mobilised when observed from different points on the route (cf. n. 16). One can retort, of course, that to think of such features as being mobile means to succumb to illusions, but it seems to be more than just that: if someone follows a route, this route is also active, because our mutual engagement is relational (cf. Gibson 2015, 426). This is how one can both mobilise rock art and be mobilised by it in the act of experience.

Sørensen (2015, 160) points out yet another mobilising feature of rock art: “iconography as a technology of animation”. Of course, rock art as an animation device has been considered in various contexts before (e.g., Azéma 2005; Azéma and Rivère 2012; Luis and Batarda Fernandes 2010; Polkowski 2018), but mostly from the perspective of a ‘technological’ tool that enables rendering movement through the use of a sequence of two-dimensional images. What Sørensen seems to propose is to challenge the rather traditional approach to rock art as pure representations or pure symbols, in order to identify qualities such as movement and transformation that these depictions refer to. A ship is not ‘just’ a ship – it is an inherently mobile vehicle and this shows that a formally stiff depiction could be apprehended as something inherently set in motion. Sørensen (2015, 160) proposes that “[. . .] the continuity that is implied in the depiction of moving object suggests that any object in rock art is to be understood as a moving, transformative object”.

A project that appreciates motion(s) of rock art can address this issue at various levels and from diverse points of view. One is mentioned above: rock art is not static as long as an observer is mobile and moving, due to the relation that connects both. And when such a ‘mobilised’ environment is inhabited by people sharing an ontology different from the Western one, various agents may become relationally mobilised. This is why a painting or a petroglyph can become an agent acting volitionally – even capable of moving – as it is understood in various parts of the world (e.g., Porr and Bell 2011) as already discussed above.

Iconography–place–mobility is a triad of notions that constitutes the core of Ursula Frederick’s (2014) reflection on Australian rock art. In her approach, the notion of any given place’s fixity is undermined. Instead, she refers to the concept of an ever-unfolding nature of landscape (see above) and a “palimpsest of movement” that can be equated with it. In her study, rock art plays a pivotal role because it has “an enormous range of motifs that express an awareness and attention to movement” (Frederick 2014, 69). But it is much more than ‘just’ depicting moving objects; this rock art, Frederick argues, can gather other places in one locale. Various motifs have certain mnemonic values – they are in the capacity of embodying particular places and stories – and as such, they actualise those locales through an act that Frederick calls “drawing from a distance”. Hence, if a place becomes inaccessible (as in Australia during the contact period when lands available to natives were systematically taken away from them), it can re-appear elsewhere by means of rock art, meaning that distance, movement, and the very ‘place’, are not fixed and stable entities but ones that are in flux. Rock art can move places.

Another perspective takes into account the environment and its relation to rock art. Christopher Chippindale and George Nash (2004b, 8) consider some rock art places as “stationary sites in a moving environment”, referring in their example to Scandinavia where some of the once sea-shore-situated petroglyphs are found today high above sea level, inevitably far from the water. This perspective, however, emphasises the change and therefore motion of an environment and not so much of rock art itself; and this is a ‘movement’ observed in a rather longue durée. But, with Magnus Ljunge, one can also opt for a slightly different approach that brings to the forefront a mutual relation of environment and rock art, in which both ingredients remain in a more pronounced motion. Ljunge, too, reports a Scandinavian petroglyphic locale, Karlsberget in Sweden, but one that features ship depictions still situated at the water edge. Giving the voice to Ljunge (2010, 98): “The ships, which are orientated in line with the direction of the inland ice, give the impression of being in motion as if they were sailing from the sea up onto the rock and vice versa.” At some parts of the year, the lake waters raise and physically interact with the petroglyphs. Hence one could argue that they do more than just “give the impression”, as the ships are, in fact, literally sailing these waters.

What seems to be bridging the above approaches is their urge to contest notions of ‘sedentarism’, ‘stability’, ‘fixity’, ‘immobility’, and so forth. It is not the same as to say that things cannot be immobile, but rather that in order to fully grasp the complexity of things it is required that one appreciates a mutual generative relation of their ‘mobility’ and ‘placeness’ (cf. Bolender and Aldred 2013). These approaches seem to argue that the so much acknowledged ‘fixity’ of rock art is just one side of the story that can become fuller only when rock art is set in motion.

This observation can be compared to what Tim Sørensen (2015, 159–160) calls “mutually animating features” of objects and decorative schemes, including rock art. It is, once again, a reference to relationality that mobilises all constitutive elements. As in Karlsberget the waves appear to set ships in motion, also other objects and their ‘iconography’ can mutually lend themselves, or ‘enforce’, a quality of mobility; they are in the capacity of mobilising each other.

This is, some scholars contend, because “mobility is a way of inhabiting the world” (Sørensen 2015, 157) and “dynamism [. . .] is more normal than stasis” (Aldred 2014b, 22–23). Even our archaeological practice is movement-related and we cannot carry out excavations or surveys by not moving ourselves at the same time 14

Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations (Bolender and Aldred 2013). We thus can, for instance, approach rock art as an agent structuring, but not determining, movement; or we can, the other way around, conceive rock art as materialised movement (cf. Aldred 2014b, 26). Setting rock art in motion involves building a dynamic context around it and making rock art itself an active component, not just a receiver of meanings and significance. It also means considering rock art places as knots in a wider network or meshwork of paths. Finally, it is connected with some seemingly trivial issues, such as appreciation of rock art’s taphonomy, usually spanning a long time, and a researcher’s influence on those destructive processes that for both parts involve movement in different spatio-temporal scales. To conclude, then, rock art is moving when we move; rock art is moving because the landscape moves; rock art can move places and ideas, and what is depicted is either moving or capable to move; and it is not all that rare that we ourselves are deeply moved by petroglyphs, paintings and places where they were brought to life.

the course of the sun or other celestial bodies, and so forth. Especially the changing light of the moving sun could have had a strong impact on the perception, reception and significance of rock art for individual observers – a wellknown phenomenon to anyone who ever tried to trace more complex rock art on the spot. Similar effects can, for example, also be assumed to have taken place in prehistoric caves where painted or engraved images would have been ‘animated’ by a flickering camp-fire’s light, thus the exact position of rock art within a specific locality and its (functional) setting should also always be taken into account. Turning from pictures in motion to motion in pictures, there is of course the highly relevant and multifaceted subtopic of how movement and motion are expressed through rock art images by themselves. A running or jumping animal, a hunter persuading his prey, human footsteps or animal tracks arranged in rows, a gesture indicating the movement of arms, or two or more consecutive images showing phases of the latter in some sort of early cinematography, etc. – there are many examples and possibilities, and the reader will meet some of them in this book. The various attempts to capture motion in prehistoric, ancient or more recent ‘rock art times’ certainly make up a most interesting art historical subject on its own (Figure 1.7).

1.4.4. Epilogue: rock art in the landscapes of motion Before closing with a very short outline of the following chapters, we would like to address briefly some aspects of our general topic that were barely touched upon in this introduction, all of them connected, in one way or another, with motion and movement.

Finally, it may be mentioned that the production of public rock or wall art, including single motifs or larger compositions expressing (or implying) movement and motion, is not restricted to the long-gone past. Even in modern, visually overstimulated times, the often excessive ‘wall tattoos’ of houses, shops, or other buildings, including the ubiquitous graffiti of young, often socially or politically critical artists, such as in the streets of Cairo during or shortly after the Arabic Spring (see, e.g., Hamdy and Karl 2014), still have their expressive and communicative lieu et raison d’être.

With repeated visits, already existing rock art at a specific site or spot often stimulated new creations, sometimes even entering into some sort of dialogue with the former. Older motifs could have been erased, superimposed or elaborated by new ones, creating or adding new meanings and thereby contributing to what might be termed biographies of pictures in motion. Whether elements of destruction, palimpsests or spin-offs of pictorial narratives, such rock art extensions through time and space can be regarded as components of entities that are organically growing, like offshoots of living plants.

Some more aspects related to the general topic of this book could certainly be added,23 but the ones highlighted so far may suffice to demonstrate its broad spectrum. Naturally, not all mentioned points of view and respective avenues of research are covered by the contributions outlined in the following. We nevertheless are convinced that they tackle a good deal of them, either by exemplification or by taking a more holistic view.

Also, the order of succeeding motifs at a number of individual sites that are connected by paths might have been conceptualised as complementing each other and making up their own narrative while moving forward. Hence, the study of spatial order and directional distributive patterns of rock art might prove rewarding in order to unveil such narratives or larger compositions spanning several sites. With the movement of the observer, fixed images ‘come closer’ while others ‘move away’ and finally disappear – unless the observer carries them with him in his memory. The perception of rock art can, of course, also heavily depend on how one approaches it, both physically and mentally, and there might be an array of possible ‘reading’ directions. Rock art may have been composed and individual elements of it arranged according to (graded) visibility, taking into account the physical characteristics of rocks with their protrusions, cavities and fissures, the occurrence of scattered spots of vegetation, elevations, slopes, the intervisibility of individual sites,

  E.g., the specific rock art of pastoral communities, focusing on nomadic ways of life, transhumance and the potential roles of rock art production therein, or the aspect of movements and the spread of images in a wider sense, an avenue of research mainly to be tackled by distributional analyses of specific rock art motifs or traditions. Another interesting aspect concerns mobile and movable rock art in the form of portable decorated slabs, plates etc., which were either originally designed as such (e.g., the famous, more than 25,000 years old art mobilier found in the so-called Apollo 11 Cave in south-western Namibia, see Wendt 1974), or were later – i.e. usually in modern times – cut out of a rock art tableau and moved to a private collection or public museum. In both cases, the curriculum vitae as well as cultural impact of such objects were not restricted to their ‘place of origin’, but could develop elsewhere – and might even have encompassed rather extensive travels between various museums worldwide. 23

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Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster 1.4.5. A short outline of the contributions to this volume After this highly theoretical introductory chapter, the same authors take the reader to the Western Desert of Egypt (Chapter 2). In their, this time, highly illustrated contribution, they present two case studies from adjacent but different areas (the Dakhla Oasis and its periphery, on the one hand, and the deep desert to the southwest, on the other hand), emphasising various aspects of motion, mobility and movement involved in the processes of creating and experiencing rock art in this remote region. They mainly focus on pharaonic imagery of the third millennium BC, found at various rock art sites around Dakhla and some way-stations of a long-range donkey caravan route. This is followed by a chapter by Gernot Grube that bears a somewhat provocative title, given the context of this book: Off the Move: On the Phenomenon of Rock Images (Chapter 3). Grube explores various cognitive aspects of creating art and its consequences for large-scale developments in Upper Palaeolithic Europe. He analyses the notion of movement “frozen” in rock images, but also the role of cave art in prehistoric mobile societies. He concludes that rock art, necessarily “sedentary”, could have played an important role in “a symbolic-cognitive preparation for sedentism”. Figure 1.7. Depicting movement: figure of a running human on a rock in Naquane Park, Valcamonica, Italy (photo by Paweł L. Polkowski).

Chapter 4 by Francisco Vergara Murua is dedicated to Chilean Guaiquivilo rock art at Calabozos from 12th–16th centuries AD. The author’s focus is on time-movement relationships as reflected by petroglyphs located at this Andean site. He analyses “rhythms” that can be detected on various levels of rock art production and experience. His study involves a bodily engagement down to the level of gestures that eventually helps to uncover a polyrhythmic nature of Guaiquivilo petroglyphs.

The theoretical ‘quarrels’ of the 1990s often involved radical stances, and for many scholars engaged in them, the main task was to disprove the arguments of their adversaries. It was either about accepting or rejecting certain concepts in their totality. It seems that, a few decades later, the theoretical landscape has changed again and instead of forcing an overriding set of theories, researchers are more willing to merge concepts and compromise. The growing interest in mobility appears as having just such a background – it is inclusive rather than preclusive. Of course, various, and sometimes very significant, differences in theory and methodology happen to exist, but they are less and less frequently considered insuperable obstacles. The idea behind this volume arises from just such a spirit.

A mountainous setting of rock art is also explored by Daniela Cardozo, Giorgos Iliadis and George H. Nash (Chapter 5). The authors present a study of rock art found at Mount Coto de Sabroso in northwestern Portugal, which belongs to several chronological horizons. They emphasize the longevity of certain places in the local tradition and trace rock art’s relationships with the landscape. The impact of movement and motion, related to this rock art in various ways, can be exemplified in the ways some of the motifs emerge and disappear in relation to movements of the sun and other sources of light.

The reader will find a collection of papers that deal with rock art in landscapes, places and route networks analysed from diverse perspectives. They differ both methodologically and theoretically, and in this pluralism, we see one of the virtues of the book. Different theories can help to appreciate different aspects of rock art and – being juxtaposed in one volume – the chapters inevitably also enter into a dialogue with each other. As there was (and still is) no overarching grand theory to which the contributors would have been advised to refer to, we leave the readers in a similar position as in Val Kilmer’s movie scene: perhaps they expect a theoretical train to move in a familiar way, but it can be a station that eventually departs.

Daniela Valenzuela et alii take us back to the desert, but this time to the Atacama in Chile (Chapter 6). They offer the reader important insights into the role and function of geoglyphs in the complex system of desert caravan traffic and navigation in the late prehistory of the Lluta Valley (ca. AD 900–1535). These impressive stone constructions were directly associated with the movements of people and animals through the region, and the analysis of their visibility adds much to our understanding of the ways in which the geoglyphs were involved as agents in this ‘landscape of motion’. 16

Of Theoretical Trains and Moving Stations Chapter 7, by Kate E. Sharpe, is a study of “patterns of movement”, and rock art is its major component. Sharpe analyses a corpus of Neolithic petroglyphs and other materials from the Lake District, Umbria, in England. She explores possible relationships between extracting particular resources, trails, and people travelling to procure the stone. It is suggested that rock art, particularly numerous cup-marks, and its distribution could have played an important role in those journeys, both functionally and spiritually.

Aldred, O. 2014b, Past Movements, Tomorrow’s Anchors. On the Relational Entanglements Between Archaeological Mobilities. In J. Leary (ed.), Past Mobilities: Archaeological Approaches to Movement and Mobility, 21–47. Farnham/Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Anschuetz, K.F., Wilshusen, R.H. and Scheick, C.L. 2001, An Archaeology of Landscapes: Perspectives and Directions. Journal of Archaeological Research 9(2), 157–211. Antonites, A. and Ashley, C.Z. 2016, The mobilities turn and archaeology: new perspectives on socio-political complexity in thirteenth-century northern South Africa. Azania: Archaeological Research in Africa 51(4), 469– 488.

One more case study comes from Portugal, and again from the country’s northwestern part (Chapter 8). This chapter, authored by José Moreira and Ana M. S. Bettencourt, discusses petroglyphs from the Bronze and the Iron Age, which mostly show footprints and shoeprints. The authors interpret this distinctive rock art as involved in pilgrimage routes and, perhaps, rites of passage. The role of celestial cults is suggested as religious background, especially those connected to the summer solstice.

Anyon, R., Ferguson, T. and Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C. 2005, Natural setting as cultural landscapes: the power of place and tradition. In G.J. Gottfried, B.S. Gebow, L.G. Eskew and C.B. Edminster (eds.), Connecting Mountain Islands and Desert Seas: Biodiversity and Management of the Madrean Archipelago II, 273–276. Fort Collins, CO: U.S. Department of Agriculture, Forest Service, Rocky Mountain Research Station.

The closing chapter of the book is the contribution by Jessica Joyce Christie (Chapter 9). She discusses a very specific kind of rock art in the southern Titicaca Basin in Peru: large rock niches considered by the Inka as wak’a/ shrines. Christie analyses the Kollasuyu road, which was a very active route in the 15th century AD. She discusses the imperial landscape of motion of the Inka, their relationships with other peoples, and the paramount role of wak’a rock art, which should be understood as agentive and active. Christie refers to the concept of non-human persons and shows in detail how wak’a participated in the reality of the Inka society.

Arsenault, D. 2004, Rock-art, landscape, sacred places: attitudes in contemporary archaeological theory. In C. Chippindale and G. Nash (eds.), Pictures in place: The figured landscapes of rock-art, 69–84. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ashmore, W. and Knapp, A.B. (eds.) 1999, Archaeologies of Landscape: Contemporary Perspectives. Oxford: Blackwell. Azéma, M. 2005, Breaking down movement in Paleolithic art. International Newsletter on Rock Art 43, 14–21.

Acknowledgements

Azéma, M. and Rivère, F. 2012, Animation in Palaeolithic art: a pre-echo of cinema. Antiquity 86, 316–324.

We would like to thank George Nash for comments on a first draft of the manuscript and for improving the English of our chapter. This work is part of one of the authors’ (PLP) research project funded by the Polish National Science Centre (grant no. 2016/23/D/HS3/00805).

Bailey, G. and Davidson, I. 1983, Site exploitation, territories and topography: Two case studies from Palaeolithic Spain. Journal of Archaeological Science 10(2), 87–115.

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2 Between Arrest and Movement: ‘Mobile’ and ‘Stationary’ People and Their Rock Art in the Western Desert of Egypt (Third Millennium BC) Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster Abstract: The Western Desert of Egypt, today a barren and largely uninhabited region, is nevertheless an area rich in archaeological remains from various periods of Egyptian history. In this chapter, we take up the topic of routes crossing this vast desert (mostly) in the 3rd millennium BC and discuss numerous rock art sites found along them. Firstly, we provide brief introductions to the themes, such as rock art research tradition in Egypt, various aspects of the archaeology of the Western Desert, and basic information regarding the oasis of Dakhla – the largest and in many respects the most important oasis in Egypt during pharaonic times. The core of the chapter comprises two case studies. In the first one, selected rock art sites and compositions found in the context of minor internal oasis’ routes are discussed, while the second one focuses on petroglyphs from way-stations distributed along the long-range Abu Ballas Trail, which used to connect Dakhla with territories hundreds of kilometres to the south-west of it. Eventually, both case studies serve us to illustrate various aspects of what we call rock art/movement entanglement. Apart from the purely representational as well as symbolic dimensions of rock art, we thus discuss also the ways in which one can comprehend petroglyphs (and rock inscriptions) as being involved in various kinds of movement and mobility. We pose questions of both how rock art was affected by those movements, and how it could affect them by itself. This way, we touch upon the issue of rock art’s potential agency, its capacity to attract attention, and its other types of relationships with the observers. We argue that much of the rock art along the Western Desert routes used to ‘function’ not only as representations and symbols but was much more integrated into the movement itself, co-constituting the latter in many ways. Keywords: rock art, Western Desert of Egypt, Dakhla Oasis, Abu Ballas Trail, movement, agency, watch-post, way-station, route 2.1. Introduction

(e.g., Petrie 1888; Weigall 1909). However, disregarding the prehistoric corpora, pharaonic imageries – unlike many other rock art traditions worldwide – are abundant with scripts, especially hieroglyphs with their pictorial character. This way, philologists interested in ancient rock inscriptions have often been ‘forced’ to work with images, although the latter, not infrequently, have been considered as mere illustrations added to implicitly more important texts.

2.1.1. Rock art and epigraphy in Egypt Let us begin with a truism: rock art research has always been, and still is, about pictures. No matter the geographical area, many early studies throughout the 19th and much of the 20th centuries were predominantly occupied with describing and classifying images, treating them mostly as illustrations of the daily or religious life of their creators.1 Such a focus on the representational (later also semiological) aspects of rock art imagery, although understandable, prevented scholars for a long time from appreciating more contextual roles and meanings of rock art that can be understood as material culture rooted in certain landscapes, and thus histories and social settings. Today, it seems to be part of the general research routine to ask not only ‘what is depicted?’, but also where, why, in what circumstances, and so forth.

The epigraphic tradition in Egyptology has developed strict precepts and standards2 that have inevitably influenced the treatment of studied pictorial material, including rock art. In particular, these affect which research questions are posed. Translation and dating are among the major objectives when texts are analysed, and with images it is usually quite similar. However, rather than being ‘translated’, the latter are instead described and  For instance, epigraphic publications, including those with rock art, have often been published in the form of a catalogue, in which each document is usually treated separately and supplemented with a description and/or commentary. For such recent works, see, e.g., Váhala and Červíček 1999; Darnell et al. 2002; Jacquet-Gordon 2003; CruzUribe 2008. 2

Rock art in Egypt was a subject of scientific inquiries long before ‘rock art studies’ became a separate field of research   For example, in South Africa (Lewis-Williams 2006).

1

23

Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster their features identified, while making reference to other (usually isochronal) iconographies (comparative analysis).

writing and ‘drawing’ their own messages. Egyptian stone and rock faces abound in images and this large palimpsest has been in the making for at least 15,000 years.

This chapter, however, does not aim to contrapose and substitute this traditional approach with another set of approaches; least of all do we wish it to berate the former. On the contrary, seeing certain advantages of the traditional Egyptological approach, manifest in often meticulous responses to the ‘what is depicted’ question, we offer a methodological and theoretical fusion: merging the Egyptological appetence for description with other, not so commonly posed research questions pertaining to the consequences of rock art’s presence in the landscape. We intend to take advantage of some unique traits of Egyptian rock art in order to see, when confronted with non-Egyptological concepts, if they can help us better understand the places where the images exist, and the very motion of which they have been a part.

The plurality of traditions and subject-matter is but one characteristic of Egyptian rock art. Another feature concerns a wide range of possibilities for the contextualisation of images. This especially applies to the predynastic and later traditions, whose iconographies find numerous references in other types of ancient Egyptian material culture. In other words, both form and subject-matter of rock art images find parallels in the iconography that occurs in better-dated ‘canvasses’, such as tomb walls and decorated objects of various kinds. When combined with inscriptional sources, which are attested already from the late Predynastic Period (ca. 3200–3000 BC5) (cf., e.g., Stauder 2021), scholars are offered a significant range of data that is not so often available for contextualising rock art elsewhere in the world. This is particularly true for rock art of the Dynastic Period (ca. 3000–332 BC), and thus rock imagery can be examined in the context of extensive studies of past social, cultural and religious realms. Here, however, another paradox comes into being, because dynastic rock art is markedly less often studied than various prehistoric petroglyphs and paintings, including the ‘transitional’ rock art of the Predynastic Period. There is, then, still large untapped potential in studies of dynastic, Graeco-Roman, Byzantine/Coptic and Islamic traditions, which seems to have become more fully recognised and exploited in recent scholarship (e.g., Brémont forthcoming).

2.1.2. Scope and range of the studied material Perhaps due to the public imagination of likely the ‘richest’ archaeology in the world in terms of tombs, temples, and ‘treasures’ (i.e. Egyptology); perhaps because of hitherto insufficient efforts of rock art researchers (as some might regard it); and possibly for both these reasons, Egyptian rock art is not well established on the global rock art map. To some extent, this is a paradox, as Egypt is extremely rich in petroglyphs and rock paintings. Several prehistoric traditions have been distinguished by scholars, including the oldest rock art of northern Africa currently known, dated to the Late Palaeolithic,3 as well as various Early and Middle Holocene ‘styles’ known from both the Western and the Eastern Deserts and the Nile Valley in between them.4 Some rock art groups seem to be – in a more or less direct way – related to broader Saharan traditions, such as Epipalaeolithic ‘geometric’ rock art in the Nile Valley (Huyge 2009a; Storemyr 2009) or polychrome paintings in the Gilf Kebir/Gebel Uweinat region of the central Libyan Desert (Kuper et al. 2013; Riemer, Kröpelin and Zboray 2017; Zboray 2009). Other rock art is purely regional, as is the case for predynastic iconographies that abound especially in Upper Egypt and the Eastern Desert (e.g., Judd 2009; Hendrickx, Darnell and Gatto 2012; Hardtke 2013; Lankester 2013; Lippiello and Gatto 2012; Graff, Bailly and Kelany 2018). The end of prehistory by no means marks the end of rock art production. Rock canvasses remained an important medium during pharaonic times and served not only as a backdrop for textual inscriptions but also for purely figurative creations. This does not change in the Graeco-Roman (332 BC to 395 AD) and even Byzantine/Coptic (395–641 AD) periods. And when the Arabs eventually conquered Egypt in the 7th century AD, they were well accustomed to the use of rocks for

In this chapter, we develop two geographically distinct, albeit connected, case studies, situated in the Western Desert of Egypt as part of the Eastern Sahara (Figure 2.1). They occupy quite different environments and have been involved in different social settings and activities. We begin with selected rock art places and motifs in and around the Dakhla Oasis – a kind of an ‘island’ in the desert, which has always been a hub, situated in a network of roads leading in all directions like the other great oases in Egypt (Giddy 1987; Willeitner 2003). This is followed by the case study of rock art found along a corridor-like, straight caravan route called the Abu Ballas Trail (Förster 2013; 2015). This trail is formed by a chain of way-stations, intermittent cairns used as road markers and remnants of trodden paths. From the late 3rd millennium BC onwards, this trail connected Dakhla, and thus the pharaonic realm based in the Nile Valley, with still undetermined territories in the far south-west. We focus on the 3rd millennium BC rock art, which in Egyptological terms equals to the Early Dynastic and Old to early Middle Kingdom periods. Despite various differences (e.g., in the repertoire of motifs and the general setting), we intend to show that rock art was, in one way or another, part of a landscape of motion in both these areas. Before turning to our case studies let us briefly discuss the Egyptian Western Desert in the 3rd millennium BC.

 On this remarkable rock art found at Qurta, which has even been dubbed ‘Lascaux along the Nile’ (etc.), see Huyge 2009a; Huyge et al. 2011; Huyge 2018. 4   For the latest overviews of Egyptian rock art, see Huyge 2009b; Varadzinová 2017; Polkowski 2018a. 3

 The chronology used here follows Shaw 2000 unless indicated otherwise. 5

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Figure 2.1. Map of Egypt’s Western Desert with major ancient desert routes and related sites. For the red inset, see Figure 2.2 (cartography by Heiko Riemer, digitally processed by Paweł L. Polkowski).

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Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster 2.1.3. The Western Desert of Egypt: selected aspects

and Bahariya oases to the north/north-west (Giddy 1987; Willeitner 2003), on the other hand.7 In turn, many desert routes connect the oases with various other entry points in the Nile Valley (Figure 2.1). These routes are often marked with road signs made of stone (alamat), still visible linear pathways trodden by pack animals, an abundance of pottery and other artefacts lost or deposited along the route, simple architecture (e.g., stone huts, walled rock shelters, facilities for watering pack animals) and, finally, rock art and rock inscriptions (Riemer and Förster 2013). It must be reiterated that the time depth of the use of these routes is immense: they often bear evidence of having been used in Predynastic and Early Dynastic times,8 as well as throughout the pharaonic period, often to be reused during late antiquity, the mediaeval era and even in modern times. The rock art case studies presented here are drawn from some of the mentioned routes and paths encompassing both the Dakhla Oasis and the vast territories stretching to the far south-west.

Although it may be a simplification, one can say that today, as well as in the past, Egypt has consisted of three major parts: the Western Desert, the Nile Valley and Delta, and the Eastern Desert. Indeed, the River Nile has always been a firm boundary between the two great deserts, while also serving for millennia as the fastest highway between north and south. In both the prehistorical and historical periods, these three major regions remained distinct in many aspects, rock art being one of them. Of course, this is not to say that Western Desert rock art is completely different from the rest of Egypt, as this would be simply untrue. Dynastic petroglyphs especially are comparable to what we know from Upper Egypt, Nubia, or the Eastern Desert, but still they may occur in contexts that are quite exceptional, or even unique, and therefore they maintain a Western Desert specificity. That this part of Egypt was, indeed, culturally distinct from the rest of the country can be demonstrated through referring to the ancient Egyptian perspective itself, for the vast land to the west was clearly conceptualised as being different to that of the east. The latter was home to the rising sun and was thus consociated with (re)birth, regeneration and repeated beginnings. Moreover, it was comparatively rich in mineral sources, gold, and various stones (mainly used in statuary and building), while the Red Sea coast, which was the entry port for further journeying and communication, was not far away. In turn, the seemingly endless western land was always much more unharnessed, vast, waterless, and its horizon marked the place where the sun, and thus the sun-god himself, would descend to the netherworld to fight battles with evil forces and ‘daemons’. The west was the realm of the dead, just as it was the realm of chaos. That is why the major deity believed to rule over the Western Desert was the god Seth – a powerful trickster and master of disorder (te Velde 1967).6 Egypt proper was limited mostly to the Nile Valley and the Nile Delta in the north, and we can reasonably assume that for almost all Egyptians any journeys to the west must have been associated with an ever-present anxiety (but see Darnell 2021, 2).

2.1.4. The Dakhla region and the far south-west The exact date of Dakhla’s colonisation by Nile Valley dwellers is unknown, but the latest studies propose this occurred at the beginning of the Old Kingdom (i.e. the 3rd/4th Dynasties, roughly corresponding to 2700–2500 BC; see Hope, Pettman and Warfe 2018; Pettman 2019; cf. also Kuper and Förster 2003; Kuhlmann 2005; Kuper 2014/2015).9 Although remnants of this early Egyptian presence can be unambiguously identified (due to specificities of the Egyptian material culture), understanding the process of colonisation is by no means as straightforward. This is because the Egyptians did not settle in a no-man’s-land, but in an area already inhabited by indigenous people(s). The latter are named the Sheikh Muftah cultural unit in archaeological literature. They were primarily pastoralists who kept cattle and goats, and who roamed the oasis and adjoining regions for most of the 4th millennium BC and until their ‘disappearance’ sometime during the second half of the 3rd millennium BC (McDonald 2001; Riemer 2011; Jeuthe and Linseele 2019; Jeuthe 2021; Warfe and Ricketts 2019). Material culture associated with both groups is clearly distinct, but the nature of their coexistence, which apparently lasted a few hundred years, is still poorly understood. A great deal of evidence points to a peaceful cohabitation, although walls with towers surrounding early Egyptian settlements, as well as the establishment of several watch-posts in the

This anxiety, however, must have been overcome regularly in ancient times, as remnants of Egyptian activities in the west are numerous, which various scientific projects within the last few decades have evinced (for an overview of the latter, see Förster and Riemer 2013). Several ancient routes and road-systems have been identified within Upper Egypt’s Theban Desert, which is geographically close to the Nile Valley (e.g., Darnell et al. 2002; Darnell 2013). The routes then continue further west, first connecting the valley with Kharga Oasis (Darnell 2021, map 1 and 2), and then with Dakhla. From there, they lead towards the Gilf Kebir/Gebel Uweinat region in the far south-west (Förster 2015), on the one hand, and towards Farafra, Siwa

  For various sections of these road networks, see essays in Förster and Riemer 2013. 8   See, for instance, the evidence of early official expeditions that left marks in the form of serekhs (angular royal symbols containing the ruler’s name) in various areas, including the Western Desert (Ikram and Rossi 2004; Hamilton 2019). 9   However, physical evidence (mostly pottery) for the possible presence of Egyptians in the oasis in slightly earlier times, that is the Early Dynastic Period, has also been found (see Hope and Pettman 2012; Pettman 2019). See also the pictorial evidence from site Meri 02/50, south of Dakhla, dating to late Predynastic or Early Dynastic times (Hendrickx et al. 2009, fig. 17), as well as another early proof of Egyptian exploration in the form of the serekh of king Qaa in Kharga (1st Dynasty; Ikram and Rossi 2004). 7

  For representations of Seth in the rock art of the Dakhla region, see Förster 2015, 219–220, fig. 198; Polkowski 2019. 6

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Between Arrest and Movement oasis’ peripheries in order to control its exit and entry points (Kaper and Willems 2002; Riemer et al. 2005; Pettman forthcoming), may indicate some conflict as well (cf. most recently Hope, Pettman and Warfe 2018; Pettman 2019). Thus, one witnesses at Dakhla an encounter of two different worlds: the sedentary Nilotic culture, on the one hand, and the mobile nomadic pastoralists, on the other hand.10 Unfortunately, no Sheikh Muftah rock art has been identified so far with certainty.

and agriculture, and, ‘simply’, life of the settlers, were all adding to the busyness in and around Dakhla. A further part of this process of Egyptianization involved creating rock art. 2.2. Case study 1: Dakhla Oasis When looking at the map (Figure 2.2) showing the location of major settlement sites and watch-posts in and around Dakhla in the late 3rd millennium BC, one gets an inevitably static or ‘frozen’ picture of the spatial distribution of such places. The map not only flattens considerable time-depth (several centuries), but the space between the locations appears to lack any significant human presence. Such a map, inexorably, confines human presence and action to those marked loci, while any other activity is at best implicit. Yet, at the same time, it is precisely the existence of those locations that spurred manifold human actions and movements across the oasis in the past, as people had to travel for a myriad of reasons. While the map is silent about some of these movements, they can nonetheless be detected archaeologically. This first case study presents several pieces of rock art that not only evince these past movements, but also acted as inherent and inseparable elements thereof.

Archaeological work during the past four decades has unearthed three major Egyptian settlements which were established during the process of colonisation (overview in Pettman 2019). Possibly the largest, and surely politically most important until the Middle Kingdom, was Ain Asil (modern name; cf. most recently Pantalacci 2019), which is located in the eastern part of Dakhla (Figure 2.2). Ain Asil was the local capital and administrative seat of the oasis’ governors who served the royal court at Memphis in the Nile Valley. In the western part of Dakhla, another fortified settlement was established, Ain el-Gazzareen (cf. Mills 2012), which became a large food production centre during the late Old Kingdom (Pettman 2019, 200–201). The third major settlement was located under the later temple of Seth at Mut el-Kharab in the oasis’ centre, which may have been established early in the Old Kingdom (Hope and Pettman 2012).

Our point of departure is one of the watch-post sites which, due to a range of features, can be considered a model typesite. This site, which is known as Nephthys Hill (DOP 30/450-D4-2), is in the south-eastern corner of the oasis and in a cluster of several similar outposts controlling the Darb el-Ghubari route that connects Dakhla with the Kharga Oasis (Figure 2.2) (Kaper and Willems 2002). As mentioned above, such watch-post sites, usually located on top of small or medium-sized sandstone hills, can be found on the oasis’ periphery and seem to date mostly from the 4th to 6th Dynasties (ca. 2610–2160 BC) (Kaper and Willems 2002; Riemer et al. 2005; Pettman forthcoming). Some of them are composed of simple horseshoe-shaped stone huts situated on the top (and sometimes also on the slopes) of a hill that has been used as a vantage point. Nephthys Hill preserved four such constructions, in which, among others, pottery and lithics were found in significant numbers. Presumably, Nephthys Hill and other outposts hosted soldiers who had been sent by the administrative centre in Ain Asil (Kaper and Willems 2002, 89).

These three major settlements, which grew significantly between the 4th and the 6th Dynasties, were certainly interconnected. They were also administratively linked with many smaller estates, camps and other places (e.g., cemeteries) that constituted a dense network and practical means of colonisation. This internal movement across the oasis must have been relatively easy, although distances between various localities were considerable (e.g., the distance between Ain Asil and Mut el-Kharab is ca. 33 km as the crow flies). The routes connecting Dakhla with other oases, the Nile Valley and the Gilf Kebir/Gebel Uweinat region were monitored by means of watch-posts established at crucial entry or exit points of the oasis. These watch-posts are prevalent in the south-eastern, north-eastern and southern sandstone areas, across which branches of major roads joined the oasis (Kaper and Willems 2002; Riemer et al. 2005). We can thus imagine a new cultural template brought in to Dakhla by the Egyptians, reified through establishing settlements and creating vast farmlands – a hallmark of sedentism – that must have been animated and reinvigorated by countless movements and activities across the extended oasis. A constant influx and outflow of people, animals and objects, thorough exploration of the oasis and its surroundings, expeditions to more distant regions, as well as administration, trade, animal husbandry

Rock art constitutes an integral part of the Nephthys Hill watch-post. Motifs found there include: feet, a hand, a pubic triangle, rows of strokes (notation marks?), animals (quadrupeds, birds), as well as hieroglyphic signs and socalled identity marks (Kaper 2009, table). The most unique and telling, however, is a scene depicted on a flat stone slab found in one of the huts (Hut A), which features a figural depiction of a soldier and his equipment (Kaper and Willems 2002, 85, fig. 4) (Figure 2.3). The anthropomorph is depicted with a cross-band on his chest, which is a distinctive military feature, along with a backpack, a wrist-guard and a bow with arrows. The soldier is sniffing

  During the 4th millennium BC, the aridification process of the Eastern Sahara had been already well advanced. Inhabited areas in that time were mostly limited to the oases, where artesian wells were delivering water from the underground aquifer(s) (Kuper and Kröpelin 2006). 10

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Figure 2.2. Map of the Dakhla Oasis and its immediate surroundings (created by Paweł L. Polkowski on the basis of a map by Heiko Riemer).

a lotus and is accompanied by an ankh-sign, which may have been his personal identifying marker (Kaper 2009, 172). Moreover, the slab contains two more features of special interest: a foot and a hand, both of life-size dimensions. We can thus say that part of the rock art at Nephthys Hill constitutes a distinctive portrait of someone who was probably stationed there for a while (Kaper and Willems 2002, 85–88).

and Willems 2002, 88; Kaper 2009, 176, sign corpus no. 5), which is the most plausible explanation suggested to date (for a different interpretation, see Morenz, Sabel and Förster 2020, 130–131). For instance, it could be a sign encoding identity of an individual, but also of a group of people. It seems, then, that both the soldier’s ‘portrait’ and the ‘foot + symbol’ group may have worked as identityencoding imagery. Carved into the hut’s boulders, they must have embodied a specific relationship between its creator(s) and the place itself.

The foot motif was carved on two more slabs at Hut A. This polysemic motif (see Polkowski 2018b) that, in addition to other meanings, may further metonymically imply ‘movement’, is accompanied by a pseudo-hieroglyphic symbol (Figure 2.4). The motif strongly resembles the composite hieroglyph O9 (this and other sign numbers in the text according to the sign-list in Gardiner 1957, 438–543), transliterated as Nbt-ḥwt – i.e. the name of the goddess Nephthys, literally meaning ‘mistress of the house’ – and thus lending its name to the site (Kaper and Willems 2002, 82). Having no direct parallels, this motif has been interpreted as a potential identity mark (Kaper

Although we have firm evidence for soldiers stationed at Nephthys Hill, certainly adding much to the picture of how such outposts functioned, their activities and movements are more elusive. It seems obvious that such (para)military parties were regularly dispatched from the headquarters to the watch-posts, as well as directly between the outposts. And if we move our eyes to some less conspicuous places in the oasis, we may get a chance to grasp some of those movements, or their ‘material indices’ (sensu Bolender and Aldred 2013, 142). 28

Between Arrest and Movement The following argument is made on the premise that the pseudo-hieroglyphic symbol from Nephthys Hill was, indeed, a unique identifying mark of a person or a whole group, and which, were it found elsewhere, would be indicative of this person’s (or this group’s) movements. For a long time, no other attestation of the discussed sign or symbol had been known from the oasis (or elsewhere, for that matter), until another discovery was made in the central part of Dakhla (Polkowski 2016, 223–299). The respective hill (Figures 2.5–2.6), recorded as CO193, is located among similar sites, equally rich in rock art, on the sandstone ridge that separates two huge cultivation and settlement areas: the Kellis and the Balat-Teneida basins. In contrast to those basins, however, there was no permanent occupation anywhere on the ridge in dynastic times. Only some watch-posts were temporarily occupied, which were situated closer to the oasis’ southern margins (e.g., Riemer et al. 2005). The closest known outpost to CO193, the so-called Meidum Hill (30/420-H10-3), is situated ca. 1.5 km to the south. Nevertheless, the site is surrounded by similar hills, which were seemingly integrated into a local route that crossed the ridge east-west (and vice versa). This route, which could be better described as a grouping of paths, as well as another, similar trail located ca. 2.5 km to the north, gets past hills with exceptional amounts of petroglyphs and a number of rock inscriptions from various periods, including large numbers of dynastic and post-dynastic images (Figure 2.6). The specific distribution of rock art and inscriptions, and abundance of pottery sherds, all suggest quite clearly an east/west trajectory for those paths. Moreover, CO193 and the other

Figure 2.3. Depiction of a soldier and his equipment, as well as a foot and hand, found at the Nephthys Hill watch-post (after Kaper and Willems 2002, fig. 4).

Figure 2.4. Another two decorated stones from Nephthys Hill showing feet petroglyphs and identity marks (after Kaper and Willems 2002, figs 5 and 6).

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Figure 2.5. Site CO193 in the Dakhla Oasis: (a) view from the east; b) the north-eastern rock wall (photos by Paweł L. Polkowski).

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Between Arrest and Movement It is quite likely that CO193 and the neighbouring sites were ‘places of transit’ and temporary resting places for people travelling on this route. These sites offered some shade, which must have been a feature that attracted passers-by. The existing rock images and inscriptions may have similarly done so. The more rock art there was, the more ‘arresting’ those places could become (Polkowski 2015; 2020). We can easily imagine people stopping there for a while to wait out the hottest hour of the day and to drink some water from a ceramic jar or waterskin. And while doing so, some could have felt an urge or inspiration to add to the ever-growing palimpsest of pictures (note that petroglyphs are also engraved in spots that are never shaded). Leaving your own images, or at least experiencing the already existing rock art, would have become an element of a journey itself, and an integral part of the movement between departure and destination points. This route’s rock art themes are diversified, but the petroglyphs rarely possess sufficiently distinctive traits that allow us to recognise two or more examples made by the same hand. But the specificity of some ‘identity marks’ may put us on firmer ground, such as the already discussed pseudo-Nephthys symbol.12 More figurative depictions may also be informative in this regard. Examples of such images come from a panel situated just a few meters from panel 15 (Figure 2.10a–b) as well as another rock art panel 25 km away from it (Figure 2.10c).

Figure 2.6. Area of the rock art survey in the central parts of Dakhla. Red squares indicate two areas where traces of routes crossing this sandstone ridge were discovered. Yellow dots mark rock art panels (of any period) (cartography by Paweł L. Polkowski).

The latter was found by Lisa Giddy (1987, 254, 277, no. 5) in Halfat el-Bir, north of Ain Asil, where the ancient Darb el-Tawil road begins.13 It is a very distinctive depiction of an elephant. The figure is carved in outline and only the most characteristic body features are indicated: a trunk, a tusk, a tail, and perhaps an ear. It is a schematic depiction, but with a touch of realism that reveals itself in the gentle curvature of the animal’s back. This species is only rarely depicted in Dakhla oasis’ rock art of any period (Polkowski 2018c, 15, fig. 2), which, along with stylistic features, made this petroglyph unique until a very recent discovery at CO193. At this location, a nearly identical image of an elephant was found on panel 18, surrounded by at least four pubic triangles and another potential identity mark (Figure 2.10a–b). In fact, one of the triangles seems to be superimposed by the elephant image itself. The latter incorporated the triangle’s left side and two internal lines to indicate the tusk and the front legs, respectively.

comparable sites are located near a hill (CO185) with a circular stone structure on top, from which a wide view in all directions is granted (Figures 2.7–2.8). The feature has not yet been investigated and the dating of the structure cannot be confirmed. Nevertheless, a period ranging from the Old to the Middle Kingdom cannot be ruled out, and the lookout function of the hill seems quite probable. CO193 contains at least 57 rock art panels of diverse sizes and contents, the largest of which bear hundreds of engraved images (Polkowski 2016, fig. 6.22). The Nephthys-like symbol is carved on a vertical surface (panel 15) of the eastern rock wall vis-à-vis a large block, detached from the hill as part of its rockfall (Figure 2.5b). The panel contains some schematic zoomorphic figures, including a gazelle, at least three pubic triangles11 and several other motifs which are difficult to interpret (Figure 2.9a–b). One pubic triangle is juxtaposed with the discussed identity mark (Figure 2.9b). Although we cannot be sure that both motifs were executed at the same time, such a ‘sign + body part’ combination echoes the finds at Nephthys Hill (cf. Figure 2.4).

The Halfat el-Bir example (Figure 2.10c) was not dated by Giddy, although she noted that the area contained Old Kingdom rock inscriptions and many scatters of similarly dated pottery, as well as broadly dated pharaonic ‘graffiti’. The style, particularly the way the legs and the underbelly are rendered, also suggests an Old Kingdom origin   The mentioned symbol is just one of many other motifs that could have been used as identity marks. Site CO193 contains several other likely examples, such as an hourglass-shaped sign or a three-legged motif in Figure 2.10a. 13   For the archaeology of the Darb el-Tawil, see most recently Riemer 2020. 12

  On pubic triangles in Dakhla, see Polkowski forthcoming.

11

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Figure 2.7. The so-called southern route (cf. Figure 2.6) with the major rock art sites containing dynastic and some postdynastic petroglyphs and inscriptions. On the hilltop site CO185 a small stone circle was discovered – perhaps a lookout (cartography by Paweł L. Polkowski).

(cf. Brémont forthcoming). Can we say that the CO193 elephant is of the same date? Furthermore, can we risk to say that both images were made by the same person? The answers cannot be conclusive, but it seems probable to us that the elephant depictions were indeed created by the same hand – a person possibly engaged in policing activities in this region, although this at best remains an educated guess.

to something beyond itself and thus take on the role of a symbol. Of course, this may be an entirely deceptive view, but we perceive a foot/sandal motif as providing less information about the identity of the person who carved it than a petroglyph of a soldier or of his equipment.16 Hence, although it is possible, or even likely, that many depictions of feet and sandals (or their imprints), pubic triangles, hands, zoomorphic figures, hieroglyphic signs and other motifs in the area were created by soldiers and other administrative personnel traversing the central part of the oasis at some point in time,17 such a military identity can only speculatively be attributed to them.

Military-associated petroglyphs, like those at Nephthys Hill,14 seem to offer more explicit information about their makers’ identities than other, markedly more ubiquitous, images in this area, such as pubic triangles and feet/footprints or sandals/sandal prints.15 From the etic perspective, a depiction of a soldier appears to be more ‘immediate’ in its meaning than a depiction of a foot or sandal, for example, which may presumably refer

But the ‘military’ petroglyphs at Nephthys Hill find a possible parallel in the studied area, this time on the opposite end of the presumed route. Here, at site 10/08, a loose flat stone slab was discovered in 2008 on the lower part of

  See also the depiction of an archer at Winkler’s site 68, another watchpost in the eastern part of Dakhla (Winkler 1939, pl. XI.1): infra, Figure 2.24. 15   The latter may include examples of Old/Middle Kingdom origin, but in general they appear to be too generic and too ubiquitous to be used as proxies for movements and presences of specific individuals. Moreover, both motifs seem to have been used for millennia and well into late antiquity (cf. Polkowski 2018a; Verner 1973).

 Note, however, that much later, in Graeco-Roman times, foot and sandal petroglyphs are sometimes accompanied with their creators’ names, which makes such images very individualised and enhances our knowledge of their makers’ identities (cf., e.g., Förster 2010, 71, fig. 8). 17   This area was surely visited also by people of other professions. See, for example, two New Kingdom inscriptions from the nearby site CO190 where two scribes, Seti and Sethhotep, carved their names (Polkowski 2019, 149–151).

14

16

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Figure 2.8. Site CO185 in the Dakhla Oasis: (a) view from the east; (b) stone circle at the top of the hill (photos by Paweł L. Polkowski).

Figure 2.9. Petroglyphs at site CO193, panel 15 (photo and digital drawing [not collated in situ] by Paweł L. Polkowski).

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Figure 2.10. Site CO193, panel 18: (a) elephant, pubic triangles and identity marks; (b) tracing of the elephant; (c) petroglyph of an elephant found in Halfat el-Bir (photo [a] and digital drawing [b] [not collated in situ] by Paweł L. Polkowski; [c] after Giddy 1987, graffito no. 5).

the north-eastern hillslope (Figure 2.11), among nine rock art panels containing various petroglyphs, including feet/ sandals, pubic triangles, and prehistoric anthropomorphs. Several elements of its complex figural decoration are immediately apparent: an axe with a long handle, two feet, a hand, and – the largest of all – a motif divided into six arcshaped components in the centre of the slab. The feet, which seem to be made by two different people, differ in size and style. The larger one is angular and less lifelike, while the other one is naturalistic in shape, despite having what looks like six toes. The latter and the accompanying hand depiction strongly recall the ‘foot + hand’ scheme known from Nephthys Hill’s soldier panel (Figure 2.3). Moreover, they are juxtaposed with two motifs that resemble the pseudo-hieroglyph of Nephthys (cf. Figure 2.4), differing only in the lack of a separate parallel line at their bottom and of the line that would enclose their upper parts.18 There is no figure of a soldier like the one at Nephthys Hill, but there appear to be depictions of military equipment. The axe is easily recognisable, even though its shape is schematically rendered and doesn’t have exact parallels in Old to Middle Kingdom material culture and iconography.19 The axe-grip

is characteristically broadened at the end, while the shaft bends backward slightly. It is not entirely clear whether the two very short lines projecting from the top of the axe blade are accidental or intentional. Although axes were widely used, for instance, by woodworkers and carpenters, as shown in many tomb relief scenes (e.g., Newberry 1893, pl. XXIX; Smith 1942, 517, fig. 6), “[t]he axe occupied a prominent, if not pre-eminent, position among the tools and weapons of ancient Egypt. It was [. . .] the main handweapon of the Egyptian soldier up to the New Kingdom and through the Eighteenth Dynasty” (Davies 1987, 22). It is probable, therefore, that the petroglyph of an axe was created by a soldier, and its proposed raison d’être and form can be compared to the equipment images left at Nephthys Hill. While the motifs of an axe, two feet and a hand are fairly certain, the remaining petroglyphs are not so obvious. An heads, so that, at least from that period’s iconography, some broad parallels can be cited (e.g., Davies 1902, pl. XVI; Varille 1938, pl. XVI). Much stronger resemblance bear, however, both actual axes and their depictions from the New Kingdom, the heads of which tend to be more angular. Ideally, the upper and lower edges of the blade are slightly concave, but in iconography this detail is not always rendered precisely, and this may also be the case for the petroglyph under discussion (cf., e.g., Naville 1901, pls LXXXVIII–LXXXIX; Davies 1905, pl. XVII). For typologies of Egyptian axes, see Petrie 1917; Kühnert-Eggebrecht 1969; Davies 1987.

  Note that Figure 2.11 shows these elements upside-down.   Its head is relatively small and angular, which differs from Old and Middle Kingdom axe forms that tend to be rounded. Nonetheless, one finds several 6th Dynasty depictions of axes with nearly rectangular 18 19

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Figure 2.11. Slab with depictions of soldierly equipment (?), a pubic triangle, and feet. Dakhla Oasis, site 10/08, panel 4 (photo and digital drawing [not collated in situ] by Paweł L. Polkowski).

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Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster element to the right of the axe’s grip is probably a pubic triangle (with its lower part oriented to the left). This is a motif also attested at the Nephthys Hill watch-post. It partly superimposes one of two images that resemble simple headrests made of wood or stone. As they are pointing with their bases to the centre of the slab, they appear upside-down in Figure 2.11. Headrests of such a shape were in use since the Old Kingdom onwards, being known mostly from funerary equipment and iconography.20 A headrest may also be the motif adjoining one of the feet (Figure 2.11, lower right). It has a wide base, a short neck and, unlike the two other examples, a narrow upper part. Still, its overall shape resembles a headrest, unless the supposed top is actually the bottom. If this were the case, the image may have instead represented a small table, similar to offering tables well known from funerary and gods’ veneration scenes.21 That leads us, finally, to the largest petroglyph in the slab’s centre, which is perhaps the most ambiguous one. Composed of at least five arcshaped elements (a sixth one may have been added later), the image could show a set of throwing sticks,22 a weapon widely used in Egypt from the Predynastic Period onwards (Decker 1986). If this identification is correct, the image would be semantically associated with the axe and the alleged military character of the assemblage.

like religious activities (e.g., prayers; cf. Polkowski 2018b; Förster 2010; Lazaridis 2015). In such a situation, they would be more than just representations, becoming also something more active and tangible, embodying their creators in particular places. Finally, the ‘materiality’ of rock art would be impactful on both the landscape and any future visitor. Regardless of their makers’ intentions, the respective routes and their surroundings were thus increasingly ‘socialised’ and Egyptianized. This was certainly a part of the long process of the colonisation of Dakhla. But this is not to say that those petroglyphs are only ‘material indices’ of movement (Bolender and Aldred 2013). This would still be too static a vision of rock art. They not only prove people’s temporary presences, but they must have tangibly affected some of those presences in the past. Individually, or as a certain totality, the images could have been perceived as landmarks and guiding devices for subsequent travellers. They may have invited others to stop, or – on the contrary – encourage them to continue the journey. It is in this way that petroglyphs would be integral with travel and movement in general. Hence, a better understanding of this rock art cannot be achieved without appreciation of all kinds of motion that takes place in the landscape.

All our interpretational uncertainties concerning the question ‘what is depicted’ should not prevent us from foregrounding this rock art’s being in the landscape. In other words, these petroglyphs are active components of the landscape regardless of whether we understand the intentions of their makers or not (cf. Ljunge 2013). It seems quite certain that the majority of them were created by people who were on the move between various localities within the oasis. We argue that they acted in at least three ways. On the iconographic level, they allowed the travellers to depict particular motifs – they represented things and ideas. We can expect that some of the petroglyphs were made for more performative purposes,

2.3. Case study 2: Abu Ballas Trail From the oasis of Dakhla and the petroglyphs within and around it, we turn to our second case study, which is devoted to the rock art found along a pharaonic donkey caravan route. Covering almost 400 km of waterless desert, the Abu Ballas Trail connected Dakhla with the Gilf Kebir Plateau close to the modern Libyan border (Figure 2.1). It must be presumed that the trail continued much further: first to Gebel Uweinat as the nearest place with water, some 200 km further south-west, and then toward sub-Saharan regions in northern Sudan or Chad. The establishment and maintenance of this long-range desert route and its numerous way-stations – some of which feature rock art – goes back to the late third millennium BC. Thus, the trail constitutes the earliest evidence for trans-Saharan traffic and trade known so far, which is also confirmed by a hieroglyphic rock inscription discovered some years ago at Gebel Uweinat (see infra).

  E.g., Patch 1990, 16, cat. 11 (late Old Kingdom). For an overview, see Fischer 1980. Interestingly, five sandstone headrests were found at one of the Old Kingdom watch-posts located south of Dakhla (Dachla 99/38; Riemer et al. 2005, 316–317, fig. 12). According to associated pottery and other archaeological evidence, they were dated to the Late Period, when the outpost must have been temporarily reoccupied. Nevertheless, this seems to indicate that policing and travelling desert areas in pharaonic times at least occasionally involved using headrests. 21  Such forked legs of offering tables are widely attested in funerary iconography (e.g., Arnold and Arnold 2015, 46, cat. 4). For different variants of offering tables dating from the Old to the New Kingdom, see Vandier 1964, 93–100, figs 26, 27. 22   However, the petroglyph to some extent also resembles one of the typical offerings so often depicted among other goods presented to the deceased in funerary iconography, namely the beef ribs. As headrests, meat and weapons could all feature among offerings to the deceased, we may perhaps be dealing with a rock art offering scene. A late Old Kingdom or First Intermediate Period rock art scene showing a repas funéraire, a person sitting at an offering table, is known from Halfat elBir in Dakhla (Minault-Gout 1985), so a funerary-associated theme, despite the lack of an immediate tomb context in both cases, would not be unprecedented. For an example, see the Middle Kingdom stela of Mentuwoser (MMA 12.184), Grajetzki 2015, 126, cat. 60. See also one of the variants of the hieroglyphic sign F42 (‘beef rib’), namely hieroglyph F42B (Grimal, Hallof and van der Plas 2000, 1 F-1). 20

In terms of logistics and organization, the repeated use of this caravan route over many centuries (up to at least the late New Kingdom, around 1200 BC) certainly was most demanding, since in those times only the donkey was available as a desert-adapted beast of burden.23 This necessitated the establishment of a chain of supply stations, placed at intervals along the route where sufficient amounts of water (and probably also food) had been stored in large  For the range of activity and performance qualities of the donkey compared to those of the one-humped camel or dromedary, introduced to Saharan desert travel and transport only considerably later, see Riemer and Förster 2022. 23

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Between Arrest and Movement pottery vessels (Hendrickx, Förster and Eyckerman 2013). The trail appears to have been used only episodically as an alternative when the traditional routes, which were closer to the Nile Valley, were inaccessible or insecure due to specific geopolitical situations in the south. There is reason to assume that, at least in the period of major use during late Old Kingdom or early First Intermediate Period times (ca. 2200/2100 BC), sub-Saharan luxury goods such as incense, ivory, ebony, animal skins, ostrich feathers, valuable oils, and perhaps even gold, were shipped on donkey-back across this part of the Libyan Desert. This was probably achieved in cooperation with ‘Libyan’ nomadic groups acting as middlemen or intermediaries, who were in contact with both the Egyptians and their trade partners in the south (the latter possibly including representatives of the mysterious Yam country known from ancient Egyptian records) (Förster 2013; 2015). After reaching Dakhla, the imported commodities were transmitted further to the Nile Valley, most directly via the Darb el-Tawil, which covers ca. 260 km and has its end-destination in Manfalut, about 30 km north of Asyut in Middle Egypt (cf. Riemer 2020).

representing an erect penis (Figure 2.12) (Förster 2015, 249–251, figs 224, 228). The message of such abstract motifs seems rather clear – in the words of Winkler (1939: 13): “This tells us probably that these men were far from any women.”24 Although their number at a certain site or resting place does not necessarily reflect the number of people who were present there at a specific moment in time, they indicate that both the hilltop sites around Dakhla and the stations along the Abu Ballas Trail were temporarily occupied by men, including soldiers and/or other (para)military personnel (see supra). While the heavy traffic in and around Dakhla will have also certainly included travelling women,25 it can be doubted that this was also the case for the much more limited traffic along the Abu Ballas Trail. Apart from significant differences in terms of route lengths, travel time and risks, it can be stated that none of the few human representations found along the trail which might be regarded as ‘selfportraits’ can be identified as that of a woman (cf. Förster 2015, figs 199, 205, 224–226). Rather, it is to be assumed that both the long-range caravan traffic in Egypt’s far south-west (and probably even further), on the one hand, and the temporary occupation and surveillance of the trail’s main supply stations, on the other hand, were, as a rule, men’s affairs.

Due to the infrequent, if not exceptional, use of this perilous route over the centuries, it is not surprising to find only a limited amount of rock art at its way-stations, most of which apparently date to the late Old Kingdom or First Intermediate Period (cf. Förster 2015, 217–280). The petroglyphs are usually found in the area near resting places where people had spent some time, such as rock shelters and small stone huts. This comparative scarcity of rock art motifs, however, only concerns the sites and stations of the ‘inner’, i.e. more remote sections of the trail. At the sites in the immediate surroundings of Dakhla (Figure 2.2) there is, naturally, some overlap in their use with the much more frequented hilltop or watch-post sites mentioned above. The rock art imageries at these latter sites, situated rather close to the trail’s starting point at Ain Asil (during the late Old Kingdom/First Intermediate Period), respectively Mut el-Kharab (during the New Kingdom), are of course much more complex and attest numerous visits from predynastic up to modern times (cf., e.g., Förster 2010). Even if it remains difficult, if not impossible, to allocate certain motifs at these sites to the pharaonic use of the Abu Ballas Trail, it nevertheless seems worthwhile to compare some characteristics, both in terms of similarities and differences, of the two rock art groups.

In this context, it is to be stressed that the preparation of these supply stations, previous to their use by passing trade caravans, must have been an arduous task that involved many donkey trains carrying sufficient amounts of storage jars and water to be dumped therein. When all these ‘filling stations’ were prepared, the provisions were guarded by some men who stayed there as long as the supplies would be needed. It is this specific group of guardians, to some extent comparable to the military personnel at Dakhla’s watch-posts, who probably left behind most of the rock art at those sites, rather than the donkey drivers of the trade caravans passing by. While the latter’s intention will have been to cover the distance to their final destination as fast as possible, the guardians had to stay at their posts for a considerable period of time.26 There are only a few rows of notches scratched into the rock face of some of the stations, probably representing the number of days spent there (Förster 2015, 256–263, figs 232–237, tab. 11), but some of them are rather long, consisting of up to 26 or even 39 (+ x) strokes (Figure 2.13). Comparable rows of notches are also known from the hilltop sites around

Rather astonishing, for example, is the fact that no depictions of feet or sandals (or their imprints) are known from the trail’s inner sections, while they abound at the hilltop and other rock art sites in or around Dakhla (Figures 2.3, 2.4, 2.11; Polkowski 2018b). On the other hand, pubic triangles as well as rows of strokes probably used for counting occur in both areas (Förster 2015, 247, 249–251, 256–263, figs 221, 224, 226, 228–229, 232–240; Polkowski forthcoming). At site Jaqub 99/34, at a distance of ca. 105 km from Ain Asil as the crow flies, there is even a cluster of 11 pubic triangles, each connected or touched at the lower centre by a long straight line most probably

  Cf. also Verner 1973, 109: “A carving of a vulva in such cases cannot certainly be considered a document of obscenity. On the contrary, it represents a meaningful symbol which is likely to have had a sympathetic and magic background: by means of the symbol of femininity the man wanted to reserve for himself something he missed, i.e. a woman.” A fertility-related significance of pubic triangles cannot be ruled out, too (Polkowski forthcoming). 25   For written and pictorial evidence of travelling women in pharaonic Egypt, see Köpp-Junk 2015, 227–230. 26   Some of them spending their time playing the senet board game, see Förster 2015, 289–292, figs 251–253. Cf. also Kaper and Willems 2002, 82 (7) for two senet game boards carved into the rock of a hilltop site south of Dakhla (DOP “Trig Point Hill” 30/420-H3-1). 24

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Figure 2.12. A cluster of 11 pubic triangles, each combined with a long, straight connecting line (presumably stylised phalli), on a block of stone at site Jaqub 99/34 (drawing by Heiko Riemer).

Figure 2.13. Two rows of notches at site Jaqub 99/31, probably representing the number of days spent there by a group of guardians (photo by Peter Schönfeld).

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Between Arrest and Movement Dakhla, among others from Nephthys Hill, where they have also been interpreted as the counting of days (Kaper and Willems 2002, 87–88, figs 8–10, pl. 68). At another hilltop site close to Teneida in the oasis’ south-eastern part (DOP 30/450-E4-6), more than 60 notches have been added to the representation of a donkey. In this case, these notches might rather be regarded as the counting of pack animals of a caravan departing from, or arriving at, the oasis (Figure 2.14) (cf. Förster 2015, 260, fig. 238). Despite close structural similarities between the latter type of sites and the stations of the Abu Ballas Trail, there is of course a main difference in terms of distance and general setting. While the watch-posts could easily be provisioned from Dakhla, the guards at the trail’s main supply stations, placed at intervals of three marching days27 (cf. Förster 2015, 435–447), had to rely on the provisions available on site. Moreover, at least occasionally the latter probably had to stay at their lonely desert-outposts for longer periods of time when compared to the soldiers at the hilltop sites, who could easily be substituted after a while (perhaps with regular changes of shift after every ten days – i.e. an Egyptian week – or so, cf. Kaper and Willems 2002, 89–90; Riemer et al. 2005, 348–349).

Figure 2.14. Representation of a donkey with rows of notches, possibly representing the number of pack animals of a caravan, at hilltop site DOP 30/450-E4-6 near Teneida in the south-eastern part of Dakhla (photo by Lech Krzyżaniak; © Poznań Archaeological Museum).

This general situation, i.e. spending a considerable amount of time in the barren, hostile desert far from home, is to some extent mirrored in the rock art left behind at the trail’s stations. Apart from the aforementioned sexual motifs that probably attest to the loneliness and desires of the men stationed there, a good deal of the carved images can be classified as either nostalgic or apotropaic/ protective. A good example of the former category is the rather detailed motif of a cow suckling its calf at the eponymous site Abu Ballas 85/55, situated more or less at the midpoint of the trail, at a distance of more than 200 km from Ain Asil (Figure 2.15). This motif is widely attested in ancient Egyptian art and occurs, for example, often in tomb scenes showing agricultural activities or animal husbandry as basic elements of an ‘ideal world’ to which the deceased would like to belong (Förster 2015, 231–232). Hence, in this desert context, the image might simply have reminded its creator and his comrades of the, comparatively speaking, idyllic life in either the Nile Valley or oasis they longed to return to as soon as possible. A similar rock art motif in a comparable context, roughly dated to the late Old Kingdom/early Middle Kingdom, has been found at Bir Nakheila, between the oases of Kharga and Dungul in Lower Nubia. Here the figure of a cow, with a strongly accentuated udder, is accompanied by a short semi-hieratic inscription mentioning “the good day of going back (namely to the Nile Valley)” (Darnell and Darnell 2002, 150, fig. 23). However, there may be an additional layer of meaning here. The motif of a cow suckling its calf also occurs as a hieroglyph, which was used as a classifier or determinative for words expressing welfare, solicitousness, provision and care (sign-list E5;

Gardiner 1957, 458). Since this motif is the only one that had been carved on the respective rock wall at Abu Ballas and therefore is completely isolated, it must have had a symbolic meaning, referring to the values mentioned above.28 This is also evidenced by its occurrence on more or less contemporaneous button seals, a sort of amulet used to magically protect its owner (e.g., Keel 1980, 75, fig. 35; Wiese 1996, 68–69, 163, pls 10 [nos 215–216], 20 [no. 420]). Most interestingly, a number of other rock art motifs found along the Abu Ballas Trail can indeed be traced back to – and explained by – the protective and/or apotropaic imagery known from contemporaneous amulets: a double spiral at site Jaqub 99/31 (Figure 2.16) and loop-like (Figure 2.17) as well as swastika-shaped motifs (Figure 2.18) at sites Meri 99/37, Jaqub 99/35 and Jaqub 00/21 (Förster 2015, 235–246). All these motifs are, in turn, originally related, in one way or another, to hunting and trapping as an ageold iconographic theme to represent human control over chaotic forces, both natural and supernatural (cf., e.g., Staehelin 1978; Altenmüller 1980; Decker 1992, 147–167; Hendrickx 2006). While the double spiral and the loops represent traps or snares for catching various animals, the swastika-shaped motif is an abstract version of the combination of two or four antelopes’ foreparts joint in the middle (and thereby ‘bound’ and rendered harmless). The latter motif is again known from contemporaneous button seals, including those found at the governors’ residence in Ain Asil and their nearby necropolis at Qila el-Dabba (Förster 2015, 242, figs 215–216) (Figure 2.18d–e). This abstract version also occurs in the rock art of the hilltop   An isolated, very similar image of a cow, but without a calf, has also been found at site Jaqub 99/35, at a distance of ca. 110 km from Abu Ballas. Although heavily weathered, it might even have been created by the same hand (cf. Förster 2015, 238, fig. 212). 28

  Corresponding to the ability of the donkey to go without water for up to three days (Förster 2015, 406, with further literature; Riemer and Förster 2022). 27

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Figure 2.15. The isolated motif of a cow suckling its calf at site Abu Ballas 85/55 (photos by Laurent Bavay, drawing by Bieke van Gompel).

Figure 2.16. (a) Double spiral motif at site Jaqub 99/31 (photo by Peter Schönfeld) and (b) similar motifs on scarabs dating to the First Intermediate Period or Middle Kingdom (1–3 after Ward 1978, 42, fig. 7.3, pl. 10, no. 263, and Dunham 1967, 68, no. 71).

sites, for example at Winkler’s site 68 close to Teneida in the eastern part of Dakhla (Winkler 1939, pl. IX.2). Here two of these motifs are combined, next to two other abstract signs or symbols, with life-size representations of feet (Figure 2.19). It can be assumed that the men in charge, in order to feel as safe as possible under the given

circumstances, not only carried such amulets with them, but also reproduced their motifs on the rock faces of the stations where they had to stay for a couple of days or weeks. In a sense, in view of their spread, meaning and significance, such ‘moving motifs’ could be labelled as rock art of both motion and emotion. 40

Between Arrest and Movement 2015, 233–235). Immediately above the bird approaching the net from above, there is a spiral line which most modern observers, familiar with similar representations in comic strips, would tend to interpret as the indication of a circular, spinning movement downwards. However, such an artistic means was, as far as we know, never applied in ancient Egyptian art, so that the interpretation of the strange motif – or at least this detail – must remain an open question, as well as its dating. By far the most elaborate single rock art motif of the trail is the hunting scene at Abu Ballas, not far from the cow with calf motif discussed above (Figure 2.22). Executed in detailed rendering, it shows a bearded hunter with a feather in his hair who, accompanied by two dogs, chases a gazelle while holding a bow in his left hand and a bundle of arrows in his right hand. The scene is dynamic and truly narrative, with the hunter shown as running towards his dogs that already stopped and surrounded the gazelle which in turn is already hit by one of the hunter’s arrows. Due to a number of painted bowls excavated at Qubbet el-Hawa near Aswan as the closest iconographic parallels both in terms of general composition and some details (Figure 2.23), the scene can be dated rather precisely to ca. 2200/2100 BC, corresponding historically to the late Old Kingdom or early First Intermediate Period (for full discussion, see Förster 2015, 220–228). The standardised imagery on these painted bowls obviously features the basic role of the man as conceived in those troubled times, who, regardless of ethnic identity, was represented as a strong, successful hunter and dominator of various wild species surrounding him and his dogs. Interestingly, this more or less circular arrangement of wild animals around a hunter with bow and a bundle of arrows has also been found in the rock art of one of Dakhla’s hilltop sites, Winkler’s already mentioned site 68 near Teneida (Winkler 1939, pl. XI.1) (Figure 2.24). This not only attests, again, to the wide spread of such cultural motifs or iconographic patterns which, in this case, are much more complex than the pictorial designs of amulets. It also raises the question whether a complex rock art motif that includes circularly arranged elements, such as the weapons, headrests, feet etc. on the loose stone slab at site 10/08 discussed above (Figure 2.11), can also be interpreted along these lines. Despite a missing human figure in the centre, the latter composition may be regarded as some sort of selfrepresentation of a proud (or anxious?) man who was active on the spot during that specific period of time (see also supra, Figure 2.3).

Figure 2.17. (a) Loop-like motifs on a stone slab found at site Jaqub 00/21 (photo by Stan Hendrickx) and (b) similar motifs on First Intermediate Period button seals (after Wiese 1996, pl. 50, nos 1040, 1041).

Against this background, it hardly comes as a surprise to see that the trail’s rock art imagery also encompasses hunting scenes, ranging from rather abstract, symbolic renderings to much more detailed and lively compositions. For example, at site Meri 99/37, there is a highly stylised representation of what can be regarded as an animal, the hind legs of which are fixed by a rope to a bow trap (Figure 2.20) (cf. Förster 2015, 246, fig. 222). Immediately above the animal, a was-sceptre has been carved as a symbol of power and control, referring to the (desired) human domination of desert animals as manifestations of evil forces. The same may be said about a rather enigmatic motif carved on a large block of stone at the foot of a hill neighbouring the eponymous Abu Ballas site (Figure 2.21). It may show the catching of a bird by means of a clap-net spanned between two pegs fixed in the ground (cf. Förster

In any case, it must be assumed that most, if not all, of the men stationed at both the watch-posts around Dakhla and the trail’s main way-stations were illiterate and therefore had to express themselves by means of images if they wanted to leave any obvious sign of their presence.29 This however was not arbitrary. Their cultural background provided   Cf. Kaper and Willems 2002, 88–90; Kaper 2009, 174; Förster 2015, 278. On the low rates of literacy in pharaonic Egypt in general, see Baines and Eyre 1983, 67, 70. 29

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Figure 2.18. (a–c) Swastika-shaped motifs found at sites Meri 99/37, Jaqub 99/35 and Jaqub 00/21 (photos by Peter Schönfeld) and (d) similar motifs on late Old Kingdom/First Intermediate Period button seals (after Wiese 1996, pl. 27, nos 546–557), including (e) some specimens excavated at the governors’ residence and necropolis at Balat/Dakhla (after Soukiassian, Wuttmann and Pantalacci 2002, 415, no. 3340; Castel and Pantalacci 2005, 417, 420, fig. 266, no. 3814, fig. 267, no. 3816). The motif appears to be an abstract version of two or four antelopes’ foreparts joint in the middle.

them with a mobile set of conventional signs, symbols and motifs by which they were able to communicate, be it with other humans or the divine sphere, or just to express their feelings, wishes and desires. By scratching an individual identity mark, a protective/apotropaic sign or a more complex figural self-representation on the rock face or a stone slab of their resting places, they also socialised and cultivated a part of the savage desert landscape they had to stay in for a while (cf. Darnell 2021, 41–42).30 Once a motif was there, it often attracted and inspired others, left behind by comrades or later visitors of the site. As for the

latter, it can be observed in many cases that the new motifs were not aimed to erase or substitute the older ones, but to add to them or even to interact and communicate with them across time (cf., e.g., Gates-Foster 2012; Polkowski 2020). While palimpsests are  helpful in defining the relative chronological sequence of rock art ‘layers’, such agglomerations of motifs that respect, i.e. avoid touching, their predecessors are revealing in terms of general attitudes towards older images at a given place. In this regard, it is interesting to note a few cases where pharaonic Egyptians demonstrably had encountered considerably older, i.e. prehistoric, rock art at sites along the Abu Ballas Trail.31 This rock art presumably was created in a time

 Darnell 2021, 41: “Rock art and inscription sites represent points of human engagement with the desert landscape, an interaction between humans and desert landforms creating places in the vastness and thereby socializing the desert (. . .). The ancient Egyptian creators of these inscribed places, and the later visitors who literally wrote their presence into the desert landscape, sought both to memorialize themselves, and to interact with the memorials of their predecessors, resulting in abundant inscriptional evidence of ancient activities in the Eastern and Western Deserts.” 30

  Of course, such encounters must have happened much more often than can be proven by direct archaeological evidence (i.e. the juxtaposition of old and new rock art at a given site or spot). For an example of a rich corpus of prehistoric rock art that must have been noticed by the Egyptians but did not prompt own creations, see Förster 2015, 217, fig. 194 (several wellpreserved representations of giraffes and antelopes at site Jaqub 00/22). 31

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Figure 2.20. Stylised representation of a trapped animal below a was-sceptre at site Meri 99/37 (photo by Peter Schönfeld).

Figure 2.19. Swastika-shaped motifs and other signs or symbols added to depictions of feet at Winkler’s site 68 near Teneida in the eastern part of Dakhla (after Winkler 1939, pl. IX.2).

when the process of aridification of this part of the Sahara, setting in around 5300 BC, had either not yet started or was still not well advanced, i.e. long before channelled traffic along some feasible corridors through the desert completely replaced the former widespread movements through savannah-like, still inhabitable country (cf. Kuper and Kröpelin 2006). When the aridification process was completed, only a few favourable areas, such as the oases and the Gilf Kebir and Gebel Uweinat massifs in the south-west, remained for settling or more permanent occupation, and these areas became important nodes and hubs for caravan traffic. At site Meri 95/5, an eye-catching landmark some 30 km southwest of Dakhla (Figure 2.25), a short semi-hieratic rock inscription has been carved in the immediate vicinity of prehistoric representations of antelopes and other figures (Figure 2.26). On palaeographic grounds, the inscription can be dated to the 12th Dynasty of the Middle Kingdom (1985–1773 BC), when the Abu Ballas Trail

Figure 2.21. Enigmatic motif on a large block of stone at the foot of a hill neighbouring the eponymous Abu Ballas 85/55 site, possibly showing the catching of a bird by means of a clap-net (photo by Peter Schönfeld).

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Figure 2.22. Hunting scene at site Abu Ballas 85/55 (photo by Rudolph Kuper).

Figure 2.23. Drawings of two painted bowls with similar hunting scenes excavated at Qubbet el-Hawa near Aswan, First Intermediate Period (after Edel 2008, figs 271–272).

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Between Arrest and Movement in, say, 100 or 200 years, or maybe even earlier, when it might be considered as just another testimony of human presence in this desert region (see also Polkowski 2020, 266–267). Attitude and appreciation may change simply with the amount of time passing by, and ethics seems to be anything but stable, also in this regard. Returning to Abu Ballas (85/55), more or less at the midpoint of the trail, a representation of a single archer is most interesting in this context (Förster 2015, 229–230, figs 204–205). It has been drawn on the same rock wall as the pharaonic hunting scene discussed above, and is only some 40 cm apart from it (Figure 2.28).32 Like the hunter in the hunting scene, the man also holds a bow and a bundle of arrows in his hands, but he is shown as standing and there are no other pictorial elements around. Moreover, compared to the hunting scene, the single figure is heavily weathered, especially in its upper parts, and also significantly different in terms of style. Features such as the elongated legs, the triangular shape of the upper body and the position of the head on the shoulder line point rather to prehistoric human representations – including those of archers with bows and bundles of arrows – known from the Gilf Kebir/Gebel Uweinat region (see discussion and references in Förster 2015, 230). If this affiliation proves to be correct, the creation of the pharaonic ‘rock artist’ might well have been inspired by a much older motif, which presumably was better preserved and recognizable in his days. Concerning pharaonic rock art in the Gilf Kebir/Gebel Uweinat region, this area has been completely silent in this regard until recently. With the surprising discovery, in November 2007, of the hieroglyphic rock inscription of king Mentuhotep II (11th Dynasty; 2055–2004 BC) and its figural elements, engraved on a conspicuous rock in the Sudanese part of Gebel Uweinat, things have changed considerably (Clayton, De Trafford and Borda 2008; Förster 2015, 479–487) (Figures 2.29–2.30). This discovery not only proved that ancient Egyptian desert expeditions had at one point reached this remote mountain massif, situated some 700 km from the Nile Valley as the crow flies, but also threw new light on the raison d’être and function of the Abu Ballas Trail. The message of the inscription – apart from Meri’s testimony the only hieroglyphic rock inscription that can be attributed to the ancient use of the Abu Ballas Trail – is clear: Pharaoh Mentuhotep II, enthroned in a pavilion-like structure with his name written in a cartouche in front of him, is the powerful Egyptian ruler who receives goods from two foreign lands. The one is the well-known Yam country situated somewhere in the far south, perhaps in the area of Darfur in western Sudan. The other is a land called Tekhebet or Tekhebeten, a toponym attested here for the first time and possibly referring to the Gebel Uweinat region itself (see discussion in Förster 2015, 482–487; cf. Cooper 2012). Both countries are not only mentioned, in

Figure 2.24. Rock art motif at Winkler’s site 68 near Teneida, showing various wild animals around a hunter with bow and arrows (after Winkler 1939, pl. XI.1).

as a long-distance donkey caravan route seems to have been fallen out of use (cf. Burkard 1997; Riemer 2011, 215–219; Förster 2015, 269–276, 488–490). It  mentions the steward Meri, an official who was on his way, in regnal year 23 of an unnamed king, “to search out the oasis dwellers”. Whatever the exact aim and background of Meri’s reconnaissance mission as a literate member of the Egyptian society, it was most probably he himself who left this physical message on the rock face. In doing so, he must have been aware of the much older images on the same rock wall, which may even have inspired him to leave his personal mark, ‘I was here’. According to pottery found at this prominent landmark, the site had also been repeatedly used as a short-term camp site by indigenous Sheikh Muftah pastoral nomads of the 4th/3rd millennium BC (Riemer 2011, 218–219), but these people do not appear to have left any rock art images at this spot. Nevertheless, there is, unfortunately, still another ‘layer’. In the spring of 2006, Meri’s inscription, as well as the prehistoric drawings above it, were damaged by the carving of an image of a half-naked woman (cf. Riemer 2011, 216–217, fig. 196) (Figure 2.27). Although most regrettable from the viewpoint of today’s archaeologists, this modern rock art addition might be perceived different

  For the spatial relation of the two motifs, see Förster 2015, fig. 204.

32

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Figure 2.25. Site Meri 95/5, a conspicuous rock formation ca. 30 km southwest of Dakhla (photo by Laurent Bavay).

Figure 2.26. Semi-hieratic rock inscription left by the official Meri at site Meri 95/5, 12th Dynasty (photo taken by Rudolph Kuper in 1995).

the right portion of the inscription, as bringing their goods – incense in the case of Yam and desert animals in the case of Tekhebet(en) – but they are also shown as doing so in the accompanying pictorial scenes, in which small human figures act as personifications (or representatives) of the foreign lands. Without any doubt, these unambiguous illustrations ensured that the message would be understood by anyone around, certainly aiming first and foremost at illiterate non-Egyptians (natives, nomads and/ or intermediaries or middlemen engaged in trade affairs)

who were visiting the locality. The latter appears to have been an important trading hub or trans-shipment center in those times.33 Compared to all other rock art motifs that have been discussed above, this composition is clearly not personal but highly formal and official in nature, if not to say purely ideological-propagandistic. Grammatically, the act of bringing goods – which are rather presented   Due to political and military restrictions, the archaeological potential of the site has not yet been scientifically explored. 33

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Figure 2.27. Modern graffito partly superimposing Meri’s rock inscription as well as prehistoric figures on the same rock wall at site Meri 95/5 (photo taken by Paweł L. Polkowski in 2013, cf. Riemer 2011, 216, fig. 196; Förster 2015, 276, fig. 245).

as ‘tributes’ – is here expressed in a continuous verb form (ḥr ms), so that the foreign deliveries, and thus movements, are labelled as everlasting and perpetual, with the accompanying images to be understood in the same performative way. Most interestingly, the figural elements of the Mentuhotep inscription reappear as single motifs on various rock faces on a natural terrace about 50 metres above the inscription (Zboray and Borda 2010, 187–188, figs 35–40; Zboray and Borda 2013, 215–216, fig. 5) (Figure 2.31). They appear as rather crude copies of the former and therefore might well be attributed to non-Egyptian hands. Moreover, there is also a representation of a loaded donkey (Zboray and Borda 2013, 216, fig. 7) (Figure 2.32) that finds a close parallel in the depiction of a small donkey caravan, consisting of three pack animals and their drivers (Figure 2.33). The latter has been found, among several other ‘prehistoric’ rock art scenes, at a location near the mouth of Karkur Talh (one of the wadis in south-eastern Gebel Uweinat), situated between the Mentuhotep site and the last known waystation of the Abu Ballas Trail (Cambieri and Peroschi 2010, 176–177, figs 10, 12). As a unique motif in the indigenous rock art tradition of the central Libyan Desert, it is tempting to regard this depiction of a train of pack animals as the exceptional record of a person who eye-witnessed the actual arrival (or departure) of an Egyptian trade caravan. At any rate, this rock art interplay may provide firm evidence for

Figure 2.28. Prehistoric (?) representation of a human with bow and bundle of arrows at site Abu Ballas 85/55, close to the hunting scene on the same rock wall (cf. Figure 2.22) (photo by Frank Förster).

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Figure 2.29. Large boulder with hieroglyphic rock inscription of Mentuhotep II (11th Dynasty) discovered in 2007 in the Sudanese part of Gebel Uweinat (photo by András Zboray).

Figure 2.30. Close-up and drawing of the Mentuhotep inscription and its figural elements (photo by András Zboray; drawing after Pantalacci 2013, fig. 7).

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Figure 2.31. Crude copies of the figural elements of the Mentuhotep inscription found on a natural terrace about 50 m above the inscription (photos by András Zboray).

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Figure 2.32. Representation of a single loaded donkey at the Mentuhotep inscription site (photo by András Zboray).

Figure 2.33. Representation of a small donkey caravan at Karkur Talh in south-eastern Gebel Uweinat (photo by Flavio Cambieri).

cross-cultural contacts in this remote region. Compared to the single figure of an unloaded and comparatively static donkey at the hilltop site close to Teneida in the southeastern part of Dakhla (supra, Figure 2.14), which was probably used for counting the pack animals of a caravan, the lively scene at Karkur Talh obviously aimed at capturing a specific caravan on the move. 

periods.34 The motif (Figure 2.34) shows a sitting cat with a collar that holds the tail of a mouse or jerboa (Jaculus jaculus), which is desperately trying to escape (Riemer et al. 2005, 322–323, fig. 15 [A1], pl. 46a). Without much imagination, this can be regarded as a humorous rendering of the capture – or arrest – of a human or group of humans who were not allowed to pass by, certainly one of the duties of the soldiers or paramilitary personnel stationed there (for full discussion, see Förster forthcoming). This brings

This leads us back to Dakhla and a final, exceptional rock art motif at another of its hilltop sites (Dachla 99/38; cf. Riemer et al. 2005). Although probably dating to the Late Period (26th Dynasty, 664–525 BC), it gives reason to briefly address another aspect of our specific ‘between arrest and movement’ topic, which is also relevant for earlier

  The title of this chapter is loosely based on that of H. A. GroenewegenFrankfort’s seminal and most influential book “Arrest and Movement. An Essay on Space and Time in the Representational Art of the Ancient Near East” (Groenewegen-Frankfort 1951). 34

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Figure 2.34. Cat-and-mouse motif at hilltop site Dachla 99/38, about 20 km west-southwest of Dakhla Oasis (photo by Laurent Bavay).

to mind earlier textual evidence according to which the distant oases at times were places of refuge for criminals or other disagreeable persons from the Nile Valley. For example, the Middle Kingdom official Kay reports on his stela that “I reached the western oasis, sought all its routes and brought back all fugitives I found there”; while, in the early 12th dynasty, king Sesostris I even had to send a military expedition from Thebes “in order to secure the land of the oasis dwellers” (Anthes 1930; Schäfer 1905; cf. Giddy 1987, 56–58, 61). Another reason to arrest people may have been due to smuggling, aiming to bypass state authorities and taxes by using inconspicuous routes through the desert (cf. Kuhlmann 2002; von Dumreicher 1931). Whatever the exact reasons for monitoring and, where appropriate, stopping the movements of certain people in Dakhla’s periphery across time, the cat-and-mouse motif clearly expresses Egyptian supremacy and control. It can be equated with the iconic scene of a bound captive led away by an Egyptian soldier as represented, for example, on Middle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period boundary stelae found in Lower Nubia (Knoblauch 2012). Like the figural elements of the Mentuhotep inscription, both these motifs are immediately understandable, even by people without an Egyptian cultural background, let alone knowledge of writing.

art found along the Abu Ballas Trail as a long-range desert route, on the other hand, share many similarities. However, they also reflect different attitudes towards people’s movements – here to be controlled and there to be enabled – in this part of Egypt’s Western Desert. 2.4. Recapitulation and final discussion No doubt the reader will have noticed that in both case studies the emphasis is still on the representational dimension of rock art. Whether we spoke of the motifs found at watch-posts or way-stations, or the petroglyphs in less well-defined places along the routes, we first of all attempted to identify the images: what do they show or represent? Thus, reappraising the question about the more dynamic approach that was announced at the outset of this contribution seems to be justified. What new can be said about this rock art, and what would otherwise remain untapped, were the representational and symbolical dimensions to remain the sole focus of the studies? We postulate that these images can reveal some aspects of their ‘functioning’ that are not inherent to their subject-matters alone, and instead they must be properly contextualised. To put it another way, even if we know how to identify a given motif and recognise its broad cultural set of possible meanings, this motif – when deployed in a particular context – becomes an idiosyncratic entity, in

In sum, the pharaonic rock art left behind at the watchpost sites around Dakhla, on the one hand, and the rock 51

Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster a sense. Its roles, meanings, significance, perception and experience, all arise from its particular situation, both in terms of ‘situatedness’ (landscape) and mode of existence. An overarching context for the above-discussed images, which we favour in this chapter (the abovementioned mode of existence), is the context of movement and mobility. We argue that this offers avenues to examine rock art images and their locations in finer detail. Nihil novi sub sole, one surely can counter, but a departure from the sole vision of stable and fixed rock art towards a more dynamic approach is anything but self-evident, especially in the Eastern Saharan research context.

easily encounterable (Darnell 2021). Only if we become cognisant of the potential circumstances in which people moved, we can better situate the rock art in our interpretations and narratives. Were the images of a soldier and his equipment (Figure 2.3) partly resulting from their creators’ awareness of, and the concurrent anxiety caused by, the supposed or real presence of indigenous desert inhabitants in the 3rd millennium BC? Could producing the petroglyphs, including identity marks, on various hills along the paths be one of the ways to transform the landscape into something more tamed and familiar, no matter if achieved consciously or not? All these examples of rock art found along the routes and at watch-posts were created on purpose and in some context of movement; as such, the chosen motifs were surely in attunement with the interim needs of their creators and the particular powers of the desert landscape.

The presented rock art was closely related to routes of diverse scales, from small internal paths in and around Dakhla to the long-range and official road of the Abu Ballas Trail. Regardless of a pathway’s character, however, our case studies reveal that the petroglyphs worked as elements of individual practices inextricably linked to being on the move. Most of them were created precisely because people were travelling or were temporarily stationed at such lonely desert-outposts, away from home. The petroglyphs were to become means to interact with the surroundings, and these particular motifs, with their culturally-defined range of meanings, were chosen to work in always singular and specific ways. From this point of view, such images should be regarded as meaningful only if considered in place and in context. The Nephthys Hill image of a soldier (Figure 2.3), the axe and throwing sticks from 10/08 (Figure 2.11), the hunter and his prey from Abu Ballas 85/55 (Figure 2.22), or the cow-andcalf motif from the same site (Figure 2.15): all of these motifs meant more than they represented and far beyond their generic symbolism. Whether they were expressions of certain identities (e.g., soldiers, hunters, guardians) or emotions (e.g., longing, anxiety) that their creators felt when peregrinating across the desert, or whether they were protective, thus performative, signs, these rock art motifs held individual, although often largely intersubjective, meanings, which emerged in these particular contexts.

Movement, in this case travelling along desert routes, can thus be treated as a major context in which the studied rock art was brought into being and the context within which the rock art’s meanings were emergent. We can also approach this entanglement of petroglyphs and movement from yet another perspective, namely through considering a tangible influence of rock art on various aspects of movement. Rock art would not be a mere outcome of people’s mobility, nor a mute witness to their activities: a thing affected (and effected), but not affecting. It seems certain that the discussed images could take on active roles in numerous ways, and it is in this sense that movement and Western Desert rock art can be viewed as entangled. Both case studies intend to show that, regardless of rock art creators’ intentions, these images become material manifestations of their presences. A single petroglyph or a composition solidifies into such a footprint. However, when several sites are taken together, like the Abu Ballas Trail’s way-stations, rock art marks and mirrors not so much disconnected presences, but rather continuous movements. In the Western Desert, such rock art places can be viewed as rhythm-conceiving elements (cf. Aldred 2014, 38–41). They separate long journey intervals and arrest the movement of travellers, even if only temporarily. Such pauses, deployed in regular intervals, would possibly generate in travellers a certain expectation of rock art to be found there, as well as provide the opportunity to join this practice by themselves. Hence, even for new travellers, such a trail, with its intrinsic rhythm(s), may quickly become intelligible. It is well conceivable that the Dakhla watch-posts performed in a similar way, albeit on a much smaller scale. Here, however, any movements between such outposts and other destinations did not need to be so linear and clear-cut as in the desert proper. The abovepresented petroglyphs, such as the pseudo-Nephthys sign or the elephants (Figures 2.3, 2.4, 2.9, 2.10), index people’s movements spread between quite distanced places, but the rhythms of those peregrinations remain elusive.

We can also think of a peculiar modality of desert travel, to which rock art belonged. This modality would afford any travellers various experiences that resulted in both rock art creation and frequent moments of encountering it. We do not find rock art wherever some rocks exist, but we do find petroglyphs and inscriptions along nearly all major and minor routes, if geological conditions allow it (cf., e.g., Goyon 1957; Darnell et al. 2002; Lazaridis 2017). Moving along these routes must have been, in a sense, tantamount to experiencing rock art. This was not only because the travellers wished to mark their presence with a simple ‘I was here’ statement. Rather, this was connected to being exposed to intrinsic elements of any desert journey, including the sensing of supernatural presences in the landscape. This may explain the deployment of various apotropaic symbols (Figures 2.16–2.18), as well as feet and sandals (Polkowski 2018b), among other imagery. This was surely a movement across dynamic surroundings, saturated with powers and entities, both implicit and

There is more to this picture than the rock art being just an index of movement, as it could also be co-constitutive 52

Between Arrest and Movement of this mobility. This latter aspect refers, for instance, to rock art’s strong capacity to attract attention (Polkowski 2020). Many of our petroglyphs may have functioned as guiding elements on the desert roads, either as mnemonic devices, or as culturally recognisable elements of routes. As (usually) conspicuous landscape elements, rock art figures, compositions, or even sites, could have become ‘waymarkers’, to borrow Oscar Aldred’s expression (Aldred 2014, 30). The mentioned travellers’ anticipation to arrive at successive way-stations could have caused them to strain their eyes in the hope of not only seeing the alamat, stone huts and large pottery vessels, but also the figures, signs and symbols carved into the rocks. This is not to say that any of such petroglyphs were made with the intention to communicate the presence of a stopping point, but rather that a certain cultural and practical knowledge of travellers could have allowed them to ‘read’ those signs in such a way.

motifs is a further form of movement through time. This ‘magnetism’ of rock art resides strongly in its form, or what some scholars have termed ‘materiality’ (cf. Ljunge 2013). The petroglyphs, always interpreted by a given visitor through his/her cultural prism, were capable of persuading others to respond to them with their own rock art or other actions (cf. Figure 2.5) (Polkowski 2020). This is, of course, a global phenomenon, although one that is particularly common in Egypt. Whether a pubic triangle reworked into a figure of an elephant (Figure 2.10), a modern depiction of a half-naked woman carved across a pharaonic inscription (Figure 2.27), or the copies of the figural elements of the Mentuhotep inscription (Figure 2.31), all these petroglyphs testify to the agency of images to provoke reactions. The attraction of rock art must have thus generated a lot of movement, especially in the microscale confines of the way-stations and watch-posts. Finally, movement and rock art converge in the dimension of a single picture. What is obvious is that images may depict movement. Take the hunter and his dogs chasing a gazelle at Abu Ballas 85/55 (Figure 2.22), the potential fowling scene at the neighbouring hill (Figure 2.21), or the depiction of a small donkey caravan on the move at Karkur Talh (Figure 2.33): all of these petroglyphs show things in motion. The cat-and-mouse scene at site Dachla 99/38 (Figure 2.34) even explicitly shows the arrest of a movement (with an obvious additional layer of meaning behind the figural representation). What is arguably less apparent is that motifs could travel too. The examples of protective (de)signs from the Abu Ballas Trail (Figures 2.16a, 2.17a, 2.18a–c) can be imagined as transported symbols, which would have initially travelled on amulets, to be later transferred onto the rock walls deep in the desert. In this way, pharaonic symbols and their related concepts moved across the land in a manner not dissimilar to people. Moreover, like the cow-and-calf motif from Abu Ballas (Figure 2.15), these symbols, found also at watch-posts around Dakhla (Kaper 2009), are capable of referencing places and landscapes (cf. Frederick 2014), in this case the Nile Valley. They do not only ‘recall’ the distant valley in desert places, they also reify the former in the boundaries of the latter.35 Travellers, as they journeyed, were thus to some extent capable of moving the landscapes with them by means of rock art production and by interacting with the already existing petroglyphs and inscriptions.

Rock art’s attracting powers and people’s movements should be considered interdependent. It is obvious that various factors are at play here: the distance between rock art productions; travellers’ knowledge and mental condition; their means of locomotion and travelling speed; as well as factors such as weather, hour of the day and lighting conditions at a specific moment in time. The phenomenological potential of this rock art has yet to be explored in the case of both discussed studies. It is worth mentioning because it appears as a useful framework for understanding how rock art could visually interact with people, and thus in what ways, and to what degree, it could affect their choices, decisions and activities. We can imagine that petroglyphs appearing sequentially, as a traveller gets closer and closer, could easily direct him or her on the right path. On the mentioned pathways in the central parts of Dakhla (Figures 2.6–2.7), the distances between the consecutive hills are relatively short, while many of the latter’s rock faces are so crowded with petroglyphs that spotting them from afar is often quite easy. One ‘inscribed’ rock art hill seems to lead to another, guiding a traveller (as well as a researcher today) in a fairly linear way. Of course, the petroglyphs located on top of a hill, or in other ‘hidden’ spots, cannot be seen from a distance; but an approaching person, guided by rock art panels appearing in succession, may start exploring the place, climb rock walls and boulders, and discover other pieces. Moreover, the way petroglyphs are distributed at a place, along with its topography, probably also largely determines visitors’ movements (cf. Tilley 2008, 181–254; see also Vergara Murua, this volume). To use Christopher Tilley’s words and adapt them from the Swedish to the Egyptian context: “[...] these images had a direct influence, agency, and power in themselves: they set people in choreographed motion around them” (Tilley 2008, 17).

We can conclude that rock art can do much more than just represent things. This chapter presented two open-ended case studies that, first and foremost, intend to show the potential for such a path of interpretation(s). A lot, however, remains to be done, both in terms of fieldwork and the domain of conceptualisation. More phenomenologicallyoriented studies may be one way of approaching the issue of entanglement of movement and rock art (e.g., Tilley 2008; Ljunge 2013). The Abu Ballas Trail waystations, as well as the Dakhla watch-posts, offer, in

The power of attraction often results in accumulations of images in places (cf., e.g., Polkowski 2015; 2020) and this may be considered in terms of movement as well. It is the visual attraction that moves people towards rock art in the first place. Secondly, such a gradual accretion of

  See Darnell 2009 for a similar concept of the ‘Neolithicization of the desert’ in the case of Predynastic Period rock art. 35

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Paweł L. Polkowski and Frank Förster turn, the opportunity to rethink the very ontology of such desert places and the movement between them. Perhaps instead of conceptualising these places solely in terms of ‘transportation’, we should shift our understanding of them towards ‘wayfaring’. This is a major distinction advocated, for example, by Tim Ingold, by which he differentiates between ‘transport’, which is ‘destinationoriented’ and somewhat detached from the surroundings, and the traveller’s (or wayfarer’s) movement, which is “continually responsive to his perceptual monitoring of the environment that is revealed along the way” (Ingold 2007, 77–78). Ancient Egyptians were surely very attentive to the landscape surrounding them (see, e.g., Darnell 2021), and the rock art they produced is one of many testimonies to this. In their desert travels they no doubt were genuine wayfarers.

Bolender, D. and Aldred, O. 2013, A restless medieval? Archaeologies and saga-steads in the Viking Age North Atlantic. Postmedieval 4, 136–149. Brémont, A. forthcoming, Beyond “Pharaonic”: NonHieroglyphic Animal Engravings of Dynastic Date – Towards a Chronological and Interpretational Framework. In P. L. Polkowski (ed.), Stone Canvas: Towards a better integration of ‘rock art’ and ‘graffiti’ studies in Egypt and Sudan. Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale. Burkard, G. 1997, Inscription in the Dakhla Region. Text, Translation and Comments. Sahara 9, 152–153. Cambieri, F. and Peroschi, M. E. 2010, Report on new rock art sites in the area of Jebel Uweinat, Eastern Sahara. Sahara 21, 175–177.

Acknowledgements

Castel, G. and Pantalacci, L. 2005, Les cimetières est et ouest du mastaba de Khentika, Oasis de Dakhla. Balat VII. Fouilles de l’Institut français d’archéologie orientale du Caire 52. Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale.

For providing various images and allowing us to reproduce them in this contribution, we are most grateful to Laurent Bavay, Flavio Cambieri, Stan Hendrickx, Rudolph Kuper, Laure Pantalacci, Heiko Riemer, Peter Schönfeld and András Zboray.36 Furthermore, we express our gratitude to Julia Hamilton for checking the English of, and her invaluable comments on, the chapter. Work on the rock art in Dakhla conducted by Paweł L. Polkowski has been funded by the Polish National Science Centre (project no. 2016/23/D/HS3/00805).

Clayton, J., De Trafford, A. and Borda, M. 2008, A Hieroglyphic Inscription found at Jebel Uweinat mentioning Yam and Tekhebet. Sahara 19, 129–134. Cooper, J. 2012, Reconsidering the Location of Yam. Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 48, 1–21.

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3 Off the Move: On the Phenomenon of Rock Images Gernot Grube Abstract: At the centre of an investigation of the phenomenon of rock images are space-time relationships and the relationship between movement and locality. This includes, among others, the following aspects: a) that it has been possible to solve a paradox, i.e. to establish movement in the picture, without ‘erasing’ it; b) that a new type of expression, not easily integrated into the nomadic way of life, has been employed, in stark contrast to the handy (portable) figurines; c) that through these rock images, Upper Palaeolithic individuals produced something that branched out of their traditionally mobile way of life, generating signs of ‘crystalized’ identities, with a sense of history. We should consider the possibility that the settled way of life of agricultural societies was preceded by the locality of the rock images as a symbolic-cognitive preparation for sedentism. Keywords: phenomenon, historical consciousness, space-time relationships, sedentism, iconic expression, frozen movement, Upper Palaeolithic, Chauvet cave. 3.1. Introduction

the transition from a hunter-gatherer way of life to an agrarian one. Even if the transition from a nomadic to a primarily sedentary existence evolved over a long period of time and in various small steps, in several regions, the development as a whole – in which the human species apparently replaced its repertoire of genetically fine-tuned interactions with the environment with new forms having no historical precedent – appears surprising. It seems safe to say that the favoured explanation for the beginning of the Neolithic Revolution comes from natural history and holds that it was brought on by climate change. Higher temperatures led to certain regions like the Fertile Crescent simultaneously experiencing a decrease in the population of wild animals and improved conditions for growing wild plants that could be domesticated. Thus, humans were able to compensate for the decline of food supply available from hunting by developing a completely new strategy of agrarian subsistence. Even far more sophisticated models still work under the assumption that the climate was the triggering factor. For example: “The current trend to view climatic fluctuations as a mechanism for triggering cultural change is based on the growing understanding that environmental impacts are ‘screened’ through a cultural filter” (Bar-Yosef 1998, 173). Other authors invoke the climate model when they argue that the climatic conditions of the Pleistocene would not have allowed agriculture at all (Bettinger et al. 2009, 628).2

The spectrum of methods with which to examine rock paintings is rich. Among the most important are certainly the procedures for dating the representations, the analysis of the materials used, and that of the painting techniques. A systematic recording of the various figurative and abstract motifs, which occur in different places and date to different times, is particularly important; the attempts at stylistic analysis provide a further perspective. Another promising, but perhaps still neglected, approach to pictorial representations are careful descriptions of what we see.1 A further large group of scientific efforts concerns the interpretation of the representations. From all these methods and strategies differs our approach here, which attempts to grasp the rock paintings as a phenomenon of its own. A first step to advance here is to use a basic feature of phenomenological reflection, namely, viewing what is self-evident, from a distance. This involves removing an object from its usual context of understanding in order to highlight qualities that have remained inconspicuous precisely because they seem so self-evident. In the case of rock images one such largely overlooked quality is the fact that they are iconic artefacts firmly attached to a particular location. It is this feature of being place-bound that I propose to explore as a crucial trait of rock images.

Some researchers have downplayed the role of climate change and stressed the significance of cultural history. Findings from the extensive excavations at Göbekli Tepe

Perhaps this quality of rock images is revealingly linked to what may well be the most consequential turning point in the cultural development of Homo sapiens, namely

  A number of contributions (including the present), which themselves take other directions, confirm the dominance of the climate model by explicitly distancing themselves from it. In this sense Rosen and RiveraCollazo write: “We argue that the YD [Younger Dryas] did not initiate the eventual collapse of foraging systems that lead to the earliest cereal cultivation in the southern Levant.” (Rosen and Rivera-Collazo 2012, 3644). 2

  This approach was first applied by the art historian Max Raphael to Palaeolithic cave paintings (Raphael 1945; 2013) and was partially taken up by André Leroi-Gourhan (Leroi-Gourhan 1965) and Annette LamingEmperaire in her PhD dissertation (Laming-Emperaire 1962; see Grube 2013). 1

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Gernot Grube in southeastern Turkey, for example, prompted Klaus Schmidt to hypothesise that cultural requirements could have provided the impulse to develop a more localised and controllable food supply (Schmidt 2012; Dietrich et al. 2012). The key factors on which he based his theory are, firstly, the dating of a temple complex to the beginning of the Neolithic transformation; secondly, the fact that it was a purely religious site whose significance was exclusively symbolic and social; and, thirdly, the assumption that the creation of a fixed symbolic and architectural complex was deliberate. Before Schmidt, Jacques Cauvin (2007) developed the thesis that the Neolithic Revolution, although economic in nature, could have been preceded by a cognitive shift. Cauvin relied on his own excavations (especially conducted at Mureybet, Syria, today buried under Lake Assad), but also on the many iconic expressions that James Mellaart had previously uncovered in Çatalhöyük (Mellaart 1967). Although some important details of Cauvin’s argumentation should be viewed critically, particularly where based on Mellaart’s interpretations3, good reasons still exist to maintain the foundation of his thesis, namely that the impulse for the Neolithic transformation was a cognitive change brought out by new strategies in the use of symbols.4 It is possible that a more elaborate view on the phenomenon of rock images may provide insights that support Cauvin’s argument.

hand, like small sculptures, weapons, and tools; speaking or dancing could not exist at all without bodily activity. We might call them body-bound types of expression in contrast to the location-bound expressions of rock images. The latter are – to use a cautious formulation – connected to the human body only by means of the eye and appear to foster a sense of distance, a dissociation from the movable body. Should they also have been touched, for example in the performance of certain rituals, as some authors assume, this use would have no influence on the visual interaction between viewer and image. It is not possible to see the image with the hands, apart from its sculptural elements. Perhaps we ought to include other site-bound objects in an inventory of expressions, such as objects manufactured from organic materials used in large-scale rituals; these would have been too large to be moved from place to place. In such cases, rock images would have shared the quality of immobility with other types of expression. The list of commonalities between rock images and other types of expression is long and includes particularly important characteristics. Thus, figurative representations and abstract symbols that appear as rock images are also found on plaques, weapons, and tools. A sculptural element characterises both rock images as well as miniature figurines or weapons like spear-throwers. Narratives that could have served as a basis for pictorial compositions in caves would have also found expression in stories, chants, and dances. The rock images do not have a monopoly on many of their characteristic features. It is their quality of being site-bound alone that differentiates them from almost all other types of expression. Furthermore, the influence is mutual, since the place to which the symbols are tied acquires a special status from their presence.

3.2. Confronting the phenomenon of rock images To begin with a closer view at the phenomenon of rock paintings we can compare them as a type of expression5 with other types employed during the Palaeolithic; this will enable us to identify differences and similarities. In this process, we should also consider types of expression that did not leave any archaeological traces, such as body painting or singing, which were very likely in vogue at the time. The range of types of expression from the Palaeolithic, which have basically remained alive to the present day, may include: speaking, chanting, dancing, meaningful gestures, rituals, music, body painting, mutilation, hair styles, jewellery, clothing, small sculptures, weapons and tools decorated with symbols or markers, symbolically fashioned plaques, perhaps painted animal skins, and rock images both outdoors and inside caves (Figure 3.1).

Even before the culture of rock images came into existence, human beings occupied particular locations and endowed them with meaning. Setting up a campsite, for instance, requires a group to organise the space; they must choose a place for the campfire and pitch their tents, activities that inevitably demarcate comparatively public versus private areas. By converting a natural setting into structured space, people endow it with meaning, i.e. social organisation. With the help of objects that primarily serve practical purposes (for example, hunting), they create meanings that have a dominant influence on the group’s communal life. Such objects, thus, have a social as well as a practical function. Symbolic objects with a primarily social function as, for example, a sandstone figurine, or objects with combined functions, like a richly ornamented weapon, may raise the status of a space and endow it with meaning temporarily through their presence within it. Rock images, by contrast, are objects with a primarily social function, intended to transform a space permanently; they are examples of spatial ‘design’. Their extraordinary durability sets them apart from other types, for example, installations for the performance of large-scale rituals or grave markers of organic materials. Rock images are unaffected not only by motion but also by time. When these

Almost all of these expressions are movable. Like the humans that produced and used them, they are not bound to a certain location. They are, however, particularly well suited to the human body since they either directly include it, for example body painting, or fit well in the human   For example, Mellaart’s view that some symbols represent goddesses or that some buildings containing rich iconic expressions are addressed as shrines (cf. Hodder 1999; 2014). 4   “The diffusion of the Neolithic is not just a circumstantial response to some sort of crisis. It is a phenomenon of long duration, on a scale of several millennia, whose amazing diversity only appears coherent by reference to the ‘symbolic system’ which governs it” (Cauvin 2007, 208). 5  A ‘type of expression’ is nothing other than a certain group of expressions that can be meaningfully categorised under one or more criteria, such as body painting, jewellery, sculpture, or rock art. 3

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Figure 3.1. Types of expressions presumably used in Palaeolithic times and some of their characteristics. Prepared by the author.

representations coalesce with a rock surface, they become basically immutable. They resist movement and decay. They can then be further altered, revised, supplemented or completely erased by humans, but the last state into which humans have put the representations remains.

fixed in place, but exposed to decay. Rock images, alone, resist both dimensions of mutability. Even after some generations, the same representations and marks can still be observed, although after the passage of several hundred years their symbolic meaning may need to be deciphered anew. The combination of these qualities, site permanence and durability, means that such symbols can achieve quite different things (for example, creating a sense of history).

The experience of a place is conveyed through particular characteristics, for example, an unusual feature in the landscape that attracts attention and impresses itself on memory; or by way of markers, which – if they are not engraved on rock surfaces – are exposed to the elements (weather) and, therefore, of limited duration. Huntergatherers remembered landscape features because they did not alter easily and provided the benefit of orientation as the group travelled. The fixed location is experienced as a point of reference for ongoing movements. Finally, it is people’s own movement that allows them to experience a striking location as immobile. Thus, any fixed location serves as a link between the changeable and the unchangeable. The rock image happens to be positioned precisely at such a junction.

3.3. Things to do with rock images Rock images are not only fixed at their site; the site itself is also consciously included in their design. Rock images make space itself part of the iconic expression. This point of view was originally emphasised by Max Raphael (1889–1952) (Raphael 2013); later it came to play a central role in the research of André Leroi-Gourhan (1911–1986), to name only the most influential scholar (Leroi-Gourhan 1965). If we take a look at the ‘End Chamber’ in the famous Chauvet cave, for example, it is hard to escape the impression that, in spite of all reservations, the rock art creators deliberately introduced tension by decorating the left wall elaborately and placing only a few representations and symbols on the wall to the right (Figures 3.2 and 3.3). The Palaeolithic artists must surely have perceived the space in its entirety and attached significance to how motifs

Rock images are removed from spatial and temporal change in more or less equal measure. A sculpture made from ivory endures, too, but it remains spatially mobile. A complex construction built from organic material is 63

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Figure 3.2. Chauvet cave, End Chamber, left wall. Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication, France (https:// archeologie.culture.fr/chauvet/fr/visitergrotte/salle-fond).

Figure 3.3. Chauvet cave, End Chamber, right wall. Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication, France (https:// archeologie.culture.fr/chauvet/fr/visitergrotte/salle-fond).

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Off the Move: On the Phenomenon of Rock Images were distributed in this section of the cave. By taking the overall space into account they could merge symbols into large compositions or systems of expression and convey significantly more complex meaning than with other types of expression. We do not yet know whether a rich supply of images, like those in the Chauvet cave, represents a cohesive narrative, but the type of expression of rock images does, at least, offer that option. The possibility of constructing a more complex symbolic overall expression is particularly facilitated by the closed space of a cave. On the one hand, it was possible to create motifs on a large scale, while on the other hand, any number of symbols placed at various positions in this space could be placed in relation to each other. Raphael was right to insist that, when Palaeolithic artists created a representation, they were aware of the adjoining images, or those on a different wall at the same location.6

Leroi-Gourhan suspects – nothing in the pre-human realm that is comparable to the creation of images.”7 In a section on ‘planarity’, Krämer draws attention to another often neglected aspect of representation on a two-dimensional surface, namely the ‘spatiality of the pictorial’ (Krämer 2016, 65). The two-dimensionality of the surface onto which the motif is applied integrates it into a specific spatial order, because the viewer now sees a top and a bottom, a right and a left, and directional relations among the pictorial elements. This aspect applies in particular to abstract representations, but also to figurative representations, including those that create a spatial depth on the two-dimensional surface. Therefore, the rock drawing not only consciously shapes and takes possession of the natural space, but also invents a completely new dimension of space, a spatial organisation within the artificially created space of an image. The two-dimensionality of representation was not exclusively limited to rock images either, as twodimensional representations and markers are also found on mobile objects, including the human body. Independent of the results yielded by chronological considerations of two-dimensional representations, however, the qualitative difference between a motif on a small plaque and a composition like the panel of horses in the ‘Hillaire Chamber’ at Chauvet cave is relevant here. The latter consists of a greater complexity of iconic expression as well as its heightened iconic effect emanating from the large format. Because people were creating a huge canvas on the rock, they could draw figures intended for a dramatically different impact on the spectator, as opposed to figures on a mobile plaque of stone or bone.

In their analyses of image areas in the Chauvet cave, Carole Fritz and Gilles Tosello provide support for the assumption that Palaeolithic artists created entire scenes, or at least intentionally connected motifs, even if the latter were not scenically linked (Fritz and Tosello 2007). Two differences emerge when we compare these iconic compositions with other complex symbolic designs that also include the element of space, such as rituals or choreographed dances. One is the fixed position of the rock image; the other is its tendency to expand across the two-dimensional surface. If we further consider that the Palaeolithic artists made extensive use of the three-dimensional surface topography of the cave walls in producing the images (Grube 2020), it is likely that the act of creating rock images played a significant part in the discovery of the two-dimensional surface as a new symbolic tool. David Lewis-Williams took a completely different view of the development of two-dimensional pictorial expressions. He wrote: “People did not ‘invent’ two-dimensional images; nor did they discover them in natural marks and ‘macaronis’. On the contrary, their world was already invested with twodimensional images; such images were a product of the functioning of the human nervous system in altered states of consciousness and in the context of higher-order consciousness” (Lewis-Williams 2002, 192–193).

Apart from communicative and other social uses of rock paintings, the most powerful use of them is to develop a historical consciousness with their help. For the consciousness of history to emerge, the events constituting such a history, or narrative, must be separated from the continuous course of events. One occurrence has to be privileged over other occurrences. The first means for constructing history are stories and human memories. If, in order to produce a historical consciousness, these means are extended by symbolic artefacts which are neither internal, such as memories, nor fleeting, such as stories, but rather as visible and durable as rock images, then that history is granted its own ‘eternal’ body. A history becomes manageable because people can relate to material objects that represent it. They become able to reflect upon it because they have created some distance between it and themselves; in the case of rock images they have placed history right before their eyes.

Although in her work on the culture-creating power of the two-dimensional surface the philosopher Sybille Krämer concentrates primarily on phenomena such as drawings or mathematical formalisms, she refers to LeroiGourhan to emphasise the exceptional status of paintings as a phenomenon on the two-dimensional surface (Krämer 2016, 15): “While linguistic communication knows at least signal-linguistic precursors in the animal world, there is –

3.4. Paradox of frozen movement

  One of the conditions to understand Palaeolithic art, Raphael writes, is “to recognize the existing material for what it is – and very often we have to deal not with single animals, but with groups”, and another one is “to interpret the parts in relation to the whole” (Raphael 1945, 4). His ‘space’-argument is interesting in our context: “The fact that the existence of such groups and other compositional forms were negated, came as a result of the premature assertion that the Palaeolithic artists did not represent space” (Raphael 1945, 24). 6

By creating rock images, Palaeolithic people clearly succeeded in mastering a paradox, namely, to express movement by means of a still representation. We are so   Translation by the author.

7

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Gernot Grube familiar with this strange phenomenon that we must consciously call to mind its extraordinary nature. Let us take the famous depiction of the so-called hunting lions in the ‘End Chamber’ of the Chauvet cave as an example (Figure 3.4). Even though nothing is actually in motion here – on the contrary, a moment is forever frozen in time – what we see is movement. If we focus on this scene long enough, we may even begin to hear them. Interestingly, the psychology of perception has no explanation for the phenomenon created by the artists here, which appears to depend solely on the communicative power of the image. The technique of showing change or movement in front of our eyes, although nothing is moving, once again expands the possible repertoire of iconic expressions considerably. Here, two basic ways of representing movement can be distinguished, both of which can be realised by fixed image carriers, present in Palaeolithic caves: on the one hand, animation, on the other, ‘frozen gesture’8. In an animation, several phases of a movement process are combined pictorially, either by pulling them apart, as in a comic, by showing the process in successive image sequences, or by pulling them together, as in a representation in which a lowered and a raised horse’s head are shown at the same time. Marc Azéma has produced the most thorough works on animated rock paintings (Azéma 2010).

Figure 3.4. Chauvet cave, End Chamber, left wall, hunting lions. Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication, France (https://archeologie.culture.fr/chauvet/fr/ visitergrotte/salle-fond).

or isolate a single detail, “which, like a trigger, can call up an extensive context of action” (Koschorke 2013, 72).10 Here, too, the crucial factor is that the rock image, which does not change, can take something out of time, withdrawn from change. It can hold a certain narration against the flow of time.

One of the first to concentrate on the ‘frozen gestures’ in rock paintings was Max Raphael. He drew attention to the connection between a gesture and an action of which it is an element. In this way, a frozen gesture reactivated by a viewer may depict an associated context of action. For example, Raphael saw a farewell scene in the two affectionate reindeer depicted in the Cave of Font-deGaume (Figure 3.5).9 It is precisely with this potential, that the frozen gesture expressed in rock paintings becomes a possible beginning of historical consciousness (Raphael 1945, 38–51). Historical consciousness manifests itself where people work in imagination against time. They attempt to retrieve and preserve events that have long since happened. The earliest and most important medium for creating history is narration. In his theory of narration, Albrecht Koschorke (2013) emphasises that narration is an anthropological, cross-cultural constant, and that narration always temporises its subject. It is true for every narrative, even for the historical one, which designs its object against the progress of time, that it takes place itself in time and projects its object, dynamically, as action. Images, on the other hand, present “scenically condensed turning points”

Once again, this expressive possibility is not reserved to rock images. Leaving aside chronological considerations, we can compare the hunting lions to the so-called swimming reindeer from Montastruc (Bruniquel) (Figure 3.6), or to the scene of two reindeer on a baton from Petersfels (Figure 3.7). The reindeer of Montastruc appear to be striving forward, one swimming behind the other. The reindeer of Petersfels appear to be walking one behind the other. In both cases, the interaction of two animals creates a scene.11 The moment of the action that a scene depicts has lost none of its fleetingness. It seems to be an action on which the viewer’s eye falls at a certain moment. Here we are dealing with a specific quality of visual representation, for what differentiates the image gesture from a live gesture is precisely this paradoxical aspect, that its movement, although frozen, is retained as movement. The image gesture lifts the movement it captures out of time without destroying it. Rock images achieve this on a very complex level. It remains to be determined in detail what can be achieved through heightened complexity in symbolic expression. One notable aspect is surely greater outsourcing of content, thereby relieving human memories. In principle, humans are able to work in several ways with content that has been transferred to a symbolic medium. These distinct options

  ‘Frozen gesture’ is my translation for the German term ‘Werkgebärde’. While a living gesture takes place in time and space, the gesture is frozen in a work of art. The art historian Fritz Saxl delivered an instructive lecture about this aspect (in 1923), and pointed out that these ‘frozen gestures’ are able to store and integrate the earliest phases of human cultures into history (Saxl 2012, 102). 9  “The surviving animal stretches its neck downwards until its snout almost touches the root of the staghorn of the collapsed animal, while the head itself is too tired for an answer – a tenderness of farewell between two equally abstract and living masses, between two animals that do not mime, do not represent, but are the nuanced intimacies between humans” (Raphael 2013, 68; translation by the author). 8

  Translation by the author.   In this text I distinguish a scene from a narrative. Certainly, one could interpret a scene as a narrative in a nutshell, but on the other hand it is a constructive part of a narrative. 10 11

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Figure 3.5. Cave Font-de-Gaume, two reindeer. Sketch by Henri Breuil (after Capitan et al. 1910, pl. XXVIII).

increase markedly, however, with the complexity of expression, that is, with the complexity of the outsourced thought content. This connection is made particularly clear to us by writing systems. In caves it is possible to create an entire image program that captures different layers of content such as a superficial and a metaphorical one – and combines many scenes into larger narratives. LeroiGourhan wrote that “the images in a cave all hold together as a single block, from the entrance to the end” (LeroiGourhan 1965, 78).12 A second aspect is the possibility of cognitively more ambitious justifications. There is every reason to assume that Palaeolithic people also used all types of expression to organise their communal life, and to ensure that it was free of friction. Rock images would thus have played a role in cognitive strategies of justification. If a particular social norm is to be enforced, there must be a proper rationale for it. More complex rationales can be created with the aid of more complex types of expression.

• they expand the iconic use of two-dimensional surfaces; • they create an artificial space within a two-dimensional surface; • they preserve symbolic expression from decay; • they bring complex narratives into visibility; • they preserve narratives independently of human memories. This list of aspects could be enlarged and refined, and time and again it would become apparent that it is the quality of being site-bound that, in combination with the other qualities, allows new possibilities of expression to arise. Even if we have no access to Palaeolithic interpretations of rock images, or whole groups of rock images, we can still recognise their potentials for expression, which were also accessible to the artists who created them. We are very familiar with timeless places characterised by expressive objects. We only need to think of sacred or official buildings that structure urban space. However, when cave spaces were first developed as architecture, so to speak, they were the only such spaces. It remains uncertain whether it really was the first time, but long before the Neolithic Revolution, these spaces gave rise to symbolic-social effects created by the amalgamation of a place and symbols: certain symbols received a special status by being distinguished by a certain place. And because these symbols are spatially organised, they can be combined into a greater fabric of expression. Such a fabric may contain comprehensive content independent of individuals’ memories. People can draw on this content because it is placed before their eyes. Whatever the content of a narrative may be, it thereby becomes visible as a narrative. By conveying a special status to the place, this narrative, in turn, receives its own extraordinary status. Thus, the rock images’ quality of being site-bound

3.5. Sedentary images Let us here summarise some of the essential aspects of the phenomenon of rock images: • they are bound to a specific site; • they successfully address the paradox of holding movement; • they are significantly more complex than other symbolic expressions, such as sculptures or body painting; • space becomes a constitutive part of iconic expression;   In an article from 1958, Leroi-Gourhan illustrates his reconstruction of complex relationships of images for a number of caves (LeroiGourhan 1958, plates I–V). Even if one does not follow Leroi-Gourhan’s interpretation in detail, his attempt shows the potential of rock paintings for complex contexts. I myself have attempted to unlock parts of the extensive image program in the Chauvet cave (Grube 2020). 12

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Gernot Grube creates the option of presenting prominent and timeless narratives, in order to provide a rationale for certain social norms, for example. We have become familiar with this sort of timeless validation from dealing with sacred texts; although they have to be interpreted, it is only ever within the context of a fixed corpus of religious writings, a stable collection of expressions holding narratives.

cave, shows that they have simultaneously brought about two innovations. Firstly, the dependence on a certain place, and secondly, an increase in complexity. Both aspects are closely linked, because a larger composition of expression is difficult without a fixed canvas, and because, on the other hand, the discovery of such a potential canvas led Palaeolithic pictorial artists to create more complex representations. Since there is much to suggest that the groups that created rock paintings already had narratives that helped control essential social concerns (conflict resolution, gender relations, external relations), it can be assumed that the main reason for the new type of expression of the rock paintings was their enormous narrative potential.

A narrative or, more generally, a system of symbolic meanings, acquires an objective character when we can look at the symbols it contains; that puts it on course to become an entity independent of the observer. By means of rock images, humans were able to create a fixed reference, an Archimedean point, or an origin, so to say, for a Cartesian system of narrative coordinates. A fixed reference is an effective and powerful instrument for the cognitive organisation of a group’s social life. In contrast to other types of expression that offer fixed reference points as, for example, oral narratives of myths of origin, rock images could become extraordinarily effective by virtue of being site-bound and visible. Here, too, it is the combination of two aspects that make the rock painting a powerful symbolic tool. However, the outstanding aspect for a group of hunters and gatherers remains the site-bound nature of the depictions, because this does not fit into the routine of a nomadic life. Especially in front of the large representations, as we find them in the European rock art caves, it can be understood that the deliberate symbolic conquest of a place can have completely new effects on a viewer.

In short, it was the discovery of a new medium that would pay off, because it had the potential of a greater influence on the shaping of social life. In this respect, the breakthrough of rock painting was not different from a breakthrough of a new medium in later times, or today. In order to achieve social influence, disadvantages or difficulties may be worth the risk. It is possible that the local nature of the rock paintings was perceived as a problem for the nomadic way of life, but was accepted for the sake of the more complex narrations, and that this, in turn, could bolster a completely new impulse to reorient the organisation of a community. The sedentism of the new images would have been, therefore, by no means intended, but rather a side effect. Perhaps, however, this side effect triggered an ideological reorientation, to put it provocatively, towards narratives that reckoned with an exceptional and fixed place, deliberately selected by people. The ideological options offered by an exceptional and permanent site may have been experienced for the first time in the design of a cave. The construction of a particular site not only allows for more complex narratives, as in the case of the designed caves, but also for narratives that can use a fixed site, reaching beyond generations, as an objective point of reference.

Because the people using these symbolic tools were able to elevate existing routines such as the justification of societal norms to a more complex level, they could be employed more successfully in the service of tradition than other types of expression. Simultaneously, as new site-bound iconic expressions, they provided possibilities to counter tradition and to prepare the ground cognitively, as it were, for a change in the way of life. One such example is the heightened appreciation of a particular place because the group has invested in it symbolically. Along with the expanded possibilities for social design, the rock images introduced the principle of place-bound iconic expression. When the first place-bound sites of worship such as Göbekli Tepe were built, these possibilities of social design might have needed to be rediscovered or invented for a second time. At an opportune climatic stage, some 12,000 years ago, and as a consequence of considerable social implications, however, the use of ‘enduring’ narratives made possible by fixed architectural complexes could have led people to grasp the economic opportunities of a sedentary way of life. In this case, the driving force would not have been a bottleneck in supply as often thought, but rather complex iconic expressions that demonstrated particular social effectiveness, as with rock images.

Spatial references, provided with iconic expressions, give rise to new types of narratives. On the one hand, narratives can be developed to have a completely new scope, not limited to a group, or an association of groups manageable by oral communication, but which can be perceived by a large number of groups which perhaps meet only once a year. Fixed places that are symbolically upgraded function as ‘propaganda machines’. They can gather a lot of people, and promote their stories. In this sense, the caves would not have differed much from later sacred buildings. On the other hand, rock paintings may have produced a type of narrative that helped unfold historical consciousness. The prerequisite for this is the resistance of the rock images to spatial and temporal change. They hold themselves and their meanings over spatial and temporal distances. People may move and stay away from them for long periods of time, but as soon as they are back, they find the same constellation that was left behind: a perceivable, human-

3.6. Conclusion A look at the phenomenon of rock paintings, in particular the representations in the special spatial structure of a 68

Off the Move: On the Phenomenon of Rock Images made ‘permanence’; a symbolic tool that surpassed all others by its immutability.

without the factor of human imagination or inventiveness. For example, Derek Hodgson and Paul Pettitt (2018) try to explain the phenomenon of large naturalistic depictions of animals in European caves by explaining that it was mainly a supersensitive visual perception needed by hunters and gatherers for hunting and protection that was responsible for seeing these animals under dim light conditions on the rock surfaces. This constitution of the visual apparatus, combined with the production of handprints and abstract marks, prompted Palaeolithic people to paint the animals they saw on the walls (Hodgson and Pettitt 2018).

The difficulties in explaining why people produced rock paintings in caves at some point of time might be comparable to the difficulties in explaining why people invented alphabet writing or book printing at some point of time. It could be caused by a mixture of psychological needs, inventiveness and expectations. The basic need of different individuals within a community to control social life may have been the engine to unfold the new narrative options of location-based images. It would be interesting to specifically investigate whether there is a continuous line from caves to buildings, such as at Göbekli Tepe, in the use of site-bound iconic expressions.

The assumption that Palaeolithic people saw animals on the cave walls is very plausible. It is still the same today. Everyone is familiar with the experience of confusing a shrub with an animal at dusk, or recognising shapes in cloud formations. But the point is not that our Palaeolithic ancestors could also see figures on rock walls, but that they made animal figures visible, and fixed them on the walls in order to achieve social effects.

The important thing is that the interest in certain narrations dominates all other factors. An attempt of explanation based on the primacy of socially effective narratives differs from an explanatory approach that tries to do

Figure 3.6. Montastruc (Bruniquel), swimming reindeer. Reproduction courtesy of the British Museum, London.

Figure 3.7. Petersfels, scene of two reindeer (above: rendering by Peter Florian; below: photo of the object by Hans Lumpe). After Adam and Kurz 1980, 93, fig. 66. Reprint by permission of the Staatliches Museum für Naturkunde Stuttgart.

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Gernot Grube Acknowledgements

Krämer, S. 2016, Figuration, Anschauung, Erkenntnis. Grundlinien einer Diagrammatologie. Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag.

I am grateful to the editors for very valuable suggestions for improvement and careful corrections. My thanks for creating the English version of this chapter go to Marcus Perrenoud, Niels Barmeyer, and Alice Lagaay.

Laming-Emperaire, A. 1962, La signification de l’art rupestre paléolithique. Méthodes et applications. Paris: Éditions A. & J. Picard & Cie.

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Grube, G. 2013, Raphaels Ikonographie jungpaläolithischer Kunst. In M. Raphael (edited by G. Grube), Die Hand an der Wand, 145–173. Zürich/Berlin: Diaphanes. Grube, G. 2020, An Image Description Method to Access Palaeolithic Art: Discovering a Visual Narrative of Gender Relations in the Pictorial Material of Chauvet Cave. In T. Meaden and H. Bender (eds.), Anthropomorphic Images in Rock Art Paintings and Rock Carvings, 33–48. Oxford: Archaeopress. Hodder, I. 1999, Symbolism at Çatalhöyük. In J. Coles, R. Bewley and P. Mellars (eds.), Proceedings of the British Academy 99, 177–191. Oxford: Oxbow Books. Hodder, I. 2014, Çatalhöyük: the leopard changes its spots. A summary of recent work. Anatolian Studies 64, 1–22. Hodgson, D. and Pettitt, P. 2018, The Origin of Iconic Depictions: A Falsifiable Model Derived from the Visual Science of Palaeolithic Cave Art and World Rock Art. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 28(4), 591–612. Koschorke, A. 2013, Wahrheit und Erfindung. Grundzüge einer Allgemeinen Erzähltheorie. Frankfurt a.M.: Fischer Verlag. 70

4 Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers: A View from Guaiquivilo Rock Art, Southern Andes, Chile Francisco Vergara Murua Abstract: This chapter explores the relationship between movement and time in prehistoric hunter-gatherer societies. It does so by analysing the rhythm involved in the production of rock art, at a place called Calabozos, located in the southern Andes of Chile. The results show that the movements involved in making rock art were embedded in seasonal and circadian cycles, which provided a general rhythmic structure to the productive process. The results also reveal that, beyond this general rhythmical structure, the making of each motif was a rhythmical unity in itself. Following these results, it is argued that Calabozos was a polyrhythmic assemblage, a place characterised by a multi-layered temporality composed by a general rhythmical structure and multiple individual rhythms. These findings challenge the validity of a distinction between ritual and mundane time, and support thinking about the archaeological record in terms of palimpsests. Keywords: rock art, Chile, archaeology, rhythm, palimpsest 4.1. Introduction

to movement in itself, such as sequences of footprints and dots (Figures 4.1 and 4.2). On the other hand, the great extension of these petroglyphs in addition to their succession along elongated panels implies an extended body movement along these rocks. Finally, to engrave these images, people had to travel from their residential camps towards these sites.

Guaiquivilo rock art is a set of petroglyphs made by groups of hunter-gatherers that inhabited the Andes Mountains (35° lat. S) between the 12th and 16th century AD (Niemeyer and Weisner 1971; Fernández 1977; 2000). These petroglyphs present a high iconographic variability composed of animal and human footprints, an exuberant number of parallel lines, figures of axial symmetry, sequences of dots, frets, circles and triangles. To archaeologists Hans Niemeyer and Lotte Weisner (1971), all this variability was part of a single style, which they labelled the Guaiquivilo style. Other archaeologists, like Jorge Fernández, proposed that the Guaiquivilo style represented a merging of various imageries including other rock art styles, such as the fret-style and footprintstyle defined earlier by Argentinian archaeologist Osvaldo Menghin (1957).

These aspects not only indicate the relevance of movement, but also a relationship between movement and time. In the first place, the fact that these petroglyphs remain under snow during winter shows that the practice of making rock art was related to annual seasonal cycles. Secondly, the practice of making these petroglyphs and walking across and along these rocks, implies the succession of different moments and phases. Consequently, in the rock art of Guaiquivilo, both movement and time seem to be related, and the aim of this chapter is to explore that relationship. In order to do so, this contribution analyses the ‘rhythm’ of rock art production at Calabozos, one of 19 rock art sites dispersed in the region (Figure 4.3). It contains 30.7% of the total number of motifs assigned to the Guaiquivilo style and also displays the widest iconographic variability recorded to date (Niemeyer and Weisner 1971; Romero 2019).

In spite of the stylistic variability, these images share five common aspects. Firstly, a big portion of them share an astonishing size, often surpassing three metres. Secondly, these images were engraved on enormous semi-horizontal rocks, sometimes reaching 60 metres in length. Thirdly, within these ‘rock carpets’, images succeed one another following the same elongated orientation of the panels. Fourthly, these rocks are located in the Andean mountain gaps above 1600 m a.s.l., meaning that they remain under snow during winter. Fifthly and lastly, these rocks are situated at a distance from the residential and logistical camps that hunter-gatherers or horticulturalist groups used.

Approaching the rhythm of rock art production through the case of Calabozos is promising, because it allows us to explore the ways in which hunter-gatherers of the late Holocene moved across the Andean landscape, and to discuss the temporality of that movement. This is important because up until now, most of the debate about huntergatherers and time has been concentrated on seasonality, on the one hand, and on the problem of history vs structuralism, on the other hand (e.g., Levi-Strauss 1971; Fabian 1983; Gell 1992; Munn 1992; Abercrombie 1998; Fausto and Heckenberger 2007). Although I do value the contributions made within that debate, I think that we have

Altogether, these aspects suggest that, independently of the stylistic variation, movement must have constituted an important element in the making of this rock art. On the one hand, we find a high frequency of images that allude 71

Francisco Vergara Murua

Figure 4.1. Images that allude to movement. Photo taken by Hans Niemeyer at Calabozos in 1968. Niemeyer’s Archive, National Museum of Natural History, Santiago, Chile.

Figure 4.2. Dots in succession. Calabozos rock art site.

left unattended other ways in which the temporal dimension of life is expressed. Indeed, recent anthropological studies have demonstrated that for hunter-gatherers time matters and that it is a dimension generally embedded in wider economic, political and ideological aspects of social life (Santos-Granero 2007; Brightman 2012; Sinha et al. 2011; Ohnuki-Tierney 1973). In this chapter, the issue of time

among hunter-gatherer societies is tackled from a different angle, specifically from the perspective of the rhythm of rock art production. Seen in this way, the Guaiquivilo rock art is related to two types of rhythm: one general, the other particular. As this contribution will show, the first one consists 72

Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers

Figure 4.3. As the map shows, Calabozos (12) is part of a larger occupation by hunter-gatherers of the Andean landscape, in which we can find residential and logistical camps, obsidian quarries and other rock art sites distributed across the lower, medium and high Andean zones.

of seasonal and circadian cycles, the general flow of movement through the site, and shared techniques of rock art production. The second one consists of many different paths of movements, invested energies, and different sizes seen in every motif. Both rhythms are usually contrasted with a view that explains temporal multiplicities according to a division between ritual and mundane time. Instead, in this chapter it is argued that Calabozos reveals itself as a polyrhythmic palimpsest. As noted by Lucas (2005), a palimpsest results from the overlapping of multiple events, each of them having many layers of temporality and different echoes or retention lengths.

Gourhan 1992, 309). To him, technical actions, movements and rhythms were connected. As he observed, developing a technical action entails the repetition of movement, and therefore, duration. As You (1994) has noted, duration implies a personal experience of time, and consequently it evokes an understanding of time as a lived process. Thus, when we think of time in terms of rhythms, we are not reducing it to a mechanical conception, like a clock-based system, or a succession of points. Rather, we are relating time back to practice, movements, and the body. According to Goodridge (1999, 25), rhythm in human movement can be described as “consisting of the arrangements of components into a sequential pattern or series of patterns”. She recognises that “there are in process a number of influences and different features in the bodily use of time elements that create rhythm [. . .] that the total pattern emerges as [. . .] a complicated many-layered mesh of relations between components” (Goodridge 1999, 39).

4.2. Analysis of rock art and rhythm As various authors have noted, the production of rock art is, first of all, a technical process (e.g., D’Errico 1992; Bednarik 1998; Chippindale 2004; Sepúlveda 2011; Fiore 2018). This means that to produce a motif, people have to employ a set of tools, apply specific techniques and use certain materials. It also implies that in making rock art a series of body gestures unfolds through a flow of energy. Leroi-Gourhan (1992, 310) referred to this as “technical rhythm”. He argues that “manufacturing techniques developed from the beginning in a rhythmic setting [. . .] born of the repetition of impact-making gestures” (Leroi-

To analyse this mesh, Goodridge distinguishes components and features of movement and timing occurring at three levels: body and space, development of action, and environment. These levels allow someone conducting participatory observation to perceive such components and features. However, when looking at rock art we do not 73

Francisco Vergara Murua see people performing actions. Instead, all we can observe are the material remains of the components and features of time and rhythm. In other words, in rock art we see the lines of those movements. This is a crucial distinction and requires us to translate some of Goodridge’s elements into archaeological variables if we are to use her scheme. An attempt to translate these elements is found in Table 4.1.

Representative Trend, represent stylistic variations of the former styles (Schobinger 1956; Fernández 1974–1976; 2000; Boschín and Llamazares 1992; Gradin 1997–1998; Belleli et al. 2008; Boschín, Fernández and Arrigoni 2016). Fernández has argued that the Guaiquivilo style had appeared in Guaiquivilo (Chile) and in Colomichico (Argentina) in the form of parallel lines. Later on, in the Guaiquivilo area, it was influenced by the footprint and fret styles, whereas in Colomichico it remained unchanged (Fernández 1977; 2000; cf. Vega et al. 1996). In chronological terms, Fernández (1977; 2000) agrees with Niemeyer and Weisner (1971) in that the production of the parallel lines took place between 1100 and 1500 AD. However, the author suggests that influences of the footprint style, at first, and later of the fret style, had an impact after 1300 AD.

Following Goodridge’s proposal, this chapter conducts a three-scale analysis. Firstly, it focuses on the participants, which is part of what Goodridge considered body and space. Then it turns into the analysis of the environment and movements along Calabozos rock art site. After that, this paper analyses the rhythms associated with the production of motifs. This section gathers what Goodridge called development of action, but it also incorporates components of body and space such as body structure, position in space, space of action and movement path. To assess these aspects, a number of 322 motifs is analysed, which represents 14.4% of the total number of motifs at Calabozos. This sample was selected according to a proportional stratified random method.1 Stratifications were made according to the motifs’ iconographical aspect and to the different sectors in which they appear. Regarding iconography, this article follows Romero’s (2016) proposal which distinguishes between visual elements, such as lines, circles, and dots, and motifs which can be an aggregation of more than one of those elements (concentric circles, parallel lines, assemblage of dots).

In terms of ethnic assignations, Niemeyer and Weisner (1971) suggested that the Guaiquivilo style was produced by the Chiquillanes people, i.e. hunter-gatherer groups that inhabited both sides of the Andes (approximately between latitudes 33° and 37° S) at the time when the Spaniards started their conquest campaigns. The Chiquillanes were part of a larger Andean tradition of hunter-gatherers culturally linked to northern areas and traditions, such as the Huarpe people in Cuyo (Latcham 1927; Michieli 1977; Madrid 1983). The southeast of the Guaiquivilo area was inhabited by the Guenena-Kene people, groups of hunter-gatherers related to Southern Patagonian traditions, part of what Casamiquela (1969; 1972–1973) considered the northern Tehuelches. To the south, ethno-historical documents suggest the existence of the Pehuenche people, hunter-gatherers that inhabited the Andean mountains (Silva 1990).

4.3. Body and space 4.3.1. Participants and chronology After analysing and comparing 18 rock art sites distributed along the Guaiquivilo and Achibueno basins, Niemeyer and Weisner (1971) defined the Guaiquivilo style. According to them, this rock art shares three aspects: a) it is predominantly abstract; b) it is always located near waterfalls and the engraved rocks are enormous semi-horizontal polished platforms; c) it is spatially circumscribed to the northwest of the Neuquén region (southeast), to the Andean area of the Maule Region (centre), and to the Cipreses river, in the Cachapoal basin (north).

By following those ethnic categories and their spatial dispersion, the footprint and fret styles were assigned to the Guenena-Kene people, whereas the parallel lines were assigned to the Chiquillanes (Menghin 1957; Fernández 1974–1976; 1977; Gradin 1999). Therefore, the Guaiquivilo style is situated in what Lagiglia (1977) refers to as the “southern Andean area”, an intermediate space where Andean and Patagonian traditions met. The valleys located west of the Guaiquivilo area were inhabited by horticulturalist communities that lived in more permanent settlements, described by Bibar (1966 [1558]) as Pormocaes. Thus, the Guaiquivilo style is also close to historical processes that had their own developments in the fertile plains of central Chile.

Later contributions made by Fernández (1974–1976; 1977; 2000) suggested that rather than one style, the Guaiquivilo rock art is a bundle of imageries that gathers what some other authors have defined as different styles. The most representative motifs are the footprint, parallel line and fret styles defined by Menghin (1957) (Figure 4.4). Other suggestions and denominations, such as TAGC, Neuquénico A, B and C, MALB, EFE2 or Abstract-

Later on, Fernández (2000) noted that dividing the north of the Neuquén region according to ethnic labels was unproductive, since the region was a “temporary variable human mosaic” (Casamiquela 1972–1973, 487; author’s translation). Taking these considerations into account, current archaeologists prefer to assign these petroglyphs to hunter-gatherer groups who had extensive networks of interaction across the Andean and Patagonian areas during the late Holocene. Along these lines, there is agreement in that the last 1000 years witnessed an increase of population

 For an explanation of the sampling method, see “A Dictionary of Zoology” by Michael Allaby (2009). 2   TAGC: Tendencia abstracto geométrica compleja (Abstract geometric complex tendency); MALB: Modalidad del Ámbito Lacustre Boscoso del Noroeste de Patagonia (Modality from the lakes and forest area of the Northwest of Patagonian); EFE: estilo de formación étnica (style of ethnic formation). 1

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Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers Table 4.1. Translation of Goodridge’s (1999) model into archaeological variables. Body and space Components

Features

Development of action

Environment/Rock art site

Components

Components

Features

Size

Area

Features

Period Social organisation

Location Pauses

Occurrence

Size number Participants Time and energy

Depth of the groove

Shape

Engraved area

Height

Continuity of the line

Ethnicity

Configuration

Cortex

Surface

Aggregation Parts engaged in the action Body structure

Position in space

Progression

Sequence

Connections

Entrances

Techniques

Exits

Tools

Luminosity

Standing

Weather

Kneeling Lying Orientation Successive

Repetition of events

Seasonality

Juxtaposition Type of action

Sectors

Setting Landscape

Superposition Separate Discrete

Movement path

Changes of direction

and an intensification of social interactions (Aschero 1988; Belleli et al. 2008; Romero and Re 2014; Acevedo 2015; Re et al. 2015; Scheinsohn et al. 2016; Barberena et al. 2017; Berón et al. 2017). Both impacted the ways in which rock art was produced, generating an increment in the number of motifs and rock art sites, or as Fiore (2006) and Crivelli Montero (2006) noted, on the rhythm of rock art production.

the high mobility of these groups, their houses, clothes and ceremonies. Regarding this last aspect, he mentions ritual animal sacrifices taking place on marked rocks, after which people would venerate the rocks (Bibar 1966 [1558], 137). Bibar also noted that the people from the mountains used to come down to the valleys in summer, between February and the end of March, bringing with them llunques (hide blankets), ñandú feathers and other products for exchange, and used to return afterwards with corn and other food products. These interactions were not always peaceful, and people from the valleys feared them because they used to raid villages, steal food, women and children. According to Bibar, during these instances the ‘Puelche’3 gathered together in larger units, reaching 150 people or more.

4.3.2. Interaction and social organisation Geronimo de Bibar (1966 [1558]) describes that during the 16th century the Andean area of the Maule region was populated by a group of people who had dispersed settlements of 15, 20 or 30 individuals. Bibar mentions that they did not farm the land, and that their economy was mainly based on the hunt of guanaco (Lama guanicoe), puma (Puma concolor), small deer (Cervidae spp.), ñandú (Rhea pennata) and various other birds. The chronicler mentions

  The Chilean historian Osvaldo Silva (1990) argues that Puelche was an indigenous vernacular category, also used by the Spaniards, which denoted the people that lived in the mountains and to the east of it. Thus, the author stresses that Puelche was never an ethnic category. 3

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Francisco Vergara Murua Osvaldo Silva (1990) tells us that the people from the mountains had territorial affiliations with the place where they were born, which gave them rights to use and exploit the resources within those territories. This territorial affiliation also generated restrictions related to the environmental and seasonal fluctuations that make the higher parts of the Andes uninhabitable during winter. Ethno-historical documents suggest that to overcome these restrictions, these hunter-gatherers developed a set of social mechanisms, like maloqueo, exogamy and extended networks of exchange.

tightly bound at the top, like a trident; another [captain] brought a toque, which is a stone emblem which resembles an axe, that the regües use and that are always possessed by the most senior of the caciques, to whom they refer as toques.” (Núñez de Pineda 1863 [1673], 40; translation and italics by the author). The three knives attached to the top of the spear were representative of the utammapos, a conglomeration of regües of which the indigenous world, from the coast to the Andes, was composed. The knives and toque were given to each regüe leader, the toque (which had a higher status than the cacique). Juan Ignacio de Molina (1788) also mentions that the ‘Puelche’ were divided into aduares, each of which led by a head or captain that was known as ulmen.

Maloqueo refers to the practice of assaulting and raiding farms, capturing women, children and obtaining economic resources (e.g., livestock) (Figure 4.5). Another form of maloqueo, as described by Solis (1990), was not exclusively restricted to obtaining economic resources, but to provide human and material support to the groups that were resisting the Spanish invasion. This form of ‘military’ maloqueo implied a periodic trans-Andean circulation of people from the Argentinian plains and the Patagonian region towards the west of the Andes and vice versa. Previous chronicles, like the “Chronicle of the Chilean Kingdom” by Mariño de Lobera (2003 [1563]), “Happy Captivity” written in 1673 by Núñez de Pineda, and the later “Tratado importante para el conocimiento de los indios pehuenches” written by Luis de la Cruz (1953 [1806]), also provide a rich contextualisation of how maloqueo operated and suggest that it was an integral part of social organisation and interactions.

4.3.3. Settlement patterns On the one hand, ethno-historical sources mention that the area where this rock art is located was inhabited by highly mobile groups of hunter-gatherers. When talking about their houses, Bibar mentions that they used tents made of the leather of hunted animals. Juan Ignacio de Molina (1788, 384–385) noted that the ‘Puelche’s’ tents were easily transportable, and that these people constantly moved, seeking places abundant in grasses. Luis de la Cruz (1953 [1806]) confirms this information, but also adds that their settlements were located near water resources and that after having cleared the ‘fields’, people moved to a different site; this practice was named quillantu.

For instance, Núñez de Pineda tells us that he was taken captive after an assault that took place in the fertile valleys of Chile, near the contemporary city of Chillan. On the 15th of May 1620, 800 indios confronted a group of Spanish soldiers and captains, after raiding and destroying farms and settlements. During the battle, Núñez de Pineda was taken captive by Maulican, a local cacique (temporary chief). Once the battle ended, Maulican had to argue among his peers for keeping Núñez de Pineda alive. Maulican’s intentions were to display his captive and get social recognition and prestige among his people. Francisco Núñez de Pineda was the son of a well-known Spanish captain that had led many of the previous attempts to destroy and colonise local communities.

On the other hand, archaeological evidence of the Late Period (1300–1700 AD sensu Rees, Seelenfreund and Westfall 1996) confirms that the mountains were inhabited by hunter-gatherers, but it also shows that horticulturalist communities lived in the lower areas (Sanhueza et al. 1994; Massone et al. 1994; Jackson and Massone 1994). Evidence used to argue in favour of the existence of agrarian societies relies on the presence of pottery and shovel lithic tools. However, anthropological and archaeological studies have shown that neither of those elements of material culture is exclusive to a horticulturalist economy (Hommel 2014). Furthermore, according to the ethnohistorical descriptions, we know that hunter-gatherers in this area used pottery to boil food and to store fermented liquids (Núñez de Pineda 1863 [1673], 71; Luis de la Cruz 1953 [1806], 18). Poeppig (1960 [1826–1829], 394), commenting on the Pehuenche people, informs us that they produced ceramic pots when settling in a new camp. Other ethnohistorical accounts mention the interaction between hunter-gatherers that lived in the mountains and horticulturalist communities that lived in the valleys. Therefore, this section considers archaeological sites that yielded pottery and those that did not as possible hunter-gatherer settlements on the Andean and preAndean zones.

A few days later, when Maulican was taking Núñez de Pineda to his regüe (an inter-band conglomeration of hunter-gatherers in the same territory), they encountered two other caciques who asked them to attend a parlamento (meetings or parliaments for resolving conflicts, creating alliances or organising warfare, between multiple bands and regües). Núñez de Pineda wrote: “[. . .] we followed the two cacique messengers and we reached the place where the other ministers and soldiers were waiting for us; and then they started to form according to the customs [. . .] of their lands [. . .]. At the centre, they placed a tied up soldier [. . .] for sacrifice, and one of the captains took a spear with his hand, which had three knifes

To date, 89 archaeological sites that have been recognised in the Andean and pre-Andean zones of the Maule region 76

Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers

Figure 4.4. Rock art at Calabozos site showing the interaction between parallels, humans’ and animals’ footprints, motifs of axial symmetry and other geometrical motifs.

Figure 4.5. Mauricio Rugendas’ early 19th century paintings of maloqueo: “Los fugitivos, araucano y cautiva” and “El rapto”. https://www.profesorenlinea.cl/imagenbiografias/rugendas020.jpg and https://www.profesorenlinea.cl/ imagenbiografias/rugendas021.jpg (accessed 5 March 2020).

can be assigned to the Late Period (1300–1700 AD) (Figure 4.3). Out of them, 66 can be assigned to residential or logistical camps, 19 to rock art sites, and 4 to obsidian quarries. After analysing some of the sites located in the Melado and Maule basin, Sanhueza et al. (1994) noted differences between the ones located in the high Andean

zone (above 1700 m a.s.l.) and those located in the low Andean zone (above 700 m a.s.l.). In the former, they identified three types of camps: a) transitory camps related to the exploitation of obsidian quarries, in which the first steps of obsidian reduction have occurred (Alero del Tunduco, Alero la Cascada Cueva de la Mariela, Cueva 77

Francisco Vergara Murua de la Laguna); b) camps related to the movement across territories in Chile and Argentina towards obsidian and other lithic quarries, in which a poor stratigraphy was found (Puente Campanario, Cueva del Salto de Bobadilla, Refugio del Risco Bayo, Casa de Piedra del Risco Bayo, Cueva del Campanario); and c) camps associated with the exploitation of local resources, such as Lama guanicoe and woods (Casa de Piedra Galaz, Casa de Piedra Cajón del Guanaco).

For instance, in Piedra de los Platos, Medina, Vargas and Vergara (1964) and Medina and Vergara (1969) report the presence of fragments of orange, grey and black pottery, and ochre pigment clusters. Regarding the latter, it is worth noting that both, Juan Ignacio de Molina (1788) and Luis de la Cruz (1953 [1806]), mention that people that lived in the mountains painted their bodies in red, black, blue and white. All these colours, as noted by de la Cruz (1953 [1806], 31), were obtained from stone pigments and were used to “look better” or to hide people’s identities.

In the lower zones, camps like Vega Estero la Turbia, Alero Melado 2 and Alero Melado 3 were used for more prolonged periods than the ones on the high zones. A higher frequency of pottery fragments and lithic artefacts, such as scrapers and hand planes, suggests that these camps were devoted to the exploitation of local woods and meadows. For Sanhueza et al. (1994), these sites were related to more permanent settlements like Pehuenche.

In residential camps, such as Piedra de los Platos (1300 m a.s.l.), Ta 2E-8 (1032 m a.s.l.), Ta 2E-7 (1106 m a.s.l.) and El Camino (810 m a.s.l.), it is very common to find small fragments of brown, red and orange pottery and abundant obsidian and andesite debris. Arrowheads’ shapes vary from triangular with straight and convex base to almondlike ones, and their sizes usually range from 15 to 45 mm in length. Lithic cores are scarce, whereas rounded pebbles, scrapers and choppers are more frequent. Most of these sites yielded obsidian debris and tools, and in some of them, archaeologists have recognised material from La Plata quarry, located close to the Maule Lake (Hermosilla 2006).

Pehuenche is located in the lowlands, at 448 m a.s.l. Part of the pottery found there proved to be locally produced and exclusive to this site, whereas other portions proved to be produced from clay from the coastal mountains (Seelenfreund et al. 1994; Rees et al. 1996). Most of lithic evidence corresponds to the entire process of lithic reduction, although a large number of finished artefacts, such as rock mortars, knives, scrapers, hand planes, shovel blades and arrow heads, were also found. The raw materials used to produce lithic artefacts are varied, although the most employed ones were four types of andesite and obsidian from La Plata quarry (1600 m a.s.l.). The site’s stratigraphy shows repeated usage of the site, and chronological information suggests that Pehuenche started to be used intensively from 1050 until 1700 AD (Figure 4.6). According to the authors cited above, Pehuenche represents a residential camp.

The above information suggests that the Andean landscape was used by hunter-gatherers communities in various ways. It is interesting to note that all the residential camps are located on the lower and intermediate Andean zones (from Pehuenche at 448 m a.s.l. to Piedra de los Platos at 1300 m a.s.l.), whereas logistical camps can be found at higher altitudes. This information suggests that it is very likely that the hunter-gatherers that inhabited this landscape represent one of the modes of mobility distinguished by Binford (1980), namely the ‘collectors’. This model would explain the presence of residential camps surrounded by logistical ones from which people brought resources back to their residential places. However, the above referred evidence also invites us to think of places where wider networks of interaction occurred, especially between hunter-gatherers and horticulturalist communities, as probably evidenced in Pehuenche and in Ta 2E-8.

For a region very close to the Maule Lake (2173 m a.s.l.), Miranda (2006) reports a set of semi-circular structures made of simple accumulations of rocks. Although Miranda did not find other archaeological evidence, it is possible that structures like these were used by hunter-gatherer communities to pin down their tents. It is interesting to note that although one of them has a single structure (LMB01), the other sites consist of groups of three (LM-B02) and 16 (S/N) structures, respectively, which is consistent with the ethno-historical information cited above. Their location suggests that these sites were related to the obsidian quarries situated nearby, but also to a seasonal occupation of that area.

4.4. Environment: site, size, configuration, connection, and setting Apart from the above-mentioned archaeological sites, we also know about the existence of at least 19 rock art sites, all of them located between 1200 and 1900 m a.s.l. (with the exception of Paso Valdes, which is above 2000 m a.s.l.). One of these sites is Calabozos (36° S, 70°59 W, 1686 m a.s.l.). It is located near the beginning of the Calabozos stream, eight kilometres upstream from its mouth at the Guaiquivilo River (1100 m a.s.l.). Its location at a high altitude implies that during winter (from May until late September or October), most of the area remains under snow. This aspect was confirmed during a visit made by the author in early May of 2016, which reinforces the seasonality associated with rock art production.

Other archaeological sites, which have been dated to the Late Period, display similar archaeological evidence and spatial conditions. Sites like Piedra de los Platos, located a few kilometres north of Pehuenche but at a higher altitude, the ones in Radal Siete Tazas, especially Ta 2E-8 and Ta 2E-7, and those in the Ancoa basin, are all located near water sources and can be assigned either to residential or to logistical camps (Massone et al. 1994; Jackson and Massone 1994; Hermosilla 2006). 78

Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers

Figure 4.6. This graph shows that during the Late Period the whole Andean and Pre-Andean landscape was inhabited by communities of hunter-gatherers.

A survey of the surface around the Calabozos basin, which covered an area of 19 km², showed no other archaeological evidence apart from rock art. During the survey, a big rock shelter used by contemporary herders was detected, but with no archaeological remains on its surface. This absence of cultural remains near rock art sites was noted earlier by Niemeyer and Weisner (1971) and by Fernández (2000) in most of the northwest of the Neuquén region. In fact, the closest distance between rock art sites and residential or logistical camps is 13.7 km (between El Toro and Hornillos), followed by 22.5 km (between El Toro and Melado 4), 38.3 km (between Piedra de las Marcas and Pehuenche) and 25.4 km (between Piedra de las Marcas and Vega Estero la Turbia). Both the absence of archaeological remains and the distances between rock art and residential sites suggest that in order to produce petroglyphs people had to leave their camps and move at a considerable distance.

Calabozos a landscape of spatial alternations, an aspect evident in how interspersed the rock platforms, water streams, vegetation spots, and slopes are. Of course, much time has passed since hunter-gatherers used the site for the last time, and multiple processes might have influenced what we see today. For instance, during my visit to the site, I could not find the motif shown in Figure 4.1. In fact, our analysis of the conservation of the site suggests that the main factors and agents that affect the whole site are lichens, small vegetation, water runoffs, and the freezing of water which produces fractures and fissures on the rocks. Nevertheless, it is still possible to suggest that the general picture referred to above (cf. Figure 4.7) has not changed drastically. In this sense, it is likely that the distribution/ layout of the above features were also present when these rocks were engraved. Another attribute of Calabozos rock art site is its location in the open space, which implies that the luminosity on the site is relational to the sunlight and the seasons. When registering the petroglyphs (January, 2017), although dawn was around 5 a.m., the area was covered by sunlight almost two hours later. During morning, noon and afternoon, the path of the sun resembled the course of Calabozos basin (Figure 4.8). At noon, when the sun was just above the rock platforms, the visibility of the motifs was reduced, whereas during the morning and the afternoon, grazing light effects facilitated recognising them. Dusk occurred around 7 p.m., followed by the sun setting behind the Melado Mountains towards the north-west: the same direction as sector 7. In this sense, both the spatial arrangement of the sectors and people’s movements along them mirror the sun’s pathway.

In Calabozos, the motifs are concentrated in seven sectors (Figure 4.7). They are separated either by the Calabozos stream, areas with vegetation in which no rock art is found, or by a rocky slope and an enormous rock formation. Both extremes of the site (sector 1 and 7) coincide with small waterfalls and ponds. Six of these sectors (sectors 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 7) are elongated semi-horizontal rock platforms varying from 20 metres (sector 1) up to 142 metres in length (sector 3). Sectors 1 to 5 are located on the south bank of the Calabozos stream, whereas sectors 6 and 7 lie on the north bank of the river. In total, the estimated size of the site reaches approximately 15 ha and it is 770 m long. In relation to the site’s shape, the above features make 79

Francisco Vergara Murua

Figure 4.7. Spatial distribution of sectors at Calabozos rock art site.

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Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers

Figure 4.8. Sunrise seen from the site.

The surface of the site varies as one moves from one sector to another. For example, rock platforms can be described as carpet-like (Figure 4.9). Their almost horizontal surfaces are polished and smooth. A big portion of these platforms has been eroded, full of fissures or cracks. In some of these cracks, small vegetation can appear. Between sectors, one crosses patches of small vegetation. Finally, some of the surface of Calabozos’ terrain, especially the slopes, is covered by small rocks and loose sediments that are a result of erosion in the surrounding mountains.

2, 3, 4, 5 and 7. This direction of movement implies a south-east/north-west axis, and it resembles the course of the Calabozos stream and the sun’s path. Moving along this axis, one also crosses shrubs and rocky slopes. The second direction implies a south-west/north-east axis. Moving along this direction, one traverses the elongated rock platforms, crosses the Calabozos stream and reaches sector 6. For movement along the first axis, the following progression of moves can be suggested. People first reached sector 1 (1664 m a.s.l.). From here, one has a panoramic view of most of the Calabozos site, excluding sector 7. This spot also offers a panoramic view of the Calabozos stream and of the Andean mountains that delimit the Guaiquivilo basin (south-east). To reach sector 2, it is necessary to cross an area devoid of petroglyphs for about 50 metres, covered with grasses and shrubs. The view from this sector is very similar to the previous one. However, as it is closer to the stream, one can hear the water running, and clearly see sector 6.

When moving from sector 1 to sector 7, one covers almost 100 metres of altitude difference. Changes of elevation also occur while moving within each sector. For instance, the highest point in sector 3 is 1687 m a.s.l., whereas the lowest is 1650 m a.s.l. These differences of elevation make the visibility of the Calabozos site and the surrounding landscape variable. 4.5. Development of action: flow of movement, progression, energy and pauses in moving along Calabozos

Further on, one crosses a second patch of vegetation, about 30 metres long, before reaching sector 3. A small gap of six metres separates sector 4 from sector 3. From sector 4 to 5, it is necessary to walk a distance of 110 metres where

The spatial distribution of sectors suggests that the people that made this rock art moved in two main directions. The first one is related with moving across sectors 1, 81

Francisco Vergara Murua more vegetation is found. All these sectors are visually interconnected, and from sector 5 towards the northwest (where sector 7 is located) one can notice an enormous rock formation. To reach sector 7, one has to cover about 380 metres across a stony slope, until arriving at a small waterfall near which one finds rocks with engravings. These rocks are located at the riverside, at the base of a huge rock formation that can be accessed only after crossing the water stream (Figure 4.10). Finally, sector 6 is located on the north side of the Calabozos stream; therefore, it is necessary to cross the river. From sectors 1, 2 and 3, one needs to descend to the stream and then climb the rock walls of sector 6. Alternatively, one can walk down from sector 1 or 2 for about 180 metres, and then approach sector 6 from the east.

cross them, to reach the succeeding rock platforms, so that one can continue engraving or looking at the engraved motifs. In this sense, these pauses imply the activation of a different set of body movements than when making petroglyphs. It can be argued that these gaps contributed to the embodiment and reinforcement of the spatial architectonics of the site, at least in the sense that people moved differently than when making rock art. In particular, these gaps reinforce the existence of the different sectors and spaces between them. Although we did not conduct any investigation of the stratigraphy of these gaps, the possibilities of having a canvas with rock art beneath the surface remains very poor, especially when considering that the shrubs found here need an appropriate substrate to grow not offered by the rocks on which we find rock art. Having said that, six gaps can be found between engraved rocks.

According to the cardinal orientations of the rock’s canvas within each sector, it is also possible to suggest two other directions of movement. The first is one, in which people moved on a north-east to south-west axis, or vice versa. This movement allowed people to traverse the whole elongated panels. The other direction of movement is exclusive to sector 6. Here the spatial distribution of the motifs follows a circular path that surrounds a natural cavity of approximately 30 metres in diameter, which stores rain water.

4.6. ‘Rhythms’ of making petroglyphs at Calabozos: body structure, position in space, space of action, movement path, time and energy Guaiquivilo rock art displays a large iconographic diversity. At Calabozos, all types of petroglyphs can be found. However, their distribution differs from sector to sector. Parallel lines, human footprints, linear grids, lines and series of dots are present in all sectors, although they tend to concentrate in sector 3 and 4. Motifs of axial symmetry are similar to the above, but they are not present in sector 5. Sector 7 contains most of the iconographic categories, except for zoomorphs. What is remarkable is that sectors 1 and 5 have the least diversified rock art: we do not find hooks, pins, frets, and hand-like motifs.

The above sectors differ from each other in terms of the average number of motifs per square metre. Sectors 3 and 4 contain a higher number of motifs on average, whereas sectors 1, 2, 5, 6 and 7 contain less (Table 4.2). This suggests that a higher amount of energy was invested in the production of petroglyphs in sectors 3 and 4 than in the remaining sectors. It also suggests an architectural distinction of the site in general, which ranges from low investment of energy in the making of petroglyphs in sector 1 and 2 towards a high amount of energy in sector 3, reaching a peak in sector 4, and then starts decreasing in sectors 5 and 6. Sector 7 is the area in which the lowest average number of motifs per square metre was recorded. Such an architectural distinction, or ‘spatial architectonics’ in the words of Lefebvre (2008), is produced by people’s movements and actions within the Calabozos area and suggests a curved flow of energy along the whole site, starting from low, passing through high, and then returning to low energy again.

In terms of techniques, motifs were almost exclusively produced by direct percussion using pointed stones that are available on the site’s surface. Exceptions include a small number of representations of bird footprints as well as some historic names and figures that were all produced by incisions. One of the most distinctive aspects of the production of the rock art at Calabozos is that to engrave the rocks people had to kneel or lie on them. There are only two cases in which people could stand in front of the rocks. Similarly, most of the analysed motifs (n=218) present the same cardinal orientation as the rock canvases and they are considerably long (more than one metre). These observations suggest that to engrave most of the motifs, nearly the whole body of the engraver had to be in direct contact with the rock surface, either lying or kneeling on it, and the engraver had to move their entire body along the rock’s surface. Motifs like parallel lines, those of ‘axial symmetry’, frets, and series of dots and footprints provide some illustrative cases.

As mentioned above, between individual sectors we find places with shrubs, slopes, loose sediments, and patches of small vegetation, like Andean grasses, but no rock art. From a rhythmical perspective, these gaps can be understood as pauses, at least in the sense that no rock art was produced here. Within these gaps, people had to employ different body movements than when walking along the rock platforms and when making rock art. Instead of using a stone hammer and kneeling or lying on top of the rocks to produce a motif, people had to use their bodies to pass through these gaps, taking care not to fall down, or stumble, thus avoiding any potential accident. The intention of people moving around these places is to

Another line of evidence that we can use to analyse the movement and rhythm of rock art production has to do with the physical distances that exist between motifs. At Calabozos, it is possible to observe five types of action: superposition, juxtaposition, adjacent, separate and 82

Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers

Figure 4.9. Rock canvas used at Calabozos. As shown in this figure, these rocks resemble horizontal smooth carpets.

Figure 4.10. Panoramic view from sector 7 towards the west. At the horizon, the high peaks of the Melado Mountains are visible.

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Francisco Vergara Murua Table 4.2. Average number of motifs per sector at Calabozos. Sector

Number of motifs

Area (m²)

Average (m²)

1

41

1224

0.0334967

2

78

1109

0.0703336

3

1129

9770

0.1149437

4

654

3105

0.210628

5

36

901

0.0399556

6

170

4763

0.0356918

7

132

9419

0.0140172

Total

2240

30291

0.0739494

discrete. Superposition is observed when one motif or part of it is placed on top of another. Juxtaposition is when the contour of a motif is used as part of a new motif, or when the contours of two motifs touch each other without provoking a superposition. An adjacent type of action is observed when motifs are engraved very close to each other, but not juxtaposed. A separate type of action is when the physical spaces that separate individual motifs placed on the same rock are larger than in the case of adjacent. A discrete type of action is when a motif is placed alone on the canvas. A clear tendency observed at Calabozos was to engrave motifs adjacent to each other, regardless of iconographical type (n=188) (Figure 4.11). This tendency resulted in a succession of motifs towards the same elongated axis of the rocks (north-east to south-west axis). This must have invited those who were making and/or looking at motifs to navigate and move along and across the rocks. The discrete type of action occurs less frequent than the adjacent one (n=58). In visual terms, this involves, in most cases, lines (n=23), circles (n=9), parallel lines (n=9), and motifs of axial symmetry (n=4). Motif types that do not form part of this group are human footprints in succession, a particular animal footprint (Lama guanicoe), fitomorphs,4 hooks, and linear grids. Cases of a separated type of action are even less frequent (n=48), whereas cases of superposition and juxtaposition are rare (n=12 and n=16, respectively). Regarding superposition, representations of animal and human footprints are found overlying lines and circles. The latter, in turn, are placed on top of motifs of axial symmetry and fitomorph motifs. In one case, parallel lines are found above a series of triangles, and in another case an incision is found placed over motifs of axial symmetry. Besides the type of action, it is also to be noted that the production of these motifs involved different paths of Figure 4.11. Parallel lines, triangles, motifs of axial symmetry and lines adjacent to each other at Calabozos rock art site.

  In the Spanish literature on rock art, the word ‘fitomorph’ is used to refer to a plant-shaped motif. See, e.g., Niemeyer and Weisner 1971. 4

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Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers movement. According to Goodridge (1999), a path of movement is a trace-form that has a rhythmical component according to the angles and the changes in the direction of the gestures. At Calabozos, it is possible to distinguish five paths of movement: curved, straight, zigzag, angular and dotted. The majority of the motifs were executed through one of these paths of movement, which can be designated as single movement motifs. Within this group, the most frequently observed movement was curved (n=89), then straight (n=33), followed by zigzag (n=21). Dots and angular movements are less frequent. Another big portion of motifs was executed through a combination of two paths of movement, which can be referred to as dual. Within this group, the most frequent combinations are curved and straight (n=89), angular and straight (n=25), curved and zigzag (n=11), and straight and zigzag (n=7). Other combinations were used in very low frequencies, amounting altogether to eight cases only. Examples that involved multiple paths of movement are scarce, and the most frequent combinations would involve curved, straight and angular movements. In iconographical terms, motifs of axial symmetry are the motif type that shows the highest variability. A small number of them (n=3) were made through single paths of movement, whereas the remaining ones (n=23) were executed through dual or multiple movement paths. Grid-like motifs and human footprints were executed mainly by dual paths of movement, combining curved and straight, whereas for frets mainly straight and angular movements were used.

to twenty-five changes. In this group, we find human footprints and hands, circles with lines, series of triangles, grid-like motifs, pins, and fitomorphs. Finally, the third group consists of motifs that were produced with more than twenty-six changes, in which we find motifs of axial symmetry, frets and parallel lines. It is important to note that the above classification also includes some cases that overlap into two or more groups. For instance, there are a number of parallel lines, motifs of axial symmetry and frets that were produced with six to twenty-five changes. However, we do not find animal footprints with more than six changes. The importance of the above distinctions lies in that they illustrate some of the rhythmical differences and similarities among the most representative iconographic motifs of the Guaiquivilo style. For instance, there are more similarities between frets, parallels, and motifs of axial symmetry than between them and animal and human footprints. This is relevant in the sense that in terms of rhythms and, specifically, in relation to the amount of changes of direction used to produce a motif, the fret style and the parallel style have more in common than what has been noted elsewhere (e.g., Menghin 1957). In terms of time and energy spent on rock art production, it should be mentioned that all the analysed petroglyphs present superficial grooves (less than 5 mm deep), which do not require large amounts of time and effort. However, when we look at the engraved area of each motif, we realise that some petroglyphs required much more time and effort than others. As shown in the histogram (Figure 4.12), motifs can be grouped in 17 classes. In the first class, we find motifs with engraved areas ranging from 7.4 to 39.8 cm², whereas in the last class we find a motif which presents an engraved area of 1856 cm². According to the above classification, it is possible to suggest that motifs like parallel lines, motifs of axial symmetry, frets and grid-

At Calabozos, motifs also vary in terms of the amount of changes in the direction of the movements used to produce them. Overall, it is possible to suggest the existence of three main groups. The first one consists of motifs that were produced with one to five changes of direction. In this group we find circles, animal footprints, ovals, zoomorphs and the majority of single lines. The second group consists of motifs that were produced with six

Figure 4.12. The histogram shows 17 classes of motifs based on the size of their engraved area.

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Francisco Vergara Murua like motifs required the investment of higher amounts of energy and time than the production of human or animal footprints.

The case of Calabozos illustrates this biogeographic condition and supports Barberena’s et al. (2017) interpretation. However, this study reveals new evidence that suggests the necessity of adjusting part of Barberena’s et al. model.

Another way of approaching the question of the amount of effort and energy invested in the production of rock art is by measuring the averages of continuity/discontinuity of the engraved line, and the amount of cortex within the groove (bits of the rock’s surface that were not removed from the groove). At Calabozos, there was a tendency to engrave motifs with no cortex. Regarding the discontinuity of the lines, most motifs (n=191) are grouped in a range that varies from 0 to 10% of discontinuity, which means that they have high continuous lines. The highest frequency of circles, circles with lines, parallel lines, single lines, human footprints, series of dots, and series of triangles are part of this class. The following class in which motifs show between 10 and 20% of discontinuity is less frequent (n=70), and contains less types of motifs. Here, we do not find pins, hooks or animal footprints. Motifs that present 50% or more of discontinuity are scarce (18.9%, n=61), and here we only find circles, one fitomorph, one line, one parallel line, one motif of axial symmetry and one series of triangles.

Firstly, our results show that, apart from Paso Valdés, rock art sites like Calabozos are not directly associated with the natural routes that allowed trans-Andean communication or the access to obsidian quarries. Conversely, Calabozos, as well as many of the other rock art sites in the area, are physically distanced from these routes (for instance the Guaiquivilo river basin). In this sense, sites like Calabozos indicate that the seasonal trans-Andean routes taken by the communities of hunter-gatherers during the late Holocene were more complex than hitherto assumed. According to our results, we can suggest that these routes incorporated places located away from the main natural corridors. Secondly, it indicates that neither Calabozos, nor the rest of the rock art sites in the Guaiquivilo basin, again with the exception of Paso Valdés, are located in the high Andean zones (above 1700 m a.s.l.). In fact, all rock art sites are located in the intermediate zones (between 1000 and 1700 m a.s.l.). Archaeological sites located above 1700 metres a.s.l. are logistical camps related either to the extraction and circulation of obsidian from quarries located at the Maule Lake or to the procurement of other local resources. This means that most of the Guaiquivilo rock art engraved by groups of hunter-gatherers was situated between the lowlands and the highlands. In this sense, it is very likely that these faraway places, including rock art sites, functioned as transitional or liminal spaces marking the passages from the highland to the lowland.

4.7. Movement, rhythm and time among huntergatherers As mentioned above, the Calabozos rock art site is located at 1686 m a.s.l. near the beginning of the Calabozos stream at a mountain gap. This location has at least three implications. The first one concerns a seasonality associated with the production of rock art, because the environmental conditions during winter make the whole area covered with snow and the higher parts of the Andes uninhabitable. Secondly, it implies that a number of hunter-gatherer groups moved away from the main transAndean natural corridors and the natural routes that led to the obsidian quarries. The third implication, shared with most of the rock art sites in this area (with the exception of Paso Valdes), is that these places are located in-between the lower and the higher zones, and therefore can be regarded as places that mediated movement between both areas.

Arguably, this transition was related with changes in social interaction. In the lowlands, most of the archaeological record of the Late Period corresponds to habitational sites of horticulturalist communities (Jackson and Massone 1994; Massone et al. 1994; Rees et al. 1996; Sanhueza et al. 1994). Ethnohistorical accounts also indicate that this area was inhabited by communities of people that cultivated the land and that had semi-permanent settlements. Additionally, these documents emphasise that during summer, the people from the highlands (huntergatherers) descended to the lowlands to trade with their allies or to raid their enemies. The archaeological record, on its part, supports the idea that the last 2000 years was a period of intensification of social interaction that implied the constitution of wider networks of communication (Crivelli Montero 2006; Fiore 2006; Belleli at al. 2008; Barberena et al. 2017; Berón et al. 2017; Re at al. 2015; Romero 2019; Scheinsohn 2011). Considering the above, it is likely that the practice of making rock art was related with marking a transitional moment of the year cycle, when the activation of social interaction extended beyond the limits of the group, including other than hunter-gatherers’ communities, and when approaching a period of trade and warfare. According to the data that we have collected, it is arguable that during summer, hunter-gatherers used

Seen in this way, the production and ‘use’ of Guaiquivilo rock art can be interpreted as part of a social mechanism that regulated time and movement across the Andes during summer. This interpretation resembles Barberena’s et al. (2017) biogeographic and inter-nodal model for understanding this rock art. According to the authors, rock art sites like Calabozos functioned as inter-nodal places located between more permanent sites. During the last 2000 years, these inter-nodal areas presented high density of resources, such as grasses, shrubs and animals, and therefore were of special interest to the communities of hunter-gatherers that moved across this landscape. To Barberena et al. (2017), these inter-nodal places were socially relevant in fostering social interaction and aggregation. 86

Movement, Time and Rhythm Among Hunter-Gatherers to descend from the mountains and establish residential camps in which they interacted with the people from the valleys and other hunter-gatherers’ communities. Some of these interactions were not peaceful, as demonstrated by ethno-historical accounts.

The second aspect is that the practice of making rock art was not aimed at erasing or substantially modifying the images engraved previously by other people. Therefore, it is likely that groups of hunter-gatherers, in a seasonal mobility cycle and over a long period of time, visited Calabozos to engrave motifs adjacent one to another. In doing so, they moved all over the site and through a landscape full of images.

The reviewed literature suggests that the social organisation of these hunter-gatherer communities was dynamic and seasonally variable. Ethno-historical accounts describe the existence of hierarchical structures that operated during periods of warfare, especially when doing the maloqueo (raid). In these accounts, people refer to the existence of toques, ulmen and caciques, each of these representing the head of a group with a specific territorial affiliation or utammapos. These documents also suggest that such an organisation happened when the people from the mountains (hunter-gatherers) descended to the valleys either to meet their allies or to practice maloqueo.

In terms of the ‘rhythms’ of making rock art, I would like to suggest that it is important to understand sites like Calabozos within the above-mentioned context of seasonality, social interaction and movement within the site. According to our analysis, we have to assume that the practice of making rock art implied an itinerancy along the site, as suggested by the presence of different sectors along the same geographical axis as that of the Calabozos stream, which also mirrors the sun’s movement. We also know that this itinerancy had a rhythmical variance according to the features observed in each of these sectors. For instance, sectors 1 and 5 are the only ones in which rocks are facing towards the east. In the case of sector 1, this aspect was probably marking the entry to the site, whereas in sector 5 it might be related to inviting audiences to continue moving up through the Calabozos basin, thus acting as connector between sectors 1, 2, 3, 4 and 7. Sectors 3 and 4 are similar in terms of ‘rhythms’, and both areas produced considerably more motifs when compared to the rest of the site.

Archaeological residential camps distributed below 1500 m a.s.l., such as Ta 2E-7, Piedra de los Platos, Pehuenche, El Camino and Ta 2E-8, seem to have been connected with the previously mentioned seasonal usage of the landscape. These sites confirm ethno-historical accounts about the location of hunter-gatherer settlements near water resources and the exploitation of the lower zones. These sites also suggest the aggregation of larger groups of people, probably of different territorial affiliations, as demonstrated by the diversity of pottery types found there. Archaeological evidence situated above 1500 m a.s.l. indicate the existence of logistical camps related to a seasonal visit to the high zones (Sanhueza et al. 1994; Jackson and Massone 1994). The elements of material culture found in these areas resemble the ones found in lower zones, and as Sanhueza et al. (1994) mention, these sites were probably linked to more permanent settlements like Pehuenche. Both Sanhueza et al. (1994) and Jackson and Massone (1994) suggest that sites like Pehuenche and Ta 2E-8 represent permanent settlements of agriculturalist societies. However, and in consideration of the above ethnohistorical literature, I think that it is possible that in these places both the people from the mountains and from the valley used to meet. Following this line of argumentation, these settlements could be part of the material evidence showing a seasonal component in the dynamics of social aggregation and interaction among different groups rather than settlements exclusively occupied by an agriculturalist group.

This aspect suggests a curved flow of rhythms, which is low in sector 1 and 2, increases in sectors 3 and 4, and decreases in sectors 5 and 7. Sector 7 is the last one within this axis of movement, and as suggested by the orientation of the rocks on which motifs were engraved, it is very likely that, after people finished engraving these rocks, they started to descend towards the valleys and, therefore, to encounter other communities. The closeness of sector 7 to the second waterfall also suggests the importance of the surrounding landscape; however, in this case, it probably marked the end of the site. If we consider all these data together, Calabozos as a rock art site reveals itself as a highly rhythmical place, and therefore it is possible to argue that making rock art was a highly rhythmical practice. On a general level, the ‘rhythms’ of making rock art were embedded in natural rhythms: in circadian (sun’s path) and seasonal cycles (summer), and associated with key features of the landscape (waterfalls). These rhythms can be referred to as structural or general to the overall practice of making rock art, independently of the different styles or iconographic variability. Other commonalities observed in this study concern the body movements employed in the production of rock art and the space of action. Regarding the former, all motifs were executed using the same technique (direct pecking), but more surprisingly, by lying or kneeling on the same rock that was engraved. Regarding the space of action, most motifs are adjacent to others, which reinforces the notion of moving along and across the rocks.

On another level, our results show that the idea that the Guaiquivilo rock art presents a high frequency of superpositions does not fully apply to all the rock art sites in the region. As our analysis has demonstrated, at Calabozos, the most common types of action are adjacent, separate or discrete, whereas superposition is rarely attested. I think that the decision of making motifs adjacent to one another has to do with two aspects. The first one is that by doing so, the makers and the viewers are invited to navigate along and across the rocks, which, it is argued, was an imperative part of the practice of making rock art. 87

Francisco Vergara Murua Besides the above-listed commonalities, it is possible to argue that each motif appears to be a rhythmical unity in itself. This is based on the fact that there are few cases in which two or more motifs show exactly the same rhythmical features. This probably demonstrates that beyond the structural rhythms of the overall practice and the similarities/differences observed in relation to the iconographic aspects, the practice of making petroglyphs entailed the activation of individual rhythm.

the length of its echo. In our study case, some of the motifs display greater ‘echoes’ than others. For instance, parallel lines, motifs of axial symmetry or the long series of dots or footprints invite the viewer to continue moving along and across the site. As we have seen, embedding a motif with such a capacity was achieved through the very rhythm of its production. These types of motifs might then have had a crucial ‘echo’ in sustaining the practice of engraving the rocks within a certain ‘structural rhythmicity’; therefore, the ‘echo’ of an event can transform the ‘individual rhythm’ into a ‘structural’ one.

4.8. Difference and commonality: a rhythmical interpretation of Guaiquivilo rock art

The second implication derives from Clastres’ (2010) observation that Amerindian ‘primitive societies’ aim to multiply the multiple. Among these groups, the political idea of being a single totality was imperative for their social reproduction. This idea entailed abolishing internal divisions, segmentations and the emergence of the ‘One’, and instead afforded the production of a unified ‘We’, a ‘primitive monad’. For each community to constitute itself as a unified ‘We’, it was also imperative to produce ‘Others’. The latter usually consisted of allies and enemies, and war was the central technique for a ‘centrifugal logic’ of separation. As Clastres wrote, “in order to think of themselves as a We, the community must be both undivided (one) and independent (totality): internal non-division and external opposition are combined” (Clastres 2010, 274). He continues to say that in this political scenario, the function of war is to assure the permanent dispersion of communities, their parcelling, and their atomisation. Thus, Clastres’ understanding of Amerindian ‘primitive societies’ was of a multiplicity of partial ‘We’s’.

As shown previously, Calabozos is a polyrhythmic assemblage – a place having a multi-layered temporality. This interpretation corresponds with Bradley’s (1991) nonlinear approach to time in archaeology, and is related to the distinction between mundane and ritual time. Following Bloch’s (1977) arguments, Bradley shows that multiple conceptions of time can operate within the same group of people, and that ritual time differs from mundane time. Whereas mundane time articulates everyday practices, the time of the individual and the short-term, ritual time merges the past with the present, transcends the individual experience of time towards the collective representations of it, and, therefore, has the capacity of locating ritual practices in the longue durée. At first glance, Bradley’s argument seems coherent with what we have discussed in this chapter, and we cannot deny that making rock art is an additive practice that always contains bits of the past. Indeed, the above-mentioned structural rhythms can operate perfectly as part of the longue durée, as something that transcends individual experiences of time. On the other hand, the particular rhythms could be related to an individual’s time, and thus to the short-term, and to the duration of the moment of production. However, as we have seen, at Calabozos it is very difficult to make a clear distinction between individual and collective time: both are interwoven. There, to separate the ‘individual rhythm’ of making rock art from the seasonal, collective, or what we have called the ‘structural rhythm’ of the overall practice, would be an insupportable abstraction. Conversely, our data suggest that within collective time, there is a space for individual rhythm and experiences of time. Thus, it appears that what we see at Calabozos is more related to what Lucas (2005) refers to as a palimpsest, as something characteristic of the overlapping of multiple practices, each having multi-layered temporalities, over variable periods. This consideration has at least two implications, especially in regard to the relationship between the rhythm of rock art production and the context of warfare and raid among hunter-gatherers.

As we have seen, the rhythms of rock art production at Calabozos reveal a unified ‘We’, namely the overall and ‘structural rhythms’ through which this practice was conducted. However, we also discovered several individual rhythms: those related to the production of each motif in itself. The question here, then, is how those individual rhythms operated within the centrifugal logic that Clastres recognised without fragmenting the primitive monad – in other words, how Clastres’ idea of the multiplication of the multiple might be expressed through the articulation of movements, time and rock art in hunter-gatherer societies. This requires more analysis than is possible within the scope of this contribution, but it opens the possibility of exploring the idea of ‘the multiple’ in terms of movement and time. Acknowledgments I would like to thank Adam Runacres and Charles Beach for helping me with the English language and Guadalupe Romero for helping me to access key literature. I would also like to thank Chris Tilley and Andrés Troncoso for commenting on a first draft of this chapter, and to Renata Gutiérrez for assisting me in the production of the map. My thanks further go to the National Museum of Natural History of Santiago, Chile, and to Cristián Becker. Finally, I would like to express my gratitude to the editors of this volume and to the anonymous reviewers of this chapter.

The first derives from Lucas’ (2005) recognition that parts of the multiple time layers from a given situation are produced by the fact that different events can have different ‘echoes’ or retention lengths. In this sense, any particular event, at any point in time, will impact on the present according to 88

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5 Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape: A Case Study of Mount Coto de Sabroso, Guimarães (Northwest Portugal) Daniela Cardoso, Giorgos Iliadis and George H. Nash Abstract: Mount Coto de Sabroso is located at the west bank of the River Ave, within the municipality of Guimarães in Northwestern Portugal. At the top of this mount is an Iron Age settlement that was primarily investigated by Martins Sarmento in the 19th century, then studied and excavated during the 1950s, 1970s and 1980s. Since 1990, Sociedade Martins Sarmento has been conducting archaeological and scientific investigations regarding the conservation of the site. In 2015, engraved rock art was discovered in and around the mount and was studied by one of the authors of this chapter (DC). The rock art assemblage is mainly of abstract and geometric motifs; however, several engraved outcrops display possible later prehistoric figurative imagery. This chapter aims to analyse the spatial location of the engraved outcrops of Mount Coto de Sabroso in terms of microscale within the Ave Basin and to raise questions about the association of rock art within its landscape. Keywords: Atlantic art, the Ave Basin, engravings, Iron Age, Mount Coto de Sabroso, landscape 5.1. Introduction

region (Figure 5.1). Its surrounding area encompasses the Atlantic shoreline to the west (a); the Cávado River Basin and the Peneda-Gerês National Park to the north (b); the region of Trás-os-Montes to the east (c); and the Leça and Douro Basins to the south (d). The head of the River Ave is at an altitude of 1050 m a.s.l., flowing from the Cabreira Mountains and extending 100 km towards the Atlantic Ocean. It flows into the sea between Vila do Conde to the north and Azurara to the south.

The study of the open-air post-Paleolithic rock art engravings at Mount Coto de Sabroso was initially undertaken by the first author of the current chapter in the context of her PhD. thesis entitled The Atlantic Art of São Romão Mount (Guimarães) in the Context of PostPaleolithic Rock Art in the Ave River Basin – Northwestern Portugal (Cardoso 2015). This research became part of a much wider project called Espaços Naturais, Arquiteturas, Arte Rupestre e Deposições na Pré-história Recente da Fachada Ocidental do Centro e Norte Português: das Ações aos Significados – ENARDAS (Natural Spaces, Architecture, Rock Art and Deposits from the Late Prehistory of the Western Region of Central and Northern Portugal: from Action to Meaning).

Mount Coto de Sabroso is located at the top of a ridge near Mount São Romão and faces the Ave Valley on the western bank of the river. This particular location provides excellent all-round visibility and, therefore, from its height, the summit other elevations, such as Mount Santa Marta da Falperra, Mount São Tiago de Penselo and Mount São Bartolomeu, are all within clear sight, and range between 300 to 500 meters in height. Mounts Pedrais and Montezelo are at the same altitude as Mount Coto de Sabroso and can be seen from its summit.

The authors have continued the previous investigation employing graphical and photographic surveys, 3D modeling of the upland landscape and its engraved outcrops and daylight photographic surveys using aerial drone technology. At the micro-scale of analysis, the work has included a study of the spatial context, morphology and the orientation of the decorated outcrops, their iconography and potential audience, as well as the chronology and meaning of the rock art, and possible phases or cycles of the engraving process. The study reflects the potential importance of Mount Coto de Sabroso in the cosmology of Portuguese Later Prehistory which spans at least two millennia. 5.2. Location and environment Mount Coto de Sabroso is located on the western bank of the River Ave, within the municipality of Guimarães in northwestern Portugal. The area includes the hydrographic basin of the River Ave and is part of the lower Minho

Figure 5.1. Map of the Iberian Peninsula highlighting the boundaries of the River Ave Basin.

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Daniela Cardoso, Giorgos Iliadis and George H. Nash region forms part of the Atlantic/Mediterranean climate regime with a persistently humid and moderate Atlantic climate, which is one of the factors that has contributed to the successful development of agriculture in the valleys, as well as the existence of dense arboreal vegetation on the slopes. Oak and cork oak forests flourish in the area, thus providing valuable resources for the local inhabitants. On the banks and extensive terracing of the River Ave, large areas are occupied by forests, supplying a diversity of raw materials such as wood for construction, tools, and firewood, amongst other uses. In the valleys, agricultural fields (of millet and linen) benefit from the damp fertile soils. In drier areas, wheat is also cultivated (Lemos and Cruz 2007, 38). Today, this territory is characterized by its dense human habitation, particularly in areas located along the valley which has seen a considerable increase in urbanization during the last century. The remaining land has been taken up by intensive agriculture, although there is a proliferation of bush vegetation composed of gorse and broom, as well as significant forested areas, on the hills and hillsides – the result of the monoculture of pine trees, increasingly replaced by single-crop plantations of eucalyptus.

Mounts Sever and Torre are located at lower elevations and are close to major watercourses (Loureiro 1999). The whole territory of Mount Coto de Sabroso is characterized by numerous watercourses, creeks and rivers such as the River Agrela, which borders it to the east, the Canhota stream and its tributaries to the south, and the River Paus, which flows to the west. All these watercourses are tributaries of the River Ave (Cardoso 2015). According to the Geological Map of Portugal, sheet 1 (Pereira et al. 1989) and 2 (Ribeiro et al. 2000), on a scale of 1/20,000, and sheet 9-B from Guimarães (Andrade et al. 1986), on a scale of 1/50,000, the Ave River Basin lies upon Hercynian granite. In general, there are different types of granites, which can be characterized as thin, medium as well as coarse layers, and are composed of biotite, muscovite or sometimes both (Figure 5.2). These granites sit in Paleozoic metasediments, mainly of Silurian origin, accompanying sheer-stress zones that have come to the surface, erupting through the homogenous granitic permanence (Sampaio 2005, 19). Among these lies a narrow strip of schist. We would argue that the solid geology of the region would have had profound effects on the way communities utilized the landscape during prehistoric times.

5.3. History of research at Mount Coto de Sabroso The first archaeological studies were conducted by Francisco Martins Sarmento at the end of the 19th century. There are written testimonies that document that, in 1878, he was already undertaking important surveying and

During antiquity, a greater forest density was believed to have existed in the area (Lemos and Cruz 2007, 13). This

Figure 5.2. Geological map of the Ave Basin. The relief is marked with different colors (after Costa 2007, 139, fig. 26, DRAOTNORTE, 2000).

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Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape excavation work (Sarmento 1906; 1907a, 1907b; 1909a; 1909b; 1933). Simultaneously, during the excavations and the focused studies of hillforts, Sarmento also referred to rock art in his publications. Two major archaeological excavations were carried out in the years 1877 and 1878. The excavations at Citânia de Briteiros, another hillfort site near Castro de Sabroso, laid the foundations for the historical and cultural context which gave rise to an early understanding and perception of the architectural differences and settlement sizes in Sarmento’s essays.

was carried out in 2015 and 2017 in collaboration between the Martins Sarmento Society and the University of Minho (Cruz and Antunes 2014–2015; 2016–2017; Cruz and Cardoso 2011). Recent research on the rock art assemblage was conducted in 2015 (Cardoso 2015). In 2017 and 2018, within the scope of a more specific study of the rock art of Mount Coto de Sabroso, topographic and photographic surveys of the engraved outcrops, as well as 3D modeling tests, were conducted by the present authors. 5.4. Archaeological context

Castro de Sabroso was classified as a National Monument in 1910, and in 1921 the site was ceded to the Municipality of Guimarães which became the governmental proprietary owner of this important archaeological site. In 1928 and 1929, the site was subject to maintenance work, but it was only in 1958 that British archaeologist Christopher Hawkes conducted a pioneering expedition (surveying and excavation of the site), which provided the majority of information that is available today about the settlement (Hawkes 1971) (Figure 5.3). In recent decades, the preservation and maintenance of the site have been conducted under the initiative of the Junta de Freguesia (Union of Communities) of Sande S. Lourenço, Balazar, and Sociedade Martins Sarmento.

Castro de Sabroso would have functioned as a type of fortification that would complement the territorial control of the great oppidum, Citânia de Briteiros, a site located about three kilometers to the northeast. Today, Castro de Sabroso is considered to have been inhabited at the same time as Citânia, i.e., during the Iron Age between the 4th and 1st centuries BC. The small settlement (about two hectares) is surrounded by a single wall 357 m long, of which 325 m are still preserved (Cruz forthcoming). The fortification wall, which reaches up to four meters in thickness and close to five meters in height, widely preserving its original dimensions, is impressive in its scale (Cardozo 1996) (Figure 5.4).

In 2012, a rehabilitation project was promoted (but as yet not implemented). In addition, new archaeological work

Castro de Sabroso was essentially developed between the end of the 2nd and the 1st centuries BC. At that time, an

Figure 5.3. View of Castro de Sabroso in the 1950s (reproduced courtesy of Sociedade Martins Sarmento).

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Figure 5.4. A section of the fortification wall at Castro de Sabroso (after Cardozo 1996; reproduced courtesy of Sociedade Martins Sarmento).

enlargement of the fortified area was undertaken to employ the construction of a second wall conjoined with the first one. This work expanded the intramural area of the hillfort almost by half of its original space. This defensive system is still visible today along its entire perimeter, with the exception of some sections destroyed during the 20th century.

assemblage to the so-called ‘Atlantic rock art’ tradition, and probably dates to the 4th millennium BC. The engraved outcropping also possibly contains later imagery, contemporary to the settlement. 5.5. Theoretical approach and praxis According to Gell (1998) and Ingold (2000), knowledge is interpretative, and the landscape is a space of sensory and lived experiences where materiality is sometimes the only entity that survives within the archaeological record. Despite the relatively good preservation of site layout, we are somewhat separated from the tangible and intangible actions of communities who used this site for 2000 years or more. As a result, we have limited insight into the material culture that tells us little about the daily and symbolic life of communities who occupied this and neighboring sites during the Late Iron Age and the succeeding Common Era.

In the interior of the fortification, traces of thirty-five circular structures and three rectangular buildings were identified, totaling twenty domestic units (Cardozo 1996). No traces of habitation attesting Roman influence have been found, perhaps due to the possibility that the settlement was abandoned before the Romans colonized the region. However, there are some potential traces of occupation from the Imperial Roman period, such as amphora fragments (Soeiro et al. 1981, 345) and common Roman pottery. These items were probably imported into the region. According to the latest research, all data indicate that the hillfort was abandoned around the late 1st century BC, during the transition into the Common Era (Cruz forthcoming). It is also worth mentioning that other artefacts were found by Martins Sarmento and later researchers, namely an axe, flint arrowheads, a bronze bracelet, needles, various headpins (also known as a triskele), circular buckles and bronze fibulae, one zoomorphic sculpture representing a pig, as well as large quantities of elaborately decorated handmade pottery attributed to the 3rd century BC (Hawkes 1971) or earlier, i.e., from the 4th century BC onward (Cardozo 1996, 64; Silva 2007, 30).

The concept of landscape dynamics emphasizes the perception and experience that communities obtain and create from the surrounding world. As such, landscape is a complex and continuously (re)constructed entity that can act as an agent for change. According to Ingold, the landscape transforms over time, having been formed progressively, and is the result of the convergence between social practice and dialogue which is dynamic of the medium itself (Ingold 1993). Similarly, Julian Thomas also recalls that the landscape holds ‘memories’ of any given community’s relationships with the environment, thus constituting more than just a simple set of ‘natural’ features (Thomas 2001, 75). The intricacies of landscape topography would have provided a number of scenarios that were embodied by successive building and remodeling the landscape, from wild wooded tracts of land to regimented field division for cultivation and animal husbandry.

Newly discovered rock art has been identified and studied on part of already known engraved rock outcropping. This cluster of rock art is mainly comprised of abstract and geometric motifs, which enables us to attribute this 96

Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape 5.5.1. Praxis

In terms of the landscape in and around Castro de Sabroso, one can consider the many changes that have occurred over the past three millennia. The dynamic nature of this landscape is mainly the result of human agency, based upon economic and political strategies. These strategies affect not only the physicality of a landscape but also how we perceive landscape and landscape change (e.g., Dean and Millar 2005). This relationship between dynamics and landscape is evidenced by those societies who alter landscape; in this instance from a thriving settlement and its setting to a settlement that is redundant and abandoned – becoming archaeology! The history of its dynamic past is preserved as a series of memories that become more diluted over many generations of community. Memories can include certain places, spaces and ritual sites, including places that contain rock art (Nash, Cardoso & Ferreira 2013). For Thomas, the landscape is seen by some communities as “[. . .] in some sense animated and involved in a kind of reciprocity with human beings” (Thomas 2001, 175). By the same token, Tilley suggests that the world in which we live is animated, active and alive, and becomes visible in the interaction between the human body and the things that surround it. For this reason, he argues, places and landscapes should be understood in an animistic way, similar to the way we perceive people (Tilley 2004, 18–21). Rock art is thus intricately linked to this perspective and, by its very essence, it externalizes a direct intervention of communities in the environment. In other words, rock art stamps its authority and controls the way the environment/landscape is used, giving it meaning via the iconography it represents. There is, therefore, an intrinsic relationship between the motif and the rock that grants rock art a unique role in the perception that communities would have of their landscape.

The project was structured into three distinct stages: 1) preparatory office work; 2) fieldwork; and 3) laboratory work and advanced office work. The first stage consisted of bibliographical research into the history of investigation and the archaeology in and around the site. It also involved a study of the available cartography, military and geological charts, and hydrographic mapping, all providing important baseline data on the area in question. During the second stage, we undertook archaeological prospection, photographic surveys, and the detailed recording of the engraved rock art. Finally, during the third stage, polyvinyl plastic sheets with rock art tracings were digitally scanned and integrated into the existing databases for the rock art of northwestern Portugal, using image editing applications such as Photoshop. Photogrammetry and other 3D modeling software applications were also used. 5.5.1.1. Survey and study of the rock art engravings The fieldwork investigation took place in the area surrounding the hill summit along its eastern and western slopes, where we proceeded to identify and locate engraved rock surfaces. The results were registered and analytically described on proforma field sheets. The cleaning process of the engraved surfaces was conducted manually using non-invasive equipment, such as soft brushes, wooden spatulas and water. The removal of vegetation and soil was carried out using brushes, small spoons, shovels and buckets. Due to the proliferation of vegetation in the area, it was not possible to locate some of the engraved rocks which had been mentioned by Sarmento in his 19th century publications.

We have also considered the benefits of anthropology upon the premise that oral tradition is an important source of information since it can provide data on places recorded by legends and stories associated with them. Like other authors who have applied this methodology in Portugal (e.g., Alves 2001; 2008; Sanches 2003), we believe that this type of information reveals an ancestral symbolism that is attached to places by the communities that have frequented them over the millennia. We should state at this point that the narrative through storytelling is dynamic over time and space, sometimes changing or even becoming diluted as it is transmitted over one or more generations.

5.5.1.2. Photography Photographing the rock art motifs was undertaken during different times of the day under both natural and artificial light conditions. Due to rock erosion and weathering of the rock art surfaces, as well as an increased light reflection on the granite surface, part of the photographic survey was conducted at night. 5.5.1.3. Geographical survey The geographical and topographical survey of the Mount Coto de Sabroso site took place in August, September and October of 2017 and 2018. The recording of the engraved outcrops was carried out utilizing the direct tracing technique, using the grid method, thus providing greater accuracy (Figure 5.5). During this operation, standard measure polyvinyl plastic sheets were used. The actual recording was made using a variety of permanent-colored pens of standard thickness. Black colored pens were used to represent the engraved grooves on the sheets, while red was used to illustrate natural cracks, fissures and mineral veins. During the recording process, connections

In the specific case of Mount Coto de Sabroso, and based on the assumptions discussed above, this study focused on the spatial distribution of the recorded decorated outcrops, the types of motifs attested in each area, the physical context for the distribution of those outcrops and the orientation of motifs, figures and panels on which they are carved, as well as on the audience and the possible phases or cycles of the engraving process. The engraving process itself would have been part of a much wider performance, involving events that would have engaged an audience through, say, performance art and storytelling (Nash 2008). 97

Daniela Cardoso, Giorgos Iliadis and George H. Nash were indicated between the sheets so they could be fully reassembled in the post-processing work within the laboratory. Notes were also kept on the plastic sheets, highlighting details, such as the representation of lichens, cracks and fissures. To record rock deformations and fractures, the weathering of the motifs, and the dimension and depth of the grooves, an extensive analysis was made both in the field and later under laboratory conditions. All these variables provided supplementary aid for both understanding the engraving technique and providing the authors with a better understanding of the panel preparation and the execution of the engravings, including any potential superimpositions present. 5.5.1.4. Photogrammetry and 3D modeling Much of the area of the hillfort was photographed and recorded using aerial photographic survey techniques. The same methods were also applied to the engraved outcrops, where supplementary hand-held cameras were used (Canon EOS 750D and Nikon D31000). The collected data set up the basis for the creation of a 3D model of the area. This model was based on aerial photographs captured by a DJI Phantom 4 Quadcopter and was generated with 3DF Zephyr v.4009 photogrammetry software (Figure 5.6). The hand-held camera photographs were aligned with the same computer software for the 3D output of the rocks and the engravings (Figure 5.7).

Figure 5.5. Recording Rock B at Mount Coto de Sabroso (reproduced courtesy of Sociedade Martins Sarmento).

5.6. Data Recent research undertaken by one of the authors (Cardoso 2015) has focused on the rock art assemblage that is dispersed over much of the hillside of Mount Coto de

Figure 5.6. A 3D model of Mount Coto de Sabroso and its engraved outcrops.

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Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape A

B

Figure 5.7. Rock II at Mount Coto de Sabroso: (A) mesh extraction and (B) textured mesh.

Sabroso, including the intermediate slopes and the summit of the mount accessible from the valley. Some of the imagery can be attributed to the so-called Atlantic rock art tradition – a tradition common to the northwestern Iberian Peninsula (from the Vouga Valley in Portugal to Galicia in northwestern Spain) and the European Atlantic coastline (Bradley 1997; Alves 2003; Nash 2012). Other motifs, such as footprints, anthropomorphic and zoomorphic figures, appear to have been engraved during the Bronze Age and Iron Age, i.e., partially during the lifetime of the settlement (Castro de Sabroso).

engravings and other archaeological remnants of the Iron Age settlement remain largely invisible. Despite the issues of vegetation cover and some inaccessibility, the following rock outcrops with engravings were documented: Sabroso 1 – Penedo-Gamella (Trough Boulder): This is a medium-sized granite outcrop of medium grain (3 m long by 2 m at its maximum width) and is fractured along one of its extremities. The shape of this outcrop resembles a ‘small table’, while its concavity on the upper surface is similar to a trough (Figure 5.10A). The outcrop is located at the top of Mount Coto de Sabroso, next to the geodesic landmark. Despite the encroaching vegetation, the rock outcrop is in a good state of preservation. A notable group of approximately 30 cupmarks occupies the upper surface of the outcrop. The cupmarks measure between 4 and 7 cm in diameter and form one of the most complex rock art concentrations in the area.

The rock art on Mount Coto de Sabroso consists of eight granitic engraved rock outcrops, some already known from previous publications (e.g., Sarmento 1902, 23; 1906; 1907a; 1907b; 1909a; 1909b; 1933). During the fieldwork carried out in 2017 and 2018, two of these sites were recorded in detail: Sabroso 1 and Sabroso 2. Four of the recorded outcrops (Sabroso 1–3 and Quinta dos Laranjais) were the subject of a detailed description. For the remaining panels, there was only very limited information, since they were not located and therefore could not be recorded.

Sabroso 2: This large medium-grained granite outcrop (measuring 6 m in length by 3 m at its maximum width) has a substantially triangular outline projecting from the ground. The upper horizontal surface contains a number of cracks and fissures which were created by long-term erosion. This profusely decorated outcrop is divided into two panels that follow its current physical contour and is delimited by fractures and cracks. It displays compositions of great complexity, made by pecking and abrasion, and contains more than 12 circular motifs, including cupmarks, as well as other more complex configurations. This can be considered a theme integrated within the classic characteristics of the northwest Atlantic rock art tradition, engraved between the 5th/4th and the 3rd millennia BC. On the upper segment of the outcrop, two schematic anthropomorphic figures are also present, which were probably engraved at a later date (based upon style and technique of execution).

Several geometric motifs can be ascribed to a category of Atlantic Art (e.g., concentric circles, spirals, meandering lines, and cupmarks), others are figurative (e.g., footprints, anthropomorphic and zoomorphic figures) or simple cupmarks (as single and multiple groups (Figure 5.8).1 It is probable that both categories are contemporary, each forming part of the intricate panel narrative. The engravings are mainly found on raised outcrops, which gives them a significant visual impact, and makes them visible from a distance. However, one cannot generalize easily since some of the engraved outcrops are as yet undetected and may have other characteristics. Since much of the exposed rock outcropping on the mount is covered by vegetation, mainly mimosa (Acacia dealbata), the

Sabroso 3: This is a medium-grained granite outcrop of substantial dimensions (measuring 8 m along its long axis by 4.05 m at its maximum width), which shows an extremely fractured surface and an irregular contour. This

  Research by Nash et al. (2005) has postulated that multiple cupmarks were intentionally organised into a number of patterns. 1

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Figure 5.8. Rock art motifs in and around Mount Coto de Sabroso (reproduced courtesy of Sociedade Martins Sarmento).

rock outcrop is partially covered by lichen. Rock art was discovered on its surface in 2017 and is currently being studied. Based on the observations made thus far, the granite surface contains several cupmarks and a pecked or abraded zoomorphic motif.

field observations, the surface contains several pecked cupmarks. Quinta dos Laranjais: This medium-grained granite rock outcrop is known as Lugar das Pegadinhas and is located at the foot of Mount Coto de Sabroso. Its decorated panel is situated at the outer limit of the protected area of the site. This engraved outcrop was mentioned by José Leite de Vasconcelos (1897: 381) and rediscovered by the community council of St Lourenço de Sande during a landscaping project. The Martins Sarmento Society

Sabroso 4: This is a medium-grained granite outcrop distinctively grayish in color and slightly extended above the surrounding ground surface. The shape of the exposed surface is semi-circular in form. The outcrop, discovered in 2017, has not yet been recorded; however, based on our 100

Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape 5.7.1. The engravings at the top of the mount

was alerted to the rediscovery, upon which it informed Guimarães City Council and Instituto de Gestão do Património Arquitetónico e Arqueológico (IGESPAR). These institutions then took the necessary steps to prevent its destruction. However, the site still awaits documentation.

The engraved outcrops on top of the mount offer extensive wide panoramic views towards Mount St. Romão, Mount Sta. Marta da Falperra, Mount St. Tiago de Penselo, and Mount St. Bartolomeu, all of which are within an altitude range of between 300 and 500 m a.s.l. Mount Coto de Sabroso, Mounts Pedrais and Montezelo are also clearly visible.

This granitic outcrop, measuring 3.07 m along its long axis and 2.05 m wide, has a horizontal surface and is flush with the surrounding ground surface. There is a large cluster of engraved cupmarks scattered over much of its surface. Accompanying the cupmarks is an engraved pair of footprints. Both the cupmarks and the footprints are deeply pecked. Engraved outcrops registered but without defined whereabouts: The remaining rock art assemblage mentioned by Martins Sarmento in the 19th century is located on pathways leading to Mount Coto de Sabroso. The specific sites include Gandra which has a series of circles and concentric circles present (Sarmento 1909b, 138), Lomba de Cima containing spirals (Sarmento 1909a, 18–19), and Pé do Cavalo containing concentric circles (Sarmento 1902, 23). All these engraved outcrops currently remain lost and await rediscovery. Based upon Sarmento’s field notebooks, these sites contain motifs that are probably associated with the repertoire of the Atlantic rock art tradition.

Among the five engraved rock art sites, only one can be firmly linked to the style and complexity of the Atlantic rock art tradition, namely Sabroso 2. Sabroso 3 and Quinta dos Laranjais belong to other traditions and chronologies or are considered to be undetermined (including Sabroso 1 and Sabroso 4). Both sites contain only cupmarks. However, on the surface of the Sabroso 2 boulder, two anthropomorphic representations are present. These appear to have been engraved at a later date and can be considered to be located within a peripheral position. It is worth noting that the rock art at the top of the hill is located on rock outcrops incorporated into the Iron Age settlement. These engraved rock outcrops are earlier than the Iron Age settlement but appear to have been respected by these communities (hence their survival).

5.7. Discussion of data and interpretation

5.7.2. The engravings at the base of the mount

Although the case study still only offers sparse data, as some outcrops are yet to be relocated, we consider it a useful exercise to document the known assemblage and include new sites. This approach to the fieldwork will benefit future research of this and neighboring sites, should the environmental conditions allow (i.e., the reduction of vegetation through strategic and sensitive conservation management). Based on our analysis of the distribution of the engravings, in particular concentric circles, we consider that their spatial location cannot be random. We observe in this case that the rock art engravings can be found in various topographic zones, with the densest concentration located at the top of the hill (to include five engraved rock panels) (Figure 5.9), followed by those arranged at its base of the mount (to include one engraved rock panel) and on the pathways leading up the hill (to include two engraved rock panels). The densest concentration is located at elevations between 270 and 277 m a.s.l. (to include five rock art panels) (Figure 5.9). One can consider that more rock art panels await discovery or may have been destroyed by later regimes that occupied the area, using the rock for building stone for example.

In this zone, one can find a particular outcrop which is known as Quinta dos Laranjais. It is located south of Castro de Sabroso, a few meters away from a stone wall. The engraved outcrop comprises a large horizontal and rather low rock outcrop. The only possible research carried out, employing photography and personal visits to the site (since it has not been graphically documented), indicates that the representations engraved there (a large set of cupmarks and a pair of footprints, deeply cut and shod), can be considered a later phenomenon. This argument is based upon the specific iconography and the technique employed in the execution of the engravings (which are pecked and smoothed due to abrasion). They are thought to symbolize the movement of people around the mount, especially given the rock’s location on a track with access to the summit. The remaining rock art panels mentioned by Martins Sarmento in the 19th century were located on pathways that lead up to Mount Coto de Sabroso, and onto the sites of Gandra (Sarmento 1909b, 138) and Lomba de Cima (Sarmento 1909a, 18–19). These sites, however, are yet to be rediscovered. As mentioned previously, and based upon graphic evidence in Sarmento’s field notebooks, they must contain motifs that are probably associated with the Atlantic rock art tradition.

Micro-scale analysis indicated that the engraved outcrops are of large or medium dimension (i.e., between 8 and 3 m) and are in most cases raised above the ground and are close to a watercourse. In addition, engraved panels are positioned along natural corridors between the valley and the hill, with clear views over the surrounding landscape.

Regarding the question of the possible audiences of these phenomena, the fact that most of the engraved outcrops of Mount Coto de Sabroso are raised from the ground implies a marked lack of accessibility for the populace. In the case of Sabroso 1, 2 and 3 (Figure 5.10A–C), the morphological characteristics of the outcrops do not allow 101

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Figure 5.9. Rock art distribution in and around Mount Coto de Sabroso Sabroso (reproduced courtesy of Sociedade Martins Sarmento).

Figure 5.10. Engraved outcrops at Mount Coto de Sabroso (reproduced courtesy of Sociedade Martins Sarmento).

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Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape for clear views of the motifs, as they are not visible from the ground. Sabroso 1 (Figure 5.10A) is located within a small space, which would limit the presence of a large number of people. Therefore, we suggest that such a choice may have been intentional to limit access or frequency of visits to the location. This ‘rule’ would have extended across all the rock art panels on the mount. The morphology of the rock, along with a considerable number of cupmarks present, suggests that the location was not selected at random.

A schematic representation of a horse in a static position, located on the Sabroso 3 rock, is also contemporary to the Iron Age settlement. In the context of the Ave Basin, this zoomorph image is rare, and only two examples are known: a naturalistic engraving of a horse at Lugar de Vinhas, and an engraving of a stylized horse rider and a deer from Mount Sanfins (Jalhay 1947, 555) (the composition is considered to be a hunting scene [see discussion in Cardoso 2015, 232]). The horse at Sabroso 3 has stylistic parallels with several engravings from the Lima Basin, such as at Breia 1 in Viana do Castelo (Bettencourt 2013), at Fornelos I and II, in Carreço (Bettencourt 2009, 137), and at Laje da Churra in Carreço, Viana do Castelo (Santos 2014).

In the case of Sabroso 2 outcrop (Figure 5.10B), although larger than the other rock art panels within the vicinity of the mount, the motifs cannot be easily observed from ground level, but unlike Sabroso 1, the immediate landscape would allow for a larger audience to gather. We believe that on this outcrop the anthropomorphic representations were engraved later than the other extant motifs, which may somehow express continuity of the symbolism of the site.

From the same era, the appearance of zoomorphic figures such as the one mentioned above indicates a change in iconography, from circular motifs such as the cupmark and the concentric circle to representative and figural images. This change in style and subject matter is considered to be a universal trait that is recorded throughout many rock art areas of Atlantic Europe. The transition between abstract and geometric motifs to figural ones could be the result of the socio-political change which may have resulted in communities reconfiguring their views on ancestry and the stories associated with the earlier designs (cupmarks and concentric circles). The potential power and prestige associated with the earlier rock art may have been diluted when the power and prestige of the artist and the social elite diminished. This change coincidentally occurs during the transition between the Late Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age.

Finally, the large, decorated rock art site of Quinta dos Laranjais (Figure 5.10D), situated at the base of the hill in an easily accessible location, is the only example found so far that is flush close to the ground. These features would have allowed for free movement around it, thus making it suitable for a large audience. The site was probably the focus for local communities for thousands of years. The site is regarded as a respected place for the local community, as footprints are often strongly associated with popular folklore beliefs. Perhaps due to the veneration of this kind of motif, and despite easy access to them, these representations have not been subject to the threat of destruction. It would, therefore, be very interesting to understand through further study the specific details of the motifs engraved on the outcrop.

5.8. Iconography and chronology The term ‘Atlantic Galician art’ was first coined by Eoin MacWhite in 1951. Ramón Lorenzo-Ruza (1952) substituted it with the term ‘Galaic-Atlantic group’. Later, Emmanuel Anati applied the term ‘Galaic-Portuguese group’ (1968) and António Baptista integrated it into his ‘Group I’ (Baptista 1983–1984, 73–75). In recent times, Richard Bradley (1997; cf. Nash 2003) renamed it as the ‘Atlantic Style’, while Bacelar Alves labelled it ‘Tradition of Atlantic Art’, owing to its considerable regional variability and extensive diachrony (Alves 2008).

We suggest that these motifs may be interpreted to have had various meanings associated with the cosmological views of the communities who used this site. In this sense, the circular motifs, most frequently occurring in and around on Mount Coto de Sabroso, can be interpreted as representations of the surrounding mountaintops (in particular, the silhouettes cast by the sun and moon), while the meandering lines, which often connect them, could represent paths or thoroughfares through the landscape (cf. Arcà 2004; 2007; Harley 1988, 278). Alternatively, the motifs may have associations with the sky or metaphoric expressions associated with rivers and streams that surround the mount (Bettencourt 2009; Cardoso 2015).

On Mount Coto de Sabroso and within the surrounding area, engravings are mostly ascribed to the so-called Atlantic Art tradition. The types of representation that define Atlantic Art largely correspond, although not exclusively, to combinations of circular motifs, such as concentric circles, meandering lines, proto-labyrinthine figures, spirals, grooves and cupmarks (Bradley 1997). Its geometrical repertoire, however, comprises a series of combinations relating to the concentric circle design. This tradition also includes rare rectilinear elements such as squares. Also present are zoomorphs, anthropomorphs and weaponry.

The footprint engravings on Mount Coto de Sabroso could have represented power, prestige, or the human presence along the pathways on the mount (Garcia Quintela and Santos Estévez 2000). The engraving of a serpentiform, probably contemporary to the village and located on a flagstone, could refer to rituals or cults. Such imagery is known elsewhere in northwest Portugal (Paço 1961; Cardoso 2015).

The Atlantic Art style is widely distributed along the European Atlantic coastline and is very common across 103

Daniela Cardoso, Giorgos Iliadis and George H. Nash northwest Portugal. Atlantic Art in the northwest of the Iberian Peninsula is predominantly distributed in coastal Galicia, Spain; primarily in the provinces of A Coruña and Pontevedra, although some sites are present in the provinces of Lugo and Ourense (Bradley 1997). Its geographic range extends into northern Portugal, over the Minho River, through the Ave River Basin, to the Vouga River Basin, with occurrences that include Campelo (Dinis 2011), Crastoeiro in Mondim de Basto (Rey Castiñeira and Soto-Barreiro 2001; Dinis and Bettencourt 2009) and Lampaça in Valpaços (Teixeira 2010).

a fractured and irregular contoured surface and is partially covered with lichen. In addition to the zoomorphic motif, there are several cupmarks dispersed across its surface. Probably dating to the same period are two anthropomorphic figures which are in a peripheral location to Atlantic Art motifs on the outcrop known as Sabroso 2. We believe that some of the motif assemblages may have been engraved at different times, thus representing a chronological continuity of the panel. Later, during the Late Iron Age or 2nd century BC, a serpentiform figure has been engraved onto a stone pavement which is of the same period.

During the latter part of the 20th century, several different ideas were attributed to the so-called Atlantic Art, as well as proposals for its chronology (Baptista 1983–84, 73–75; 1993, 46–49; Alves 2003, 174–176; 2008; Bradley 1997; Santos Estévez 2012; Dinis and Bettencourt 2009; Bettencourt 2009). Despite controversies as to its chronological range, many scholars now consider Atlantic Art to date from the end of the 4th to the 3rd millennium BC (extending between the Neolithic and Chalcolithic periods) (e.g., Bradley 1997; Alves 2003; Dinis and Bettencourt 2009; Bettencourt 2009; Santos Estévez 2012). Thus, we assume that the Atlantic Art from Mount Coto de Sabroso represents the first phase of the engraving history and is scattered throughout the mount from the base of the hill to its summit.

Finally, there are two other outcrops with engravings of unknown date at Penedo Gamela. These sites were mentioned by Martins Sarmento in the late 19th century (Sarmento 1909, 6) and are now collectively known as Sabroso 1. 5.9. Final considerations The archaeological remains at Mount Coto de Sabroso (including the rock art and a complex settlement dating to the Iron Age, between the end of the 5th and the 1st century BC) can be considered as being of national importance. The layout of the site, including its landscape peripheries, permits us to make some considerations concerning the relations between rock art and settlement. The Atlantic rock art scattered throughout most of the site probably suggests that at one point in time, probably before the settlement was constructed, the site was the focus for ritual-symbolic activity (assuming that rock art is produced and used as a mechanism for such activity). It is probable that the rock art dates to the end of the 4th or early 3rd millennium BC, if not slightly later. Although archaeologists have excavated and recorded much of the hillside, we still have only limited knowledge of the earliest history of the site.

The Sabroso 2 site bears more than a dozen circular motifs (circles, concentric circles, concentric semicircles, spirals), as well as complex compositions interconnected by more or less meandering grooves and cupmarks. This entire iconographic repertoire reveals a great dynamism, evident in the way the engraved motifs are distributed across the panels. These characteristics are evident at many other sites within Atlantic Art in the northwest of Spain. According to Cardoso (2015, 259), footprint motifs can be dated to the 2nd and the 1st millennium BC, that is, between the Bronze Age and the Iron Age. However, it is difficult to date such motifs due to a lack of specific fieldwork and debate. According to more recent studies by Moreira (2018, 313), engravings of footprints in the northwest of Portugal may have appeared in the late Chalcolithic or the Early Bronze Age and reached its popularity during the latter period and ended at the beginning of the Iron Age. This recent appraisal has arguably set back the traditional views on chronology (Moreira 2018). Given the proximity of the Iron Age settlement to the site, we propose that the Mount Coto de Sabroso footprints can be chronologically placed between the Bronze Age and the Iron Age. Later, during the 1st millennium BC, i.e., the late Bronze Age to the Early Iron Age transition, new motifs were engraved on the outcrops of Mount Coto de Sabroso, including a schematic horse (already mentioned above), engraved in a static position and different in style when compared to the older motifs. The engraving appears to be accompanied by a saddle suggesting the horse was domesticated. The figure is oriented to the southeast (Figures 5.8D and 5.10C). This representation is engraved on the Sabroso 3 site, which has

Many engraved rock art sites are incorporated into natural pathways or situated at places where pathways intersect (between the valley, the intermediate slopes and the mountain summit; or metaphorically speaking, between the earth and the sky). These clearly defined landscape features can be associated with the cosmogony of the communities who visited this site during later prehistory. However, the evidence does suggest that the summit of the mount was a special place in prehistoric times, in particular, during the Bronze Age and Iron Age, and also during the medieval period. Elements of the earlier landscape were likely considered important to the community or communities that began to settle within the area of the mount during the Iron Age. It is conceivable that the establishment of house structures and associated working floors around them avoided a small number of engraved panels. Within the intermediate slopes of the mount, respect was also given to these then ancestral rock art panels. Generally, the decorated outcrops are scattered across the site, especially at the summit of the mount, which would have allowed onlookers sweeping views over the 104

Post-Paleolithic Rock Art and Landscape surrounding valleys and the summits of other hills and mountains close by. Arguably, the location of the rock art around the site, such as those panels around the base and on the intermediate slopes of the mount, would have allowed the movement of people along pathways to formally move around the site in a proscribed way.

sign system was in operation during later prehistory (Bradley 1997; Nash 2008). We also observe that inside and outside of the settlement there is a number of outcrops that display possibly younger imagery. Several of these are isolated, while some imagery was added to earlier engravings. At Sabroso 2, anthropomorphic figures were added at a later stage, probably as a result of later communities imposing their signatures onto an already recognized ancestral landscape.

From a phenomenological perspective, the motifs are difficult to see when exposed to overhead sunlight; they remain hidden within the landscape during daylight hours. However, they become illuminated at sunrise and sunset when the outlines of the engravings are visible due to the effect of the oblique light. It should be noted that the same visual effect would be also experienced during a full moon or a fire located close to the panel. Based on experiments with a light on these panels, the visual experience of using artificial light in hours of darkness provided us with a number of different visual and emotional sensations. One could suggest that these images jump out towards the viewer when the light from, say, a fire or a setting or the rising sun was cast across the surface of the panel (see Nash 2003). Arguably, and based on remarks by Jean Clottes (pers. comm.), the rock art would have communicated messages through the stone to the artist and this would have been transmitted (albeit in a restricted way) to the audience/onlooker. For this reason, we were able to promote a working hypothesis that these engravings could have been made during sunset and sunrise hours or, possibly, during darkness hours using an artificial light source, or the diffused light from a full moon. The light intensity, either from celestial bodies such as the sun or moon or from an artificial light source, would have cast sharp intense shadows across the rock surface irrespective of how shallow the engravings may have been. It is conceivable that the message, or messages, transmitted by the motifs would have been bound up in narrative and myth, forming part of an integrated performance that would have involved the community. The meaning of symbols such as the cupmark or the concentric circle remains undecipherable; however, the authors tentatively promote the concept that the motifs may have had an association with celestial cycles such as the moon, sun and maybe certain star constellations.

Based on the existence of anthropomorphic figures at Sabroso 2 and other rock art motifs such as footprints, a horse, and a serpentiform, it can be assumed that the symbolic importance of Mount Coto de Sabroso continued well into the Late Bronze and Iron Ages. In this sense, the mount can be considered a site with an extensive history, materialized in the accumulation of motifs that would have provided new narratives and meanings, in a process of reordering and reinterpreting the very meaning of what the mount meant to later prehistoric communities. This possibility seems especially evident for the last period of occupation of the hill, during the proto-urbanization of the Iron Age village (2nd to 1st century BC), evidenced by the construction of house structures, drystone walls, tracks and paths (Cruz forthcoming). To conclude, the work presented here should be understood not only as a progressive step within the framework of a local rock art tradition but also as a means to generate debate about the preoccupation and later occupation of Mount Sabroso and the surrounding area. Acknowledgments The authors would like to express their gratitude to archaeologists Hélder Carvalho and Rui Teixeira for carrying out field prospection and the tracing of the rock art. Moreover, thanks are due to topographer Daniel Gonçalves from LiDAR Geomatics for his input in aerial photography and video recording for both the settlement and the decorated outcrops. References

We suggest that the process of constructing and consuming rock art must have had a significant effect on the mindset of the people engaged in the act of engraving and those members of the community who watched and listened to the narrative being performed. The motif types and compositions engraved during this period seem to show dynamism, leading us to assume that cyclical time would have been of significant importance for these populations, especially when one considers the seasons of the year and the changes they bring and how they are repeated year after year. Circularity is also witnessed in the way motifs are constructed, in particular cupmarks, circles, concentric circles and part-circles. The meaning associated with these motifs has long since gone, the memory diluted by successive generations of the community; however, they form a variegated phenomenon and extend across at least c. 3200 km of western Europe, suggesting that a universal

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6 In the Middle of Nowhere: Geoglyphs, Caravan Routes, Social Conflict, and the Visual Demarcation of Travel Routes Across the Northern Chilean Atacama Desert Daniela Valenzuela, Luis Briones†, Paz Casanova, Indira Montt, Thibault Saintenoy, Marta Crespo and Pablo Mendez-Quiros Abstract: The Atacama Desert in northern Chile is a vast hyper-arid area containing restricted resource locations, where most human activities were concentrated. Throughout this extensive area, pre-Columbian people created and depicted a huge number of large figures on the desert surface, known as geoglyphs, most of them significantly related to long-distance caravan trade. In this chapter, we analyse a total of 11 panels with 138 geoglyphs from the Lluta Valley, northern Chile, by exploring their formal iconographic attributes and spatial traits. Our results reaffirm the relationship between geoglyphs and old caravan routes. The geoglyphs of the Lluta Valley marked the presence of ritual places that were used during the caravan journeys and fulfilled a primarily visual function, indicating the directionality of routes towards the coast. There is a preponderance of anthropomorphic motifs, and their representational attributes seem to express situations of social tension and conflict during the Late Intermediate (ca. AD 900–1400) and Late Horizon (ca. AD 1400–1535) periods. Depictions of helmets, tumis (metal axes or knives), unkus (tunics), scenes of contest and caravanning seem to have been part of the visual discourses in the context of conflicts during those times. Keywords: geoglyphs, caravanning, social conflict, Atacama Desert, rock art In memoriam Luis Briones 6.1. Introduction

of the geoglyphs date back to the Late Intermediate and Late Horizon periods (ca. AD 900–1535), although it is likely that their production and use began during the Late Formative period (ca. 500 BC – AD 600) (Briones 2006; Briones et al. 2005; Pimentel et al. 2011; 2017a).

Geoglyphs are one of the most fascinating and remarkable manifestations of the material culture of pre-Columbian peoples of the Americas. They are visual representations of iconic or non-iconic forms created on the earth’s surface by the aggregation of small stones (additive technique) or the clearing of sand (subtractive technique). Although geoglyphs exist in different parts of the globe, they are primarily distributed in the deserts of western South America, where the scarcity of vegetation, presence of rather flat topographies and availability of stones and sand offered favourable conditions for the creation of geoglyphs (Clarkson 1997; Valenzuela and Clarkson 2018). Here, “geoglyphs use the landscape as a natural ‘blackboard’ on which soil and stone were scraped or heaped up to form low-profile naturalistic or abstract images, as well as alignments of stones or boulders” (Valenzuela and Clarkson 2018, 5).

6.2. Conceptual framework In the Atacama Desert, rock art and geoglyphs have been a cornerstone of archaeological research into caravan traffic (Valenzuela and Montt 2018). The Atacama Desert is an ideal place to study the archaeological material culture related to caravanning, because the hyper-arid conditions allow for the preservation of a range of organic materials. Based on ethnoarchaeological models, the caravanning material culture includes portable and non-portable evidence: caravanning kits (tie toggles, bells, halters, llama ‘shoes’, costales or sacks, ropes and slings); rest stops; caravan tracks or trails; landmarks (signal cairns); skeletal remains of llamas and their transported cargo; and specialised ritual sites or features, such as rock art, geoglyphs and ritual cairns.

In Chile, geoglyphs are located mainly in the lowlands of the western slopes of the Andes, in the Atacama Desert, adjacent to the Pacific coast. Along this strip of land, there are significant differences in technique (additive, subtractive and mixed), formal attributes and configurations that are displayed in regional styles (Briones 2006). Most

As various scholars have pointed out, rituals were and still are embedded within the Andean caravan system (Berenguer 1994; 2004a; Casaverde 1977; Lecoq 109

D. Valenzuela, L. Briones, P. Casanova, I. Montt, T. Saintenoy, M. Crespo and P. Mendez-Quiros 1984–1988; 1985; 1987; Lecoq et al. 2006; Nielsen 1997; 1997–1998; 2000; 2001; 2006). Rituals are not simply something epiphenomenal, but rather, they can be considered part of the ‘technology’ of the caravan system. Some geoglyphs can be regarded as denoting the location of specialised ritual places, as informed by ethnoarchaeological observations.

• Matter: the natural terrain through which the llamas and caravanners pass; in this case the desert and its geographical features. • Energy: the transformative force expressed in the physical and kinetic ability of the human body and movements of the cargo llamas. • Objects: items, structures or features that act as working mediums, such as ropes, tie toggles, bells, halters, sacks, slings, roads, resting places, paths and tracks, as well as ritual features or structures (e.g. rock art, apachetas or stone mounds, walls-and-boxes, among others). • Gestures: movements of llamas and llameros (llama drivers) during the journey, including the procession itself, as well as loading, unloading, sleeping, animal feeding, performing rituals, etc. • Knowledge: know-how regarding the most suitable routes, appropriate steps, geographical and social accessibility of the land travelled over, animal behaviour, direction and logistics of the journey in relation to animal welfare, location and characteristics of pastures and water, among many other aspects.

More than 40 years ago, Lautaro Núñez suggested a functional relationship between geoglyphs and preColumbian caravan traffic. Based on the systematic association of geoglyphs with caravan trails, their location in barren areas lacking resources and comprising different ecological zones, as well as their exceptional visibility, Núñez (1976) proposed that geoglyphs served as logistic and ritual markers for the llama caravan routes. Since then, this hypothesis concerning the functionality of geoglyphs has become part of the ‘hard core’ (sensu Lakatos 1998) of the prehistory of the Atacama Desert, inspiring many subsequent works (Briones 2006; Briones and Chacama 1987; Briones et al. 2005; 2007; Clarkson 1999; Clarkson and Briones 2001; Muñoz and Briones 1996; Pimentel 2011; Pimentel et al. 2017a; 2017b; Ross et al. 2008; Valenzuela et al. 2006; 2011).

Viewed from the perspective of caravanning as a technology, associated rituals are also an integral component, a ‘symbolic technology’ to use Van Kessel’s term (1989; Van Kessel and Condori 1992) or an ‘enchantment technology’ according to Gell (1998; 1999), that is, technological devices at the psychological or ritual level that seek to exert real control over expected concrete outcomes, and which are as necessary and effective – of ‘symbolic effectiveness’ Levi-Strauss (1968) would have said – as other technical objects, such as rest stops, sacks to carry the load or ropes to tie it up (Nielsen 1997–1998; Valenzuela et al. 2019). Thus, geoglyphs and other ritual features, including different types of landmarks, such as cairns, apachetas, smaller mounds of stones, artificial cavities or sepulcros (tombs), walls-and-boxes structures, constituted essential caravanning technology (Berenguer 1994; 1995; 2004a; Berenguer and Pimentel 2017; Briones 2006; Nielsen 1997; 1997–1998; Nielsen et al. 2019; Núñez 1976; 2007, 39; Núñez and Nielsen 2011; Pimentel 2009; Pimentel et al. 2017b; Sinclaire 1994; Valenzuela et al. 2019).

In the Andes, dramatic ecological contrasts between one region and another stimulated early inter-zonal mobility for access to resources through different mechanisms of complementarity, including exchange (Dillehay 2013; Núñez 1976). The process of llama domestication (Lama glama) between 5000 and 3800 BP (Mengoni Goñalons and Yacobaccio 2006; Wheeler 2012) entailed the exploitation of its primary service as a pack animal, although this ecological and behavioural control came later than its breeding for meat and fibre (Cartajena 1994; Moore 2016). However, the use of llamas as cargo animals made it possible to move larger volumes of goods over long distances, which was well described by the early Spanish conquerors (Browman 1974). This traffic and exchange of goods by caravanning reached its peak during the Late Intermediate Period (ca. AD 1000–1400) when it is estimated to have become a highly specialised social-economic system (Berenguer 2004a; Clarkson et al. 2017; Nielsen 2013; Núñez 1976; Núñez and Dillehay 1995; Schiappacasse et al. 1989; Valenzuela et al. 2019; Valenzuela and Montt 2018; Yacobaccio 2012).

6.3. Study area The Atacama Desert is the southern portion of the socalled Peruvian-Chilean coastal desert (ca. 5° S to 26° S), which extends as a longitudinal strip along the Pacific Ocean, bordered by this and the Andes, between Arica in the north (ca. 18° 20' S) and Copiapó in the south (ca. 27° 25' S) (Marquet et al. 1998; Pinto et al. 2006). The desert is the result of the cold Humboldt Current, the rainshadow effect produced by the Andes, and its latitudinal position. One of the features which distinguishes the Atacama Desert from other deserts around the world is its extreme aridity. It has been described as the driest desert in the world, given the total absence of rainfall from the coast up to about 2000 meters above sea level (m a.s.l.) inland (Marquet et al. 1998). Its main source of moisture

Caravanning, as an economic activity consisting of the movement and exchange of goods over long distances using droves of cargo llamas, can be considered a ‘technology’ according to how Lemonnier (1992) defined the term. For him, technology is a way of acting in the physical world to achieve a certain material purpose and includes five components: matter, energy, objects, gestures and knowledge. In caravanning, taking into consideration the information about modern caravanners derived from several ethnoarchaeological studies (Berenguer 2004a; Lecoq 1984–1988; 1987; Lecoq and Fidel 2019; Nielsen 1997; 1997–1998; 2001), these components can be expressed as follows: 110

In the Middle of Nowhere is a coastal fog that forms typical isolated islands of vegetation known as lomas (small hills) (Pinto et al. 2006). However, in northern Chile, this is not a major resource for human life because it is floristically much poorer than that of central and southern Peru (Dillon and Rundel 1990). Other singular features of this desert have made human life possible: its close proximity to the Pacific Ocean on the one hand and the existence of transverse fluvial courses on the other.

lies in their being true oases that cut through the absolute desert, with permanent and occasional runoffs fed by rainfall at over 2800 m a.s.l. during the summer season, covering various ecological floors over a short distance. Finally, another specific feature of the Atacama Desert is the high steppe at over 3000 m a.s.l. Despite being an extreme environment, it is also quite rich in resources and, in some areas, has hosted substantial human occupations over time, since at least 13,000 years ago (Latorre et al. 2013), with an emphasis on the exploitation of plant and animal resources.

Its proximity to one of the most productive and biodiverse seas on the planet has allowed for a high degree of stable and permanent occupation along the entire desert coastline, with specialised hunters, fishermen and marine huntergatherers living on the coast and in surrounding valleys. Hence, the primary constraint for human habitation was the lack of access to fresh water, rather than to food resources. Marine resources were highly valued by inland populations, so the Pacific coast constituted an important focus of attraction for caravans as well as a terminal node within the caravan networks.

The Lluta River originates in the altiplano at 3900 m a.s.l. and is one of the few exorheic rivers that has a permanent and constant flow of water throughout the year, running for more than 150 km until reaching the Pacific Ocean (Niemeyer and Cereceda 1984). But the high salt and alkaline content of its waters have limited biotic resource availability for the development of intensive agriculture from pre-Columbian times to the present day (Keller 1946; Niemeyer and Cereceda 1984; Santoro 2016). Today, the lower section of the Lluta Valley is extensively irrigated for agricultural production of maize, a traditional crop.

The presence of freshwater or saltwater rivers that run transversely in an east-westerly direction from the high Andean Cordillera, such as the Lluta Valley (Figure 6.1), has made particular types of human occupation possible, expressed in ways of life based on hunting, gathering, farming and herding. The relevance of these river courses

During the pre-Columbian era, the lower Lluta Valley had low occupational density and poor investment in domestic infrastructure (Santoro et al. 2009). It is likely that these domestic installations also included agricultural fields located in the valley basin, which are widely farmed today

Figure 6.1. Study area, geoglyphs of the Lluta Valley, northern Atacama Desert. The basemap was generated using the freely available 12-metre ALOS PALSAR DEM by JAXA. Map by Adrián Oyaneder (FONDECYT 1201687).

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D. Valenzuela, L. Briones, P. Casanova, I. Montt, T. Saintenoy, M. Crespo and P. Mendez-Quiros and, in archaeological terms, have yet to be intensively surveyed. One of the largest archaeological sites is a storage area known as LL-2 Collcas de Huaylacán (ca. 5 ha) and dated to late pre-Columbian times (ca. AD 900– 1535) (Barraza and Cortez 1995; Santoro et al. 2009). Other sites include conglomerate residential complexes made of reed and cane associated with cemeteries, storage areas and, in one case, petroglyphs. All these sites are connected via longitudinal and transversal trails (Muñoz and Briones 1996; Valenzuela et al. 2011).

138 figures for the present study, which constitutes 48% of the total number of panels and 74% of the total number of figures (Tables 6.1 and 6.2). Panels whose state of preservation made it impossible to carry out formal and spatial analyses were excluded from the sample. The methodology consisted of formal and geospatial analyses of the geoglyphs. 6.4.1. Formal analysis of the motifs The geoglyphs were described in formal terms from direct observation and in-situ recordings, in addition to interpretations based on aerial-photogrammetric surveys. The formal variables included the technique used, body shape and position, head shape and position, representation of anatomical segments (limbs, neck, legs/feet, tail, ears, etc.), dimensions and height/width ratio.

6.4. Materials and methods In the Lluta Valley, systematic archaeological research began in the latter half of the 20th century. It has led to the identification of a total of 23 geoglyph panels and 187 figures to date (Briones 2006; 2008; Dauelsberg et al. 1975; Ross et al. 2008; Schaedel 1957; Valenzuela et al. 2006). The first national efforts to preserve and restore geoglyphs were carried out along the southern slope of the Lluta Valley between 1975 and 1978 by Luis Briones and others from a former branch of Universidad de Chile in Arica, which later became part of the Universidad de Tarapacá (Table 6.1).

6.4.2. Survey techniques and spatial analysis To complement in-situ descriptions of the geoglyphs made during their restoration in the 1980s, we conducted an aerial survey of the 11 panels selected for this study, between 2016 and 2018. To do this, a close-range aerial-photogrammetric protocol was applied, to create ortho-rectified RGB imagery and digital elevation models (DEM) for each panel. According to the particular lighting conditions and topographic position of each panel, we generated RGB imagery with a resolution of ca. 3 cm/ pixel and 6 cm/pixel for the DEM. This imagery, together with the topographical data, allowed us to perform relief visualisation analyses, to refine the identification, formal definition and measurements for each figure within the panels, and to calculate the figures’ density and detail the delimitation of each panel. It also enabled us to evaluate the topographic characteristics of the terrain where the panels are located, and to detect recent alterations such as vehicle tyre tracks and the addition of new geoglyphs.

The aim of the restorations was to enhance the scientific value of the sites and to promote their use as cultural tourist attractions. Selected for restoration were those geoglyphs affected by wind-blown sand deposition, downslope movements of the stones that form them and earthquakes, but still showing a recognisable original shape. Clearly defined, completely uncovered figures were not restored. In order to minimise biased interpretations, figures lacking morphological definition were excluded from the restoration process, constituting an up-to-date testimony of the state of preservation of non-restored geoglyphs (Briones and Casanova 2011). The main restoration procedures carried out were cleaning and formal reintegration of the stones that constituted the figures. The former concerned the mechanical removal of deposited sand from the stones. The latter consisted of relocating the displaced material and incorporating other stones in areas that were either missing sections or that had ‘gaps’ (Briones and Casanova 2011).

To study the location of the panels within the valley, we overlaid our high-resolution imagery onto a low-resolution digital elevation model of the valley, as both the Shuttle Radar Topographic Mission’s (SRTM) global elevation model (version 4, 2008), with a resolution of 90 m/pixel, and the Aster Global Digital Elevation Model (GDEM), with a resolution of 30 m/pixel, provided us with the best possible topographical data. For this reason, the +/- 5 m GPS location accuracy for our geoglyph imagery did not pose any problem for our study purposes. Also, the results obtained from the SRTM and GDEM-based location analyses must be seen as indicative of general trends and remain preliminary until higher resolution topographic data become available.

In 1981, under a formal agreement between the Municipality of Arica and the Instituto Profesional de Arica (Professional Institute of Arica), a new restoration programme began, which aimed to continue the initial restoration work, improving the methodologies of diagnosis, recording, intervention and documentation of the preservation and restoration processes. As a result, a total of 18 panels with 131 figures were recorded. The area of the treated motifs corresponded to 32,000 m2, 50% of which underwent cleaning, 20% restoration and 30% remained as testaments (Briones and Álvarez 1984).

To assess the effective visual impact of the geoglyphs within the valley, we developed a preliminary ‘visualscape’ characterisation of the geoglyphs, defined as “the spatial representation of any visual property generated by, or associated with, a spatial configuration” (Llobera 2003, 30). This was carried out by means of viewshed analysis

From the total number of identified panels in the Lluta Valley, we selected a sample of 11 panels with a total of 112

In the Middle of Nowhere Table 6.1. Geoglyph sites, panels and motifs in the Lluta Valley. Number of restored motifs. Site

Panel

Slope

Anthropo­ morphic

Zoomorphic

Object

Non-iconic

Nonidentifiable

Total number

Restoration

Number of restored motifs

Included in the study sample

LL-115

1

South

2

3

0

0

0

5

No

0

No

LL-114

2

South

4

4

0

0

0

8

No

0

No

LL-18

3

South

4

7

0

1

2

14

1977-1978

8

Yes

LL-60

4

South

6

3

0

0

0

9

No

0

No

LL-60

5

South

13

5

0

0

12

30

1978

15

Yes

LL-60

6

South

15

6

3

1

9

34

1977

16

Yes

LL-113

7

South

5

1

0

0

0

6

1978

4

Yes

LL-112

8

South

3

0

0

0

0

3

1977-1978

3

Yes

LL-112

9

South

2

0

0

0

2

4

1977

2

Yes

LL-111

10

South

6

5

0

0

4

15

1977

10

Yes

LL-111

11

South

2

0

0

0

0

2

1977

2

Yes

LL-111

12

South

2

2

0

0

3

7

1977

4

Yes

LL-111

13

South

0

1

0

0

0

1

1977

1

Yes

LL-110

14

South

1

4

0

1

1

7

No

0

No

LL-89

15

South

16

2

0

2

2

22

1977-1978

18

Yes

LL-106

16

South

1

0

0

0

1

2

No

0

No

LL-105

17

South

1

0

0

0

0

1

No

0

No

LL-104

18

South

5

0

0

0

2

7

No

0

No

LL-101

19

South

1

5

0

0

0

6

No

0

No

LL-107

20

North

1

0

0

0

0

1

No

0

No

LL-108

21

North

0

0

0

0

1

1

No

0

No

LL-109

22

North

0

0

0

0

1

1

No

0

No

LL-7

23

South

0

0

0

1

0

1

No

0

No

90

48

3

6

40

187

Total

113

83

D. Valenzuela, L. Briones, P. Casanova, I. Montt, T. Saintenoy, M. Crespo and P. Mendez-Quiros based on the available low-resolution GDEM elevation data.

No panels are directly associated with other human occupation sites, such as camps, villages and cemeteries. The closest human occupation sites are located on the terraces at the foot of the southern slope, far below the panels with geoglyphs. Nevertheless, all of the analysed geoglyphs are spatially associated with trails (at a distance of less than 170 m), most of which (in the case of 9 out of 11 panels) run alongside the geoglyphs (Figure 6.3). The most important geoglyph clusters (groups 2 and 3) are located around a natural pass in Huaylacán, with a trail connecting the Lluta Valley and the Arica coastal settlements via the Azapa Valley (Mendez-Quiros and García 2018; Muñoz and Briones 1996; Valenzuela et al. 2006; 2011).

As no field experiment has been made to define distances for the perception of geoglyphs in the Lluta Valley, we based our viewshed analysis parameters on non-systematic field observations and general theory about visual perception (Ogburn 2006; Fábrega-Álvarez and ParceroOubiña 2019). The analyses considered the size of the geoglyphs and two perception ranges: geoglyph detection and shape recognition. We selected a sample comprising 125 of the 138 motifs, whose contours were clear enough to be reliably plotted. Viewshed analyses were generated considering each figure. Due to the low-resolution of the available elevation data, the figure area was not considered, thus each figure was represented by a single central point. To model geoglyph visibility, we considered the maximum length of each figure instead of its whole area. Given the geoglyphs’ moderate obtrusivity (Schiffer et al. 1978) in the Lluta Valley landscape, and their semiotic function to be iconographically recognised, restricted ranges of visibility were applied: a visual arc of 10° as a threshold for geoglyph detection and 30° for their shape recognition. As geoglyphs feature a non-elevated architecture, they are almost invisible from a lateral perspective, thus an angular catchment area of 90º (centred on each figure’s azimuthal orientation) was defined for their shape recognition.

Geomorphometric modelling of topographic positions within the valley (from STRM data) shows that the locations of the panels are relatively homogeneous and systematic in the middle and upper sections of the southern slope. This means that most geoglyphs are located at an average height of 150 m from areas favourable to human occupation, such as the terraces extending across the valley floor, where late pre-Columbian settlements were situated (Figure 6.3, Table 6.2). The only two panels located on the lower slope were constructed on promontories (hills) at a height of ca. 50 m above the valley floor. Most of the geoglyphs are oriented towards the north (0– 22.5º azimuth) and more specifically northeast (22.5–67.5º azimuth), with the exception of panel 3 from site LL-18 which is northwest oriented (292.5–337.5º azimuth) and facing downwards towards the Pacific Ocean.

6.5. Results: geoglyphs in the Lluta Valley of northern Chile 6.5.1. Locational characteristics of geoglyphs

The visual impact of Geoglyphs depends on their texture and size. The texture of motifs made using the additive technique shows greater contrast with the desert’s lightcoloured sandy surface. The average area of a single motif is 23 m2. However, 92 out of 125 motifs are smaller and only 4 cover an area larger than 100 m2. The total area of the largest motif is 270 m2 (Figure 6.4).

The Lluta Valley geoglyphs are characterised by their location, which is limited to the lower valley, no more than 13 km from the coast, and thus they are absent from the middle and upper courses of the valley (Figure 6.1). The 11 panels under study are situated on the southern slope, a pattern that is repeated for most panels in the valley (20 out of 23; Figure 6.1). No vegetation grows, nor are there any faunal resources living in the geoglyphs’ surroundings. However, 9 out of 11 panels are located in relation to portezuelos or natural passes. The studied geoglyphs are distributed among four locations: two clusters in the Huaylacán sector around a natural pass that connects with the coast of Arica, and two further isolated clusters located to the far east and west of the pass respectively (Figure 6.2):

The viewshed of the studied panels varies between 20 and 160 ha (Table 6.3). Statistics do not show a specific locational characteristic that explains the extension of the geoglyphs’ viewshed (e.g. height above valley floor). The strongest correlation is with the total surface area of the figures that comprise the panel, reflecting the size/distance parameter considered in the analysis. At the scale of panel groups, Group 3 is potentially the most visible, perhaps due to the greater mean surface area of its motifs (Table 6.4).

• Group 1: site LL-18 (panel 3), isolated, located 1.2 km to the west of group 2. • Group 2: site LL-60 (panels 5 and 6) and site LL-113 (panel 7) located ca. 1.2 km to the east of the pass. • Group 3: site LL-111 (panels 10, 11, 12 and 13) and site LL-112 (panels 8 and 9) located 1.4 km from group 2. • Group 4: site LL-89 (panel 16), isolated located 5.3 km from group 3.

The overall cumulative viewshed shows the continuity of the geoglyphs’ visibility across the valley section. The panel group viewsheds tend to be segregated, apart from the overlay between the two clusters (groups 2 and 3) located around a natural pass (Table 6.4). This viewshed convergence produces an amphitheatre effect that visually structures a spatial orientation moving towards the pass. It provides a privileged location for observing more than 15 114

In the Middle of Nowhere

Figure 6.2. Cumulative viewshed, geoglyphs and other archaeological sites in the Lluta Valley. Map by Thibault Saintenoy.

Figure 6.3. Location of geoglyphs on the slope of the Lluta Valley, associated with trails (Panel 3, site LL-60). Photo by Marta Crespo (FONDECYT 1201687).

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D. Valenzuela, L. Briones, P. Casanova, I. Montt, T. Saintenoy, M. Crespo and P. Mendez-Quiros Table 6.2. Locational characteristics of the 11 geoglyph panels included in the study sample. Locational data from Aster GDEM, based on motif morphology. The delimitation of panels includes a buffer zone of 10 m. Due to its greater extension, LL-60/P6 was divided into three parts. Double horizontal lines separate groups of panels. Data for LL-60/P6b’s figure 24 is missing due to its complex morphology. Site/Panel

Altitude above sea level (m)

Height above valley floor (m)

Slope (º)

Aspect

Number of figures

Mean surface area of figures (m2)

Sum of figures’ surface area (m2)

Panel surface area (m2)

Density fig./panel

LL-18/P3

151

51

11

NW (-25º)

14

12

168

6998

2%

LL-60/P5

164

44

9

NE (48º)

23

9

206

3642

6%

LL-60/P6a

240

120

13

NE (50º)

5

38

190

5207

4%

LL-60/P6b

224

104

17

N (13º)

14

33

467

8137

6%

LL-60/P6c

198

78

19

N (18º)

14

6

78

4995

2%

LL-113/P7

259

109

17

NE (39º)

6

12

72

2745

3%

LL-111/P10

345

195

18

N (-11º)

14

55

769

7822

10%

LL-111/P11

350

200

19

N (-10º)

2

12

25

667

4%

LL-111/P12

339

189

21

N (-6º)

4

44

177

2378

7%

LL-111/P13

355

205

20

NE (26º)

1

30

30

821

4%

LL-112/P8

329

179

21

NE (23º)

3

24

72

1055

7%

LL-112/P9

333

183

19

N (-6º)

2

77

154

1776

9%

LL-89/P15

415

185

21

N (-12º)

22

20

438

19279

2%

Mean/sums

263

142

16

N (10º)

124

23

2847

65521

4%

Figure 6.4. Surface area (in m2) of the 125 geoglyph motifs tested using spatial analysis.

6.5.2. Technical and formal characteristics of motifs

geoglyphs simultaneously from the bottom of the valley (Figure 6.2). Located in Collcas de Huaylacán (site LL-2), it is the largest archaeological site of the lower valley. The cumulative viewshed shows a slight visual relationship between the trails located on the slope on the one hand and the geoglyphs on the other.

All 23 geoglyphs from the Lluta Valley were made using the additive technique, in positive and in high relief, forming in-filled motifs by juxtaposed stones. Volcanic stones of local origin were used, dark grey in colour, with 116

In the Middle of Nowhere Table 6.3. Geoglyphs’ cumulative viewshed by panel. Double horizontal lines delimit the four groups of panels. The null viewshed of LL-111/P11 could be a product of the low-resolution DEM data. Site/Panel

Panel’s height above valley floor (m)

Panel surface area (m2)

Number of figures

Maximum number of simultaneously visible figures in viewshed

Viewshed extension (ha)

LL-18/P3

51

6998

14

9

54

LL-60/P5

44

3642

23

16

22

LL-60/P6a

120

5207

5

3

29

LL-60/P6b

104

8137

14

11

76

LL-60/P6c

78

4995

14

13

17

LL-113/P7

109

2745

6

6

16

LL-111/P10

195

7822

14

8

168

LL-111/P11

200

667

2

2

0

LL-111/P12

189

2378

4

4

37

LL-111/P13

205

821

1

1

18

LL-112/P8

179

1055

3

3

19

LL-112/P9

183

1776

2

2

97

LL-89/P15

185

19279

22

20

115

Table 6.4. Geoglyphs’ cumulative viewshed by panel groups and the overlay between them. Group of panels

Number of panels

Number of figures

Mean surface area of figures

Total figures’ surface area (m2)

Total panels’ surface area (m2)

Viewshed extension (ha)

Group 1 (LL-18)

1

14

12

168

6998

54

62

20

1014

24726

90

26

40

1227

14518

192

22

20

438

19279

115

Viewshed overlay between groups 1 & 2 = 15 ha Group 2 (LL-60 and LL-113)

5

Viewshed overlay between groups 2 & 3 = 82 ha Group 3 (LL-111 and LL-112)

6

Viewshed overlay between groups 3 & 4 = 20 ha Group 4 (LL-89)

1

sizes ranging from 10 to 50 cm in diameter. The selection of dark grey stones placed over the lighter grey natural soil surface produces a contrast between the figure and the background that is decisive in defining the motifs’ visual effectiveness (Briones 1984). However, this contrast decreases over time due to post-depositional processes, such as stone sliding driven by gravity and telluric movements, as well as sand deposition by aeolian action (Briones 1984).

zoomorphic motifs (mainly camelids) and a few geometric motifs, the anthropomorphic figure is the most frequent and is represented in a fairly standardised way (Briones 2008; Briones et al. 2007). Less frequently, Lluta geoglyphs include non-iconic motifs1 and depictions of objects (Figure 6.5). Besides, some geoglyphs are unidentifiable in shape due to their poor state of preservation. The motifs that comprise the study sample are representative of the total number of attested geoglyphs and affirm the high number of anthropomorphic motifs (Figure 6.5). Likewise, they are clearly ubiquitous, as all but one of the geoglyph panels contain this category of figures.

Low levels of formal and technical variability characterise the geoglyphs of the Lluta Valley. Previous studies defined the ‘Lluta style’ as being characterised mainly by highly schematised anthropomorphic figures, rendered by geometric tracing, and made using an additive technique (Dauelsberg et al. 1975). Although the style includes

 A non-iconic motif lacks any formal resemblance between form and content (Morphy 1989, 6). 1

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depicted in profile, most figures (15 out of 19) ‘look’ westwards. In other cases, the head is not represented (6 out of 19) or is indistinguishable due to poor preservation (4 out of 19).

Of the total number of anthropomorphic figures (n=68) the majority correspond to the ‘Lluta type’ pattern (55 out of 68) that characterises the Lluta style. This motif is highly schematised, depicted by straight lines, without anatomical or body volume attributes. Two anthropomorphic variants are identified. Variant 1, the most frequent (49 out of 68), is represented with head, body, legs and occasionally feet (Figures 6.6–6.11). Its head, depicted either frontally (n=20) or in profile (n=19), is either square shaped with an appendage, or semilunar in shape; the latter we interpreted as a representation of the ‘war helmets’ recovered from funerary contexts in the region (Figure 6.12). When

The trunk is invariably displayed in frontal view, with the legs straight and slightly apart. The graphical representation of arms is lacking. There is a notable absence of the neck as a nexus between the head and body and of the ankle as a nexus between the legs and feet (Briones et al. 2007). In stylistic terms, and viewed in the context of the Atacama Desert, this type of figure constitutes a clearly localised form of expression, as it is almost exclusive to this valley. Anthropomorphic figures

Figure 6.5. Total number of attested motifs from the Lluta Valley geoglyphs and number of motifs included in the study sample.

Figure 6.6. Lluta-type anthropomorphic motifs: variant 1 (a) and 2 (b). Motifs reproduced by Luis Briones and Daniela Valenzuela.

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In the Middle of Nowhere

Figure 6.7. Panel 5, site LL-60. Variability of headdresses in anthropomorphic motifs: variants 1 and 2. Digital orthophoto (a) by Marta Crespo and view from the ground (b) by Paz Casanova (FONDECYT 1201687).

Figure 6.8. Panel 6, site LL-60. Camelids and anthropomorphic motifs. Digital orthophoto (a) and view from the ground (b), by Marta Crespo (FONDECYT 1201687).

Figure 6.9. Panels 8 (right) and 9 (left), site LL-112. Anthropomorphic Lluta-type motifs. Photogrammetric image (a) and view from the ground (b). Digital orthophoto (a) by Marta Crespo and view from the ground (b) by Paz Casanova (FONDECYT 1201687).

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Figure 6.10. Panel 11, site LL-111. Anthropomorphic Lluta-type motifs, camelids, feline in profile and other anthropomorphic types. Digital orthophoto (a) by Marta Crespo and view from the ground (b) by Paz Casanova (FONDECYT 1201687).

Figure 6.11. Panel 15, site LL-89. Anthropomorphic Lluta-type motifs, camelids and geometric meandric line. Digital orthophoto (a) and view from the ground (b) by Marta Crespo (FONDECYT 1201687).

Figure 6.12. Late Intermediate Period Arica helmets used in situations of conflict or confrontation during late pre-Hispanic times, Museo Arqueológico Universidad de Tarapacá-San Miguel de Azapa Collection: (a) provenance unknown, from a funerary site in the Azapa valley, catalog number UTA-27504; (b) site AZ-6, burial 5, catalog number 12033; (c) site PLM4, burial 18, catalog number 7726; (d) site AZ-1, unknown burial, catalog number 3126; (e) drawing by Guaman Poma de Ayala (1980 [1615], drawing 22) depicting the uma chuku or ‘warrior helmet’ in the scene of “The fourth age of the Indians, Auca Runa” (Royal Danish Library, GKS 2232 kvart: Guaman Poma, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno [c. 1615], page 63). Photographs (a), (b), (c), and (d) reproduced courtesy of Nicholas Charlesworth.

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In the Middle of Nowhere of this kind are otherwise only found in isolated cases in geoglyphs in the Azapa Valley and in some rock engravings in the Lluta Valley (Figure 6.13). The helmet-type headdress is also represented at other rock art sites, such as Chamarcusiña in the Azapa Valley (Romero 1996), where it appears in scenes of confrontation between archers, although here it is shaped differently to that of the Lluta style.

way, rendered without motion, and depicted with no extrasomatic elements (such as a rope) linking to camelids. In Lluta geoglyphs, human figures and camelids were always displayed unrelated, thus missing common dynamics of interaction or formal elements that join the figures, as occur in other geoglyphs and rock art from the Atacama Desert (Berenguer 2004a). 6.5.2.2. Zoomorphs

In variant 2 (6 out of 68 attestations), the anthropomorphic figure also acquires a high degree of schematisation (Figures 6.6 and 6.7). It consists of straight or curved figures, in the form of an inverted U corresponding to the body and lower limbs. Above the body of this motif, a T or semilunar shape, resembling the silhouette of a tumi (Andean ceremonial axe/knife), was added as a headdress or head. Variant 2 presents a high degree of abstraction and it could be argued that its interpretation as an anthropomorphic figure would be very difficult if we were unaware of the reference to variant 1. Tumi representations, whether isolated or arranged as headdresses of anthropomorphic figures, are common to Atacama Desert rock engravings at sites in the valleys of Lluta (LL-43 site), Azapa (Ausipar and Chamarcusa sites) and Camarones (Taltape 1 and Taltape 2 sites) (Niemeyer 1968–1969; Valenzuela 2017).

Zoomorphic motifs (29 out of 138) are the second most frequent category in the study sample. Unlike anthropomorphs, zoomorphs have greater internal variability. In fact, only camelids (18 out of 29) can be assigned to a certain type (straight-lined schematic camelids) (Figures 6.7, 6.8, 6.10 and 6.11), while the rest includes a variety of motifs with various formal traits (Figure 6.10): bird (1 out of 29), unidentified quadrupeds (7 out of 29), felines shown in profile (2 out of 29) and batrachian (1 out of 29). The schematic straight-lined camelids (18 out of 29) are depicted in profile, with quadrangular bodies. However, they lack the formal standardisation of the Lluta-type anthropomorphs. In fact, they can be found with two or four legs, one or two ears and with or without a tail. The common denominator is the geometrisation of the bodies, with a tendency to straight lines. It is the most recurrent motif associated with Lluta-type anthropomorphs. The quadrupeds (7 out of 29) are also represented schematically, with elongated bodies and short legs, which may point to depictions of dogs or foxes.

The remaining anthropomorphic motifs do not constitute true formal types. They include anthropomorphic figures in motion (7 out of 68) or static (6 out of 68). Some of the animated anthropomorphs, identified as archers, are arranged in scenic compositions such as confron­ tations (Figure 6.14), which is a widespread theme in engravings from other sites in the region (Niemeyer and Schiappacasse 1981; Romero 1996). Also noteworthy is the representation of a static archer with a tumi-shaped headdress (Figure 6.7).

Other zoomorphs have curvilinear bodies, such as batrachians (1 out of 29) and felines (2 out of 29). There were problems in identifying the latter figures at the time of restoration because, given the loss of the figures’ formal integrity, it was impossible to ascertain whether they depicted a monkey – common to the ceramic and textile iconography of the Late Intermediate Period (ca. AD 900– 1400) – or a feline (Briones 1984; 2008; Muñoz 1983) (Figure 6.10).

In terms of composition, the renderings of anthropomorphs do not comprise scenes of interaction with camelids, even though they are displayed on the same panels. The Lluta anthropomorphic geoglyphs are represented in a schematic

Figure 6.13. Lluta-type anthropomorphs in: (a) Azapa valley geoglyphs, Panel 3 at the Cerro Sombrero site, photo by Marta Crespo (FONDECYT 1201687); (b) Lluta Valley rock engravings at the LL-98 Marka Vilavila site, photo by Daniela Valenzuela.

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Figure 6.14. Scene of confrontation between anthropomorphs in motion wearing feathered headdresses; one of them is carrying a bow. Detail from Panel 3, site LL-18. Photo by Marta Crespo (FONDECYT 1201687).

6.5.2.3. Objects

highly visible because of their location on the valley slopes, demonstrating an intention to be seen easily from a distance (Briones 1984; Clarkson 1996; Lambers 2020). According to Briones (1984), the importance of aspects such as the position of the observer and the orientation of the geoglyph are fundamental to the geoglyph’s visual perception. These aspects define distance and perspective, which ultimately determine the degree of visibility. The locational characteristics of the geoglyphs limit their visibility from specific locations. Consequently, we believe that the Lluta Valley geoglyphs were created with a primarily visual purpose in mind.

The objects (3 out of 132) include motifs found on a single panel (panel 6, site Lluta 60) (Figure 6.8). They were originally interpreted as birds in flight (herons, eagles or harriers) (Briones 2008; Dauelsberg et al. 1975), appearing with extended ‘wings’ that form a semilunar or rectangular shape with a line in the centre. We think, however, that these are double-edged knives with a central axis, as a tumi-shaped variant, considering the existence of anthropomorphs in which this motif represents a headdress (e.g. motif 15, panel 5, site LL-60; Figure 6.7). 6.5.2.4. Non-iconic motifs

The Lluta geoglyphs are located far from the main areas of human occupation and natural resources. However, many of them are associated with passes, as is the case in the Huaylacán sector on the southern slope and Morro Negro on the northern slope. Passes are a key feature in traffic networks because they connect geographic areas separated by topographic barriers; in this case, they link the Lluta and Azapa valleys, as well as ravines located to the north of the Lluta Valley.

These are rare (4 out of 138) and encompass a curved line (n=1), wavy line (n=1), straight line (n=1) and a rectangle (n=1) (Figures 6.8 and 6.11). 6.6. Discussion The monumentality of the Lluta geoglyphs, given their large size (up to 270 m2), suggests an intention to put them on display and a desire to ensure their material permanence through time and space. Indeed, they are

All geoglyphs are associated with trails, revealing the relationship between geoglyphs and caravanning 122

In the Middle of Nowhere practices in the Atacama Desert, frequently emphasised in archaeological literature (see discussion in Valenzuela and Montt 2018).

marked a significant area: Huaylacán, from where several geoglyphs could be seen at the same time. Huaylacán was a key pre-Columbian sector of the valley within the route network and is one of the sectors of the Lluta Valley where several routes converge and diverge (Muñoz and Briones 1996). Here the LL-2 Collcas de Huaylacán site is located, which comprises more than 50 underground storage units, with no identified residential settlement, though it is close to a cemetery. It has been previously suggested that the site could have been a traffic station where caravanners rested and ate, exchanged their imported cargo goods and stocked up on maize and fish, the remains of which were found inside and outside the silos. Its location on a wide plain would have been ideal for loading and unloading llamas, along with exchange activities. This sector has permanent but brackish water and is covered by pastures that could have provided fodder for llamas (Valenzuela et al. 2011). In sum, Lluta geoglyphs appear to have acted as landmarks to highlight certain properties of this territory rather than marking and being functional to specific caravan routes. The many figures created by placing dark stones on the desert surface provide meaning through their fixed presence in these landscapes of motion.

Furthermore, their systematic location on the southern slope of the valley suggests that they were created to face a particular direction, i.e. the north and primarily the northeast. According to Muñoz and Briones (1996), the main route linking the altiplano with the coast of Arica runs along the northern slope of the valley in an east-west direction (Ruta Transversal Lluta No. 2). At several points along this route, there are secondary path bifurcations that connect with the Azapa Valley or the coast of Arica by the valley’s southern hillside. These forks occur, for example, in the Rosario and Huaylacán sectors, where several geoglyph panels are grouped together. The coast marks the end point of all these routes and variants. In addition, as the Lluta geoglyphs have a clear orientation towards the northeast, this leads us to assume they were oriented to people moving from the east to the west, rather than vice versa, that is, the direction of those descending from the highlands to the coast. This assumption is also suggested by the westward orientation of the anthropomorphic figures with their heads shown in profile, thus marking the figures’ orientation towards the Pacific coast. Contrary to previous studies suggesting that the geoglyphs were visible from the routes (Briones 1984, 43; Valenzuela et al. 2011), the cumulative viewshed analyses presented here scarcely shows any visibility relationship between the geoglyphs and the trails located on the valley slopes, although the spatial (physical) association between them is evident. How might we explain that the geoglyphs are oriented towards routes from which they could not be seen? We are not yet in a position to answer this question. But the following considerations should be taken into account: the analysis did not exhaustively fathom other aspects of visibility, such as the location of the geoglyphs in relation to monumentality and movement, which requires high-resolution topographic data and a more sophisticated viewshed algorithm to estimate the angle of incidence that would influence geoglyph perception; field experiments are also required to refine the parameters of visual perception of the geoglyphs within the Lluta Valley’s biogeographical context.

The particular head shape of the Lluta-type anthropomorphs suggests the portrayal of helmet-type headdresses, which were common in the Andes from the Middle Horizon (ca. AD 400–900) onwards (Sagárnaga 2007; Ugarte Lewis and Yépez Álvarez 2012) but became more frequent during the Late Intermediate Period (ca. AD 900–1400), extending into the Late Horizon (ca. AD 1400–1535) (Arnold 2018; Berenguer 2006). The helmet is defined as a subclass of the headdress; it was reinforced using solid material to protect the head from injury and contusion in conflict or violent situations (Arnold 2018, 194). During the Late Intermediate Period, referred to by the chronicler Guaman Poma de Ayala (1980 [1615]) as Auca Runa (an era of battle), conflict and social tension occurred in the Andes on account of the struggle for access to productive niches. This is evidenced archaeologically by the construction of pukaras (forts), the presence of weapons (e.g. slingshots, bows, arrows and quivers) and war attire (e.g. helmets, leather armour and feline skin tunics), and traumas in bioanthropological remains (Berenguer 2009, 198; Berenguer and Cáceres 2008, 143; Berenguer et al. 2011; Nielsen 2007). During the Late Horizon, hemispherical-shaped war helmets sometimes adorned with feathers, called uma chuku or chuku, are described in historical documents as belonging to the clothing and armour of Inca warriors, which also included slings, spears, maces, musical instruments and unkus or tunics (Horta 2011, 552; Martínez et al. 2016, 14; Martínez and Martínez 2013; McEwan 2006; Poma de Ayala 1980 [1615]). The term uma chuku used to denote the Inca warrior’s helmet appears in the early Colonial Period (16th and 17th centuries) and is described as a ‘leather helmet’, with its yawri uma chuku variant described as

Visual perception is culturally mediated. It depends largely on the systems of cultural representation of past populations. The way in which geoglyphs are perceived is influenced by factors such as familiarity with geoglyphs, an understanding of their iconography, and knowledge of local geography, among others. Artefacts with strong formal properties (such as shape, colour, size, etc.) are intended to be perceived by the sense of sight (Fiore 2011, 102). Formal attributes are inherent in geoglyphs and the fact that some geoglyphs could not be easily seen from some of the caravan trails does not diminish their properties as visual artefacts. Consequently, Lluta geoglyphs do not appear to have served as mere traffic signals on specific routes, but rather to have symbolically 123

D. Valenzuela, L. Briones, P. Casanova, I. Montt, T. Saintenoy, M. Crespo and P. Mendez-Quiros the Marka Vilavila site (LL-98) (Valenzuela et al. 2011). Consequently, the depiction of helmets, axes, knives, tunics, confrontations and caravans seems to have been part of the visual discourses in times of conflict during the Late Intermediate and Late Horizon periods.

an ‘iron helmet’ (Bertonio 1984 [1612] I: 116, quoted by Arnold 2018, 195). The inclusion of helmets as part of the clothing of Inca warriors is also present in mythological discourses (Rostworowski 1988, 146). Cane ‘war helmets’, made from a vegetal structure strengthened with camelid yarn, have also been found in the Atacama Desert, in funerary archaeological sites dating to the Late Intermediate Period (Arnold 2018; Berenguer 2006) (Figure 6.12). Occurring inland and along the coast, they are commonly associated with weapons (such as bows, arrows and quivers), metal objects, elements from the caravan kit (e.g. tie toggles, bells and sacks), foreign items from the tropical forest (guacamayo feathers and quivers made from jaguar skins) and musical instruments (Cases and Agüero 2004; Focacci 1990; Moragas 1995; Pacheco 2010; Sanhueza 1985; Zlatar 1984).

The anthropomorphic geoglyphs from the Lluta Valley, with their helmet-like headdresses, seem to be strongly linked to tense and hostile situations, which, as Berenguer (2009) pointed out, had some association with caravanning mobility. Considering that the caravanners probably belonged to highland pastoralist peoples (Valenzuela et al. 2019), their passage through lowland foreign territories, such as the coastal valley of Lluta, was possibly not without struggle and risk (Harris 1985; Nielsen 1997; Valenzuela et al. 2011). The emphasis given to the human figure in the Lluta geoglyphs versus camelids and non-iconic motifs, is consistent with what occurs in other parts of the Atacama Desert and in the Andes during this period. During the late pre-Columbian epoch, the human figure gains major prominence, expressed in representations of attributes of power, marking a difference with respect to earlier periods (Aschero 2000; Valenzuela and Montt 2018). Specifically, in the geoglyphs of the Lluta Valley, human presence is constituted through the representation of anthropomorphic figures in an otherwise uninhabited space, thus becoming permanently ‘populated’ in the middle of nowhere.

In particular, four helmets of this type were discovered in cemeteries in the Azapa Valley and along the coast of Arica (sites Az-1, Az-6, PLM-4 and another of unknown origin), all of them stored at the Museo Arqueológico San Miguel de Azapa. In the Az-6 cemetery (tomb 4), dating back to the Late Intermediate Period (Korpisaari et al. 2014), a helmet together with bows, arrows, quivers, a slingshot, wooden mace with a stone head, bronze axes, spears and musical instruments were found (Focacci 1990). In tomb 5, a helmet was discovered lying beside a human body with arrowheads lodged in the thorax. The tomb also included musical instruments (Focacci 1990). In sum, the helmets emerge as a typical object associated with violent situations (whether ritualistic or war-related), along with other objects such as tunics, breastplates, bows and arrows, metal weapons (tumis) and musical instruments, which are particularly significant in funerary and rock art archaeological sites in the Atacama Desert. Contextually, caravanning and exchange of goods are also linked to these subjects, as we will see below.

6.7. Conclusions The geoglyphs of the Lluta Valley are remarkable for presenting peculiar – and sometimes exclusive – traits in terms of technique, formal characteristics of representation, location, site conditions and associated archaeological features. Geoglyphs were more than just traffic signals. They also functioned as a means of technology in the caravanning system, as important as the trails, rest stops and caravan kit. They were permanent landmarks that emphasised access to critical spaces. In the case of the Lluta Valley geoglyphs, the main emphasis was to mark the qualities of a significant space in the context of movements towards the coast (and not away from it). The Lluta Valley geoglyphs hold visual qualities that have a communicative potential: the figures are large in size, recurrent and visible from a distance; they also have a non-verbal capacity to express social values. This occurs in the open desert, in territories characterised by non-permanent occupations, but that were key to the interaction and exchange between communities and occurred in the context of social tension and conflict. Both interaction (peaceful or otherwise) and exchange make the material and social reproduction of the human communities possible.

This type of helmet and some of the related objects found in graves are depicted in Atacama Desert rock art. In the Upper Loa basin, anthropomorphs wearing feathered helmets, leather breastplates and jaguar skins are associated with depictions of tumis (metal knives) and axes, as well as lineal formations of llama caravans (Berenguer 1995; 2004b; 2009; Berenguer and Cabello 2005; Berenguer et al. 2007). In rock engravings from the Azapa Valley, there are scenes of confrontation between archers equipped with this type of helmet. In the Lluta Valley, scenes of caravanning are usually accompanied by depictions of tumis. In rock art representations from the Late Horizon, the helmet and tumi are associated with chequered tunics (unkus). According to Berenguer (2013), these motifs could represent a visual discourse utilised by Inca troops for deterrent purposes, avoiding the need for physical force. Depictions of chequered unkus, helmets and scenes of caravanning are also recorded (Moragas 1996). In the Lluta Valley, Lluta-type anthropomorphic motifs with engraved helmets (and possibly a painted one) are shown together with painted chequered motifs at

Acknowledgements This contribution has been produced within the scope of the FONDECYT (Fondo de Desarrollo de Ciencia y Tecnología 124

In the Middle of Nowhere [Chilean National Funds for Science and Technology]) grants 1201687 and 1171708. Spatial analyses were undertaken in collaboration with the RoadNet_Andes project that has received funding from the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation program under grant agreement MSCA 800617. We appreciate Calogero Santoro’s comments and suggestions and are grateful to Nick Charlesworth for reviewing the text and improving the English. We also thank the editors for inviting us to participate in this volume and for their careful editing.

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7 Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs, and Route-Ways in the English Lake District Kate E. Sharpe Abstract: A new corpus of rock art has recently emerged in the north-west of England. Targeted surveys and chance discoveries have revealed decorated panels at around 30 sites on the volcanic rocks of the Lake District in the county of Cumbria. During the British Neolithic period, these crags were also the focus of another reductive use of stone: quarrying and production of axeheads. Outcropping around the mountain summits is a ribbon of fine-grained andesitic tuff, a distinctive raw material that drew the attention of prehistoric stone-workers. This chapter suggests a possible relationship between the carved panels and the movement of prehistoric people around this challenging landscape in pursuit of the precious stone at its heart. Keywords: rock art, cup-mark, open-air art, stone axe, rough-out, quarrying, Neolithic, Cumbria, England 7.1. Introduction

cup-marked outcrops. The decorated sites also coincide with the junctions of natural mountain passes between the valleys. This chapter introduces this distinctive new rock art corpus and presents a case for a relationship between the carved panels and the movement of people around this dramatic and challenging landscape, with reference to the axe-production processes at its centre.

A recently documented group of rock art panels in central Cumbria, in the north-west of England, adds a new dimension to the well-recognised relationship between open-air petroglyphs and movement through the landscape. These decorated outcrops and boulders, which are part of the wider Atlantic tradition of ‘open-air’ petroglyphs, all lie within the Lake District National Park. They are located on or just above the valley floor in contrast to the elevated upland settings more typical of rock art in neighbouring regions. Almost all are situated close to the head or tail of one of the deep, ribbon lakes that radiate like spokes from the central massif of the Cumbrian Fells. The Lakeland carvings consist largely (with one notable exception) of simple cup-marks, with few examples of the more elaborate cup-and-ring motifs common elsewhere in the British Isles. All are found in open, ‘landscape’ contexts, the majority being substantial, glacially-polished outcrops; none have identifiable monumental, burial, or other associations.

7.2. New rock art in Lakeland Rock art was first recorded in the county of Cumbria in the 18th century (Hutchinson 1974: 288) but until recently was primarily associated with the monuments of the Eden Valley in the north-east of the county – mostly Late Neolithic and Early Bronze Age burial sites. Panels include the striking red sandstone pillar known as Long Meg, part of a complex including a stone circle and linked enclosure, and kerbstones around cairns at Little Meg and Glassonby (Simpson 1865; Fergusson 1895; Thornley 1902). No examples (in any context) had been recognised on the hard, volcanic geology of the Lake District in the centre of the county. In 1998, a group of three decorated panels of outcropping bedrock was reported by a local resident in the valley of Patterdale, at the southern tip of Ullswater (Cook 1999; ULL1–ULL4 in Table 7.1). This represented a new form of rock art in Cumbria. The igneous origins of the Borrowdale Volcanic Series were clearly no deterrent: the new panels were large and extensively decorated, albeit with a limited repertoire of simple cups and grooves that appeared to exploit natural features on the rock surface.

Outcropping around the Lakeland summits is a band of fine-grained andesitic tuff, a distinctive raw material that drew the attention of Neolithic stone-workers from the early centuries of the 4th millennium BC. Intensive quarrying and tool production activities are evident in the mountains: axe-heads were ‘roughed out’ at the source, then moved to lower ground for ‘finishing’ (Bradley and Edmonds 1993). The distribution patterns of these axe-heads suggest the presence of settlements along the western coastal plain, on the northern shore of Derwent Water, and in the Eden Valley to the east, in a continuation of Mesolithic lifeways closely connected to the rich resources of the sea, estuaries, lakes, and rivers (Clare et al. 2001; Style 2009).

Other discoveries rapidly followed. Around 30 sites with cup-marked outcrops (and three boulders) have since been found in similar contexts close to Crummock Water, Buttermere, Grasmere, Rydal Water, Elterwater, Lake Windermere, Thirlmere, Derwent Water, and Loughrigg Tarn (Beckensall 2002; Brown and Brown 2008; Sharpe 2012; 2015; Style 2011; see Tables 7.1 and 7.2; Figures 7.1

Routes along the valleys connecting the lowland settlements with the central stone quarries appear to be marked by the 131

Kate E. Sharpe Table 7.1. The Lake District panels: topographical relationships. Distances based on current shoreline except where stated. Most of the panels are located on private land; grid references are therefore not included but are registered with the Lake District National Park. Ref.

Elevation (m a.s.l.)

Lake (distance, m) if within 2500 m

Watercourse (distance, m)

Relationship to natural routeways

Situated between Buttermere and Crummock Water at the foot of two mountain passes: a) north via Newlands Hause (minor road; summit = 333 m a.s.l.) to Newlands Valley and possible settlement areas between Derwent Water and Bassenthwaite; b) east via Honister Pass (current B5289; summit = 356 m a.s.l.) to Borrowdale. Mid-way along lake route from fells to coastal lowlands via northern shores of Buttermere, Crummock Water and Loweswater.

Buttermere & Crummock Water area BUT1

110

Buttermere (575) Crummock Water (625)

Mill Beck (12)

BUT2

125

Buttermere (650) Crummock Water (600)

Mill Beck (37)

BUT3

140

Crummock Water (750); Buttermere (750)

Mill Beck (19)

CRU1

108

Crummock Water (500) Loweswater (1600)

Park Beck (80)

Situated at north-west end of Crummock Water with access to a) Coledale Pass (footpath; summit = 603 m a.s.l.), north into Derwent valley; and b) branch route joining Floutern Tarn Pass (see CRU2). On lake route between coast and fells via Loweswater, Crummock Water and Buttermere, or north via Lorton Vale.

CRU2

118

Crummock Water (200)

Scale Beck (1)

Situated on south-west shore of Crummock Water at foot of route west via Floutern Tarn Pass (bridleway, summit = 416 m a.s.l.) into Ennerdale and westward to the coast. On lake route from fells to coastal lowlands via southern shores of Crummock Water and Loweswater.

Situated at the southern end of Ullswater, and the northern end of Patterdale. At the foot of several mountain passes: a) Kirkstone Pass (previously route of Roman road; current A592; summit = 454 m a.s.l.), leading south to Lake Windermere and southern routes to Morecambe Bay; b) Boredale Hause (summit = 500 m a.s.l.); north-east upland route towards Eden Valley; Deepdale Hause (footpath; summit = 655 m a.s.l.), south-west into Thirlmere valley; c) Scandale (footpath; summit = 516 m a.s.l.), south into the Scandale Valley (via rock art refs SCA1–7); d) Grisedale Hause south into the Rothay valley (bridleway; summit = 590 m a.s.l.). Also located on lake route along eastern shore of Ullswater towards Eden Valley.

Patterdale (Ullswater) area ULL1

179

Ullswater (625)

Goldrill Beck (314)

ULL2

170

Ullswater (700)

Goldrill Beck (283)

ULL3

155

Ullswater (1000)

Goldrill Beck (110)

ULL4

166

Ullswater (1750)

Goldrill Beck (75)

Borrowdale (Derwent Water) area DER1

78

Derwent Water (250)

River Derwent (137)

DER2

108

Derwent Water (1350)

River Derwent (421)

Situated at southern end of Derwent Water and northern end of Borrowdale on valley route between settlements at northern end of Derwent Water and fells. At foot of Hause Gate (bridleway summit = 360 m a.s.l.) leading west to Newlands Pass and on the valley of Buttermere and Crummock Water.

Thirlmere and Naddle Valley area THI1

210

Thirlmere (2250)

Wyth Beck (94)

At southern end of Thirlmere valley at foot of passes: a) south-west via Dunmail Raise (current A591; summit = 238 m a.s.l.), to Rothay valley and the Vale of Grasmere; b) southwest following the Wythburn to join pass over Greenup Edge (bridleway; summit = 608 m a.s.l.) linking Vale of Grasmere (Easedale) with Borrowdale. Shoreline based on map of drawn prior to inundation to formation of reservoir in 1890 (Harwood 1895).

NAD1

154

Ancient tarn (ca. 200)

Naddle Beck (236)

On lowland route between Thirlmere Valley and settlements at northern end of Derwent Water to west (current A591) or east to Eden Valley. Located 1.6 km from Castlerigg stone circle.

132

Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs, and Route-Ways in the English Lake District Ref

Elevation (m a.s.l.)

Lake (distance, m)

Watercourse (distance, m)

Relationship to natural routeways

Brathay Valley (Grasmere, Rydal Water and Windermere) area GRA1

73

Grasmere (800)

River Rothay (49)

Situated to the south-west of the valley of the River Rothay, north of Grasmere. Lake routes along valley via Rydal to Lake Windemere and south. Upland routes: north via Dunmail Raise (current A591; summit = 238 m a.s.l.); northwest via Easedale to Greenup Edge (bridleway; summit = 608 m a.s.l.); south-west via Meg’s Gill (footpath, summit = 230 m a.s.l.) or Red Bank to Great Langdale, Elterwater and Loughrigg Tarn.

GRA2

87

Grasmere (550)

River Rothay (315)

GRA3

78

Grasmere (470)

River Rothay (291)

RYD1

70

Rydal Water (700)

River Rothay (374)

Situated to the east of the Rothay Valley, on lowland route north-south via Grasmere, Rydal Water and Windermere; north via Thirlmere. Possibly linked to Scandale panels. NB: Pollen cores indicate the lake was once more extensive (Hodgkinson et al. 2000).

WIN1

42

Windermere (250)

Confluence of River Rothay and River Brathay (162)

Located to the east of the confluence of the rivers Rothay and Brathay, and the northern shore of Lake Windermere, at crossroads east-west and north-south. Lowland routes north along Rothay to Vale of Grasmere; south via Lake Windermere; west to Great Langdale via Elterwater; north to Patterdale or via Kirkstone Pass (previously route of Roman road; current A592; summit = 454 m a.s.l.), or Scandale Pass (footpath; summit = 516 m a.s.l.) via rock art panels SCA1–7. Located 40 m from Galava Roman fort.

Brathay Valley (Elterwater and Loughrigg Tarn) area ELT1

122

Elterwater (480)

River Brathay (658)

Located on bridleway linking the eastern ends of the parallel valleys of Great Langdale and Little Langdale.

ELT2

160

Elterwater (750)

River Brathay (925)

LOU1

110

Loughrigg Tarn (155)

River Brathay (628)

Located on route linking Great Langdale with Vale of Grasmere.

Great Langdale area LAN1

100

-

Langdale Beck (168)

Located half-way along the valley of Great Langdale; views of Langdale Pike and stone quarries.

LAN2

120

-

Langdale Beck (404)

Located on Side Gates Pass a.k.a. Blea Tarn Road (minor road; summit = 224 m a.s.l.), linking the mid-section of the valley of Great Langdale with the valley of Little Langdale to the south. Extended view of Langdale Pikes and stone quarries. Routes from the eastern end of Great Langdale include: a) Stake Pass (bridleway; summit = 480 m a.s.l.) north to Borrowdale; b) Rosset Pass (bridleway; summit = 610 m a.s.l.) west to Wasdale ; c) Red Tarn Pass (footpath; summit = 530 m a.s.l.) south to Little Langdale. Located to the west of Scandale Beck, close to the current route of the pass (footpath; summit = 516 m a.s.l.) via the packhorse crossing at High Sweden Bridge and leading into Patterdale. Views of both Rydal Water and Lake Windermere.

Scandale Beck area SCA1

237

Rydal Water (1391)

Scandale Beck (273)

SCA2

261

Rydal Water (1324)

Scandale Beck (391)

SCA3

146

Lake Windermere (2044)

Scandale Beck (246)

SCA4

147

Lake Windermere (2102)

Scandale Beck (253)

SCA5

145

Lake Windermere (2034)

Scandale Beck (342)

SCA6

143

Lake Windermere (2077)

Scandale Beck (272)

SCA7

173

Lake Windermere (2143)

Scandale Beck (316)

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Located lower in the valley to the east of Scandale Beck, near Low Sweden Bridge at the foot of the route of the Scandale Pass (footpath; summit = 516 m a.s.l.) via the packhorse crossing at High Sweden Bridge and leading into Patterdale. Could also be considered on low-level valley route along Rothay Valley via Grasmere and Rydal to Lake Windermere.

Kate E. Sharpe Table 7.2. The Lake District panels: forms and motifs Ref.

Panel form

Motifs

Buttermere & Crummock Water area BUT1

Three panels: a) horizontal exposure of bedrock at ground level; b) sloping slab; c) craggy outcrop.

a) ca. 10 cups, two dumb-bells. One arc of four cups; b) 3 cups (possibly 6); c) single cups.

BUT2

Three panels, all craggy outcrop.

a) 4 cups; b) 6 cups; c) 1 bowl.

BUT3

Three panels: a+ b) craggy outcrop, partly quarried; c) small horizontal exposure at ground level.

a) small, single cups; b) bowl; c) 21 cups + groove.

CRU1

Roche moutonnée outcrop with crescent-shaped stoss on small hillock (quarried).

Ca. 105 cups, including 2 dumb-bells, 2 ovals, 1 arrangement of 2 parallel rows. Cups in clusters along the upper edge of the stoss slope.

CRU2

Exposed slab at side of beck.

Two definite cups, with possibly up to 8 others.

Patterdale (Ullswater) area ULL1

Domed exposure.

Ca. 100 cups, including 1 zig-zag pattern and 3 dumb-bells; 2 ovals; 1 basin.

ULL2

Outcropping ridge with glacially smoothed surfaces.

Main panel includes ca. 450 cups some arranged in 6 ‘rows’, 8 ovals; vertical grooves cross at right-angles to natural fissures forming grid which encloses rows of cups.

ULL3

Whaleback exposure, with glacially smoothed surfaces, partly covered by earth/rubble, and trees. Carvings in a number of discrete areas.

Ca. 150 cups in total with 20 ovals and 8 grooves, an area of pecking, and a single cup-and-ring. A cluster of bifurcating linear markings may not be contemporary.

ULL4

Outcropping ridge with glacially smoothed surfaces.

39 cups, 2 ovals and a Y-shaped groove.

Borrowdale (Derwent Water) area DER1

Roche moutonnée outcrop.

Ca. 40 cups in a single cluster at the upper edge of the stoss slope. A cluster of bifurcating linear markings may not be contemporary.

DER2

Roche moutonnée outcrop.

Two definite cups, possibly 6 more.

Thirlmere and Naddle Valley area THI1

Roche moutonnée outcrop.

Four cups in an arc + 3(?) others.

NAD1

Flat exposure of bedrock.

Ca. 25 cups in a random, open scatter.

Brathay Valley (Elterwater and Loughrigg Tarn) area ELT1

Slightly sloping, smooth exposure of bedrock at ground level.

4 possible cups (possible natural origin) amongst natural erosion hollows.

ELT2

Roche moutonnée outcrop (quarried).

Two possible cups on upper, smoothed surface. Incised initials and date: ‘WD 1909’.

LOU1

Roche moutonnée outcrop; heavily quarried.

Five cups on main panel; two possible cups nearby.

Rothay Valley (Grasmere, Rydal Water and Windermere) area GRA1

Roche moutonnée outcrop (quarried).

Ca. 105 cups, including 3 dumb-bells, in clusters placed on upper edge of stoss slope; there is a possible focus on intersection of natural fissures.

GRA2

Roche moutonnée outcrop.

Ca. 75 cups in clusters placed on upper edge of stoss slope; focus on intersection of natural fissures.

GRA3

Roche moutonnée outcrop.

Ca. 60 cups arranged in two double rows plus one meander of ‘mini’ cups.

RYD1

Roche moutonnée outcrop.

Ca. 30 deep cups in a close grouping; 2 other smaller scatters on adjacent slabs.

WIN1

Roche moutonnée outcrop; two panels.

a) 4, possibly 6, cups in a linear formation, leading the eye toward the lake. Surface very granular; b) single cup on nearby outcrop.

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Panel form

Motifs

Great Langdale area LAN1

Very large rectangular blocks with flat vertical surfaces.

a) Complex passage tomb style motifs on vertical panel include multiple concentric rings with no central cup, parallel chevrons, and ‘micro-cups’; b) double ring (angular shape).

LAN2

Boulder with flat, slightly sloping upper surface.

Ca. 60 cups on upper surface; random scatter.

Scandale Beck area SCA1

Roche moutonnée outcrop.

Ca. 10 shallow cups including 3 in a linear formation.

SCA2

Domed outcrop.

40+ cups, basin.

SCA3

Domed outcrop.

Ca. 76 cups, 7 dumb-bell, one cup and groove linking dumbbell, large oval cup (22x10 cm) joined by 4 cups and groove; 14 cups along outer edge plus unfinished cup?

SCA4

Domed outcrop.

Over 90 cups, 3 ovals, two forming dumb-bell, complex arrangement of groove, including enclosures. Adjacent surface to the west – single cup + group of 7 cups.

SCA5

Domed outcrop.

Ca. 41 cups, under field wall; adjacent to field wall: 7 cups; 2 concentric circles, one linked by a groove attached to a cup; 3 isolated cups on the opposite side.

SCA6

Part-quarried outcrop.

Slightly curving groove.

SCA7

Domed outcrop.

Ca. 14 cups with an approximate double row of 4 cups each. Stone/cairn material overlying the slab, which may conceal more cups.

and 7.2). All of the panels lie within a region defined as the ‘Cumbria High Fells’ (Natural England 2012). Most are on the ignimbrites and tuffs of the Borrowdale Volcanic Series, with a small number on Skiddaw Slate in the northwest. The panels share several distinctive characteristics. Most are low-lying: 20 are less than 150 m a.s.l; seven less than 100 m a.s.l. Many are situated close to the shore of a lake or tarn: 18 are within 1 km; eight are within 500 m. In one case, in the Naddle Valley, the panel lies ca. 200 m from a prehistoric tarn, now silted up (Clare 1999). Several are also close to the watercourse that feeds or drains the lake –18 within 300 m – often on marshy ground subject to flooding. Most have a distinctive wedge-shaped, roche moutonnée form, or a ‘whale-back’, domed profile – in both cases smoothed by glacial action; several have been subject to quarrying.

grooves. On panels ULL3 and DER1, groups of finely incised bifurcating grooves are present a few metres from the main clusters of cup-marks. Three similar, very fine lines radiate from the edge of the largest cup at GRA1. The origin of these marks is unconfirmed; they may not be contemporary with the pecked cup-marks. Although dispersed across a large area (ca. 30 x 20 km) and separated by mountainous terrain, the settings of these panels close to lakes, the selection of particular forms of outcrop, and the nature and placement of the carvings, suggest that the people who created and used the sites had a shared understanding of their purpose. 7.3. Dating and context Precise dating of British rock art is extremely problematic; the abstract nature of the designs provides few clues, and motifs are rarely associated with dateable evidence (although this partly reflects the small number of archaeological investigations that have been undertaken). It is also unlikely that British rock art was a uniform phenomenon, and various practices and preferences doubtless had different life-spans in different regions, with some motifs being more widespread or more persistent than others. Cup-marks are known from monumental contexts throughout the Neolithic period, for example in long cairns, on the capstones of portal dolmens, in chambered tombs, recumbent stone circles, and standing stones (Waddington 2007). Cup-marks (and more complex motifs) also occur in Bronze Age monuments including kerbed cairns and cists, although in some instances this

With the exception of those at Great Langdale, all the panels are decorated with simple pecked cup-marks ranging from small clusters of fewer than five, to scatters of more than a hundred. They range in diameter from just a few centimetres up to 18 cm, although most are between 3 and 5 cm across. Depths vary up to a maximum of 6 cm with most between 2 and 3 cm. Those on roche moutonnée outcrops are generally placed on the uppermost part of the polished surface (the ‘stoss’). Motif variations include ‘dumb-bells’, with two cups linked by a short groove, and elongated or oval cups. There are several examples of ‘rows’, both single and double, for example on ULL2 and GRA3. On only two panels, ULL2 and ULL3, are cup-marks embellished by the addition of a single, crudely executed ring; ULL2–4 also include linear 135

Kate E. Sharpe

Figure 7.1. Location of study area within the British Isles and location of rock art within Cumbria High Fells area in relation to lakes, fells, and Group VI stone quarries. Shading indicates land higher than 250 m a.s.l.

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Figure 7.2. Cup-marks scatters on outcrops RYD1 at Rydal Water (top), GRA1 at Grasmere (left) and CRU1 at Crummock Water (right).

may represent re-use of stones removed from their original context (Beckensall and Frodsham 1998; Burgess 1991).

are increasingly distinct from the landscape. In a third phase (ca. 2000–1800 BC) the rock art is expropriated into Early Bronze Age burial monuments. Van Hoek (2001, 238–241) proposes a similar development, suggesting that ‘simple’ cup-marks found in accessible valley locations were the work of early mobile groups who used the carvings to enhance their routes, distinguish between the ‘accessible’ and the ‘inaccessible’ and to propitiate the spirit world. As more sedentary lifestyles were adopted, and social hierarchies evolved, he argues, so did the complexity of the rock art. These approaches perceive

Waddington (1998) approaches the issue of chronology by building an evolving ideological framework onto which are mapped the different rock art traditions. During an initial Early Neolithic phase (ca. 4000–3200 BC), carvings are applied directly to outcropping rock, reflecting the emergence of a human ‘culture’ as distinct from ‘nature’. A second phase (ca. 3200–2000 BC) sees this symbolism re-worked into Neolithic ceremonial constructions, which 137

Kate E. Sharpe rock art as a dynamic agent within society, its role adapted and modified by successive generations to reflect changing world-views. In Cumbria, no examples have been found in directly dateable contexts, however three modes of rock art deployment can be observed that are geographically, geologically, and stylistically distinct (see Figure 7.3), and which may help to approximately date the Lakeland rock art. The distribution of these three modes also correlates with National Character Areas (NCAs) as defined by Natural England, based on “a unique combination of landscape, biodiversity, geodiversity, history, and cultural and economic activity. Their boundaries follow natural lines in the landscape rather than administrative boundaries” (Natural England 2012).

avenue, cairns and later settlements (Clare 2007, ch. 7 and ch. 8), but has none of the complex carvings found along the River Eden. A few possible single cup-marks have been reported (e.g., Beckensall 2002, 122–123; Brown and Brown 2008, 192–193), but their context and provenance remain unconfirmed, except for one example (unpublished) of five cup-marks on a prostrate granite block that likely once formed part of the Shap Avenue, a double alignment of megaliths extending for about 3 km (Clare 2007, 80–83). Moving west again we reach the harder volcanic rocks that form the mountains of the central Lake District, the Cumbria High Fells (NCA 8). It is here, in the glaciallyforged valleys, that the new group of panels is located, representing a third way in which rock art is deployed in Cumbria. These, mostly low-lying, panels with their simple scatters of cup-marks, differ markedly both from the upland cup-and-ring tradition of Northern England, and from the more complex, monumental panels of the Eden Valley. They are also contextually discrete: no monumental art has yet been discovered in the Lake District.

In the Border Moors and Forest (NCA 5) and North Pennines (NCA 10) on the northern and eastern borders of Cumbria, a small number of cup-and-ring marked boulders and outcrops appear to represent the westernmost reaches of the Northumberland and County Durham tradition of carving. Examples are generally found on exposed Fell Sandstone surfaces at elevated locations, often on the fringes of fertile valleys attractive to early settlement. This is argued by Waddington (2007, 59) to reflect a link with upland activities such as herding stock or hunting. The motifs fit well within the wider British and Irish repertoire of cup-marks, cup-and-ring motifs, multiple concentric rings, and grooves.

Any activity associated with the Lakeland panels appears to have been transitory and to have left few traces. The paucity of archaeological finds or features close to these outcrops provides little positive evidence for an association with either ritual or domestic activity of any period. A note of caution is required: at other rock art sites where geophysical surveys or excavations have been conducted, results indicate that the panels may have been less isolated than the extant archaeological landscape would suggest (O’Connor 2003; Jones 2006; Waddington et al. 2005). Given current knowledge, however, the cup-marked panels do not appear to have been part of an overtly ceremonial or settled landscape as seen, for example, on the archaeologically-rich moors of Fylingdales in North Yorkshire (Brown and Chappell 2005, 64–68), at the concentrated monumental complex of the Kilmartin Valley in Argyll (Beckensall 2005) or, indeed, in the adjacent Eden Valley. Bronze Age remains in the area (e.g., ring cairns, boulder-cairns, stone circles, enclosures and field systems) are found at much higher elevations and, to date, have no rock art associated with them. The nearest stone circles of Neolithic date (Swinside and Castlerigg) lie on the periphery of the mountains (and of the rock art), at higher elevations of 214 and 210 m a.s.l. respectively, and do not appear to have a relationship with the rock art.1 The lack of monumental art or complex motifs in the central fells, and the corresponding absence of ‘landscape’ panels (particularly cup-marked outcrops) in the Eden Valley, suggests that the rock art in these adjacent but contrasting areas was deployed for different purposes.

Moving westwards into Cumbria, the old red Permian sandstone of the Eden Valley (NCA 9) and its river terraces were the focus of monument construction throughout the Neolithic and Bronze Age periods, with henges, enclosures, stone circles, and a variety of burial cairns. Here, rock art is found almost exclusively in association with Bronze Age burial monuments (Beckensall 2002, ch. 4; Sharpe 2007, ch. 9), although many of the motifs suggest earlier origins. Spirals and chevrons reference the more elaborate style of megalithic art applied to the passage graves of the Boyne Valley in the Republic of Ireland between 3300 and 2900 BC (Eogan and Cleary 2017, ch. 4) and unusual curvilinear motifs on slabs within a cairn at Kirkoswald have parallels with a Late Neolithic cairn at Millin Bay, also in Ireland (Collins et al. 1955; Schulting et al. 2012). The Long Meg standing stone has no burial association, but is set close to a stone circle that has recently been radiocarbon-dated to the final centuries of the 3rd millennium BC. The stone may, however, have earlier connections to an adjacent enclosure dated to the beginning of the 3rd millennium (Archaeological Services, Durham University 2016, 6–7; Frodsham 2021). All these examples belong within Waddington’s second and, possibly, also third phases; no examples of ‘landscape’ rock art (i.e. on earth-fast boulders or outcropping bedrock) have been identified.

Returning to the question of chronology, we have a reasonable basis, using stylistic comparisons of both

West of the Eden Valley, the red sandstone gives way to a band of heavily weathered Carboniferous limestone with granite intrusions: the Orton Fells (NCA 17). Like the Eden valley, this upland landscape has many monumental prehistoric remains, including stone circles, a stone

  Reports of a spiral motif on one of the uprights of the Castlerigg stone circle have never been confirmed (see Díaz-Andreu et al. 2006 for further details). 1

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Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs, and Route-Ways in the English Lake District monuments and motifs, to consider that the rock art of the Eden Valley was of some significance from the Mid–Late Neolithic into the Bronze Age. Following Waddington’s schema, however, the cup-marked outcrops belong to an earlier and ideologically different phase of rock art, perhaps representing the beginning of a new relationship between people and the landscape they occupied.

inhabit, through the permanent creation of places and the marking of paths between them (Tilley 1996). Surfaces selected for embellishment – distinctive outcrops or immovable boulders – may already have been fixed and familiar points within these networks, functioning as natural landmarks, with the rock art motifs providing reassuring confirmation of a place frequented by, and perhaps recommended by, other travellers. Westlake (2005, 24) suggests: “[...] as bands of people moved across the landscape they made new paths and retraced old ones, recounting old histories and remembering past actions and events. By carving a new motif at a rock art site, new identities and stories were created, the present journey and lives marks.”

7.4. Rock art and movement The new group of rock art in the Lake District represents only a small fraction of the 6000 examples now recorded across Britain and Ireland, and part of the wider ‘Atlantic’ tradition stretching from Iberia to Scandinavia (ValdezTullett 2019). The British and Irish panels comprise non-figurative, abstract motifs based primarily on circular forms. They are generally found in ‘landscape’ (or ‘openair’) contexts within localised groups – possibly reflecting taphonomic processes, but perhaps also indicative of discrete local identities. Regional clusters often exhibit distinctive characteristics, either in terms of the types of surfaces used, the locations selected, or the motifs applied. Inevitably, these variations have resulted in a similar variety of interpretations of their role in prehistoric society: territorial markers, control points, guides to nearby resources, viewpoints for observing herds, the edges of sacred areas, etc. One theme, however, recurs in numerous accounts of open-air rock art across Britain and Ireland: that of movement through the landscape and, with it, an intimate connection with the natural environment.

In Britain and Ireland, rock art is typically placed on relatively high ground on upland moors, often affording extensive views or marking the entrances to valleys (for West Yorkshire see Boughey and Vickerman 2003, 35–36; for Northumberland see Fairen-Jimenez 2007). This distribution has been used to argue that the carvings played a role in the movement (and control) of people through key parts of the landscape, perhaps marking thresholds (either sacred or more practical), governing access or requiring special measures by those who progressed beyond. Examples include Millstone Burn in Northumberland, England (Bradley 1997, 85–88; Beckensall 2001, 96–99), Kilmartin in Argyll and Tayside in Perthshire, both in Scotland (Bradley 1997, 120–126; van Hoek 2001, 10– 14). The relatively low elevations and watery focus of the Lakeland panels, however, suggest parallels with rock art in coastal locations, for example, overlooking harbours in Dumfries and Galloway in south-west Scotland (Bradley et al. 1993; Morris 1979) or around the lakes of the southwest of Ireland in the Dingle and Iveragh peninsulas (Purcell 2002; Westlake 2005).

Although dating is problematic, we have seen that the cupmarked outcrops seem to fit within Waddington’s earliest phase, beginning in ca. 4000 BC. The Early Neolithic is associated with a transition from previous mobile existence to more settled ways of life, but in Britain the 4th millennium BC also saw the rapid expansion and intensification of trade networks, with people, animals, raw materials, goods, and ideas all circulating within an increasingly interconnected world, particularly around the Irish Sea zone (Cummings and Fowler 2004; Sheridan 2004).

Might the cup-marked outcrops of the Lake District have a similar role, reflecting a new and enduring connection between the landscape and the people passing through it on a regular basis? The Neolithic period in Cumbria is best known for two key developments: the exploitation of stone from the Langdale area in the central fells for the production of ‘Group VI’ stone axe heads (and their widespread distribution) (Bradley and Edmonds 1993), and the flourishing of stone circle building, with notable early examples surviving at Castlerigg, and Swinside in the central fells, as well as Long Meg and Her Daughters, and Gamelands to the east (Burl 1976). The apparent contemporaneity of these Neolithic activities has inspired narratives in which the stone circles functioned as trading arenas or departure points for the stone axes beginning their journeys to distant parts of Britain (e.g., Burl 1976, 82; Collingwood 1933, 163; see also Bradley and Edmonds 1993, ch. 7 for a discussion). Revised radiocarbon dating evidence (Edinborough et al. 2019) of material excavated in the 1990s (Bradley and Edmonds 1993) now suggests, however, that stone axe production began soon after the turn of the 4th millennium BC and so preceded the building of the stone circles by several centuries (Figure

Shorter journeys – likely seasonal – continued alongside the adoption of agrarian practices, ensuring maximum use of the available resources in different parts of the landscape. Expeditions to procure raw materials, such as stone or flint, required planned travel to the mountains or the coast. This period also saw more organised communal gatherings at selected places, marked by large earthworks and stone monuments. People regularly came together to build, perform rituals, socialise, to trade goods and to share experiences (Noble 2007). It is perhaps no surprise, then, that researchers have frequently associated the rock art scattered across these active landscapes with the movement of people within them. The creation of marks on stone has been argued to be fundamental to the establishment and renegotiation of relationships between people and the landscapes they 139

Kate E. Sharpe

Figure 7.3. Discrete distribution of rock art contexts: styles, forms and contexts by character area. Insets show (a) Tortie Stone: boulder with cup-and-ring marks in landscape setting on the eastern border; (b) Little Meg: monumental kerbstone with complex motifs in the Eden Valley; and (c) GRA II: outcrop with multiple simple cups in the High Fells.

Figure 7.4. Approximate chronologies for British rock art traditions and quarrying in Great Langdale, with suggested dates for traditions in Cumbria.

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Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs, and Route-Ways in the English Lake District 7.4); this may explain the relatively small number of axeheads recovered from the monuments. The cup-marked outcrops now present an additional form of evidence in the Lake District – one with demonstrated connections to axe production elsewhere in Europe. The panels in Great Langdale, to which we now return, also appear to have strong links with the stone quarries.

significant place for a society whose lives were changing. This may well be the case, however, close consideration of the panel surface suggests that this may have been an important place from much earlier times, during the height of the quarrying activities, if not before. The two largest boulders in the group display multiple natural cupules – hollows, formed by the differential weathering of inclusions (for a more detailed discussion, see Sharpe and Watson 2010). Indeed, some were incorporated into the rock art design by the addition of rings. The cupules occur both singly and in rows following the natural geological strata. These are particularly prevalent on the upper surface of one block. Other exposed rocks in the locality also have striking natural geological features including cupules and folded strata, which resemble multi-ringed rock art motifs (Figure 7.7). These natural patterns mark out this part of the valley and were likely known to Early Neolithic groups travelling to and from the mountains on seasonal quarrying, herding, or hunting expeditions. Might such groups have interpreted such curious patterns as marks left by ancestors who had travelled through the valley in the past? Early visitors to Langdale were, no doubt, also aware of the solstitial effects that draw the eye to the summits at the end of the valley both in mid-summer and mid-winter.

7.5. Rock art and rough-outs Several researchers have linked rock art with social and ritual aspects of axe production in prehistoric Europe. In Norway, for example, connections are suggested between a diabase axe-production site at Strakanest on the west coast and petroglyph sites at Vingen and Ausevik (Mandt 1995), and between a greenstone quarry on the island of Hespriholmen and carvings in central Hordaland (Bruen Olsen and Alsaker 1984). It is argued that the discrete distribution patterns for axes from each quarry define distinct social territories, the rock art clusters marking sites of periodic gatherings during which collective activities, including the production of stone tools, took place. In Cumbria there may be reason to make similar connections. In the same year that the first Lakeland carvings were identified in Patterdale, another site was discovered at Copt Howe, in the heart of the stone axe production area: the valley of Great Langdale. This eastwest glacial trough penetrates deep into the central fells, providing direct access to an exposure of the desirable Group VI tuff at the summit of the Langdale Pikes, where large fields of debris are testament to the intensive stone working that occurred there.

A second, tributary valley directly approaching the stone quarries is also marked by a boulder, with 60 simple, pecked cup-marks scattered across its flat upper surface. Were these intended to replicate the cupules in the main valley? The location affords an extensive view of all the Langdale Pikes (Figure 7.8); the screes resulting from the prehistoric stone-working are clearly visible.

Just 2 km from the foot of the Pikes, beside the Langdale Beck, lies a group of enormous boulders, tumbled into a monument-like arrangement. This natural architecture encloses a central space, the two largest blocks forming a ‘passage’ that frames the mountains to the west. The internal vertical face of one of these large boulders is decorated with a striking array of complex motifs, including concentric rings, chevrons, and parallel lines (Figure 7.5) – the single exception in the Lake District to have an elaborate design. From this (and only this) position in the valley, the summer solstice sunset is spectacular, the sun appearing to roll down the side of Harrison Stickle, the highest of the five Langdale Pikes. The winter solstice sun also marks out the mountains, lighting up their peaks (Figure 7.6). The ‘found monument’ at Copt Howe seems to have a fortuitous relationship with the mountains and, perhaps, the special stone at the summit (Sharpe 2007, ch. 8; 2008).

Rock art, then, can perhaps be perceived as a dynamic agent within society, its role adapted and modified by successive generations to reflect changing world-views. From encounters with unusual natural features, to replication, incorporation, and the addition of complex new styles, these panels illustrate the complexity of rock art interpretation given such a wide spectrum of intentions and motivations. The Copt Howe panel, though, is unique in Lakeland and therefore of limited help in understanding the role of the more widely occurring, and perhaps much earlier, cup-marked outcrops. To explore this further, we must first consider other archaeological evidence. 7.6. The axe factor: moving mountains The distribution of monuments and material culture, including stone axes (Style 2009), indicates that the most populated areas of Cumbria during the Neolithic were located around the periphery of the county, with high concentrations of axes on the west Cumbria coastal plain, particularly the Furness Peninsula, the Eden Valley, and the north-west Solway Basin, with one exception in a more central position in the Keswick area (Figure 7.9, Table 7.3). This settlement pattern is supported by

The motifs have clear affinities with the passage grave art of the Boyne Valley, suggesting that they were created at a similar time, or soon after, the Irish megalithic art (Sharpe and Watson 2010), yet this style dates to around 500 years after the stone quarries fell out of use. Bradley et al. (2019) argue that the decoration was in fact added to mark the end of the quarrying, creating a memorial site that referenced a 141

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Figure 7.5. Copt Howe panel (LAN1) showing position of complex motifs, and location within the valley of Great Langdale, with view towards the Langdale Pikes and the stone quarries at the summit.

Figure 7.6. Solstitial sun on Langdale axe quarries, as viewed from Copt Howe (LAN1). Left: summer solstice sun rolls down the flank of Harrison Stickle; right: winter solstice sun highlights the snowy summits.

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Figure 7.7. Natural features in the Copt Howe environs: (a) cupules on the main carved boulder; (b) natural cup embellished with multiple rings on the main panel; (c) rows of natural cupules on a nearby boulder; and (d) natural multi-ring effect (highlighted by lichen).

Figure 7.8. LAN2 panel, approaching the Langdale Pikes from the south. View from panel towards quarries.

indications of forest clearance and crop cultivation from west coast sites such as Ehenside, Barfield Tarn and Eskmeals (Clare et al. 2001; Darbishire 1873). Although there is very little material evidence of a permanent human presence in the central Lake District, pollen analysis does indicate exploitation of upland areas, with pre-Elm Decline clearances reflected in cores from Blea Tarn and

Angle Tarn in the Langdale Fells (Pearsall and Pennington 1989). The valley floors and lake margins remained largely forested, with intermittent firing of the vegetation suggesting seasonal grazing of higher pastures. It is likely that transhumance was practiced between the lowlands and highlands with domesticated cattle and/or wild deer herded, or wild animal movements followed as they broke 143

Kate E. Sharpe

Figure 7.9. Distribution of stone axes and major Neolithic monuments indicating centres of settlement (after Style 2009). See also Table 7.3.

trails through the vegetation. Bradley and Edmonds (1993, 141) suggest that such early forays, following rivers into the fells, may have led to the discovery of the highly regarded stone sources in the central mountains.

period (Edinborough et al. 2019), drawing people from the lowland settlements into the central fells keen to take part in this new process. Charcoal from working sites has provided dates between the 39th and 29th centuries BC (ibid.) and, although the distribution of stone axes across Britain continued after this time, the main activity at the quarries appears to end. Roughed-out stone was moved

Exploitation of Group VI stone for the manufacture of stone axe heads began at the outset of the Neolithic 144

Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs, and Route-Ways in the English Lake District Table 7.3. Correlation between concentrations of axe distribution, nearby water resources (after Style 2009, 42) Suggested population centre based on stone axe distribution

Water resource

Penrith

Rivers Eden and Eamont

Little Salkeld

River Eden

Carlisle

River Eden, Solway Firth

Keswick/Portinscale

Derwent Water, River Derwent, Trout Beck

Mawbray

Irish Sea, Solway Firth

Seascale/Drigg

Irish Sea, Esk Estuary, River Esk, River Irt, River Ehen.

Furness Peninsula

Irish Sea, Duddon Estuary, River Duddon, Morecambe Bay

Note that 47% of all axes are found within a 5 km radius of these centres. See also Figure 7.9.

from working sites at the mountain summits to lowland ‘finishing’ sites. With intensification of production and distribution, more complex social and physical networks would have developed across the region. Tracks created by early pastoralists would become more established with repeated use by quarry workers moving into the fells and returning with roughed-out stone, most likely as part of the seasonal round. Bradley and Edmonds (1993, 141) argue that there is “reason to suppose that the earlier phases of stone working at Langdale were ‘embedded’ into a wider cycle of summer land use”. Pearsall and Pennington (1989, 230) also suggest that “the men who worked the factories are likely to have pastured animals in forest clearings”. This concept of seasonal journeys to stone quarries is well-supported by ethnographic data (e.g., Burton 1984; Petrequin and Petrequin 2011) and can certainly be applied to Langdale, where expeditions to the mountain summits may only have been feasible during summer months with better visibility and extended daylight. Quarrying activities may have been the focus of a major social and ritual occasion, attracting many participants in both active and supporting roles, both along the journey and during the production process. Might the Lakeland outcrop carvings have been made by groups making these regular journeys, following the long valleys, which connected lowland settlements with central stone quarries?

Valley, and beyond into Yorkshire. Plint (1962) describes a possible route between the east coast Neolithic settlement site at Ehenside Tarn (which yielded Group VI axes in various stages of manufacture) and the Great Langdale quarries, with a southern route, using Lake Windermere, accounting for a high concentration of axe-related finds in the Furness Peninsula. Claris and Quartermaine (1989) postulate a northern access route to Great Langdale through Borrowdale, Langstrath and Stake Beck, and recent discoveries of remote flaking sites to the east of Stickle Tarn, Great Langdale led Davis and Quartermaine (2007) to propose an upland, easterly course. 7.7. Routeways in a mountain landscape All the above routes are largely speculative, and the exact locations of the prehistoric pathways are difficult to prove. Yet, the demanding topography of the Lake District both restricts and facilitates progress, channelling the traveller along particular paths and creating natural corridors of movement. Analysis of land surfaces based on the degree of slope indicates that most of the carved panels lie within areas of high accessibility, although this calculation does not consider the nature of the traveller(s) (e.g., single person or group), the mode of transport (e.g., on foot or by boat), the use of any animals, or any ‘load’ (e.g., quarried stone). Nor does it reflect the many other landscape factors affecting movement: the nature of the surface (grass, scree, marsh), the presence of water features, or the density of vegetation. Sediment samples taken from the shores of Thirlmere and Rydal Water suggest that the lake valleys were not cleared of woodland until the 2nd millennium BC (Pennington 1970; 1975; Pearsall and Pennington 1989, 226–236). At the start of the Neolithic period only the very high slopes (greater than 659 m a.s.l.) were free of trees, and this exposed mountain landscape, beset with blanket bogs, would be little easier to traverse than the lower slopes. Although the lower ground was wooded, it is likely that vegetation was less dense immediately along the shores of the lakes, which often have a gravel beach, providing an easier and more direct route along the valley. Indeed, the lakes may themselves have served as more efficient highways

The extraction, finishing, and distribution of stone axes demanded a network of communication and movement that has been studied in some detail both at a local level and in a wider context (Bradley and Edmonds 1993; Manby 1965; Edmonds 1995; Cummins 1979; 1980; Watson 1995). The location of quarries and finishing sites, together with finds of roughed-out and polished axe-heads, and polissoirs have provided insight into the immediate geography of these processes, with routes postulated between stone sources, population centres, and ‘exchange nodes’, e.g., stone circles, although, as noted above, these may have been a relatively late component. Bradley and Edmonds (1993, 150) suggest that the west coast was supplied by the Sca Fell quarries via Wasdale, whilst stone from Glaramara and Langdale provided tools for the Eden 145

Kate E. Sharpe for those with water transport. Such ease of movement may have been particularly important on the journey home after a successful quarrying expedition.

conceptual network. More tangible evidence comes from a systematic survey by McGrail (1978), which revealed that dug-out canoes were in use on the tarns and lakes of the highland zone as well as on the lowland rivers and estuaries. Cumbria has one of the oldest examples of such a craft, found at Branthwaite in the north-west of the county (Ward 1974), and radiocarbon-dated to the Middle Bronze Age.

The relatively low elevation of most of the cup-marked panels in the Lakeland valleys restricts their potential as conspicuous landmarks, but the prominent form of the favoured roche moutonnée outcrops makes many of these panels easily discernible, even within the valley bottom. The low-lying situation of the panels also limits the extent of views away from the panels and, although they are close to lakeshores, the water is not always visible due to the immediate topography and vegetation. Current shorelines may of course be very different to those of the Neolithic period. Cores taken from valley sites across the Lake District indicate that the lakes were more extensive during the prehistoric period (Hodgkinson et al. 2000, 316–317), but modern drainage together with other water and land management activities may have significantly altered both the shoreline and the nature of the valley floor. As already noted, panel NAD1 would have been situated on the shore of a substantial tarn, and panel THI1 would also have afforded a somewhat different view over the twin lakes that existed prior to the creation, in 1890, of Thirlmere Reservoir (Harwood 1895).

We have so far considered the case for movement along the most accessible natural routes – the glaciated valleys and lakes. These are extremely convenient for movement directly to and from the central fells, but do not facilitate movement between valleys. Even in the last century, farming communities in isolated valleys developed their own identities, demonstrated by subtle yet distinct variations in the counting systems used to monitor sheep. By contrast, the close similarities between the carved outcrops across the region suggest that the communities frequenting central Lakeland had a shared understanding of the rock art. This may have arisen through the exchange of ideas and meeting of minds during quarrying expeditions but may also indicate a degree of travel between the valleys in addition to movement along them. Such journeys would require an intimate knowledge of the local terrain to avoid unfordable streams, morasses or dangerous precipices. Experience accumulated over generations would be crucial: from a misty peak only one of many ravines might lead to a chosen valley. Today, hikers often rely on cairns, built up by fellow walkers, to guide them in poor weather. Better yet is a well-trodden path, representing the invaluable knowledge that only long experiment can build: the exact place in the saddle where approach is easiest from both sides, the safe route through the marshes, or the optimal place to cross the stream. One way to investigate possible inter-valley routes, therefore, is to consider the paths taken by later, extant routes which, in the very restrictive landscape of the Lake District, are likely to have followed pre-existing tracks (Taylor 1979, 153). Although there is no evidence that these routes had prehistoric origins, there is good reason to believe that, given the limited options available, any paths established by early hunter-gatherers, pastoralists, or stone-workers may have been adopted by subsequent travellers navigating and moving material around the region.

Despite these limitations, many of the panels offer extended views along their respective valleys, both ‘in’ towards the craggy mountain peaks (and the quarries) and ‘out’ towards the lower fells and more gentle landscapes around the periphery (Figure 7.10). The long stretches of open water would have provided extended sightlines with the high mountain profiles clearly visible above the trees, aiding navigation to and from the central fells. Viewshed analysis by Bell (2015) confirms that, although the Lakeland panels exhibit very poor inter-visibility, they have an extended viewshed along the valleys (although this analysis does not consider vegetation levels). The settlement centres described above, and shown in Figure 7.9, are all either riverine, lacustrine, or coastal/ estuarine locations, indicating that the exploitation of water-based resources played a key role well into the Neolithic period. The complex communities occupying these settlements are likely to have used the coastal waters, lakes, and larger rivers as part of their social networks. The discovery of several prehistoric boats around Britain confirms that travel by water was common in prehistoric life (Johnstone and McGrail 1980; Casson 1994) and there is a great deal of evidence for early journeys across and around the Irish Sea (Cummings and Fowler 2004; Callaghan and Scarre 2009). The earliest log boats in Britain and Ireland date from the Middle Neolithic and most are associated with inland lakes, tidal rivers and the tributaries of estuaries (see Robinson 2013; Fry 2000; McErlean et al. 2002; McGrail 1978; Niblett 2001; Mowat 1998; Strachan 2010). Sherratt (1996) notes that Wessex lies at the centre of a trans-isthmian route at the head of three rivers, all of which are now called the Avon; he proposes that they originally formed part of the same

The earliest known roads in Cumbria date to the Roman occupation. Several follow natural passes that link the mountains with the coast, for example over Wrynose, Hardknott and Whinlatter (Shotter 1995). A number of these roads were subsequently followed for many years by traders with pack-horses, who also established many routes through the central fells characterised by the distinctive ‘pack horse bridge’ (Hindle 1984, 113, fig. 5.8). Mapping the location of the Lakeland rock art panels against known historical routes reveals a strong correlation between the carved outcrops and junctions at key positions with respect to movement between valleys via natural passes (Figure 7.11). Many are located at places where the major packhorse routes converge in the valley bottom. A small number 146

Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs, and Route-Ways in the English Lake District

Figure 7.10. View from CRU2 along Crummock Water towards central fells.

Figure 7.11. Relationship between carved outcrops and historic mountain routes over passes between valleys (after Hindle 1984, fig. 5.8). Also shown are routes between quarries and lowland finishing sites postulated by Plint (1962) as interpreted by Waterhouse (1985, fig. 2.8).

147

Kate E. Sharpe of panels, e.g., THI1 (210 m a.s.l.) and ELT2 (160 m a.s.l.) at slightly higher elevations and further from the lake shores, lie within metres of these ancient tracks. A small group of panels to the north-east of the town of Ambleside (SCA1–7) is located at elevations of between 143 and 237 m a.s.l., on valley slopes either side of the Scandale Beck, close to the current trail between Ambleside and Patterdale via the Scandale Pass. Not only are the panels located along the more obvious arterial routes of the main valleys, they also appear to be in positions of importance regarding inter-valley communication.

respective lowland homes. The carved outcrops may have marked places where groups from different parts of the region congregated, and either crossed paths or continued their journeys together, united by their common goal of procuring valuable stone from its remote mountain source. As places where people converged, arriving either on foot or by water, along the valley or from a mountain pass, setting out or heading home, these locations may have been important settings to pick up news of activities at the quarrying sites, for bonding over successes and disasters, and for passing on and comparing techniques.

7.8. Discussion

Expeditions into the mountains would have represented a step away from familiar, safe surroundings and as such may have been extremely arduous, requiring both knowledge of routes, and the location of resources along the way. The cup-marked panels may have played a role in the successful outcome of these journeys, indicating an established and well-appointed location for a camp, or having a more ritual or spiritual role, protecting or sanctifying the location against evil spirits by ensuring the goodwill of local spirits or ancestors. For those travelling on the lakes, the outcrops may also have marked a transition from the spiritually-important element of the water to the more earth-bound part of their journey, and vice versa. The watery, marshy locations would have provided rich resources, but are also suggestive of water-related ritual activities involving deposition, or of some form of water cult as suggested by O’Sullivan and Sheehan (1993) for carved outcrops in Iveragh, Ireland, some of which also overlook large lakes.

The distinctive situations and striking resemblance in style across the Lakeland panels suggest that the cup-marked locations held a similar significance for the communities who created them, reflecting common practices and shared ideologies. The demonstrated association with seasonal route-ways implies that the carvings were made by largely mobile communities, who may have been beginning to mark significant sites and create more permanent places with which they identified. The cup-marked outcrops may thus represent an early stage in the development of monuments, with rock art providing a means to transform the natural landscape (see for example Sherratt 1990; Tilley 1994; Bradley 1998; Scarre 2002; Bradley and Watson 2019). Detailed survey and analysis in West Yorkshire by Deacon (2018) suggests that five large, visually striking rock art panels on Rombald’s Moor were the focus of the many hundreds of smaller carved stones across the moor, each of which had a view of a ‘monumental’ stone and was embellished as a personal act of acknowledgement. Several of the Lakeland sites are also ‘monumental’ in character. The Copt Howe group of boulders is a recognisable landmark half-way along the valley, having affinities with passage grave architecture (Sharpe 2008); the large outcrops at CRUI, GRAI, and ULL2 all rise from the valley floor with a distinctive wedge shape; and at both DER1 and ULL3, the decorated panels emerge from mounds, which have the appearance of long barrows. The marking of these natural rock outcrops may represent the beginning of the process of transformation of natural spaces into constructed places. Indeed, the panels at Copt Howe at Great Langdale, with their natural cupules, were perhaps viewed as a legacy of earlier generations long before they were further embellished.

The motivations of the people who carved the cups, the activities associated with these sites, and the responses of those who experienced them, are perhaps beyond our reach. It is hoped, however, that the approach applied here, contextualising the rock art within the known archaeological framework and topographical setting, might begin to close the gap in our understanding. These carved outcrops are a significant new component of the prehistoric landscape in central Cumbria, which should be fully integrated into future analyses of Cumbrian prehistory and, ultimately, into wider studies of the Neolithic period in northern Britain. Acknowledgements Thanks are due to all those intrepid discoverers of rock art in the Lake District over the last twenty years who, between them, have helped to re-draw the map of Cumbrian carvings, including: Tim Cook, Paul and Barbara Brown, Steven Hood, Tim Sowerton, Niall Hammond, Gabriel Blamires, Liz Clay, Mark Astley, Phil Langley, Aaron Watson, James Archer and David Almond. I would particularly like to acknowledge the efforts of Peter Style, whose many discoveries in the fells and valleys helped to turn my working hypothesis into a credible argument, and whose Master of Science research into stone axes and prehistoric mobility within Cumbria helped to shape some of the discussion presented.

In selecting outcrops situated close to the head or tail of the lake, Neolithic cup-mark makers may have been assisting with the practicalities of movement along the valleys, denoting places where travellers might break their journey and make temporary camp, or perhaps marking a transition from land to water. The location of the panels on nodes of intersection at the start of natural routes between valleys, and on current trails also suggests that movement around the fells was not restricted to the more obvious corridors radiating from the fells, and perhaps indicates a strong, shared cultural background amongst the different groups visiting the central valleys from their 148

Patterns of Movement. Rock Art, Rough-Outs, and Route-Ways in the English Lake District I would also like to acknowledge the co-operation of all the farmers, householders and other landowners who allowed repeated visits for searching, recording, and checking, including but not limited to: Tim and Pat Cook, Mary Bell, Jan and Tony Ambler, Harry Benson, Mike Kyle, Jackson Hope, Bernard Kitching, Gavin and Laura Fearon, Chris Hodgson, and John Temple. All the new panels lie within the Lake District National Park and I am grateful to John Hodgson and Eleanor Kingston for their support. National Trust archaeologist Jamie Lund and warden Mark Astley have also provided valuable information and support. Thanks are also due to geologist Andrew Bell whose field knowledge of the Lake District rocks proved invaluable in confirming the artificial nature of the new cup-marks.

Bradley, R. and Watson, A. 2019, Found architecture: interpreting a cup-marked outcrop in the southern Highlands of Scotland. Time and Mind 12(1), 3–31.

The ideas presented in this chapter germinated during my PhD research at Durham University (2004–2007), and I would like to acknowledge the continued support of my supervisor, Chris Scarre, as well as the Arts and Humanities Research Council grant that made my doctorate research possible. Finally, a big thankyou is due to Richard Bradley and Aaron Watson for generously allowing me to observe the excavation of the Copt Howe rock art panel in June 2018.

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Scarre, C. 2002, Epilogue: colour and materiality in prehistoric society. In A. Jones and G. MacGregor (eds.), Colouring the past: the significance of colour in archaeological research, 227–242. Oxford and New York: Berg.

Style, P. 2011, Recent rock art finds from the Cumbrian Mountains. Newsletter of the Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeology Society 16, 5.

Schulting, R. J., Murphy, E., Jones C. and Warren, G. 2011, New dates from the north and a proposed chronology for the Irish court tombs. Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy 112C, 1–60.

Taylor, C. 1979, Roads and tracks of Britain. London: J. M. Dent. Tilley, C. 1994, A phenomenology of landscape: places, paths and monuments. Oxford: Berg.

Sharpe, K. E. 2007, Motifs, monuments and mountains: prehistoric rock art in the Cumbrian landscape. Unpublished PhD thesis. Durham: University of Durham.

Tilley, C. 1996, The power of rocks: topography and monument construction on Bodmin Moor. World Archaeology 282, 161–176. 151

Kate E. Sharpe Thornley, R. 1902, Ring-marked stones at Glassonby and Maughanby. Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society. Second Series 2, 380–383. Valdez-Tullett, J. 2019, Design and connectivity. The case of Atlantic rock art. BAR International Series S2932. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Van Hoek, M. 2001, The geography of cup-and-ring art in Europe. Warmsroth: StoneWatch. Waddington, C. 1998, Cup and ring marks in context. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 81, 29–54. Waddington, C. 2007, Neolithic rock-art in the British Isles: retrospect and prospect. In A. Mazel, G. Nash and C. Waddington (eds.), Art as metaphor: the prehistoric rock-art of Britain, 49–68. Oxford: Archaeopress. Waddington, C., Johnson, B. and Mazel, A. 2005, Excavation of a rock art site at Hunterheugh Crag, Northumberland. Archaeological Aeliana Fifth Series 34, 29–54. Ward, J. E. 1974, Wooden objects uncovered at Branthwaite, Workington, in 1956 and 1971. Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society. Second Series 74, 18–28. Watson, A. 1995, Investigating the distribution of Group VI debitage in the Central Lake District. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 61, 461–462. Westlake, S. 2005, Routeways and waterways: the Neolithic-Bronze Age rock carvings of the Dingle Peninsula in south-west Ireland from a landscape perspective. Archaeological Journal 162(1), 1–30.

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8 Bronze Age Footprints and Shoeprints, Celestial Cults and Pilgrimages in the Northwest Iberian Peninsula José Moreira and Ana M. S. Bettencourt Abstract: Although commonly recorded in Northwest Portugal, footprints and shoeprints are among the least studied engraved motifs from the Bronze Age and Early Iron Age in this region. This chapter presents the results of a study of over 30 rock art sites, where more than 200 footprints and shoeprints have been recorded. Spatial analysis of the data reveals that these motifs were often linked with natural circulation paths between valleys and low-lying slopes, easily accessible and with easy movement, beneath steeper zones. They were also interconnected with sites that were well irrigated by watercourses flowing from the mountaintops or with easy access to water sources. At a more detailed level, it has been possible to verify that the rocky outcrops with more footprints and shoeprints, i.e. those that were more frequently used, had engravings on inclined surfaces. On the basis of this data, several hypotheses can be drawn: these findings seem to be related to pilgrimages to elevated sites and/or well-irrigated sites; the majority of pilgrims were children or young adults (due to the dimensions of the engraved motifs), probably as part of rites of passage; the orientation of the majority of the engravings suggests that these rites were performed in conjunction with celestial cults, in particular during the summer solstice. Keywords: footprint, shoeprint, ideograms, path, rites of passage, celestial cults, pilgrimage 8.1. Introduction

contour, shape, irregularities and dimensions); the spatial distribution of the motifs on the outcrops and their characteristics (typology, dimensions, orientations).

The main objective of this chapter is to present the results of the study of podomorph engravings (footprints and shoeprints) in northwest Portugal and discuss their chronology and meaning in the context of the region’s prehistoric communities. Although an article on shoeprints in this region has previously been published (Moreira and Bettencourt 2018), the originality of this contribution resides in the compilation of several shoeprints and footprints, making it possible to compare both phenomena.

Methodologically, this work commences from the assumption that knowledge is subjective and interpretive, based on the premises advocated in the framework of the ‘anthropology of art and symbolism’ and in certain ‘interpretative archaeologies’. Within the context of the anthropology of art and the symbolism (Layton 1991; Gell 1998), rock art must not be understood through the lens of contemporary artistic paradigms, but rather as a form of communication, demonstrative of the universe of experiences and beliefs of a certain population. It is also considered to be an active element that contributes to the symbolic construction of the world, maintenance of collective memory, and creation and negotiation of identities.

This work has been developed at various stages. The first stage was bibliographical research into northwest Portugal’s physical features, podomorphic imagery, engraved sites with the motifs of footprints and shoeprints, as well as popular legends related to such motifs, and the proposal of a suitable theoretical approach to interpret the data. The second stage involved defining criteria to be used in the design of the inventory sheets and the database. The criteria for considering a footprint or a shoeprint as a podomorph are those developed by Santos-Estévez and García Quintela (2000). The third stage included fieldwork (inventory and photogrammetric survey of relevant rock engravings) and desk research that made it possible to interrelate all the information to establish new interpretation.

In terms of the interpretative archaeologies approach, understanding of space as an active element, rather than merely as a container of human actions, is particularly relevant (Thomas 1993); likewise, the concept of the landscape is to be considered not as a mere backdrop, where economic actions are developed, but as a place that generates experiences and meanings, created through the interrelationships between people and the things around them, whether physical or imagined elements (Ingold 2000). Physical elements, such as outcrops, among many others, are not conceived to be inert things, but as carriers of properties and active elements in processes of social construction (Bradley 2000).

During the inventory work, several criteria were taken into account: the spatial and physical contexts of the engraved outcrops; the description of the outcrop (colour, 153

José Moreira and Ana M. S. Bettencourt 8.2. Geographical setting

less than 23 cm long, as observed in modern populations of North Europe and the United States of America; ii) normal adults, with podomorphs between 23 and 32 cm long; and iii) podomorphs more than 33 cm long, considered to be abnormal or excessively large. The first group corresponds to 153 podomorphs (44 shoeprints and 109 footprints); the second to 51 podomorphs (29 shoeprints and 22 footprints); and the third to only 8 cases (6 shoeprints and 2 footprints) (four motifs measuring over 40 cm in length) (Table 8.1). The remaining 7 podomorphs are indeterminate.

Northwest Portugal is bordered to the west by the Atlantic Ocean, which influences its climate. It has a humid climate, with some nuances depending on greater or lesser exposure to moist oceanic winds and different altitudes. The westernmost zone is characterised by its amphitheatre relief, from the coast to the interior, interrupted by the distribution of valleys that run south-north, east-west and northeast-southwest (Ferreira 2005), creating circulation corridors. In geological terms, the rocky substrate consists essentially of granite and schist. It is also important to mention the existence of various mining resources, such as gold, tin and some silver.

Comparing the dimensions of the footprints and shoeprints with their different formal categories, it can be observed that most of the footprints and simple shoeprints measure less than 23 cm, while most of the shoeprints with heels measure between 23 and 32 cm in length. Although these motifs show different orientations, a clear tendency towards an orientation to the northwest can be observed in all groups. This occurs in more than 50% of cases. There are also footprints and shoeprints facing west and east, southeast and southwest, northeast, north and south (Table 8.2).

8.3. Data Two hundred nineteen motifs of footprints were identified within the study area, found on 34 outcrops, at 30 different rock art sites. In terms of the spatial distribution of the engraved outcrops, most are located in inland areas, located between 200 and 700 metres above sea level (Figure 8.1). Broadly speaking, the outcrops engraved with footprints and shoeprints are located on slopes, and with rare exceptions at the bottom of valleys, on the coastal platform or on hilltops. All are situated in well-irrigated areas and are easily accessible via natural corridors. In terms of the geology of the outcrops, all are located on granitic boulders, with the exception of one schist outcrop. The engravings are mainly located on flattened and not very prominent outcrops. However, some are prominent and have major visual impact.

Regarding the number of footprints and shoeprints per outcrop, the majority of outcrops only have one motif or one pair of motifs each (about 53% of the cases). Eighteen percent show only two motifs (either isolated, or in pairs). The highest number of engraved shoeprints and footprints at a single site is 99 (2,8% of the total), in Fraga das Passadas, followed by 59 depictions in the Penedo de São Gonçalo. In terms of technical execution, 94 motifs were executed in low relief, and only 11 in contour lines. 8.4. Chronology

In terms of the type of depictions, we have established two categories: Group I, with 138 footprints (recorded on 16 outcrops) and Group II, with 81 shoeprints (recorded on 18 outcrops). Concerning the latter, we have distinguished between those with a drawing of a simple sole (n=40) and those depicting heels (n=41) (Moreira and Bettencourt 2018) (Figure 8.2).

The dating of these figures in the northwest Iberian Peninsula is not consensual. There are authors who consider that podomorphs date from the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age (ca. 1250–100 cal. BCE) (García Alén and Peña Santos 1981; Eiroa and Rey 1984; García Quintela and Santos-Estévez 2000) and others who see their origins in Middle or Modern Ages (Ferro Couselo 1952; Bermejo Barrera and Romaní Martinez 2014). Since no archaeological excavations were carried out around the aforementioned engraved outcrops, their chronological dating has been suggested by searching and comparing parallels between them and analogous well contextualised manifestations, identified in the western Iberian Peninsula. For this purpose, motif superimpositions and the spatial distribution of podomorphs on outcrops with older rock art styles were also taken into account. When related to the Classical Atlantic and Early Schematic rock arts styles (Bradley 1997; Alves 2003; Bettencourt 2017a, 2017b) (the most common expressions of rock art in northwest Portugal), the podomorphs invariably appear in a peripheral position, as if they were the product of subsequent additions (Moreira 2018; Moreira and Bettencourt 2018). If that is true, and since these styles have been dated to the regional Neolithic and Chalcolithic periods (late 5th to 3rd millennia BCE) (Sanches 1997;

When relating the different categories of these motifs to the different kinds of outcrops, it turned out that both are preferentially located on flattened outcrops, i.e. close to the ground and not very noticeable, although shoeprints with a simple sole are usually recorded on clearly delineated outcrops, well above the ground and therefore more clearly visible (Figures 8.3 and 8.4). In about 80% of the cases, there would be broad visibility from the recorded sites, with restricted visibility in only two cases. The dimensions of these depictions vary considerably – the smallest is 11 cm and the largest is 59 cm. Considering the method proposed by Vallois (1928) to define the body heights indicated by the size of the feet and relating them to age and sex, using the Quételet table, Rohrer’s Index and other physical anthropological studies (Davenport 1932; Meredith 1944; Anderson et al. 1956) in order to classify these motifs by age groups, three dimensional intervals were considered: i) non-adults, with podomorphs 154

Bronze Age Footprints and Shoeprints, Celestial Cults and Pilgrimages in the Northwest Iberian Peninsula

Figure 8.1. Hypsometric map of northwest Portugal, showing rock art sites that yielded podomorphs.

Figure 8.2. Groups of podomorphs: Group 1 – Footprints: 1) Outeiro do Tripe 1, Rock 3, Chaves; 2) Fraga das Passadas, Chaves; 3) Pedreiras de Baltasar, Barcelos (after Moreira 2018). Group 2 – Shoeprints: 1) São Romão 4, Guimarães (after Cardoso 2015); 2) Outeiro do Tripe 1, Rock 12, Chaves (after Moreira 2018); 3) Quinta dos Laranjais, Guimarães (after Cruz and Cardoso 2011); 4–6) Fraga das Passadas, Chaves (after Moreira 2018).

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Figure 8.3. Two engraved outcrops clearly detached from the surrounding ground level: Penedo da Pegada, Marco de Canaveses (left); Penedo de Santa Eufémia, Terras de Bouro (right).

Figure 8.4. An engraved flat outcrop at Fraga das Passadas, Chaves.

2006; Alves 2003; Bradley and Sheridan 2005; Dinis and Bettencourt 2009; Alves and Reis 2011; 2017; Bettencourt 2013; 2017a; 2017b), the footprints and shoeprints should be later than these.

Aires stele, found in the southwest Iberian Peninsula, Almodôvar, from the Late Bronze Age (Figure 8.5 right). In the south of Portugal, the engraved footprints must have begun to disappear during the Early Iron Age (first half of the 1st millennium BCE), if we consider that stelae with these motifs were reused in the necropolis of Pardieiro 2 and 3, that were recently dated to the 7th and 6th centuries BCE (Soares et al. 2016). It therefore seems reasonable to consider the hypothesis that the footprints and shoeprints of northwest Portugal probably appeared between the late 3rd and early 2nd millennia BCE and the early 1st millennium BCE, which corresponds to the Bronze Age.

The footprints and shoeprints also appear to predate the Iron Age in the north of Portugal, taking into account that their occurrence in Vale da Casa, in Vila Nova de Foz Côa, is considered to predate the filiform art of this period (Baptista 1983), which Luís (2009; 2016) has dated between the 3rd and the 1st centuries BCE or even the 1st century CE. The break of the São Romão 11 boulder, recorded with a podomorph, and found in the context of the Iron Age settlement of Briteiros, in Guimarães, also seems to have occurred on the same date (Cardoso 2015). All this information stands in conformity with the relevant existing data from the south of Portugal, such as the pair of limestone sandals, deposited in a tomb and dating from the Late Chalcolithic and/or Early Bronze Age, i.e. late 3rd and early 2nd millennia BCE (Gomes 2010; Paço and Jalhay 1941); the pair of sandals or shoeprints depicted on an Alentejan stele, dating from the Middle Bronze Age (2nd millennium BCE) (Coelho 1975, 195–197; Gomes and Monteiro 1976–1977, 172–174) (Figure 8.5 left); and the representation of footprints engraved on Gomes

8.5. Interpretation There are different interpretations of the podomorph phenomenon, depending on the geographical areas where it occurs. In the northwest Iberian Peninsula, in particular in Galicia, they have been considered to be the materialisation of acts of royal investiture during the Iron Age, following rites that were specific to the Celtic religions of the Atlantic area. In this context, the podomorphs would have been used to swear an oath or to mark an investiture place (García Quintela and Santos-Estévez 2000). They have been also considered to be places for swearing oaths 156

Bronze Age Footprints and Shoeprints, Celestial Cults and Pilgrimages in the Northwest Iberian Peninsula Table 8.1. Dimensional intervals of podomorphs. Podomorphs typology

Group I

Group II

Group III

Dimensional intervals

< 17 cm

17 to 23 cm

23 to 32 cm

33 to 40 cm

>40 cm

Footprints

24

71

21

2

0

Shoeprints

14

30

29

2

4

Indeterminate

6

8

1

0

0

TOTAL

44

109

51

4

4

Table 8.2. Orientation of podomorphs. Orientations

Footprints

Shoeprints

Indeterminate

TOTAL

Northwest

66

55

5

126

North

12

3

-

15

Southeast

10

8

-

18

West

9

6

2

17

Southwest

6

2

-

8

South

6

1

1

8

East

5

-

-

5

Northeast

1

2

-

3

Indeterminate

3

4

12

19

As Bettencourt (2017) has already stressed, there are some outcrops with numerous motifs (rare) and others with a small number of motifs, sometimes just one, in the majority of cases, probably reflecting different meanings, although symbolically and socially interrelated. In other words, it would appear that the sites with many motifs, where there are footprints and shoeprints of various dimensions, were highly important and publicly significant places, frequented and experienced by large audiences. Examples of such outcrops include the Fraga das Passadas1 in Chaves, Vila Real, that has more than 99 depictions (Moreira 2018; Moreira and Bettencourt 2018) (Figure 8.4), the Penedo de São Gonçalo2 in Felgueiras, Porto, with 59 depictions (Figure 8.6) and, on a smaller scale, the Penedo de Santa Eufémia3 in Terras do Bouro, Braga (Figure 8.3), with around 12 depictions (Moreira 2018).

Figure 8.5. Left: Alentejan stele of Ervidel I (after Gomes Monteiro 1976–1977); right: Gomes Aires stele (after DíazGuardamino 2010).

related to the boundaries of properties, or as boundary markers of properties, during the Middle and Modern Ages (Bermejo Barrera and Romaní Marínez 2014).

The first example is located in the reception basin of several watercourses and near a spring. The others are located in well-irrigated valleys. They are all, and in particular the last two examples, located in important natural corridors and in low-lying area which means they were easily accessible. Their connection with water resources could be an important location condition, bearing in mind that the first three quarters of the 2nd millennium BCE was characterised by a period of neo-glaciation that was

In this chapter, the interpretative approach takes into account the new chronological proposal as well as typological and contextual aspects. An attempt has been made to understand the meaning of the places where the rock engravings can be found; to classify them in terms of the number of motifs recorded; to assess a potential age based on the dimensions of the motifs; to interrelate their orientations with the ‘skyscape’ and celestial phenomena and understand how these engravings are integrated within 20th century folk memories.

  Boulder of Footsteps.   Boulder of Saint Gonçalo. 3   Boulder of Saint Eufémia. 1 2

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Figure 8.6. Podomorphs in the Penedo de São Gonçalo, Felgueiras.

158

Bronze Age Footprints and Shoeprints, Celestial Cults and Pilgrimages in the Northwest Iberian Peninsula colder, drier and more windy than the Neolithic (Fábregas Valcarce et al. 2003; Martínez Cortizas et al. 2009). On the other hand, places with one or few footprints or shoeprints, located in areas of diversified topography, seem to have had less collective importance. Could they be frequented and visited by a restricted number of people, as part of individual rites or acts performed in greater secrecy and did they serve as markers of paths that led to meeting places of major communal significance?

In terms of archaeological data, most of the podomorphs (153 = 70%) are shorter than 23 cm. In other words, they correspond to feet under 23 cm in length (Table 8.1), which seems to correspond to young people of different ages. The formal diversity of the examples of small feet, including representations of feet with malformations (Figure 8.2: Group 1, no. 3), suggests that these were based on the feet of real people. Fifty-one podomorphs, 23% of the total, are from the adult population (measuring over 23 cm in length). Finally, there are podomorphs of extraordinarily large dimensions (8 = 4%), which may either represent persons with gigantism or acromegaly, according to the characteristics of this illness (Chanson and Salenave 2008), or a materialisation of the real or mythical importance of some persons, or certain imaginary or legendary beings, as Gomes (2010) has stressed in relation to the rock art of the Tagus River, in central Portugal.

The latter hypothesis must be verified using new archaeological surveys in the areas of a few kilometres around the major sites. Cardoso (2015) analysed several isolated podomorphs at different altitudes and with different orientations at the Monte de São Romão, in Guimarães, Braga, and suggested that they may indicate the importance of the ascent to the top of this hill. More questions arise: who recorded these engravings? Do they represent real people? According to the abovecited physical anthropology studies, attempts have been made to correlate the dimensions of the podomorphs and the possible age of the individuals that they could have represented. At the same time, using historical and anthropological sources (Wang 2008; Simard and Blight 2011; Ferreira and Rodrigues 2014), analysis has also been made of the age at which people were considered to be adults in various historical periods. For example, for the Roman period, a table provided by Isidore of Seville, in the seventh century CE, refers to the existence of infantia (0–7 years), pueritia (8–14 years), adulescentia (15–28 years), and iuuentus (29–50 years), wherein adulescentia was considered to mark the start of adulthood, since pueritia comprises a preparatory stage for public life. In the Late Roman period, it is known that the age when men started wearing a toga was lowered, and that there were cases in which this happened between the ages of 14 and 16 (Ferreira and Rodrigues 2014). In a study focused on Canadian indigenous populations, concerning child and adolescent development/transitions into adulthood (Simard and Blight 2011) it is stated that adulthood (Nitawigiwin) occurred between the ages of 15 and 50. Another study concerning the prehistoric populations of the middle and lower Yellow River Valley, in China, also considers adults to be all those above 15 years of age (Wang 2008). Based on these data, the hypothesis was put forward that an individual could be considered to be an adult after attaining between 14 and 15 years of age. This is the identified average age of menarche (the age when girls start menstruating) as cited in many studies of Portuguese women (Sacadura 1912; Rosas and Saavedra 1921; Paulo 1936; Rocha and Morais 1990).4

What led people to record their feet on hard granite rock, in an act that involves a certain amount of effort and expenditure of energy? This was probably the result of a social act of a symbolic nature, intended to be lasting for posterity, sometimes of a public nature, given the durable nature of the stone. From this perspective, the podomorphs may be considered to be ideograms (sensu Anati 2012), i.e. repetitive and synthetic signs, whose repetition engenders concepts and conventions or adds more complex meanings to other signs. Considering that most of the podomorphs are of nonadults, mainly with feet between 17 and 22 cm long, could they be associated with initiation ceremonies or rites of passage, for example, from youth to adulthood? In such a case, what would be the role of the podomorphs for the adults and young children? Could the adults have been escorts, witnesses or officiators during the ceremonies? Would the recording of younger feet correspond to children who participated in the initiation rites or rites of passage at an earlier age because they would not have another opportunity to visit these places? We also raise the hypothesis that it is possible to detect social differences in these contexts. From this perspective, it is probable that shoeprints (given that shoes were prestigious garments) could have been associated with elites or entities of great symbolic power, whereas footprints could have been associated with common people. In favour of this hypothesis, it is necessary to bear in mind the pair of shoeprints represented on an Alentejan stele from the 2nd millennium BCE in association with other insignia of power (Figure 8.5). It should be noted that in Portugal, until the mid-20th century, wearing shoes was a sign of social status, whereas walking barefoot was a sign of poverty and belonging to a disadvantaged social class. Only in the 1930s were people prohibited from walking barefoot in cities. This habit persisted longer in central and northern Portugal and was considered to be the result of poverty, but also reflected a major cultural tradition (Magalhães et al. 1956).

  In Rocha and Morais (1990), the average age of menarche in the rural area of the centre of Portugal was 13.29, and it occurs mainly during winter and summer, and is lower in the autumn. Older studies on the subject were chosen as a better reference because the age of menarche has lowered in urban areas, with better living and food conditions (Padez 2003). 4

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José Moreira and Ana M. S. Bettencourt de Cervos (Montalegre, Vila Real). In R. Vilaça (ed.), Estelas e estátuas-menires: da Pré à Proto-história. Actas das IV Jornadas Raianas (Sabugal, 2009), 187– 216. Sabugal: Municipal Council. Alves, L. B. and Reis, M. 2017, Tattooed landscapes. A reassessment of Atlantic Art distribution, research methods and chronology in the light of the discovery of a major rock art assemblage at Monte Faro (Valença, Portugal). Zephyrus 80, 4967.

Figure 8.7. Orientation of 91.3% of the podomorphs. The orientation of the remaining podomorphs is undetermined.

Anati, E. 2012, Per una semiotica dell’Arte Primaria. In E. Anati (ed.), I Segni Originari dell’Arte. Riflessioni Semiotiche a partire dall’Opera di Anati. Siminario di Semiotica e Morfologia, Urbino 5-6 settembre 2010, 14–48. Brescia: Atelier.

All these rock art sites seem to be deliberately located far from settlements, or other Bronze Age contexts (e.g., funerary and metal hoards) and would certainly be sites with a history, with special properties, and frequented on a cyclical basis. In this case, it is likely that trips or pilgrimages to such sites were scheduled at certain times of the year. This premise is based on the orientation of the podomorphs: both the footprints and the shoeprints are essentially oriented towards the northwest, corresponding to the sunset during the summer solstice (Figure 8.7).

Anderson, M., Blais, M. and Green, W. T. 1956, Growth of the normal foot during childhood and adolescence: length of the foot and interrelations of foot, stature, and lower extremity as seen in serial records of children between 1–18 years of age. American Journal of Physical Anthropology 14(2), 287–308. Baptista, A. M. 1983, O complexo de gravuras rupestres do Vale da Casa (Vila Nova de Foz Côa). Arqueologia 8, 57–69.

Many of these engravings are also oriented to the southeast, i.e. to the sunrise during the winter, and to the west matching the sunset in the spring and autumn equinoxes. Some footprints are also oriented to the southwest, which coincides with the sunset in the winter solstice; and to the east, i.e. the position of sunrise during the equinoxes, and to the northeast, which coincides with sunrise during the summer solstice. Analysis of this data enables us to raise the hypothesis that the ceremonies performed in these places, although perhaps related to rites of passage that implied movement or pilgrimage through the landscape, took place mainly during the summer solstice, but also at other important moments in the solar cycle, which suggests that the rites performed in these places were related to celestial cults.

Bermejo Barrera, J. C. and Romaní Marínez, M. 2014, “Et per ubi posuerintis vestros pedes iurare”. La cojuración y el possible uso de los signos podomorfos en la Galicia Medieval y Moderna. Madrider Mitteilungen 55, 560– 595. Bettencourt, A. M. S. 2013, A Pré-História do Noroeste Português/The Prehistory of the North-western Portugal. Territórios da Pré-História em Portugal, Vol. 2. Braga/Tomar: ARKEOS/Centro de Investigação Transdisciplinar Cultura, Espaço e Memória. Bettencourt, A. M. S. 2017a, Gravuras Rupestres do Noroeste Português para além das Artes Atlântica e Esquemática. In J. M. Arnaud and A. Martins (eds.), Arqueologia em Portugal. Estado da Questão, 1053–1067. Lisboa: Associação dos Arqueólogos Portugueses.

To conclude, it seems important to stress that, in folk memories, outcrops with shoeprints and footprints in northwest Portugal are often associated with place names and legends of Christian origin, and are widely associated with the travels or pilgrimages of a saint, the journey to sacred places, which may reveal traces of their original meaning (Moreira 2018; Moreira and Bettencourt 2018).

Bettencourt, A. M. S. 2017b, Post-Palaeolithic rock art of north-western Portugal: an approach. In A. M. S. Bettencourt, M. Santos-Estevez, H. A. Sampaio, D. Cardoso (eds.), Recorded Places, Experienced Places. The Holocene Rock Art of the Iberian Atlantic Northwest, International Series 2878, 123–150. Oxford: BAR Publishing.

Acknowledgements The authors thank Martin John Dale (Sombra Chinesa, Unipessoal, Lda) for the English translation of this text.

Bradley, R. 1997, Rock Art and the Prehistory of Atlantic Europe. Signing the Land. London/New York: Routledge.

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9 Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin Jessica Joyce Christie Abstract: This chapter will discuss a specific type of Inka rock art (large niches) in relation to the pilgrimage road and as part of a living, agentive landscape in the southern Titicaca Basin, Peru, during the height of the Inka empire in the late fifteenth century AD. The main transport and pilgrimage route was the Kollasuyu road, leading from Cusco to the southeast. Stations along this road are marked by rock art: Bebedero with the common geometric seats and platforms, and Kenko and Altarani with the uncommon large niches in cliff walls directed toward the lake. This rock art will be approached through the perspective of an agentive landscape of performance which shaped peoples’ movements who in turn altered the natural setting to accommodate their livelihoods, belief systems, and political agendas. Ontological relations between these places and people changed over time, taking on new meanings with regard to hierarchy and heterarchy and the intentionality of stone formations. Thus the landscape of the southern Titicaca Basin has been dynamic and in motion on multiple levels throughout time. Arguments will be presented that, on a practical logistic level, these rock art sites may have been stopping points on the state-directed pilgrimage to the Island of the Sun. Secondly, I argue that the large niches emplace local interactions between the Inka and Lupaqa people. These niches are Andean wak’a/shrines which are cut into the living substance of the stone mountain; as wak’a, they are both static and movable in the sense that their essence can be reproduced somewhere else. Thirdly, local people today view the niches as doors into a spiritual realm. They continue to place offerings and share stories of the niches as empowered agents. Keywords: Inka, Peru, rock sculpture, pilgrimage, landscape, contemporary reuse, wak’a 9.1. Introduction and historical background

1532 is referred to as the Inka Period (Bauer 2004, 91–157), during which Cusco was redesigned as the capital city of the nascent Inka state, which began to expand beyond the Cusco region. Four principal roads, named Qhapaq Nan, departed from the center of Cusco, structuring Inka territories into four quarters (suyu) known as Tawantinsuyu or ‘Land of the Four Quarters’ (Christie 2008).

The Inka began their phenomenal rise to power in the Cusco Valley in the south central Highlands of Peru in the fourteenth century (Bauer 2004; Covey 2006). The settlement of Cusco consolidated and grew into the capital of an expansive empire. These processes have been analyzed through archaeology and ethnohistory.

9.1.2. Inka history through the lens of ethnohistory

9.1.1. Inka history through the lens of archaeology

Spanish writers in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries have left us a list of fifteen rulers from Manqo Qhapaq, the founder of the Inka dynasty during mytho-historical origin times, to Manqo Inka and Paullu Inka who reigned after the European Invasion in 1532. The rulers who shaped and directed the imperial state in the mid-fifteenth century and controlled the Titicaca Basin are Pachakuti Inka Yupanki, Tupa Inka Yupanki, and Wayna Qhapaq. More specifically, Pachakuti Inka Yupanki, the ninth ruler, redesigned the Killke settlement at the site of Cusco into the imperial capital in the mid-fifteenth century. Following his father, Wiraqocha Inka, Pachakuti Inka continued the expansion of state territories to the southeast following the Vilcanota River. Under his son Thupa Inka and Thupa Inka’s sons, the empire Tawantinsuyu or Land of the Four Quarters reached its final confines.

Regional archaeological surveys conducted by Brian Bauer and colleagues from the late 1980s into the early 2000s demonstrate dramatic settlement changes in the Vilcanota River valley after about AD 1000 when the Wari polity centered in Pikillaqta declined. The northern side of the Cusco Basin was transformed with major agricultural infrastructure: large villages were constructed on the lower slopes and extensive terrace systems and irrigation canals improved agricultural land (Bauer 2004, 76–77). An emerging Inka elite most probably built the terraces with rotational corvée labor and collected the agricultural surpluses as part of a developing political economy. During the following centuries up to approximately 1400 (Late Intermediate Period in Andean chronology), the site of Cusco, known as Killke settlement, grew in population size. The time frame from roughly 1400 to 163

Jessica Joyce Christie In ethnohistory, Spanish writers documented numerous versions of oral histories, in which the Inka explained their origin by linking their dynastic founder Manqo Qhapaq with the Sun and rock outcrops on the Island of the Sun in Lake Titicaca, situated in the southeastern quarter, Kollasuyu (Figure 9.1). This quarter/suyu had been of particular importance since ancient times since here, on two islands in Lake Titicaca, the Sun and the Moon had first risen from rock shrines known throughout the Andes. It is told that Wiraqocha, the pan-Andean creator god, appeared in the Lake Titicaca region when it still lay in darkness. He created the sun, the moon, the stars, and all living beings. He formed the different lineages of humankind with the clay of Tiwanaku (Middle Horizon center near the southern shores of Lake Titicaca) and gave each group its clothing, language, songs, agricultural systems, and religion. Wiraqocha sent some of the individuals he had just created to the mountain tops, others to the rivers and springs, and still others into caves. They were to emerge from those liminal locations, turning them into paqarinas (the points of origin; often an emergence of an ayllu) of their ayllus (Andean corporate lineages) and themselves into the founding ancestors (for the full argument, see Salles-Reese 1997, 45–88).

in shifting hierarchical and heterarchical relationships. The origin narrative more specifically implies that stone as a substance had generative qualities and could be a being on its own. The ninth Inka emperor, Pachakuti Inka Yupanki, had selected rock outcrops carved in a geometric style created by vertical and horizontal cuts (Figure 9.2). Such rock sculptures suggest practical uses as seats, steps, platforms, and/or places of offerings; on a more conceptual level, they were animate wak’as who had their own interests and intentions with whom humans negotiated (Bray 2015b, 4–11; see below). In Inka ideological landscape construction, they were intended to emplace the hierarchical presence of the state and visualize its appropriations of mountainous settings (Christie 2016; Dean 2010). Thus, Inka sacred landscapes between Cusco and the Titicaca Basin, as well as throughout Tawantinsuyu, became networks of meaningful places that were woven together in mythological and cosmic frameworks. The Kollasuyu-Titicaca network was understood as a narrative, which was re-enacted and inscribed on the landscape through rituals and processions. The nodes in such networks can range from unmodified natural features such as, for example, mountains, rocks, caves, rivers, and trees, to constructed features such as, for example, plazas, temples, monuments, and shrines, with a range of humanmodified places in between, such as rock art (Yaeger and López 2018, 541).

The Inka adopted this narrative and added on that after the Sun himself had risen, he called forth the Inka ancestral couple, Manqo Qhapaq and Mama Oqllu, from the same rock outcrop (see Urton 1999, 39). On the Island of Titicaca, the Sun ‒ personified as a man in a shining costume ‒ called the Inka, represented by Manqo Qhapaq and his wife/sister Mama Oqllu, from openings in a selected rock outcrop and adopted them as his children. Since the rest of humankind was living in a state of barbarism, the Sun conferred a civilizing mission upon the Inkas. These divine emissaries traveled to the north and re-emerged from a cave at Pacariqtambo near Cusco. These original Inkas, four brothers sharing the name Ayar and four sisters, wore clothing richly adorned in gold and carried corn seeds. One brother, Manqo Qhapaq, also carried a golden rod that would sink into the ground at the exact place where, according to the wishes of the Sun, they should settle. The rod was thrust into the ground at either Pacariqtambo or Cusco. Three of the original four brothers were turned into wak’as (Andean shrines). The remaining brother, Manqo Qhapaq, had a son with one of his sisters, thus becoming the progenitor of the Inka dynasty (SallesReese 1997, 93).

Additional layers in the cosmological and mythic framework of the Kollasuyu-Titicaca network include the narrative that the creator deity Wiraqocha traveled that route in a northwestern direction after he had created all celestial and earthly living beings at Titicaca. Juan de Betanzos (1996 [1557], 9–11) elaborates that Wiraqocha walked the Royal Road/Qhapaq Nan toward Cusco and called each ethnic group to emerge from its paqarina. When Wiraqocha called the Canas to emerge at Cacha (present-day Raqchi located on the Kollasuyu road), they came out with their weapons threatening to attack him. Wiraqocha responded by causing a “fire to fall from heaven”, burning nearby mountain ranges and creating the local volcano Kinsich’ata. Seeing the magnitude of this fire, the Indians surrendered. Wiraqocha put out the fire with blows of his staff. The Canas Indians built a wak’a at the place where Wiraqocha had stood. In his landscape biography of Raqchi, Bill Sillar (2018, 135–136) uses this narrative as one example originating from Inka times in which Wiraqocha is the active force who has individual agency and capability to transform the land. In contrast, current residents of Raqchi name the volcano Kinsich’ata as one of their apus or mountain lords who is evoked through the preparation of offerings and when chewing tobacco. I will refer back to this narrative in the discussion of the rock art niches along the Titicaca Basin section of the Kollasuyu road: there the Inka state is the intruding agent – parallel to Wiraqocha – with the power of transforming and carving out mountainous substances.

Spanish writers recast Inka history in the way that later rulers descended from Manqo Qhapaq and Mama Oqllu. Therefore the Island of the Sun and Lake Titicaca played a foundational role in the ideology of state validation. Further, by appropriating the Titicaca creation narrative, the Inka constructed ontological relations between themselves in the south-central highlands, the Sun, the waters of Lake Titicaca, and the stony outcrops of the islands. These entities participated as agentive beings in geopolitical networks which linked Cusco with the Titicaca Basin and the Kollasuyu quarter in the southeast 164

Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin

Figure 9.1. Map of Kollasuyu road from Cusco to Lake Titicaca (adapted from Guijarro and Cardelus 2009, 341).

Figure 9.2. Inka rock wak’a sculpted in the geometric style, northern hills of Cusco (photograph by the author, 2015).

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Jessica Joyce Christie In contrast, today’s residents use the carvings as places to make their offerings and petitions to landscape features. Yaeger and López (2018, 553) succinctly reinforce this point by reasoning that while each ethnic group had its own ancestral couple and received a specific paqarina associated with concrete territory, the common origins of all people at Tiwanaku through the agency of Wiraqocha justified their unification under a larger hierarchical structure. Thus by associating themselves with Wiraqocha – and the eighth Inka ruler took the name Wiraqocha – Inka emperors claimed legitimacy as pan-Andean rulers. Indeed, Inka imperial expansion recapitulated Wiraqocha’s journey across the Andes – who had proceeded northwest beyond Cusco to the Pacific Ocean in Ecuador or Columbia – reuniting the descendants of the primordial couples he had created.

In reference to the Kollasuyu road, historical sources report that aside from the ideological framework, it gave the Inka empire access to one of the most densely settled regions in the central Andes important from the standpoint of labor availability; the Titicaca Basin was also rich in economic resources, with regard to agricultural productivity and animal herds (Frye 2005, 197). Ethnohistorical documents, among which are most commonly cited Bernabe Cobo (1979 [1653, Book 12, Chapter 13], 140, cited in Frye 2005, 197) and Pedro Cieza de Leon (1959 [1553, Book 2, Chapters 41–43], cited in Frye 2005, 197), reconstruct that during the Late Intermediate or Altiplano Period (from about 1100 to 1450), the southern Lake Titicaca Basin fell under the domain of the Kolla polity in the northwest and the Lupaqa polity in the southwest. The boundary between these two entities lay probably between the city of Puno and the town of Chucuito (Julien in Hyslop 1984, 118). During Inka domination after 1450, Hatuncolla was the Kolla capital and Chucuito the Lupaqa capital. Cieza de Leon (1967 [1553], 138–139, 144–145) tells us that Cari was the great lord of the Lupaqa and that Zapana led the Kolla. The two groups were enemies, and when the Inka became involved, the Lupaqa are portrayed as receptive to Inka domination, and therefore they allied with Cari. Bernabe Cobo (1979 [1653], cited in Frye 2005, 199) specifies that Cari, the cacique1 of the Lupaqa nation, received the Inka in peace and turned his state over to them. This is one of the reasons why most of the documented Inka sites lie south of Chucuito.

The constant connections between past and present in Andean worldview via relational networks channeled through the ancestors and tied to spatial concepts can further be reinforced in the linguistic perspective. In Quechua, as well as in Aymara (the two dominant indigenous languages in the Andes), present and past are both associated with the subject’s visual field because they are both known. Present and past are based in the apprehensible visual field as foreground and background. The Quechua term nawpa refers to both the past and the space in front of the speaker and is closely related etymologically to the term nawi meaning ‘eye’ or ‘vision’. The Aymara term nayra means ‘in front of’ and is also linked etymologically to the eyes and the field of vision (Wilkinson and D’Altroy 2018, 113). Thus the past was given meaning in the present, which had to be constantly renegotiated, and constituted an indispensable part of the present. As explained, the Inka reshaped this lens of time into an Inka-specific order in which the origin narratives were foundational and set up the spatial order of the Inka empire Tawantinsuyu, the Land of the Four Quarters, as well as the hierarchies of the lineages. It is important to understand that chronology and precise dating were irrelevant in this view because Manqo Qhapaq remained present in the physical form of his mummy and in his timeless image as lineage founder.

The documents leave the impression that the Titicaca Basin was structured under a relatively high level of political complexity personified by the two hereditary leaders – Zapana and Cari – who controlled large territories and armies. The archaeological reconstruction is quite different: material data show that the political landscape of the region was highly fragmented, a condition that characterized the area throughout the Late Intermediate/ Altiplano Period (ca. 1100–1450) (Frye 2005, 198; Stanish et al. 2005).

The geopolitical and ontological network between Cusco and Lake Titicaca was brought to life in human form through the traffic and infrastructure on the principal road to the southeast, or Kollasuyu road (see Figure 9.1) in Quechua, the language of the Inka. The Qhapaq Nan roads crossed the Inka empire from north to south and accommodated economic exchange through llama caravans, moving armies and messengers (chaskis), the traveling royal court, as well as pilgrimages throughout the second half of the fifteenth into mid-sixteenth century AD (onset of the Early Colonial Period). In any part of the empire, roads could be associated with platforms, tambos (rest stations for travelers), apache(i)tas (rock piles accumulated by individual travelers who left a stone at geographically significant places), selected upright boulders and vertical stone constructions (saywa) probably used as land and distance markers (Vivanco and Vivanco 2019, 58–63), as well as rock art (Christie 2008).

The above sketches out conflicting information regarding the social setting and political structure the Inka would have encountered when they entered the Titicaca Basin in the mid-fifteenth century under Pachakuti Inka Yupanki. How would they have proceeded to integrate the region with their known tactics of infrastructure and social reorganization and how and where was rock art included in such efforts? 9.1.3. Inka arrival in the Titicaca Basin Hyslop’s (1984, 118–119) road surveys yielded no evidence of a formal pre-Inka road system. This is likely due to the general political disunity and the placement of   Cacique is a title of local leader or chief.

1

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Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin a majority of Altiplano settlements at higher altitudes. The Inka restructured Lupaqa settlement patterns along the Kollasuyu road/Qhapaq Nan following a wider imperial policy calling for the abandonment of Late Intermediate Period walled hilltop towns and establishing new settlements on the lower plains of river valleys and in this case, near the lake. The general settlement pattern in the Titicaca Basin during the Late Intermediate Period shows scattered small villages grouped near fortified hilltop pukaras or hilltop towns. A wealth of historical information about the Lupaqa under Inka rule comes from the Chucuito visita (local inspections mandated by the Spanish Crown during the Colonial Period) by Diez de San Miguel (1964 [1567], cited in Hyslop 1984, 118–119). In Inka administration, Lupaqa lands were treated as a single territorial unit. Chucuito was founded as the capital, and six other regional centers were added along the Inka road whose principal towns (cabeceras) were Acora, Ilave, Juli, Pomata, Yunquyu, and Zepita. Lupaqa lords continued to rule according to the pan-Andean system of dual division on all levels of authority; of the highest order was now the Hatun Kuraka in Chucuito followed by the mallku, or local lords, in the cabeceras. The Lupaqa spoke Aymara whereas the Inka were Quechua speakers. The history and grammar of the two languages are related.

Figure 9.3. Map of the Titicaca Basin with the pilgrimage road between Chucuito and Copacabana (adapted from Arkush 2005, 215, fig. 14.1).

More specifically, the settlement surveys conducted by Frye (2005) and others (Stanish, Cohen and Aldenderfer 2005) in the Chucuito-Cutimbo area revealed important political and economic changes in the transition from the Late Intermediate to the Late Horizon/Inka Period. The changes relevant here are a dramatic population increase by an influx of people from other areas; the abandonment of a majority of Altiplano Period settlements which were replaced by the founding of Chucuito as the seat of regional administration and the second-tier administrative and ceremonial cabeceras listed above. These new towns organized labor forces into specialized production. Inka resettlement tactics resulted in an overall shift of the local population from the agro-pastoral zone toward lakeside sites, as well as an intensification of agricultural and pastoral systems (Frye 2005, 200–201). The survey results indicate that the Inka and state officials, Lupaqa lords, as well as mitmaqkuna/relocated colonists from other regions primarily occupied Chucuito and the secondary centers along the road. The Lupaqa people were pushed away from the administrative centers on the road and resettled on the lakeshore and in the terrace agricultural zones, which means they would have lived closer by Altarani and especially Kenko (rock art sites to be discussed further down) (Figure 9.3).

established in their present locations during the process of Inka reorganization of the area and not by the Lupaqa, a point which will be further discussed below in reference to the rock art sites. The documents do not specify the preInka to Inka transition (Stanish 2003, 215–216). Chucuito, for example, has a radial layout fanning out toward the lakeshore, which some authors associate with Inka urban planning after the Cusco model (Gasparini and Margolies 1980, 80–81) (Figure 9.4). Near the town center, there is an Inka enclosure made of precise Cuscostyle masonry called Inka Uyu (Figure 9.5). The specific form of the enclosure is not common in Inka architecture. The Kollasuyu road would have passed through the plaza on which the Inka Uyu is situated (Hyslop 1984, fig. 8.6). The size of pre-contact Chucuito estimated at 80 ha makes it the largest site in the area and the most likely candidate for the Lupaqa capital during Inka domination. Tactics and forms of Inka domination varied and were adjusted to local conditions and social networks. In sum, in the Titicaca Basin, the Inka appear to have built amicable relations with the Lupaqa and therefore left their lords in place as long as they subjected to the higher authority of the Inka and delivered prescribed tributes. Lupaqa towns were moved to the lower plains and became the cabeceras along the road.

Hyslop (1984, 119) also suggests that the Lupaqa cabeceras whose remains lie under the corresponding contemporary towns were emplaced in their locations under Inka rule. This is an important point: several archaeological surveys have only found Inka materials at Chucuito and no preInka remains. It is most likely that the cabeceras were

The Kollasuyu road of the Qhapaq Nan would have brought the standard traffic described above to the Lupaqa area. What made the Kollasuyu branch unique is that it channeled the pilgrims walking from the heartland to the 167

Jessica Joyce Christie Island of the Sun. The Spanish writers Bernabe Cobo (1990 [1653]) and Ramos Gavilán (1887; 1988 [1621]) report a state-sponsored pilgrimage in detail during which pilgrims traveled from Cusco to the rock sanctuary on the Island of the Sun to confess sins and present offerings. In particular, the road section which branches off the Qhapaq Nan at Yunguyu/Yunquyu and leads to Copacabana and the tip of the peninsula, where pilgrims set over to the Island of the Sun, is itemized in depth. Many of the storehouses, temples, and shrines reported by Cobo and Ramos Gavilan have been archaeologically identified (Bauer and Stanish 2001; Christie 2016). Cobo and Ramos Gavilán are also very specific with regard to the confessions and offerings pilgrims had to give at specified locations. Archaeologists have inadequately considered that the accounts of the two Spanish Catholic writers strongly mirror Christian pilgrimage experiences from Europe.

rock art along the main branch of the Kollasuyu road in the Titicaca Basin would have played similar, though less potent, roles. In empire-wide terms, the Inka wrote their own ethnic history on the landscape around Cusco by erecting shrines/wak’as that celebrated key events in the lives of their primordial couples and later Inka rulers who descended from them, connecting those shrines/wak’as with zeq’e lines that radiated out from the capital Cusco (see Yaeger and López 2018, 552). An additional layer of the cosmological and mythic framework of the Kollasuyu road was that it functioned as a conceptual straight longdistance zeq’e running from Cusco through the Vilcanota River valley to Titicaca and Tiwanaku (Zuidema 1982, 439–445, fig. 16.4). Cristobal de Molina detailed another pilgrimage to the Vilcanota or La Raya pass which separates the Cusco and Titicaca Basins. This pilgrimage was performed by Inka priests at the time of the June solstice. They sacrificed camelids at multiple empowered places from Cusco to Vilcanota (Christie 2018, 502–503). But the justification of Inka imperial hegemony over other ethnic groups required validation through the construction of a memory stratigraphy in deep time beyond the confines of the Cusco heartland. This is why the Wiraqocha creation narrative, the emergence of the ancestral couple Manqo Qhapaq and Mama Oqllu from the Sacred Rock on the Island of the Sun, and the entire Kollasuyu-Titicaca network took center stage in a mythic-historical charter for a pan-Andean imperial order that placed the Inka at its apex (see Yaeger and López 2018, 552–553; Salles-Reese 1997).

I have argued elsewhere (Christie 2019) that this pilgrimage should be seen in the context of the Inka resettlement/ mitmaqkuna policy under which rebellious indigenous groups in newly conquered areas were replaced with groups loyal to the Inka, usually from the heartland. The ethnohistorical sources are clearly stating that an unusually high number of ethnic groups were moved to Copacabana (Bauer and Stanish 2001, 238–240; Christie 2016). During the resettlement process, relocated groups were allowed to travel back and forth on the Kollasuyu road. On a political and ideological level, the essential strategy of the expansive Inka state was to integrate new territories and their populations as well as colonists into a new and specific Inka order manifested by wak’as, landscape modifications, and agentive engagements with them (Kosiba 2015, 170–173). Inka pilgrimage could be framed through Edith and Victor Turner’s lenses of liminality and communitas2 (Turner 1974; Turner and Turner 1978).

9.1.4. Inka rock art as wak’as We will now mine the rock art as wak’as which the Inka emplaced along the Kollasuyu road in the Titicaca Basin in the Lupaqa territory. Before approaching Inka rock art through the wak’a concept, a few clarifications are in order with regard to how this kind of Inka rock art is intrinsically different from the two-dimensional images on stone surfaces more commonly discussed in rock art studies. The Inka rarely thought in terms of representation of an object in two- or three-dimensional media3. Most commonly, Inka rock art was a form of sculpture characterized by altering rock outcrops and boulders in situ with vertical and horizontal geometric cuts creating platforms and steps. Thus Inka rock art was inextricably embedded in a landscape context. I have argued elsewhere (Christie 2016) that this style of rock art was authored by Pachakuti Inka Yupanki as a marker of state presence and engagement with Inka cultural landscapes. This style was formulated in the Cusco region and then exported to the periphery of the empire (see Figure 9.2).

Mitmaqkuna/colonists would have found themselves in a liminal state during their journey on the Kollasuyu road, having left their homeland and site of origin (paqarina) and not yet having established their new residency or transferred their wak’a of origin. The Inka state would have strongly channeled notions of communitas among colonists toward becoming part of an Inka order through interactions with local landscape wak’as and distributing foreign, i.e. Inka, ones. Clearly, the Sacred Rock Outcrop on the Island of the Sun would have been a foundational active wak’a in Inka state order (Figure 9.6). Many other wak’as in the form of manmade structures, unusual landscape features, carved rock outcrops and

Spanish writers were very much interested in Andean shrines or wak’as, first out of curiosity and later in targeted

 According to Victor Turner (1969), liminal entities are in stages of social and cultural transitions, often likened to being on a journey. They have left their culturally designated place or position and have not yet found a new one. Turner defines communitas as the model of human interrelatedness in a liminal period. It is a stage during which society is minimally differentiated and follows the leadership of elders who have acquired their position through rites of passage seen as liminal experiences during which they lost their prior place and arrived at the new position. Thus liminality and communitas well reflect the experiences of pilgrims. 2

  There are a few notable exceptions such as, for example, the unique ideological landscape on the Sayhuite stone, the Tetecaca terrace landscape in Cusco, and animal carvings at Laqo in Cusco and Pumaurqu. None of them are situated in the Titicaca Basin (cf. Christie 2016). 3

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Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin missionary efforts to destroy them, and accumulated rich information on sites and in sources. Arriving in the New World with a solidly European Christian worldview and not speaking the indigenous languages Quechua and Aymara, they experienced great difficulty in contextualizing what indigenous consultants shared with them. Thus Spanish reports about wak’as contain many misunderstandings. Since about 2000, scholars have rigorously analyzed and

archaeologically investigated the notion of wak’a and it is clear that Inka rock sculptures were manifestations of wak’as (Van de Guchte 1999; Bray 2015a; Urton 2015, 157–159).

Figure 9.4. Chucuito, straight Inka road with drainage channel toward the lake (photograph by the author, 2015).

Figure 9.5. Chucuito, Inka Uyu, stone masonry (photograph by the author, 2015).

In the earliest references written in the latter half of the sixteenth century, a wak’a is described as an idol, statue, or image, or as an oratory or shrine-like place (Betanzos, Cieza de Leon, Pizarro, Sarmiento, Zarate cited in Bray 2015b, 5). In 1590, Martin de Murua depicted a wak’a as rock formations turning into anthropomorphic beings (cited in Bray 2015b, 5-6). Spanish chroniclers were confused by the partible nature of wak’as: as solid material entities, they could be simultaneously spatially fixed and spatially as well as temporally distributable – a quality we will

Figure 9.6. Island of the Sun, sacred rock outcrop from which the Sun and the Inka ancestors emerged (photograph by the author, 2012).

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Jessica Joyce Christie return to in the discussion section. In the early seventeenth century, Garcilaso de la Vega (cited in Bray 2015b, 7) provided a long list of objects which could be wak’a or a “sacred thing”. Most importantly, Garcilaso explained that the Inka did not call them wak’as because they worshiped them like gods but rather because wak’as provided benefits for the community. This is the earliest indication that wak’as have agency. Recent research has been focusing on the materiality and agency of wak’as within a native Andean ontology that privileges a relational perspective (Bray 2015a; Jennings and Swenson 2018). Wak’as were able to speak, hear, and communicate – among themselves and with human persons; they could further own property and land. In sum, wak’as are not representations of something else but animated active agents in themselves. They have their personalities, can own physical properties, grant or deny favors, and lose their powers. Thus, when selecting, carving, and interacting with rock art, the Inka engaged with non-human beings.

masses and volumes. This implies that the technique of carving out stone constitutes a form of interrogation into the rocky substance; we will return to this point later on. This contribution will interrogate relations between these rock art niches and the Inka, the local Lupaqa people, as well as specific landscape features. I posit that the high visibility of these large carvings and of the lake created geopolitical as well as ontological networks between humans and landscape features, always present in the daily movements of local people, which connected the present with the past along various lines of evidence, and which explain local residents’ ongoing engagement with the rock art. 9.2. The rock art sites On the Kollasuyu road in the southern Titicaca Basin, the Bebedero complex is one outcrop sculpted in the geometric Inka style (Figure 9.7). It is a carved sandstone ridge located about 8 km north of Juli and on the west side of the road. Here the modern road and the Inka Kollasuyu road closely overlap (Hyslop 1984, 123). The carvings consist of vertical and horizontal cuts forming shallow planes and seats, a stairway leading to the top of the rock, and a thin vertical channel after which the outcrop is named – bebedero meaning drinking trough. The tower on top is of recent date. One seat is conspicuously larger, so that it would accommodate multiple individuals and directly faces the road; the carved channel descends nearby.

The stone substance itself was part of the Andean-wide mountain setting towering in many snow-covered peaks/ nevados whom the Inka revered as potent ancestors. Most of the animating force of Inka rock art was channeled through these mountain beings. The compelling work of Peter Gose (2018) has shown that the ontological qualities of mountains were not timeless but shifted over time, a point that will become relevant in the discussion. Into the eighteenth century, ancestors and their mummies constituted the active animating agents in the Andean landscape. Mountains would contain the ancestors’ places of emergence (paqarinas) and return, i.e. tombs, and could be shaped by them physically as well as conceptually. As pressures from the Spanish campaigns to eradicate idolatry, including ancestral mummy cults, intensified, Andean people replaced mummies with the actual mountain beings as cosmological animators.

Bebedero is mentioned in historical documents: Ephraim George Squier, a self-educated American traveler in the nineteenth century, was told that the sculpted seats were known as the Inka’s Chair, a resting-place of the Inka on his travels and pilgrimages, where local people paid their respects to him and brought him chicha (Andean fermented maize beer) (Arkush 2005, 241, n. 7). In 1928, Alberto Cuentas wrote that some of his consultants believed that Bebedero was the place where the Inka and Lupaqa first celebrated their alliance with chicha (Arkush 2005, 241, n. 7).

Spanish writers have documented human interactions with certain wak’as, from which we may cautiously derive interactions with rock art by analogy. For example, Cobo and Ramos Gavilán (1887; 1988 [1621]) describe how the Inka dressed the rock sanctuary on the Island of the Sun in gold plates on the side facing the plaza and with the finest tapestry cloth (qumpi) on the side facing the lake. By analogy only, it is possible to imagine the sites with the niches (under discussion) as having been decorated and dressed in similar ways. Direct written references are lacking. This contribution discusses a less common type of Inka rock art in the form of large niches cut into bedrock walls near the Kollasuyu road in the southern Lake Titicaca Basin. While the Inka included a few niches at rock art sites with predominant seats, steps, and platforms (for example, Laqo in the eastern hills above Cusco), the sites under discussion here only display large-sized niches. The techniques of carving out niches and shaping steps and platforms from the bedrock with vertical and horizontal cuts employ opposing notions of positive and negative

Figure 9.7. Bebedero carved rock outcrop (adapted from Arkush 2005, 228, fig. 14.16).

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Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin I concur with Arkush (2005, 227–229) that this is the kind of tampu (way station on Inka roads) with wak’a we would expect to find on an Inka state pilgrimage road: the vertical and horizontal cuts shaped the outcrop into a wak’a in a visual language that reflected the presence of the Inka. The monumental seat would have served as seating area for elites who traveled the road and would have held offerings in ongoing interactions with the wak’a and the Inka. Vital liquids, such as chicha, would have been poured down the channel in related engagements with the wak’a and Pachamama, the Earth.

straight line. A local woman told me that the name of this site is Incanatawi (personal communication 2015). Kenko/Incanatawi includes a ceremonial sector, consisting of thin walkways and niches carved into a cliff face, as well as four distinct Inka period habitation sectors (Areas 1–4) (Arkush 2005, 230–236) (Figure 9.10). Four walkways are formed and retained by walls of fine, Inkastyle cellular coursed masonry clinging to the cliff face, about 10 m above the level of the plains (Figure 9.11). The masonry is extremely fine and regular for the region, with square blocks measuring approximately 35–45 cm in width and length. This cellular coursed masonry is a strong indicator of direct Inka supervision. The walkways are accessed by passing through the fields behind the front ridge. A set of steps cut into the rock leads through a gap in the ridge to its northeast face, where the main walkway begins. The latter has three raised sections or platforms progressively increasing in length. Three large rectangular niches are carved into the rock face along the walkway. One of them is incomplete; in addition, two groups of hollows on the rock face suggest early stages of two more unfinished niches (Figure 9.12). Arkush (2005, 232) did not find ceramics or lithic artifacts on the walkways. She and colleagues did encounter locally produced ceramics from domestic occupations and stone agricultural tools on the surface of habitation sectors 2–4. Area 1 stands out by a dense scatter of fine Inka ceramics. The stairway to enter the ceremonial sector is accessed through this area. One of Arkush’s (2005, 234) consultants mentioned a stone gateway which stood at the beginning of the Inka stairs. Gateways were common features in Inka architecture to restrict access and mark spatial boundaries; for example, Cobo and Ramos describe three gateways at the final destination of the pilgrimage to the Island of the Sun as pilgrims approached the sanctuary.

The second carving of interest is Altarani, situated about 2 km away. Unlike Bebedero, it is found at a distance away from the modern and assumed Inka road. It is found on undulating rock outcroppings with a cliff face into which a 7 m tall and 8 m wide vertical plane has been carved (Figures 9.8, 9.9). This central section is outlined by one deep groove on each side and another groove on top, the upper edge of which projects out, giving the impression of an unfinished ‘lintel’ or thick T-shape. In the middle of the outlined section is a carved blind doorway measuring 1.9 x 1.1 m in a rough T-shape. Two smaller and less defined planes flank this central section, extending the total width of the carving to 14 m. The side plane on the right (when facing the carving) appears unfinished suggesting that the site was abandoned while the carvings were in process (Stanish 2003, 274, 305, n. 12). In 1998, Elizabeth Arkush (2005, 229) found one additional feature: a low rock outcrop to the east with abstract signs of small holes or cupules. Arkush (2005, 229) and Stanish et al. (2005) conclude that the Altarani carving is Late Horizon or Inka in date. This conclusion is based primarily on the visual resemblance to the geometric Inka carving style at Bebedero and in the heartland. There are no associated material artifacts or radiocarbon dates which might confirm that Altarani was sculpted by the Inka. Other researchers, like Hyslop, have offered different interpretations (cited by Stanish 2003, 274). I treat Altarani as one monumental local example of rock art which was clearly worked on by the Inka but may have had earlier versions associated with the cliff face. The Inka commonly co-opted local wak’as in conquered territories by cultivating them into a geometric Inka-style order. Local wak’as were typically of modest size and had limited modifications or carvings (with the exception of the Yaya-Mama religious tradition c. 500 BC to AD 200). The lack of precise data invites new inquiry regarding the case-specific interactions between the Inka, the Lupaqa, local wak’as, stone formations, the road, and the lake (see below).

I concur with Arkush (2005, 236) that two factors were important to the Inka in this site selection: 1. The plain view of Lake Titicaca where the Islands of the Sun and Moon as the region of their origins are situated. 2. The geology of the cliff, which facilitated the construction of the walkways and niches, could have functioned as a stage background for political and ritual performances clearly visible from the fields below (Area 4). This setting combined restricted elite access to the stage with a larger public viewing area. Location, place, and material data suggest that Kenko has been a small settlement of farmers from the Late Intermediate Period until today. The older, possibly Late Intermediate Period occupation has been documented in Areas 2 and 3 behind the ceremonial cliff, on terraced strips of land featuring two simple tomb structures. The Inka turned the cliff face into an elite wak’a of the state marked by monumental rock art and coursed masonry with a public viewing area (see Figure 9.10).

The third carved rock site is known as Kenko. It is located in the environs of Puno, Comunidad Ccopamaya, Parcialidad Kencco, about 1 km from the shores of Lake Titicaca, on the eastern edge of a range of hills east of the plains between Acora and Ilave. It is reached by taking an unpaved 15 km lake detour from the modern and presumed Inka road which links Acora and Ilave in a 171

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Figure 9.8. Altarani carved rock outcrop, full view (photograph by the author, 2015).

9.3. Discussion 9.3.1. Rock art among the Lupaqa and Inka I will now analyze more closely the historical layers of engagements and interactions between human agents, the Inka and Lupaqa, the beings of rock formations, stone wak’as, the earth and the waters of the lake as well as the Kollasuyu road and local foot trails. How did wak’as come to be located in these specific places? How did they change the social relations between people, the land, and natural features? In which ways did notions of movement and direction alter geopolitical networks? What was the role of visibility, permanence versus transiency in reference to rock art and within the cultural landscape? I will approach this inquiry through the tropes of ‘Rock and Rule’ and ‘Rock and Reciprocity’4 (sensu Dean 2010, 65–142). Bebedero clearly falls under ‘Rock and Rule’: it is positioned on the Kollasuyu road, and its carved seat and   ‘Rock and Rule’ explores how the Inka culture of stone supported the agenda as well as the sense of order of the expanding state (Dean 2010, 103). ‘Rock and Reciprocity’ analyzes the reciprocal and complementary relationship the Inka maintained with the natural environment through stone. In such relationships, rock became a vehicle for and a visual articulation of communication between the Inka and their territory (Dean 2010, 65) 4

Figure 9.9. Altarani, smaller niche with central hole inside the monumental niche (photograph by the author, 2015).

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Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin platforms suggest practical functions as a rest station and area for depositing cargo. The carved channel would have served for pouring liquids in libation rituals. In essence, Bebedero was a state-sponsored wak’a on the Inka pilgrimage route along the Kollasuyu road. Its geometric rock art signaled the presence of the Inka state. It was truly intrusive in the sense that the Inka made a new wak’a; there is no evidence of an earlier empowered site. Bebedero flanks the road, and its natural rock setting aligns with the northwest to southeast flow of the road. The primary reason for selecting this outcrop and turning it into a wak’a was surely the road context. The carving process would have been initiated by Inka officials. Even though the rock surface is quite weathered today, the geometry of the seats is clearly recognizable. This style follows Cusco models. The actual carvers were likely local Lupaqa artisans who worked under Inka supervision. They would also have known nearer models in the stonework of Tiwanaku. Tiwanaku was the great Middle Horizon center (ca. AD 500–1100) near the southern end of Lake Titicaca; its monumental buildings exhibit ashlar masonry of large cut stone blocks and surfaces with geometric sculptural decoration. Tiwanaku stonework was admired and imitated by the Inka. The degree to which Tiwanaku influenced Inka rock art and the specific examples in the Titicaca Basin under discussion is difficult to extrapolate from archaeology and ethnography.

Figure 9.10. Kenko, distant view and site plan (adapted from Arkush 2005, 231, fig. 14.20).

Figure 9.11. Kenko, walkways supported by Inka coursed masonry and one of the complete niches (photograph by the author, 2015).

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Figure 9.12. Kenko, walkway retained by coursed masonry and two incomplete niches below (photograph by the author, 2015).

The contexts of Altarani and Kenko are different. They are situated near but not on the Kollasuyu road. Carved niches are found in the Inka heartland near Cusco but not of the monumental size of Altarani nor of the hollowedout concave form at Kenko. They will be discussed along the lines of Dean’s (2010, 65–102) perspective of ‘Rocks and Reciprocity’. In Inka ontology of the landscape, rock art manifested ayni, a relationship of reciprocity, of receiving and taking, between the Inka and wak’as of mountainous outcrops. Rock art visualized the borderline of engagement where the Inka left markings in the natural surfaces of stone. Rock art, as well as architecture and agricultural terraces, were materializations of the Inka civilizing mission, bestowed on them by the Sun in Lake Titicaca (as discussed above), to bring the world under a new order.

We must caution that the rock art at Altarani was most likely made not by Inka artisans alone. Tiwanaku influence probably played a role but the exact process cannot be specified beyond visual resemblances. The cliff at Altarani may well have been an ancient wak’a long before the Inka and Spanish invasions and was modified by local groups over time, including the Lupaqa in the Altiplano/ Late Intermediate Period. The small rock outcrop covered by cupules found by Arkush (see above) is one instance of such ongoing site modifications. These physical modifications were accompanied by social activities and continuing engagements with the other-than-human social agents in landscape features. Without doubt, the Inka left the most forceful and geometric impressions on the cliff face. Kenko might be seen as another tour-de-force impact on the mountain; there is, however, a greater play of reciprocity through gradations and levels of stonework. It is an integrated outcrop or tiqsirumi (Dean 2010, 88–89) where the architectural and sculpted meet the natural environments, and where tamed and untamed nature touch. Backed by a Quechua oral narrative, Dean (2010, 89) views Inka structures that incorporate living rock as sites of marriage between the Inka and the Earth/rock made visible, and structures that grow from the outcrop

The specific example of Altarani is all monumental, worked stone surface. Here, the Inka or possibly earlier craftsmen affiliated with Tiwanaku, modified the cliff aggressively and on a monumental scale. A notion of complementary reciprocity is minimal. The Inka seem to have taken the land with great force. In a manner similar to Wiraqocha, who caused the mountain Kinsich’ata to erupt as volcano (see above), the Inka altered the face of the mountain at Altarani. 174

Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin as children of this union. Taking this perspective, Inka presence at Kenko would have been fruitful in the sense of increasing resources. This is partly confirmed by the agricultural land which still stretches between the Kenko cliffs and the lakeside.

Unlike the Pacific Ocean on the north coast (see Weismantel 2018), Lake Titicaca appears calm, glassy, and transparent most of the time, at least in the dry season. But winds can build up later in the day and at night and churn the waters. I myself have experienced waves so high that they threaten to capsize the small transport motor boats.

Further, the rock art of carved niches at Altarani and Kenko was sculpted into tall and fairly smooth cliff walls facing Lake Titicaca, the empowered region of origins of the Sun and Moon, of the Inka dynasty, and Andean peoples in general. A clear link of visibility was established between the rock art and the lake; this view reached beyond the road to the watery horizon line of these ancestral waters (Figure 9.13). At about 3810 m a.s.l., Lake Titicaca is the highest large lake in the world. Local residents as well as visitors have surely felt humbled by its size, extension, and resources (freshwater fish, totora reed along the southern shores, navigable to large vessels). The lake occupies the low point of the Andean Altiplano and is fed by the rivers, glaciers, and runoff from the higher altitude mountains. In the Andean hydrological cycle, it exists as collector of the life-giving liquids the mountain beings dispense. Out of these waters on the Islands of the Sun and Moon, the Sun, the Inka and all human ancestors first emerged and came into being.

With regard to the line of sight from west to east, any ritual activities would have been performed communications between the rock art niches and the lake. In the broader context of the road and movement running from northwest to southeast, I argue that these rock art sites functioned as a static counterpoint to the fluid traffic in the landscape of motion of the Kollasuyu road into which Bebedero, on the other hand, was integrated. At Altarani and Kenko, time pauses and is reflected in the ancestral past of the Lake Titicaca waters. 9.3.2. Rock art today Ethnographic consultations in 2015 showed an ongoing engagement by the local people, who are Lupaqa descendants, with the Altarani rock art niches known as Wilka Uta or Puerta del Diablo. In early August 2015, I asked a family who had prayed at the central niche why this place was worthy of worship. They told me that during Inka times, the state extracted tribute all over the region. A group of wise men or priests wanted to protect their disk of knowledge. They inserted it into the center hole of the carved niche. This is why the rock wall emits energy and wisdom (personal communication with local family, 2015) (Figures 9.9, 9.14).

In a provocative article, Mary Weismantel (2018) discusses the element of water as an agentive wak’a with whom people on the north coast of Peru wrestled during the periodic, fertilizing as well as destructive, El Nino floods. Deriving her evidence from the authoritative Huarochiri manuscript, full of rich stories about powerful, other-thanhuman actors who could take on multiple bodily forms, she reasons that the element of water could also become a wak’a in the sense of the Huarochiri manuscript. Very importantly, in its context, the primary form of humanwak’a relation is affinal (Weismantel 2018, 190). On one level, the relation between the Inka and the Sacred Rock on the Island of the Sun was consanguineal: Inka dynastic ancestors were called forth by the Sun from rock openings; similar empowered rock outcrops were known in the heartland. On a second level, the Sacred Rock and its island are floating on Lake Titicaca, a waterbody of a size and vastness unknown in the heartland. The Inka had to enter into taming relations with this unknown wak’a to be reckoned with. Relating back to the Huarochiri manuscript, such a relation would have been affinal. Its tales speak of unpredictable, shape-shifting, male social beings who enter into marriage with human communities. Their contributions can be fruitful as well as destructive. The concept of marriage and need to reproduce brings potentially dangerous strangers into the heart of the family. In the Huarochiri document, conquest is seen parallel to marriage as powerful masculine wak’as from the highlands take less-powerful lowland human women (Weismantel 2018, 191–192). The Inka conquest of the Titicaca Basin might be added as another parallel when the Inka aimed to enter into the geopolitical wak’a network of the region as affines. Ritual negotiations of this nature may have been performed in front of the rock art niches.

Other more popular stories view the carved niche as a door which can swallow up people, a place of very bad energy. For example, a band of musicians was once traveling through the countryside. A man on horseback asked them to play for his fiesta and promised to pay them. They agreed and he opened the door at the Wilka Uta niche. All but one entered. This one man had to go pee and when he wanted to follow, the door was shut with stone. He was very sad and looked for his friends but he could never find them again (shared by my driver Juan who had heard this story from local people). The first narrative binds the Inka past to the present and constructs Altarani/Wilka Uta as a place of Lupaqa resistance against the Inka. The rock art, modified and/ or carved by the Inka, is turned into the receptacle of Lupaqa traditional wisdom which is hidden from Inka eyes but continues to be accessed today. Its power and energy are timeless. Thus Altarani/Wilka Uta started out as a wak’a selected by the Inka. In a secondary relational network, the Lupaqa made the niche their active guardian of traditional wisdom who continues to interact with local people through time. While Inka occupation has dissolved, this Lupaqa wak’a dispenses help to an ethnic rural, impoverished minority in the modern nation state of Peru (Figure 9.15). 175

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Figure 9.13. Kenko, view toward Lake Titicaca (photograph by the author, 2015).

Figure 9.14. Altarani, family praying at the niches (photograph by the author, 2015).

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Rock Art on the Inka Pilgrimage Route in the Titicaca Basin Tiwanaku, and far away regions in the southeast of the Inka empire. Bebedero was carved in the geometric style of the heartland to serve as a tampu/rest station on this vital transportation artery. Altarani and Kenko, on the other hand, lie outside this imperial landscape of motion. The Inka modified and/or carved them as rock art wak’as directed to the local Lupaqa people and to Lake Titicaca. I have documented how Altarani/Wilka Uta has been re-appropriated and redefined by the Lupaqa as a place of resistance and local wisdom which continues to be consulted today. Other consultations show that local people view the niches at Kenko (and likely Altarani) as eyes of the Inka who watches over them and out on the lake. Referring back to Gose (2018) and Sillar (2018), the Inka came with the force and power of Wiraqocha capable of altering mountains and cliff faces. Local residents today, on the other hand, view cliffs, peaks and mountain ridges as apus or empowered beings per se or in themselves to whom they bring their modest gifts and offerings to petition for their wellbeing. Figure 9.15. Altarani, traditional offering of three coca leaves (photograph by the author, 2015).

As a final point, Bebedero, Altarani, and Kenko in their landscape of motion can be brought in perspective through comparison with a fascinating study of rock art in southern Peru by Justin Jennings et al. (2018). The authors track petroglyphs, geoglyphs, cairns, painted cobbles, and architecture to trace human movement through the Ocona, Majes, and Sihuas valleys up through the Pacific Piedmont into the Cordillera Negra, following a west-east direction. Up-valley travel is intersected by north-south trails which run across the Pacific Piedmont pampa. Many of the rock art as well as larger sites are found at such intersections. Jennings et al. (2018, 417) place the trail network and accompanying rock art under the pan-Andean umbrella of circulating life forces kept in motion by the moral imperative of reciprocity between kin and ethnic groups and different ecological zones as well as by the notion of a proper cosmological order maintained through the flow of goods, shaped during the Late Intermediate Period. As we have seen, Inka rock art in the Titicaca Basin was not part of a steady, circulatory model of life forces. Rather, movement was very much one-directional and state-driven from Cusco to the southeast, following an agenda of conquest and expansion. At the same time, though, there was ideological movement, the spread of ideas, identities, and validation, from the sites of origin in Lake Titicaca back to the heartland. Inka rock art played its role in both directions of movement.

Kenko might have been seen as an affiliate wak’a or a partitive aspect of Altarani/Wilka Uta. Another quality of wak’as is that they are not persons in the familiar sense of Western individuals but rather multi-authored, distributed, pluralistic agents defined on the basis of what they do rather than how they appear (Bray 2015b, 10). I have no ethnographic consultations with residents in the Comunidad Ccopamaya to confirm this. Nevertheless, one woman who lives in one of the houses below the Kenko cliffs clearly said that the name of the site is Incanatawi. This term may well contain the Quechua word nawi referring to the ‘eyes’ and ‘vision’ (see above). I think this reinforces the assumption that local residents look up to the niches and view them as eyes of the Inka who watches over them and overlooks the lake. 9.4. Conclusions I have sketched out the rich and multi-layered ontological network which connected the Inka with the Lupaqa people and their present descendants, the heartland of Cusco with the Lake and Basin of Titicaca, and their otherthan-human social agents present in the mountains, stony outcrops, and water bodies of their spectacular highland landscapes. Inka rock art and stone work in the form of vertical and horizontal cuts, niches, and cellular coursed masonry were marks of the state through which the Inka entered this dynamic moving field of players and forces in the Titicaca Basin.

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Contributors Ana M. S. Bettencourt is Professor with a habilitation degree in prehistoric archaeology and Director of the PhD programme in archaeology at the University of Minho, Braga, Portugal. She has been invited to lecture at several foreign universities in, among others, Spain and France. Her main research interests are: prehistoric burial contexts and practices, rock art and metallurgy and mining in the Iberian Peninsula. She published numerous books, book chapters and articles on these subjects, and developed, as a principal investigator or researcher, several projects with international funding.

and projects related to tourism and cultural heritage. From 2005 to 2021, she worked as a museum senior technician in Sociedade Martins Sarmento, Guimarães, Portugal. Paz Casanova is an independent conservator-restorer in Chile. She received her BS in Arts from the Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile in 1998, and finalised a postgraduate specialisation in Cultural Heritage Conservation-Restoration from the Universidad de Chile in 2002. In 2019, she also obtained an MS degree in Virtual Heritage from the Universidad de Alicante, Spain. Currently, she works in the management and conservation of archaeological collections and sites in northern Chile. Her main research and professional field of work focuses on 3D documentation and conservation-restoration of rock art sites. In addition, she has also collaborated in management plans for cultural heritage, such as the Chinchorro Culture settlements and geoglyphs.

Luis Briones † (19 December 1939 – 17 February 2021). An art professor and painter, Luis Briones dedicated his life to the study, preservation and dissemination of the geoglyphs of northern Chile. In his explorations throughout the Atacama Desert in northern Chile, he discovered and recorded hundreds of geoglyphs, analysing them from an artistic and spatial perspective, especially in relation to pre-Columbian routes and trails. He led the preservation, enhancement and restoration programme of geoglyphs in northern Chile during the 1970s and 1980s and published several scientific, education and public outreach books and articles on geoglyphs and caravan routes. In recognition of his contribution to cultural heritage conservation, he received numerous awards, including the Award for the Conservation of Chilean Cultural Heritage in 2012. Formerly, he was professor at the Departamento de Antropología, Universidad de Tarapacá, Arica, Chile. After retiring, he was still engaged in research until the last day of his life, before passing away suddenly. As was his wish, his ashes are scattered on the desert hillsides overlooking the geoglyphs of the Atacama Desert.

In her work, Jessica Joyce Christie has always been multi-disciplinary approaching visual culture through methodologies from art history, archaeology, and anthropology. Rock art precisely fits into this niche as it materializes visual form in landscape settings. Her Master’s thesis at the University of Texas in Austin, USA, explored the Pecos pictographs in West Texas. On the doctoral level, her focus shifted toward the ancient Maya and performance space of their Period Ending ceremonies. During her career as professor at East Carolina University (Greenville, USA), she has published about Maya palaces and elite residences. Since 2009, she has turned toward landscape studies. Her book Memory Landscapes of the Inka Sculpted Outcrops (2016) brought Inka carved rock complexes to life from before the Spanish invasion to the present. Whereas the sites discussed in this book are centered near Cusco, Jessica Christie has also been exploring related Inka rock art sites in the periphery. Her current work has been shifting toward the topics raised in her new book, Earth Politics and Intangible Heritage: Three Case Studies in the Americas (University Press of Florida, 2021), and toward Hawai`i through a similar lens.

Daniela Cardoso graduated in archaeology from the Instituto Politécnico de Tomar, Portugal. In 2002, she obtained her Diplôme d’Études Approfondies (DEA) in “Quaternaire: Géologie, Paléontolongie Humaine, Préhistoire” at Institut de Paléontologie Humaine (Paris, France), and, in 2015, her PhD in “Quaternary Material and Cultures” at Universidade de Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro, Vila Real, Portugal. During her PhD studies, she participated as a collaborator in the project “TEMPOAR II” in the group “Quaternário e Pré-História do Centro de Geociências (u.ID73 – FCT)”, and as a researcher in the projects “Natural Spaces, Architectures, Rock Carvings and Depositions of the Late Prehistory of Western Facade of the Central-Northern Portugal: From Agencies to Meanings – ENARDAS” and “Rota da Arte Rupestre do Noroeste (RAR Project Lab2PTOct2014)”. As a researcher at the Center for Geosciences of the University of Coimbra (CGeo) and the Landscape, Heritage and Territory Laboratory (Lab2pt), she focuses her research on rock art

Marta Crespo is an archaeologist specialised in digital visualisation, 3D virtualisation and geospatial informatics technologies in cultural heritage. Her main research interests are the development and application of 3D surveying techniques for modelling landscapes, archaeological sites and objects. She has worked on several projects dedicated to the documentation, enhancement, management and dissemination of cultural heritage. Her research interests also include the use of new technologies for documentation, modelling and virtualisation of cultural heritage. 181

Rock Art in the Landscapes of Motion Frank Förster studied Egyptology, classical archaeology and prehistoric archaeology at the University of Cologne, Germany, where he earned his Master of Arts in 1998. In 2011, he earned his PhD with a thesis on the Abu Ballas Trail, a Pharaonic donkey-caravan route in the Libyan Desert. He has worked in Egypt since 1995, participating, among others, in excavations of the German Archaeological Institute in Cairo at Buto/Tell el-Fara’in (1996–1999) and at various sites in Egypt’s Western Desert, the latter within the scope of the interdisciplinary Collaborative Research Centre 389 ACACIA (2002–2007). His research interests have focused on Predynastic and Early Dynastic Egypt, Pharaonic trade and economy, rock art of various periods, sports in ancient Egypt, and the archaeology of desert roads. Between 2009 and 2015, he held a position as research assistant at the University of Cologne (Wadi Sura Project), and was responsible for the computer-aided recording and analysis of the prehistoric rock art in the ‘Cave of Beasts’ (Gilf Kebir, SW-Egypt). Since 2016, he has been curator of the Egyptian Museum at the University of Bonn, Germany.

enterprise “Ergo Culture Human Traces” (ECHT). As a member of ECHT, he is responsible for the organization and implementation of both national and European funded projects dedicated to the enhancement, promotion and management of cultural heritage sites, e.g. “Lighting of Four Medieval Castles in Cyprus: Pafos, Kolossi, Limassol & Larnaka” (EU Commission/Department of Antiquities of Cyprus, 2016). Pablo Mendez-Quiros is an archaeologist dedicated to the study of farming communities in the Atacama Desert in South America. His main research focus is on mobility and territorial articulation in the past through the analysis of Andean road networks. Currently, he works at the Departamento de Prehistoria, Universidad Autónoma de Barcelona, Spain. Indira Montt received her BA degree in archaeology from the Universidad de Chile, and her MA and PhD in anthropology from the Universidad Católica del Norte and Universidad de Tarapacá, Chile. Since 2010, she has been the head of the archaeological department of the Museo Histórico Arqueológico de Quillota, focused on the management of archaeological collections and the dissemination of the prehistory and cultures of central Chile. She has developed her research for more than 20 years in the Atacama Desert in northern Chile, participating in several projects funded by the National Fund for Scientific and Technological Development (FONDECYT). Her research interests and publications have focused on social archaeology, corporealities and embodiment in rock art, and artificially treated bodies of the Chinchorro culture.

Gernot Grube, Dr. phil., is an independent scholar, who lives in Berlin and São Paulo. His university background is philosophy and computer science with main interests in semantics and artificial intelligence. From 2001 to 2007 he was a member of the interdisciplinary research group “Bild Schrift Zahl” at the Hermann von Helmholtz Centre for Cultural Techniques at Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin. In 2011, he received a fellowship of the “Collegium for the Advanced Study of Picture Act and Embodiment” (founded by Horst Bredekamp and John Michael Krois). Until 2018, he was associated member of the Cluster of Excellence “Image Knowledge Gestaltung” at HumboldtUniversität zu Berlin. Since 2008, his focus has been on social epistemology, symbol theories and Palaeolithic art. He is currently working on an approach for a cross-cultural view of images. A monograph on this subject entitled A Cross-Cultural View of Picasso’s Guernica and its Iconic Twins is in preparation.

José Moreira obtained his MA degree in Archaeology from the University of Minho, Braga (Portugal) in 2018. Since then, he has been involved in various fieldwork activities related to commercial archaeology. Since 2020, he has been a PhD scholarship holder of the Foundation for Science and Technology (reference no. 2020.04732. BD) at the History Department of the University of Minho, Braga. His research focuses on rock art in northern Portugal, particularly on podomorphs.

Giorgos Iliadis graduated from Aristotle University of Thessaloniki in Greece, Department of Theology, Sector of Science, History and Phenomenology of Religion. In 2007, he defended his Master’s thesis entitled The figure of the horseman in Philippi Rock Art in Eastern Macedonia (Erasmus Mundus Master in Prehistoric Archaeology and Rock Art, IPT/UTAD – Portugal). His research is focused on the study of prehistoric and protohistoric rock art in northern Greece and the Aegean Sea. He has more than 10 years experience in the development and implementation of rock art projects in the region of Eastern Macedonia as well as the region of Evros in northern Greece, e.g. “Prehistoric & Contemporary Interventions in the Landscape, Rock Art & Land Art” (Department of Fine Arts of Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, 2012); “Rock Art in the Region of Evros” (Northern Greece, 2014); “Documenting Rock Art in the Island of Thassos, North Aegean Sea” (Department of Antiquities of KavalaThassos, 2019). He is a founding member of the social

George H. Nash is an Associate Professor at the Geosciences Centre of Coimbra University (u. ID73FCT), Earth and Memory Institute (ITM) in Portugal. He has undertaken extensive fieldwork on prehistoric rock art and mobility art in Denmark, Indonesia, Israel, Malaysia, Norway, Sardinia, Spain, Sweden and Wales. Between 1994 and 1997, he directed excavations at the La Hougue Bie passage grave in Jersey, one of Europe’s largest Neolithic monuments, and has directed preliminary excavations at Westminster Hall, London. He has also written and edited many books on prehistoric art and monumentality including Status, Exchange and Mobility: Mesolithic. In addition to fieldwork and research, George Nash has also written and presented programmes on European rock art and contemporary graffiti for the BBC. He later undertook fieldwork in Brazil and central 182

Contributors Chile, which culminated in a co-edited volume on South American rock art, published by Routledge in 2018. George Nash is currently involved in the Origins Project in the Arabian Peninsula, undertaking fieldwork in the United Arab Emirates and southern Jordan, mapping the movement of early modern humans.

Chile. He is also completing his PhD thesis in anthropology at the Department of Anthropology, University College London. His current research is devoted to the analysis and comparison of the rhythms of traditional and religious dances in the central Peruvian Andes. Since 2008, his research interests have focused on the production of material culture and the anthropology of art, as well as on aspects of time, techniques and landscapes in pre-Hispanic South America. He has participated in the development and organization of international and national conferences, and in the edition of special volumes devoted to the study of rock art.

Paweł Lech Polkowski, PhD (2015, University of Poznań, Poland), is in charge of the Rock Art Unit at the Poznań Archaeological Museum and a researcher at the Polish Centre of Mediterranean Archaeology, University of Warsaw. He is Director of the Dakhleh Oasis Project and its Petroglyph Unit. He specialises in Egyptian and Nubian rock art studies, as well as in archaeological theory. Paweł L. Polkowski is currently carrying out a project financed by the Polish National Science Centre, entitled “Rocks in Motion. Research on the Dakhleh Oasis petroglyphs in the context of paths, roads, and mobility” (2016/23/D/ HS3/00805). He is also a member of the University of Warsaw mission to Miseeda in the Third Nile Cataract region in Sudan. His next publication is a forthcoming edited volume entitled Stone Canvas: Towards a better integration of ‘rock art’ and ‘graffiti’ studies in Egypt and Sudan (Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale). Thibault Saintenoy investigates past territorial dynamics in the Andean area, with an emphasis on the history of socio-ecological systems and landscapes in mountainous regions. His interests also lie in uses of the past today in the field of cultural heritage. Kate E. Sharpe is a researcher at Durham University, England. Her work has three key strands which often overlap: investigating the use of stone in prehistoric Britain – including megaliths, stone tools and, primarily, rock art; using digital heritage to improve understanding and awareness of the ancient past; and copy-editing and writing about archaeology. Her doctoral dissertation, the starting point for her chapter in this volume, explored the rock art of Cumbria in northern England, and its relationships both with the landscape and with other monuments. Daniela Valenzuela has degrees in archaeology (BA, Universidad de Chile, 2001) and anthropology (MA, Universidad de Tarapacá, 2007; PhD, Universidad Católica del Norte, 2013). She is currently a full professor at the Universidad de Tarapacá in Arica (Chile). She has developed research on rock art, covering subjects such as style, chronology and the social contexts of production and use of art. In recent years, she has focused her research on the study of human and animal interactions in the past, bringing together different lines of evidence from an interdisciplinary perspective. Results of her past and ongoing studies, funded by national and international agencies, have been published in scientific journals in collaboration with an interdisciplinary team of senior and junior researchers, as well as students. Francisco Vergara Murua is currently lecturer at the School of Archaeology of the Universidad Austral de 183

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‘This is new data in an emerging and promising field of research. The issues and case studies are effectively placed within a wider theoretical and geographic context. I particularly like the connection between place, road and pathways.’ Professor Claire Smith, Flinders University ‘This intriguing anthology investigates one of the many paradoxes of rock art: how thorough analyses of emplaced artworks in the landscape can be used to reveal insights into people’s movements. It presents an enjoyable global exploration that will take the reader on an odyssey into people’s mindscapes. It’s a must-read!’ Professor Joakim Goldhahn, University of Western Australia

This volume presents a collection of papers focusing on the dynamic relationship between rock art, movement and the surrounding landscape. The contributors offer a wide range of theoretical perspectives from broad geographical and chronological contexts, encompassing case studies from three continents, and spanning a timeline from the European Palaeolithic to the Colonial Period of South America. The diverse approaches and contexts converge over themes of movement, motion and mobility – all inherent to rock art and its production.

Paweł L. Polkowski (PhD 2015, Adam Mickiewicz University Poznań) leads the Rock Art Unit in the Poznań Archaeological Museum and is a researcher at the University of Warsaw, Poland. He is director of the Dakhleh Oasis Project and its Petroglyph Unit. He specialises in Egyptian and Nubian rock art studies, as well as in archaeological theory. Frank Förster (PhD 2011, University of Cologne) is an Egyptologist currently working as curator of the Egyptian Museum at the University of Bonn, Germany. His research interests include Predynastic and Early Dynastic Egypt, pharaonic trade and economy, rock art, sports in ancient Egypt, and the archaeology of desert roads. Contributors: Ana M. S. Bettencourt, Luis Briones (†), Daniela Cardoso, Paz Casanova, Jessica Joyce Christie, Marta Crespo, Frank Förster, Gernot Grube, Giorgos Iliadis, Pablo Mendez-Quiros, Indira Montt, José Moreira, George H. Nash, Paweł L. Polkowski, Thibault Saintenoy, Kate E. Sharpe, Daniela Valenzuela, Francisco Vergara Murua

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