Coming to Senses : Topics in Sensory Archaeology [1 ed.] 9781443883900, 9781443874236

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Coming to Senses

Coming to Senses Topics in Sensory Archaeology Edited by

José Roberto Pellini, Andrés Zarankin and Melisa A. Salerno

Coming to Senses: Topics in Sensory Archaeology Edited by José Roberto Pellini, Andrés Zarankin and Melisa A. Salerno This book first published 2015 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2015 by José Roberto Pellini, Andrés Zarankin, Melisa A. Salerno and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-7423-X ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-7423-6

TABLE OF CONTENTS

List of Illustrations .................................................................................... vii Acknowledgements .................................................................................... ix Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Letters from a Past Present José Roberto Pellini, Andrés Zarankin and Melisa A. Salerno Chapter One ............................................................................................... 11 Archaeology of a Tear: Delusions in a Tent in a Stormy Day in Antarctica Andrés Zarankin Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 21 When the Cows Come Home: A Consideration of the Sensorial Engagement between Pastoralists and their Cattle Julie Dunne Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 39 Remembering through the Senses: The Funerary Practices in Ancient Egypt José Roberto Pellini Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 65 J.T. Robinson’s Use of a Psychic for Archaeological Research at Sterkfontein Caves, South Africa Michael A. Cremo Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 77 Sealers were not Born but Made: Sensory-Motor Habits, Subjectivities, and Nineteenth-Century Voyages to the South Shetland Islands Melisa A. Salerno

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Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 105 Touching the Past: The Senses of Things for Local Communities in Amazonia, Brazil Marcia Bezerra Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 119 Sensing the Past: The Sensorial Experience in Experiential Archaeology by Augmenting the Perception of Materiality Dragoú Gheorghiu Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 141 Feeling the Roman Skin: Unsettled, Conformed, and Plural Bodies Lourdes Conde Feitosa and Pedro Paulo Funari Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 157 Making Sense out of the Senses: Thingness, Writing, and Time Alejandro Haber Comments ................................................................................................ 173 “I have a feeling that something is going to happen!” But with archaeology? José Alberione Dos Reis Contributors ............................................................................................. 187

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

1-1 Archaeological map of the South Shetland Islands (Antarctica) showing the location of archaeological sites 1-2 Binford’s ghost in my tent 1-3 …inside my tent, Elephant Point, Livingston Island, January 2014 2-1 Image of Nuer cattle, taken by Evans-Pritchard, showing mottled markings 2-2 A herd bull displaying the broadside threat 3-1 A barbecue at Medinet Habu 3-2 The smell of a memory 3-3 Sensorial encounters and memory 3-4 Senses and memory in Ancient Egypt 3-5 The practice of visiting tombs in Ancient Egypt - The Beautiful Feast of Valley 4-1 Theosophist psychic Geofrey Hodson lies on the floor of the Sterkfontein Caves, with a fossil on his forehead. Nearby, J.T. Robinson sits, asking him questions and recording his answers 6-1 Dona Vera and her collection. Vila de Joanes, Marajó Island 6-2 Touching the Past. Primavera 7-1 Building a corner of a Roman villa rustica and its pyro-instruments. Vădastra 7-2 The corner of a Roman villa rustica completed 7-3 The materiality of the place augmented with colours and emphasized textures 7-4 An original Roman water reservoir used in pyro-experiments 7-5 Charcoals from the furnace for iron casting 7-6 A cart wheel positioned on a row of original Roman tegulae 7-7 Controlling the process of burning in a glass furnace at dawn 7-8 Controlling the process of burning in a glass furnace at noon 7-9 Controlling the process of burning in a glass furnace at nighttime 7-10 Controlling the process of burning in a ceramic kiln at nighttime. Vădastra, August 2012 7-11 A sheep flock passing through the villa’s courtyard. Vădastra, August 2012 7-12 An experiment on the ergonomics of the glass blowing process. Vădastra, August 2012

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7-13 Experimentalists dressed in Roman costumes performing a technological operation. Vădastra, June 2012 7-14 Experimentalists drinking water during a break. Vădastra, August 2012 8-1 Venus. Marble statue with golden decorations. Pompeii, IX, 1, 7155 8-2 Satyr and Maenad. Pompeiian fresco found inside the house of Caecilius Iucundus (V, 1, 26). National Archaeological Museum of Naples 8-3 The Grande Palestra athletics field 8-4 Pompeiian fresco of a section of the triclinium at the Casa dei Vettii (VI 15, 1). National Archaeological Museum of Naples 8-5 Emperor Nerva, 96-98 a.C. Chiaramontimuseum

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We would like to thank the participants of the symposium “Senses with Senses. The Sensorial Archaeology”, organized by José Roberto Pellini, Andrés Zarankin, and Pedro P. Funari at the Seventh World Archaeological Congress, in Jordan. This symposium has been the point of departure for this book. Thanks to the institutions that support our research projects: The National Council for Scientific and Technological Development (CNPq, Brazil), the Federal University of Sergipe (UFS, Brazil), the Federal University of Minas Gerais (UFMG, Brazil), the National Council for Scientific and Technical Research (CONICET, Argentina). We wish to thank Carol Koulikourdi and Cambridge Scholars Publishing for their interest in this volume. Finally, we would like to thank Will Lucas Silva Pena, Girleney Araujo, Jimena Cruz, and Caroline Murta Lemos for helping us with some aspects of the revision of the manuscript.

INTRODUCTION LETTERS FROM A PAST PRESENT JOSÉ ROBERTO PELLINI Laboratório de Arqueologia Sensorial Departamento de Arqueologia, Universidade Federal de Sergipe (Brazil)

ANDRÉS ZARANKIN Departamento de Antropología e Arqueologia, Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais (Brazil)

MELISA A. SALERNO Instituto Multidisciplinario de Historia y Ciencias Humanas, Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Científicas y Técnicas (Argentina)

Amazon, September 14, 1859 Dear friend Alphonso, It has been a week since we arrived. We have already landed the equipment, and we have started the walk through the forest. We cannot be far from the ruins. The problem is that none of the natives seem to understand the maps, and this is delaying the progress of the work. The people of the region do not approach space objectively; they just inhabit space and grasp it in a practical way. The sensory acuity tests for the Society of Anthropology of Paris have been conducted. I will send the tabulated results in the next few days. Our friends must be anxious. You can already share with them some of the findings. As they predicted, in the tests using dynamometer, extensometer, and algometer, the natives showed a high threshold of pain and incredible tactile precision. Meanwhile, in the tests using campimeter and ophthalmoscope, they showed a narrow visual field. The Ancient Greeks were right to say that touch was a primitive sense, very close to animality; and that sight was the

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most evolved of all senses, pretty close to contemplation and abstraction. I have difficulty communicating with local people. I only know a few words of their language, and I cannot even pronounce them. To be honest, I find it impossible to imitate their guttural sounds. Even when I use universal gestures, natives look at me with surprise. I want to be patient, but I confess that I find some of their customs irritating. The nakedness of their bodies, the complete lack of hygiene, the continuous invasion of personal space, the heightened state of alert resulting from mysterious situations… If it not were for the guide trained in London, I would be facing serious difficulties. Warm greetings to Mary. London, January 17, 1860 My dear George, I am so happy that everything is fine. I have already sent the test results to our friends in Paris. They are just thrilled. Do not forget to write down everything you find and observe in the forest. It will be important for future explorers to have additional references. That will make them less dependent on the natives. Please remember to collect the plant samples for the people from Cambridge University. News from London: Our friend John Ruskin continues to attack the charcoal factories that pollute the city. He wrote that London is a “rattling, growling, smoking, and stinking city, a ghastly heap of fermenting brickwork, pouring out poison at every pore.” The authorities of London finally started a movement to ban the factories and make the city cleaner than ever. Be careful with the natives and the forest! Amazon, April 25, 1860 My dear Alphonso, I am so glad to hear that London will become more beautiful to the eyes. I could not tolerate the shades of grey and the foul-smelling air any longer. You should be here. The Amazon is gorgeous. The trees are huge; they look like the giants of old myths and legends. The vegetation covers the sun, but it is nice to see when the light rays pass through the leaves of the trees. What makes me uncomfortable is the heat and the humidity of the environment. The absence of wind increases the feeling of warmth, and I am always soaked with sweat. The proximity of the trees makes me focus on the surrounding space, losing sight of the horizon. Sometimes I feel distressed in such an enclosed atmosphere. The smells of the forest are especially intriguing. I never imagined that we could map the landscape using smells. There are smells of garlic, cinnamon, lemon, and some others I cannot even recognize. Walking is not always easy. The volume

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of leaves and roots on the ground forces us to slow down the pace. However, there is always a tree to lean against. The forest is full of textures, including the thick bark of old trees, the furry texture of moss growing on the rocks and the fallen trees. Everything allows for a tactile knowledge of the environment. Whenever we find a stream, we consider it a blessing. We can drink some water, freshen up, and get some rest. I am gradually getting used to the forest and to native people. When I first got here I found them very different from us. But now, living among them, I begin to understand them better. I have learned their language and I can communicate with them easily. I have learned a lot about their costumes and the way they experience the forest. Here everything is alive; there is a continuous feeling of being in the world. Native people have a particular relationship with objects. Modern societies describe objects in quantitative terms, and treat them as depersonalized and inanimate things. Natives associate objects with the cosmological and mythological orders that give them meaning. Things have a life of their own! I am starting to believe that collecting remains is a form of conquest, and that the objects we take with us are nothing but a sign of victory over their former owners. I keep asking myself: Are we destroying the original meaning of objects when we impose a new meaning upon them? Do we deny any resemblance between these people and ourselves to take advantage of them? I do not know. We have not found the ruins yet, and we are running out of time. The contract is about to end, and we will have to leave the Amazon. I am concerned, as we will have to do things quickly. Please send my regards to your wife, Mary. London, July 14, 1860 Dear George, I would like to be there with you, but it is impossible for me to leave England right now. I have great news: Mary is pregnant. We are incredibly happy. We would like you to be the baby’s godfather. I think your idea of mapping the forest using smells is a little strange. How can you map the landscape using something so ethereal? I find it irrational. Remember: science depends on the eyes and the use of scientific instruments. Do not trust the rest of the senses; they are deceptive. Last week, I told Oken about your experiences. He says that it is natural for the natives to use smells, textures, and sounds to guide them through the forest. This is why they are so lazy, lustful, and irrational. Do not let yourself be influenced by these people. Objects are only alive in the world of children’s imagination and witchcraft. We only collect remains to learn more about other cultures. Our duty is to educate both Europeans and native people. I

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am a little concerned about your delay. We are running out of money and time; and—if nothing changes—you will have to come back soon. That would be a pity, as the University needs the objects for a new exhibition. Mary sends her regards. She is planning a dinner party in your honor. I guess it is not pleasant to eat what the natives eat. Amazon, October 30, 1860 Dear friend Alphonso, Congratulations for your future child! Thanks for asking me to be the baby’s godfather. I accept, with all my heart. Here life is tough, but full of surprises. Last week, we walked through the forest at night. I never thought we could move so fast. Obviously, vision helps; but the lack of visual stimuli makes sight work more intensely with the rest of the senses. At night everything has a less inferred, less substantial, but more powerful presence. We often say that truth is in the eyes, but I have recently found out that this is not always true. The cartographic training I received in London is of little value here. I used to depend heavily on vision, and not having a chance to look at the horizon made me feel completely disoriented. I start to understand how local people approach the region. I can taste the flavors of the forest. I can now hear what I could not before. I have the feeling that I can see with my hands, my feet, and my skin. Everything seems different. This is making me question my bodily, sensory, and emotional education. We have finally found the ruins, but we are short of time and supplies. The place is in a poor state of conservation. It is a large stone building, and the walls are covered with moss and roots. The forest is swallowing up the monument. I am concerned about the lack of money. Some of the people working with us are sick. They were bitten by mosquitoes. They have a fever and even seizures. I am not sure how long we are going to stay here. Please, find additional funding. Talk to the chancellor, the sponsors of the institution. If they want the objects, they will help us. London, November 23, 1860 Dear George, Do not forget to record everything you see. Remember you are a scientist; and as science is objective, you need to be objective too. Do not worry about your sensory or emotional experiences. They do not matter. You know it well: impressions change with the subject. The draftsmen in your team are well trained. We need you to measure the ruins. I will try to raise some money. I know the living conditions in the forest are appalling,

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and I would like to offer you more comfort. Beware of sick people, or you will die. Amazon, December 25, 1860 Dear Alphonso, Merry Christmas to you and Mary. Here nothing reminds me of this happy date, and I confess I have some difficulty recalling family reunions, the smell of roasted turkey, homemade apple cider, puddings, and gifts. If it were not for the calendar, I would have forgotten to celebrate. This makes me think of the multiple connections between our memories and the sensory stimuli we receive from the material world. The snow falling down, the colourful Christmas tree ornaments, the sweet taste of candies, the indulgence of alcohol, Christmas carols echoing through the streets, people gathering around the table… I miss thinking about those things. I miss thinking how anxious I was the night before Christmas. We have learned that science is the only way we can get closer to the truth, as science is based on reason. I have questioned this idea, considering the relationship between the people from the region and their surrounding world. I sometimes believe that our education is so strict that we think of it as unquestionable. We consider scientific discoveries as absolute truths. What is the difference between scientific education and that of the church? Is not science similar to religion when it says that there is only one way to find the truth about the world? Science has taken the place of God; and scientists, the place of the priests. I am less and less concerned about London and this modern world that controls our lives with its watchful eyes. London, February 2, 1861 Dear George, Mary and I are worried about you. Maybe you have stayed too long in the forest, and it is time for you to come back. I will prepare everything for your return. I beg you to stop this madness. Your position at the university will be secured. What you need is to get married and have kids. Mary knows the Mayor’s daughter. She is single and she cooks like an angel. She loves your stories. Come back and we can arrange everything for you.

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Amazon, October 18, 1861 My dear friend Alphonso, I have been here for two years, and I am still amazed at the forest. I have learned so many things about the world, my body, and the senses. Details are slowly revealed. If I had been here for a short period of time, I am sure that I would not have created significant memories of the forest and the people. There is a relationship between the passage of time and the way we understand the world. We need time to explore the textures, colours, sounds, smells, and feelings of the landscape. We need time to understand the language of the world; a language which is particularly spoken by the senses. We are embodied beings, and our experience of the world is inevitably sensory. Try to imagine yourself without your senses. Not only without vision, but without touch, hearing, smell, taste, the sense of movement, balance, temperature. What is the overall feeling? Desperate, is not it? Without our senses, we cannot grasp the world; we are isolated. Without our senses, we suffer; our mind loses its references. The senses are not just physiological tools. We use the senses to interpret our place in the world. It is through the senses that we build our own identity. When you wake up in the morning, it is the image of your room, of your bed, that makes you remember who you are and where you are. It is the smell of the coffee that tells you that you are late for college. It is the touch of your clothes that makes you feel comfortable. It is through the senses that you give meaning to the world. You identify political parties by the colour of their badges and flags; you know where you are thanks to the smells of the city. We judge the world and the people using the senses. When somebody has a smell that we describe as disgusting, we find that person disgusting too. When we say somebody’s clothes are ugly, we define his or her appearance as inferior to our own. We create social hierarchies by means of sensory taxonomies. When we transform some meals and perfumes into luxury goods, we prevent some social classes from having access to certain smells and tastes. We are sometimes so arrogant as to say how people should dress, eat, and behave at home or in public. Modernity is intimately connected with the control of sensory experience; the elimination of unpleasant odors and disturbing noises through specific policies; the separation of the bodies through the segmentation of space. We found the smell of the slaughterhouses unbearable; but at the same time, the air of the cities became filled with smoke and chemical products. Now, we reject the soot, the smells and the sounds of factories; and we believe that they should be a thing of the past. Our museums, galleries, and libraries were transformed into places for contemplation and social regulation. In this politicized and ordered space, the visitor’s body was

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shaped by new codes of social behaviour. Do not touch; do not eat; do not talk out loud; dress appropriately. What we call civilization is nothing but the control of the bodies and the senses. Modern education has one particular purpose: to perpetuate a model of the world that I do not find it useful anymore, as it is only focused on vision. For the Western world, beauty is in the eyes; in the Amazon, beauty is an array of images, smells, textures, and tastes. For the Western world, sight is above the rest of the senses; here, it is another sense just like the others. Did you realize that we have created the notion of “primitive society” to define modernity? What is what we call “primitive” if not the lack of reason and control over the body? We describe the natives through an imaginary conception of disorder and indulgence of the senses and emotions. We apply the model of our own society to other people, and we say that if they want to be civilized, they need to perceive the world just like we do. Reducing these people’s senses transforms their relationship with their natural, material, and social world. I do not want to be a part of this anymore. I am leaving the ruins. Most of the team has already left me. They could not get used to the forest. Antônio, Andrew, and I decided to stay. I am sending you all my records. I need to explore new worlds of senses. With respect to marriage, do not worry; I have met a special woman here. Her name is Iracema. I am completely in love with her. I will write to you as soon as I can. Greetings to Mary. London, May 17, 1861 My dear friend George, The records you sent me were strongly criticized by our colleagues. They do not provide any measures; they lack precision, objectivity. I apologize for the harsh words, but as your friend I am compelled to bring you back to reality. We do not care about your emotions and opinions. I remind you that you are a scientist. You need to set aside subjectivity. Do not get involved with the natives. You will end up getting sick. We ask you to come back to London as soon as possible. There will be no more funding for the research. How can you say that you are in love with a savage woman? I understand your needs, but please stay away from that people. Amazon, August 26, 1862 My dear friend Alphonso, I will have a child! I am lost for words. When Iracema, my wife, told me she was pregnant, I felt like I was flying. My mind wandered through the stars. My heart almost exploded and my legs started shaking. A warm

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smile filled my face, and then I began to cry. I felt like having a lump in the throat, but I managed to shout: “I will have a child!” I just wanted to share this with you, as I know you went through a similar experience. We decided to give a great feast. I still cannot find the right words to express what I am feeling. Our language is limited, and it is only in extraordinary circumstances that we notice it. How can I describe the love I feel for Iracema and my future child? Maybe I need to free the words, and let them express what I am feeling. When words are released from their original meaning, they open space for imagination; they give us a chance to take our descriptions one step further. When we dive into poetic reflections, we go beyond the limits of the possible. I am sure this is one of the most intense movements of imagination. When a poem echoes in the soul of a reader, then he or she is invaded by the ideas of the writer, defining the emergent meaning of the image. There is still much to be done in science. Our own way of writing is the result of domestication. In much the same way that we create social codes of conduct, we also create particular ways of telling a story. We write in a neutral tone, and we do not take sides. We lack empathy for the reader and the world around us. If we depend on the body and the senses to grasp the world, why does our writing not reflect that? Maybe, because we believe that our senses and emotions distort academic interpretation and conceptual reasoning. I ask myself if this understanding is not a distorted picture of reality, created by education and specific conditions of existence. We accept the difference between facts and fiction, between science and poetry, but we forget that scientific data are also constructs. Facts are nothing but narratives about something. Trying to see the world as it is, is telling a story about the world from a particular point of view. Exchanging letters with you, my friend, I realize that the most important thing about a text is not what it means, but what it makes people do. How does a text encourage us to act? Mainly, by means of affection. And what does a text encourage us to do? It makes people transform the potential energy of words into texts, paintings, photographs, political actions, decisions, acts of disobedience, etc. The author needs to cover different senses and feelings, and he or she needs to ask himself or herself at the end of each passage, what did the reader feel or learn? I will have a child, my friend, I will have a child! London, January 12, 1863 George, I am not sure if I should be happy or worried about the news. You need to control yourself. I have consulted a number of physicians, and they told me that you could have been bewitched by the savages. They say that the

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sorcerers and witches of the New Wold are particularly powerful. I have already bought your return ticket. The vessel will depart at the beginning of March. Here you will have time to evaluate your actions and return to your previous life. Amazon, July 27, 1863 Dear Alphonso, Today, it is clear to me that, just as we learn to be a man or a woman, catholic or protestant, rich or poor, capitalist or anarchist, we learn what the senses are and how they should be used. I am afraid modern science is wrong: the way people use and understand their senses is culturally contingent. Social codes define appropriate sensory actions, and specify what sensory perceptions mean. My dear Alphonso, I am convinced that we learn to hear, see, touch, and feel. So, why are we not aware of our own senses and the sensory schema? Why cannot we accept that our senses are socially educated habits? The answer is simple: We have been taught that our senses are natural. Our daily life is experienced as a continuum, a non-narrated temporality that exceeds collective and individual awareness. We accept daily events and we do not question them; we rarely consider that things could be otherwise. We are part of a world that unfolds almost automatically. In general, we do not remember our daily practices, as they are inevitably embodied. What is experienced as natural, it is in fact a political-cultural reality: perceptual models are spread as a means to produce and reproduce some memories while deleting some others. The lack of awareness of life continuity is a myth mediating and naturalizing the political order at the level of daily perceptual experience. If we could integrate the senses, maybe we could change the field of human sciences, releasing the practice from the modern ideas that privilege vision and imprison us all. This would be necessary to reveal the hegemonic discourses behind authority. We can touch, feel, and see the objects; but we do not want other people to have the same rights. Working with the senses should not involve an effort to reconstruct other people’s sensory experience; in other words, it should not be an attempt to understand how they feel, simply because sensory experience is socially and historically contingent. The notion of sensory empathy is problematic. When we work with the senses, we need to understand how people produce their own subjectivity, everyday practices, and history through the sensory experience of materiality, animated and non-animated beings, humans, animals, and plants. Farewell to you and Mary. I will not write again. This form of communication makes no more sense to me. I need to see your eyes, feel your heart, hear your voice. I hope some day you can

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come to the Amazon, and feel in your own body everything I am feeling. I leave you with one of the most important things I have learned in the forest: scientific thought is especially designed to prevent the surrounding world from touching or transforming us. Now, I can say that I have never felt closer to the world. Your friend forever, George.

CHAPTER ONE ARCHAEOLOGY OF A TEAR: DELUSIONS IN A TENT IN A STORMY DAY IN ANTARCTICA ANDRÉS ZARANKIN Departamento de Antropología e Arqueologia, Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais (Brazil)

The second time I came back from Antarctica, in 1997, my mother said: “My son went to Antarctica, and the one who came back was another person.” From that moment on, every time I visit Antarctica I look for the other me; I look for myself in the never changing landscapes, in the memories that live on the islands like ghosts, in the sounds of the animals that shatter the silence. And then I wonder, did I ever leave Antarctica? (Andrés Zarankin)

When I reread the numerous articles that our research project has published since 1996, I realize that we have limited ourselves to use an orthodox narrative respectful of the traditional parameters of the discipline. In these articles, our presence is almost invisible. We are only mentioned as authors; we transform ourselves into omniscient, neutral narrators, or (in the cases we use the first person of the plural) into some sort of unified mass representing science. We describe objects and structures in a monochromatic style, without using adjectives or emotions. As archaeologists, we present ourselves as disembodied beings, scarcely affected by the surrounding world (Krieger 1944; Schmitz et. al. 1991; Schobinger 1973). This is the way we produce discourses, attempting to be “objective,” and avoiding exposure or feeling vulnerable in front of the others.

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It is only recently, probably because I am getting older, or because my life has changed significantly, that I have begun to reflect on some things often regarded as “taboo”; in this case, the emotional relationship between the archaeologist and her or his object of study, as well as the outcome of this relationship. Experience is the way we come to know the world. It is from an experiential standpoint that our project has decided to approach the encounter between human beings and Antarctica, both in the past and in the present. This has led us to rethink the multiple connections among people, things, meanings, and the construction of stories.

Archaeology and sealers in Antarctica During most of the nineteenth century, the South Shetland Islands (the first region of Antarctica to be “discovered”) were visited by sealing vessels. Hunters wanted to obtain large quantities of oil and furs to be sold in different markets. In contrast to written documents, mainly dealing with captains and other characters of “historical relevance,” archaeological remains on the islands were left by ordinary sealers. The material analysis of the hunting camps has provided insight into these people’s lives in previously unexpected ways (Salerno 2011; Zarankin and Senatore 2007). Documentary sources indicate that sealing companies landed “gangs” on different points of the South Shetlands. Each gang was made up of a number of sealers in command of one or two officers. These people had to build their own shelters in order to live and work on the islands for a couple of days, weeks, or even months. The intensity of sealing varied throughout the century. As the activity came to an end, the location of the camps and the stories connected with them were gradually forgotten. Our project began in 1995, and one of its main goals was to discuss the first attempts of the modern world to incorporate a hostile region, completely unknown until the nineteenth century, into its economic and political boundaries. Our research focused on a specific area: Byers Peninsula on Livingston Island. Livingston was frequently visited by sealers, and—at least until today—it shows the highest concentration of hunting camps on the South Shetlands (27 sites) (Fig. 1-1). Archaeological fieldwork on Byers Peninsula combined the survey of the area and the excavation of specific locations. In this way, we were able to work with different scales of analysis.

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Fig. 1-1: Archaeological map of the South Shetland Islands (Antarctica) showing the location of archaeological sites (Image by LEACH 2014).

Archaeology as story-tellying Our project used traditional approaches (involving normative methods and techniques, as well as an orthodox language) to study the past and write about it. However, at some point, we realized we were creating a new group of people “without history” (sensu Wolf 1982): “us” (the archaeologists). Being aware of this situation, in this work I will consider some other possibilities to tell alternative stories. I will try to find a more human way to make archaeology. How can we connect experience, meaning, and stories? I am not sure, but I think that a good start is to “recover” our own body. We need to reverse the disembodying process once started by traditional archaeology (a proposal already made by Bond and Gilliam 1994; Hodder 2000, 2003; Joyce 2002; Oliveira 2006; Shanks and Tilley 1987a; among others). The archaeologist needs to feel, and recognize that she or he feels. It is through this experience that a new relationship with the past and the present can be established, widening the scope of archaeological interpretations (Shanks and Tilley 1987b). Another relavant issue, which cannot be divorced from feeling, concerns the limitations of an archaeological language that is not prepared for disclosing experience. Our project is currently exploring a new line of inquiry that understands the archaeologist as a storyteller1 (Beaudry 1998; Praetzellis 1998; Yamin 1998). We believe that the researcher should

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include herself or himself in the story she or he is telling. Furthermore, we have recently published an article discussing how we can do this (Zarankin and Senatore 2012). It is important to recognize two different options: Stories as projections. This is an attempt to create stories about other people, consciously projecting ourselves into the context we are studying. Several archaeologists have explored this possibility (Beaudry 1998, 2005; Deetz 1977; Joyce 2002; Praetzellis and Praetzellis 1998; Yamin 1998). In our case, in a book showing some results of the research, we have recreated a day in the life of a sealer, “Samuel Green,” while he was working in Antarctica (Zarankin and Senatore 2007). Transversal stories. This is an attempt to get ourselves explicitly involved in the stories we are telling. For instance, by means of the first person of the singular, or the introduction of situations, feelings, and experiences we have lived during the research. The idea is to become a part of the story we are telling. This possibility is not always considered by archaeologists, but I will explore it in the following paragraphs: The wind blows hard. The tent shakes violently and it seems about to explode at any moment. Inside the sleeping bag, the only place where I can escape from cold, I wonder “what am I doing here, thousands of miles away from home, comfort, family, and friends?” I realize (and I find myself angry at the idea) that, despite what I want or crave for, I have no way to get out from this place where sun never sets. I cover my face completely, and I turn up the volume of my MP3 player (it’s funny: when we started the project, I had a Walkman and some years later, a Discman). Finally, darkness... a song of Sade invades my ears, and surrounds me. For a little while, I manage to escape from cold, the storm, the feelings of loneliness, that place... The archaeological sites are not far away. They comprise a series of small stone structures that two hundred years ago were built by sealers. I don’t know if some of the people living there could have experienced something similar to what I’m feeling right now. Even though we (that is to say, me and the sealers) are separated by time, culture, nationality, profession, etc., some others things still connect us (being at this place, cold, isolation, homesickness, having “feelings”). Who knows... maybe they managed to escape from Byers (not by means of an MP3 player, but by means of songs, alcohol, or tobacco).

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Another thing that connects me with the sealers is that both of us are or were on the islands with the aim of working in well-defined projects. Sealers were hunting; and I’m trying to study their life through material remains. I wonder, thinking about the site and the things we find every day, what kind of information are we producing? Some of the answers seem pretty obvious: what sealers ate, how they built their shelters, how many people lived there, how they dressed, what objects they used... Is this information enough to get acquainted with these people and their stories? It is important to remember that they were members of “subaltern” groups; that they were silenced and made invisible by official stories. There are almost no historical references on the experiences of these “ordinary” people. However, material remains have the potential to shed light on their lives in Antarctica. I return to the solitude of my tent, and I wonder if everything I’m feeling, everything that defines me as a person, is going to be recorded somewhere. To be honest, nobody will be able to understand what I’m feeling by studying my clothes or the spatial organization of the camp... So, what is the purpose of producing descriptive, formal information which does not provide a real understanding of the essence of people? Suddenly, as part of a bizarre delusion (something common in Antarctica), Binford materializes in my tent to remind me of the limitations of the archaeological record (Binford 1983) (Fig. 1-2). He talks to me about archaeological layers, and why it is impossible and absurd to worry about what people felt in the past. I thank him for his words, but I tell him that I have already sold my soul to Hodder! He vanishes in the air with a threatening look. Almost immediately, I realize how powerful the normative and processual legacy we have inherited as archaeologists is, that when we write articles or books, we are expected to leave behind our human nature. Furthermore, we are expected to become all-knowing entities that are entitled to “see” but “not to feel” the past. We choose not to be a part of the story we are telling (not only in our texts, but also in the images showing the archaeological sites and objects). The result is a boring (technical-descriptive) narrative, with no space for the experiences we have while doing our work.

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Fig. 1-2: Binford’s ghost in my tent (Photograph by the author).

Tears In Antarctica, tears are as common as storms and snow. Visitors shed tears of joy, melancholy, exhaustion, pain. In the privacy of the tent, far from the public eye, tears feel free to come out. Tears are the focus of my reflection… What does a tear mean? A scientist would say something like this: “Tears are the secretions of the glands that clean and lubricate the eyes. The lachrymal fluid is made of water (98.3%), mineral salts (1%), proteins (0.7%), and other substances.” However, does the chemical formula account for the meaning of tears? All tears are made of the same components, but they stand for different things. Tears are feelings that the eyes and the senses perceive before they are shed. Tears transform us; sensory images permeate their salty humidity. Tears are the way we express our feelings, and the way we share them with the world… Nothing is the same after a tear.

Dilemma… Through this example, probably halfway between a “naïve” and a “bizarre” story (a series of concepts that do not seem to matter in Antarctica), I want to question the dehumanizing practice of the archaeological narrative.

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Are we satisfied with the definition of a tear, or should we move forward and give it colour and flavour? How can we achieve something like that? In my opinion, this is one of the greatest challenges of archaeology. At present, I believe we should consider our own subjectivity; we should explicitly say what we think and feel without any fear of being mistaken (sooner or later, every proposal will be challenged by some other). I believe “honesty” is one of the most important things when we come to interpret or create stories about the world (stories that are based on what positivist researchers call “evidence”). One of the results of applying this perspective would be to connect the archaeologist’s work with that of a story-teller. The value of objects does not rely on things, but on the stories they help to create. Stories represent a strategy to appreciate the past and our work.

Solutions… Integrate our own subjectivity If the past is defined as the presence of an absence, it is through discourses that we can fill that emptiness, give it content and sense. As some archaeologists claim (Hodder et al. 1995; Shanks and Tilley 1987b), the objective reconstruction and knowledge of the past were modern, positivist utopias. Is it not a waste of time to separate the subject who creates the discourse from the story as an outcome? Why do we not care about the reconciliation of the past and the present by means of the creation of multiple stories (subjective discourses where different groups can be represented)? This would be a local and contextual history (not a universal one). The archaeologist as a story-teller should not be seen as a problem or limitation to write valid discourses on the past. On the contrary, the archaeologist as a story-teller should consider these ideas and present them as the distinguishing mark of an explicit subjectivity (one that encourages the dialogue with other subjectivities in the context of symmetrical relations). As Joyce (2002) points out, the archaeological narrative starts well before the author uses her or his pen on a sheet of paper; it starts in the field, in the lab, in the classroom, in the meetings, transforming writing into an echo of previous experiences. Without a doubt, the archaeological narrative starts with an embodied and sensory practice.

An archaeology of a tear The wind gradually settles and I can hear the roar of the sea, the seals, and the sea elephants. I stick my head out of the sleeping bag; an intense

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light blinds me for a moment. I touch my face: a tear has left a wet and sticky line that now starts to freeze. It is part of a minimal story that fuses with the past and transforms me (Fig. 1-3).

Fig. 1-3: …inside my tent, Elephant Point, Livingston Island, January 2014 (Photograph by the author).

Acknowledgements I want to thank Melisa A. Salerno for her readings, suggestions, and her help with the translation; and Fernanda Codevilla for her help with the edition. Thanks to UFMG and the institutions that support our project— CNPq (Proantar), FAPEMIG.

Works cited Beaudry, Mary. “Farm Journal: First Person, Four Voices.” Historical Archaeology 32, no. 1 (1998): 20–33. —. “Stories that Matter. Material Lives in 19th- Century Lowell and Boston, Massachusetts.” In Cities in the World 1500-2000, Monograph 3 of the Society for Post-Medieval Archaeology, edited by Adrian Green and Roger Leech, 249–268. London: Maney Publishing, 2005. Benjamin, Walter. “The Story-teller: Reflections on the Work of Nikolai Leskov.” In Selected Writings, vol. 3, edited by Howard Eiland and

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Michael Jennings, 143–166. Cambridge: Belknap-Harvard University Press, 2002. Binford, Lewis. In Pursuit of the Past: Decoding the Archaeological Record. London: Thames and Hudson, 1983. Bond, George and Angela Gilliam, ed. Social Construction of the Past: Representation as Power. London: Routledge, 1994. Deetz, James. In Small Things Forgotten: The Archaeology of Early American Life. New York: Anchor Press, 1977. Hodder, Ian, ed. Towards Reflexive Method in Archaeology: The Example at Çatalhöyü. Cambridge: McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research and British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara (2000). —. 2003. “Archaeological Reflexivity and the ‘Local’ Voice.” Anthropological Quarterly 76, no. 1: 55–69. Hodder, Ian, Michael Shanks, Alexandra Alexandri, Victor Buchli, John Carman, Jonathan Last and Gavin Lucas, ed. Interpreting Archaeology: Finding Meaning in the Past. London: Routledge, 1995. Joyce, Rosemary. The Languages of Archaeology: Dialogue, Narrative, and Writing. London: Blackwell, 2002. Krieger, Alex. “The Typological Concept.” American Antiquity 9, no. 3 (1944): 271–278. Oliveira, Jorge. Fragmentos, Memórias, Incisões. Lisbon: Colibri/IELT, 2006. Praetzellis, Adrian. “Introduction: Why Every Archaeologist Should Tell Stories Once in a While.” Historical Archaeology 32, no. 1 (1998): 1– 3. Praetzellis, Adrian and Mary Praetzellis, eds. Archaeologists as Storytellers. Historical Archaeology, special issue, 32, no. 1 (1998). Salerno, Melisa A. “Persona y Cuerpo-Vestido en la Modernidad: Un Enfoque Arqueológico.” PhD diss., Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidad de Buenos Aires, 2011. Schmitz, Pedro, Ítala Basile, André Jacobus and Guilherme Naue. PréHistória do Rio Grande do Sul. São Leopoldo: Edunisinos, 1991. Schobinger, Juan. “Introducción a la Arqueología.” Anales de Arqueología y Etnología 27-28 (1973): 5–17. Shanks, Michael and Christopher Tilley. Social Theory and Archaeology. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1987a. —. Re-Constructing Archaeology: Theory and Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987b. Yamin, Rebecca. “Lurid Tales and Homely Stories of New York's Notorious Five Points.” Historical Archaeology 32, no. 1 (1998): 74– 85.

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Wolf, Eric. Europa y la Gente Sin Historia. Mexico DC: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1982. Zarankin, Andrés and María Ximena Senatore. Historias de un Pasado en Blanco. Arqueología Histórica Antártica. Belo Horizonte: Argumentum, 2007. —. “Storytelling, Big Fish e Arqueologia. Repensando o Caso da Antartida.” In Tempos Ancestrais, edited by Walter Morales and Flavia Moi, 281–301. São Paulo: Annablume, 2012.

Notes 1

“Storyteller,” as Benjamin (2002) used the concept in Storyteller, Reflections on the Works of Nikolai Leskov.

CHAPTER TWO WHEN THE COWS COME HOME: A CONSIDERATION OF THE SENSORIAL ENGAGEMENT BETWEEN PASTORALISTS AND THEIR CATTLE JULIE DUNNE Organic Geochemistry Unit University of Bristol (UK)

The black one, last as usual, swings her head And coils a black tongue round a grass-tuft. I Watch her soft weight come down, her split feet spread. In front, the others swing and slouch; they roll Their great Greek eyes and breathe out milky gusts From muzzles black and shiny as wet coal. The collie trots, bored, at my heels, then plops Into the ditch. The sea makes a tired sound That's almost stopping though it never stops. A haycart squats prickeared against the sky. Hay breath and milk breath. Far out in the West The wrecked sun founders though its colours fly. The collie's bored. There's nothing to control The black cow is two native carriers Bringing its belly home, slung from a pole. —Norman MacCaig (1910-1996)

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The idea for this paper partly originated from the evocative first two stanzas of this Norman MacCaig poem “Fetching Cows.” These pithy and honed words conjure up the tangible nature of the animality of cattle in a manner that few other things could. Should you find yourself in a country lane where there are cattle out in the fields, stand and linger quietly at the gate. Wait patiently for the cows, those most curious, but slightly skittish of beasts, to come to investigate you. Once close, embrace the physicality of the animal, its great bulky, clumsy yet somehow soft, maternal body. Look into its dark, soft eyes, touch its wet, shiny nose, and watch its jaws move in their slow, rhythmic chewing motion, smell the deep grassy breath and feel the rasp of its abrasive tongue.

The human-animal relationship The domestication of plants and animals and the ultimate transition to an agricultural lifestyle is seen as one of the most profound transformations in human history, with significant social, economic and ecological implications. This move from a mobile hunter gatherer lifeway to a more sedentary existence allowed population expansion and migration and eventually led to the modern inter-connected global age we inhabit today. This transition from hunting to herding undoubtedly marked a milestone in the enormous change in human and animal relationships. Early archaeological research on the domestication of cattle, described as “walking larders” (Clutton-Brock 1989), and other animals such as sheep, goats and pigs, tended to focus on their value to humans in a purely economic context (e.g. Sherratt 1983). Animals were regarded as property or commodity, and thus their ownership and control were considered to be of primary interest. However, in the anthropological tradition, in his book on totemism, Lévi-Strauss (1963) described animals as “bonnes à penser” or “good to think,” as opposed to just “good to eat.” The relevance of animals in examining belief systems was also discussed by Tambiah (1969) who defined animals as “good to think and good to prohibit.” More recently, this concept of animals as powerful metaphors persists as Harraway (1991) comments that “we polish an animal mirror to look for ourselves” and Tilley (1999) suggests “humans use animals in order to draw elaborate pictures of themselves.” Portraying animals as a conceptual resource allowed the examination of human relationships with humans and their environment, but has been heavily criticised for both its implicit/explicit marginalisation of the animal itself and the privileging of the human animal (c.f. Buller 2013).

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This anthropocentric focus on examining aspects of human society through an animal lens rather than the human-animal relationship (and animal-human) being of interest in itself is of detriment to both. Human “exceptionalism” has limited our thinking on the complex, multi-layered manner in which humans and animals co-evolved (Harraway 2008), and more perspective is needed on the complex relations of dependency and interdependence existing between human and animal actor. As Tsing (2012) notes, “species interdependence is a well-known fact—except when it comes to humans.” However, archaeologists, now much more attuned to drawing on anthropological perspectives, have come to recognise the importance of a multi-layered approach, with research on domesticates focusing not only on the economic and technological significance to prehistoric people, but their symbolic value in human-animal relationships. Cattle and their products are now interpreted as social currency, being used to construct and define animal and human relationships. They are associated with how identities were constructed or how “changes in being” were thought to occur at the beginning of the Neolithic (Whittle 2003). In Living with a Mongolian Herd Fijn (2011) argues that Mongolian herders “do not view the herd animals as objects, or wholly as economic commodities, but as ‘persons’ with individual characteristics and personalities.” By extension, this suggests that these animals, as social actors within the shared environment, exhibit agency in their cross-species interaction with the human actors. Ingold (1974), in his work on reindeer, also stresses the “socialisation of the animal into a human environment” and Fijn (2011) particularly notes that “humans become reciprocally integrated into herd society” calling their relationship “co-domestic.” The domestication of animals for livestock led to transformations of once mutually symbiotic human-animal relations, including factory farming, animal experimentation, genetic engineering and xenotransplantation, the transplantation of living cells, tissues and organs from animals into human bodies. In industrialised societies, in today’s postmodern, global community, there are vast distances, physically and psychologically, between people and the animals that feed them and provide products, such as skins, for their consumption and use. This enormous rift was memorably described by John Berger (1980) in his seminal essay “Why look at animals?”: “In the last two centuries, animals have gradually disappeared. Today we live without them. And in this new solitude, anthropomorphism makes us doubly uneasy.” It was surely predictable, that once the number of animals owned becomes large, in the millions, their individual identities become lost.

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Chapter Two This has been the inevitable result of industrial farming in the modern world where the vast numbers of domestic animals are required to feed the ever-increasing human population […] all bred to look identical and reared in rows of cages, to be harvested when required” (Clutton-Brock 1994).

Clutton Brock’s chilling image of sentient beings bred for “harvest” developed in a world best described by Bulliet (2005) as “postdomestic,” where people are distanced from animals, yet: continue to consume animal products in abundance, but psychologically […] experience feelings of guilt, shame and disgust when they think (as seldom as possible) about the industrial processes by which domestic animals are rendered into products and how these products come to market.

The animals themselves are treated as raw material, as Mullin (1999) comments “people eat meat, not animals.” However, there has been an increasing recognition that this vast chasm between the human and the animal makes discourse on their connections problematic. In the field of human geography, in particular, there have been calls to “bring the animals back in” to dialogue on human-animal and animal-human relationships (Wolch and Emel 1995). Here, I argue that it is the animal, worthy of study in its own right, which must be placed centre stage, rather than just used to ascribe meaning to human endeavouror standing as surrogate for theory. Buller (2013) questions whether the nature of these new engagements might be “more profound, some broader acknowledgement of an altogether different, less one-sided ontology of both (human and non-human) knowing and being.” It is time that the symbiotic nature and reciprocality involved in the human-animal relationship is recognised; we must examine the roles of animals as social actors in their own right and, thus, animals as social actors in the world of people, not just people as social actors in the world of animals. How might we attempt to do this? How might we draw near to the beast again? Here, I argue for a sensorial engagement with the animal actor, an encounter with their physicality, animality and the corporeal nature of their being, which, through an unmediated intimacy, may allow greater insights into the relationship between pastoralists and their cattle.

The sensorial revolution It is through the senses that we interact with and participate in the world around us. The core of the nature of this engagement is the body, and occurs through the medium of sight, sound, taste, smell and touch. As

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Bull, Gilroy and Howes (2006) state “The senses are everywhere. They mediate the relationship between idea and object, mind and body, self and society, culture and environment.” However, these relations do not arise from a purely physiological level but rather are socially and culturally constructed. Although Gosden (2001) comments that this sensorium depends on “subtle interactions between people and things,” it also applies to our interactions within the environment we inhabit, the people and other sentient beings who share our cosmology, and dictates our concept of “being in the world.” Meanwhile, Merleau-Ponty (2002) has also argued that human consciousness and knowledge of the world is dependent upon the senses, and on experiences mediated through the body, the senses representing both sensation and meaning. Certainly, recent anthropological discourse (e.g. Howes 2004) has focused on how an active engagement with sensory experience and expression can be a vehicle for reaching new perceptions of the materiality of both the past and the present. Nonetheless, it is recognised that other cultures experience either more, or distinct patterns of the senses, whose primacy may be attributed differently (e.g. Houston and Taube 2000). Various writers have commented on the primacy of the visual (ocularcentrism) in Western cultures (Classen1997, 2005; Classen et al.1994; Falk 1994; Howes 2004). Ocular authority is given to how we perceive the world around us and understand our relationships within it; indeed, Bull and Back (2003) comment that “scopic metaphors are routinely invoked when thinking about how and what it is we know.” Notably, Gosden (2001) has argued that we may need to unlearn our sensory education with its prejudice toward vision in order to understand the sensory world of other cultures. The privileging of the visual had, perhaps inevitably, meant a relegation of the other senses of taste, touch, smell and sound, although in recent decades scholars have noted the need to re-embody and re-sensualise the past (e.g. Meskell 1996; Joyce 2005). Of particular relevance is Serres (1985) appeal to pay attention to the “fully sensate world of smell and sound, touch and taste, as a means of reconnecting human and animal experiences and diminishing the cognitive and metaphorical privilege accorded to sight as the elevated seat of human sensibility.” A cautionary note was sounded by Howes (2004) who warned of the risks inherent in simply concentrating on single senses “without exploring how the senses interact with each other in different combinations and hierarchies [...] with little notion of how sensory experience may be collectively patterned by cultural ideology and practice.” The importance of the interaction between the senses is also crucial. As Classen, Howes and Synnott (1994) comment, “It is only when

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a form of sensory equilibrium has been recovered, that we may begin to understand how the senses interact with each other as models or perception and paradigms of culture.” Although the difficulties of investigating past human experiences through touch, taste, smell and sound might seem obvious, nonetheless, many writers have produced valuable insights in these areas (e.g. Classen 1997, 2005; Classen et al.1994; Falk 1994; Howes 2004; Stoller 1997). Hapticity (sense of touch), for example, has been applied to aid our understanding of the materiality of objects. A sensory approach, focusing on touch and texture, was used to examine Neolithic carved stone balls to gain deeper understanding of the biography of the objects, examining their changing materialities and social life during, and after, their use (MacGregor 1999). Perhaps the most difficult sense to access is the nature of olfactory experience, even though olfaction can often provide a more direct, primitive, immediacy of experience than the other senses. It can also evoke strong memories of certain people, of specific times and places. Smells may rouse strong physical responses of attraction or revulsion, and are, of course, a uniquely personal experience with smells which attract one person having an opposite effect on another. It might be argued that the use of the sense of smell within Western culture has become a marginal experience; certainly, Classen, Howes and Synnott (1994) argue that smell is much more developed among more pre-modern cultures, and that taste and smell can often be strongly related in their cosmologies. Tuan (1993) notes the capacity of smells to vividly invoke memories, positive and negative “odour has the power to restore the past because, unlike the visual image, it is an encapsulated experience that has been left largely uninterpreted and underdeveloped.” In addition, he suggests the directness and immediacy of smell provides a sharp contrast with the abstractive and compositional characteristics of sight (Tuan 1993). Porteous (1985) discusses the concept of “smellscapes;” how smells help to organise and understand our feelings about particular places, as they can be “spatially ordered and place related”. “Soundscapes” have also received much attention in efforts to find the sensuous past. Noise is a significant aspect of lived experience and how people make sense of their realities through the medium of sound or noise in their everyday practices has been the focus of Hall, Lashua and Coffey (2008). Interestingly, Rodaway (1994) notes, in relation to sound in general, that it “is not just sensation: it is information. We do not merely hear, we listen.”

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The cattle complex Here, a sensorial approach is applied to modern pastoralist communities of Africa, whose cattle define their world view, being central both in their economic systems and often ascribed symbolic and religious significance, in order to gain insights into their interactions. The enduring notion of a “cattle complex” among pastoral populations of Eastern Africa, proposed by Herskovits (1926), where cattle were particularly valued for cultural and symbolic reasons, still resonates today. Cattle have been alluded to as “gods on four legs” and used as an “alibi for distinctions of rank, gender and social power” (Comaroff and Comaroff 1991) with concepts such as “bovine fetishism” (Bonte1981) and “bovine mystique” being proposed (Ferguson 1985). Bonte and Galaty (1991) describe this as “cattle signifying well-being and abundance, providing fertile objects for metaphorical thought and expression, and representing religious symbols, emblems of divinity and vehicles for sacrifice.” Baxter (2002), in his précis on Herskovits’ thesis, comments that “cattle, above all else, had to give meaning to the life of the people; to be their solace and passion and the source of the images which express their social and imaginative lives.” Conversely, it should be noted that, as Bonte and Galaty (1991) point out, the “pastoral reality” means that, of necessity, animals are often solely perceived in economic and marketable terms and, indeed, significant relationships between domesticated animals and humans are not limited to cattle, nor indeed, the African continent. Although the hegemony of the visual senses has been critiqued, considering how things are seen is clearly valuable in gaining insights into the human-animal relationships, and has featured prominently in ethnographic and anthropological research on pastoralists (e.g. EvansPritchard 1940; Galaty 1989). In his paper titled “The Marvels of Everyday Vision” Coote (1992) discusses the significance of the aesthetic qualities of their animals to the cattle keeping Nilotes, perhaps best illustrated by the phrase “cattle are primarily a feast for the eyes, and only secondarily a feast for the stomach.” The application of the kinetic, visual, haptic, gustatory and aural senses is obviously fundamental in aesthetic judgments, with the interpretation of these perceptual experiences in different societies being shaped by their social and cultural values. Cattle play significant roles in the world view of Nilotic societies such as the Nuer, Dinka, Mandari and Atuot. The perceptual qualities of these cattle herders focus on colour configuration and hide patination, shape of the hornsand, the size and fatness of the body, paying particular attention to the hump (Coote 1992). For example, for the Nuer, Evans-Pritchard

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(1940) records “several hundred colour permutations” of cattle coats (Fig. 2-1), and the sheen of hides is also appreciated, as is the size and shape of cattle humps. The Nilotes demonstrate an evident appreciation of the aesthetic qualities of the physical characteristics of their beasts, and although these may be useful indicators of cattle health, the reasons for this are clear. For the Nilotes, their cattle are their pride and their joy.

Fig. 2-1: Image of Nuer cattle, taken by Evans-Pritchard, showing mottled markings (from C. Morton, Nuer Cattle, Southern Sudan Project, Pitt Rivers Museum).

Similarly, Galaty (1989) discusses the remarkable cognitive abilities, arising from using a combination of all their senses, of the Maasai who have an impressive ability to remember the genealogy and recognise and identify hundreds of individual animals. They use five different attribute types to describe their cattle: status, colour, pattern, horns and other distinctive characteristics. Status might include sex of the animal, its maturity and whether castrated; and horns, their presence or absence, shape and position, but it is in the variety and combination of details of the colour and pattern of their beasts that the visual aesthetic dominates. This includes colours such as red, reddish, brownish red, dark brown and

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tannish and patterns such as spotted, striped, splotched or streaked. These may be joined in combinations such as black with some white hair, short, incomplete stripe on back, whitish with brown splotches, white streak with small black spots and with reddish stripes. The Maasai use combinations of these individual visual characteristics, linked with knowledge of the animals’ genealogies, meshed together with the “social ties and transactions” imbued within each animal’s identity to identify their own animals individually. Together with a spatial knowledge of the animals’ position within the herd, remarkably, each of these dimensions can combine to identify when an animal is absent from the herd. As Galaty (1989) notes, within the “pattern” created by the herd pastoralists can recognise a missing animal through a “holistic ‘sense’ of a slightly incomplete or imperfect pattern playing a role in this modality of perception.”

The Fulani The work of Lott and Hart in the late 1970s on the relationship between Fulani nomadic herdsmen and their cattle provides interesting insights on the sensorial engagement between humans and their animals. Today, the Fulani people (also known as Fula or Fulbe), numbering at least thirty million, are distributed across the Sudanian and SudanoSahelain savannah zones of West Africa, although there are also communities of Fulbe in Egypt and Sudan (Wilson 1995). The Fulani are traditionally a nomadic or semi-nomadic, pastoralist trading people whose herds of cattle are the basis of their social, cultural and economic life (Hopen 1958; Stenning 1959; St. Croix 1945), although today only a third of Fula people live a nomadic lifestyle with the majority living in settled communities (Wilson 1995). The cattle managed by the Fulani in the study area (northern Nigeria) were of the lyre-horned White Fulani breed, well-adapted to brutal heat and able to withstand a restricted diet during long dry seasons. Typical herds will comprise twenty to thirty cows, one senior and several immature bulls together with some oxen (castrated males). To control their animals the Fulani insert themselves into the social system of their cattle, unusually making a two-species social system, using behavioural techniques to manage and manipulate their behaviour. In the first instance, this involves exploiting the predisposition of cattle to yield to the dominant herd member and to follow that leader (Lott and Hart 1979). The Fulani are generally physically small and both men and boys work the cattle, on foot. The cattle are regarded as being robust, often fierce and

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potentially dangerous, but the Fulani exploit the predisposition of cattle to yield to a dominant member and to follow a leader. This is done by aggressive domination of their cattle by the Fulani, using a behavioural repertoire that elicits submission. One example of this is their response to the “broadside” threat (Fig. 2-2) where cattle can sometimes intimidate other cattle or, indeed, humans, by presenting a sideways profile and, sometimes, bellowing. This threatening behaviour elicits an immediate response by the Fulani, who shout and wave herding sticks, usually in combination with a quick charge towards the bull. If the aggressive animal did not retreat then he would be hit with the stick. This dominance is often reinforced by hitting the cattle with sticks for no obvious reason, thus reinforcing their position within the relationship. Herdsmen will also often break up fights between two animals in the same manner (Lott and Hart 1977, 1979).

Fig. 2-2: A herd bull displaying the broadside threat (from Lott and Hart 1979).

It might seem obvious that this is contrary to what we regard as good stockmanship in the Western world, the regular use of physical aggression against livestock promotes fear of their handlers, having negative effects (Rushen et al. 1999). However, in this instance, this allows a remarkable degree of control by the Fulani, who are able to allow the cattle to graze near unfenced crops, simply because the degree of dominance they assert has allowed them to deter the herd from approaching crops solely through vocal threats and occasional charges at the animals. Fijn (2011) also notes similar responses from Mongolian herders to behavioural transgressions

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by herd animals. A combination of verbal and physical threats, including shouting and raising a hand or stick, is used to counteract aggressive behaviours such as the broadside profile. Interestingly, this aggressive approach by the Fulani is tempered by a more tactilely mediated aspect of the human-animal social relationship. Grooming between cattle is commonplace, with cows often licking their nursing calves in the anus and hind leg region and adults who lick one another in the head and neck region. Grooming in animals serves many functions, in this case both establishing and maintaining social structure within the herd and cleansing and removing parasites. Lott and Hart (1979) noted that in their camps the Fulani invested extensive amounts of time with the cattle, stroking their heads, necks and inner surfaces of the rear legs. The cattle participate in this grooming behaviour, approaching the herdsmen and soliciting the “petting.” Conversely, the animals also often approach their herdsman and lick them as they would a conspecific. The amicable nature of these mutual exchanges means that the Fulani can approach their cattle at any time to remove ticks and other parasites. This sensorial relationship between the Fulani and their cattle was also documented by F.W. de St Croix (1945), a veterinary officer during the British colonial administration of Nigeria, which he regarded as: a sentimental attachment of the pastoral Fulani to their animals. One may often see in the pastures, a young herdsman standing at the head of the cattle, folding the ears and stroking the neck: he will also speak to the animal by its name – that is the name by which it is known from its hair coloration and/or the shape of its horns. The cattle know and will follow the herdsman.

Today, it is well documented that increased handling of livestock reduces the fear response and enables easier handling, to say nothing of increasing productivity (Rushen et al. 1999). The comprehensive nature of the intimate knowledge the Fulani retain about their cattle is demonstrated by further examples of the exploitation of their behavioural tendencies, originally of adaptive value. The Fulani take advantage of the aversion of cattle to their own faeces and urine by making use of fresh cattle dung to discourage particular behaviours by herd animals, for example, to deter calves that are being weaned from continuing to nurse from their mothers, they spread fresh faeces on their dam’s udders. They also daub faeces on the leaves of plants along the margins of unfenced areas that they do not want the cattle to transgress. Conversely, the cattle themselves have learned behaviours which run contrary to their normal instincts. Biting insects, particularly rampant at

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dusk, are kept at bay by smoke fires, made with green leaves. The cattle, who would normally avoid fire, have learned to stand over the smoke, and even the flames, to gain relief from the insects (Lott and Hart 1979).

Bringing the beast back in It is within the application of a sensorial approach, the practice of using “thick sensory description” (Taylor and Hansen 2005) that we might find fertile grounds to gain understanding of the human-animal and animal-human bond. We must remember that prehistoric herders were people whose lives were inextricably bound to their cattle, in complex, interdependent relationships. They would have lived in close proximity to their animals, depending on their products for shelter, foodstuffs, clothing and tools, and it is likely that cattle also played a significant part in the lives and ideology of these people. Here, I suggest that the embodied practices of ancient pastoralists is considered through the lens of the haptic, aural, olfactory and visual senses, which, together with an examination of the nature of their mutual sensorial connectivity with the animal actor, might lend insights into how those human actors may have managed and interacted with their domestic animals. It is striking how strongly the intimate nature of the human-cattle relationship is defined through both smell and touch. The physical nature of the Fulani’s relationship with their herds, the grooming and petting so dominant within the social relationship between man-animal and animalman, exists in a “smellscape,” continuous, multi-layered and mutual. Today, it is notable that, in our postmodern, mostly urban world, strong odours such as those emanating from refuse dumps, sewage farms or abattoirs are now regarded as unacceptable, even offensive. These “places” mostly exist in liminal spaces, on the peripheries of society. In our own routines of personal hygiene we cleanse and sanitise ourselves until we are “odourless.” Unpleasant body odours or smells of blood, faeces, urine, and other bodily wastes are the olfactory experiences we choose to avoid; farmyards and abattoirs’ and the events and processes that transpire there remind us of the reality of our treatment of domesticated animals. But it is the nature of this physicality; these visceral, pungent, overpowering experiences that we must engage with to better understand the human-animal attachment. As we have seen from Lott and Hart’s (1977, 1979) research on the Fulani people, touch, including grooming, and by implication, smell, play an intense role in their relationship with their cattle, indeed, theirs is a world mediated by the haptic and olfactory senses. Touch and smell are

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senses which are enmeshed and interchangeable, affording experiences which relate wholly to the sheer animality of the beast, creating a union between human and animal which is both tangible and fleshly. In their daily round, both human and animal smell; the strong, ammoniac smell of cattle urine, the hot grassy odour of cattle faeces, the acrid tang of human sweat, the sweet, milky scent of a calf and the tactile aspects of rough, bristly skin on a cows haunches’ or the fine, silky hair found on the ears, would mingle and coalesce. The nature of the lived experience for ancient pastoralists might include the panicked lowing of a young calf as it is attacked by a predator, the stench of blood and faeces which would fill the air as it is disembowelled, or the reek of physical decay, the stench of death or disease emanating from their animals. What were their feelings towards scents such as the sharp, metallic smell of blood permeating the air as a pastoralist draws a knife across the throat of an animal being sacrificed, perhaps for food, or other, ritual purposes. Blood first spilled, and possibly collected into vessels, would be hot, viscous and salty, how might ancient pastoralists have regarded this? Would it be pleasurable, might they gather for the first taste and smell of the warm fluid? This intimate awareness of their cattle, that I will call a total knowingness, involves a complete sensorial rapport between man and beast, probably promoting significant emotional bonds between them. It would also bring certain advantages, for example, looking at the animal, touching it, smelling, watching its movements and listening to its vocalizations would likewise have been crucial in monitoring their health and wellbeing. They might scrutinise an array of sensorial signs to ascertain the health of an animal, perhaps smelling their breath, feeling, fingering or palpating the flesh, squirt milk from a teat, examine the animals dung for unusual texture or smells, or monitor visual signs such as the movement of the animals for signs of injury or disease, or behaviours indicating stress. Much of their engagement within this sensorial landscape would be of a pervasive nature, perhaps unnoticed except on a subliminal level, but would undoubtedly be of a reciprocal, mutual nature; for example, the sense of hearing in cattle is much more sensitive than in humans. They hear a significantly higher range of frequencies, enabling them to detect predators at distances of several miles and also locate the noise source (Heffner and Heffner 1992). Thus, the cattle would give early warning of predators approaching, allowing the humans time to prepare to protect them. In conclusion, these pastoralists’ relationships with their cattle would have existed in a multi-faceted, sensorial world, where all the senses would surely have been engaged, and, significantly, we might also surmise

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that these pastoralists would likewise have had a close understanding of the sensory perceptions of the animals they managed. Living within their “sensescape” and the close nature of their day-to-day interaction, would have meant that, probably both consciously and unconsciously, they would have been continually attuned to the physical characteristics and behavioural traits of their beasts, as well as understanding how their animals understood the world around them.

Acknowledgements I’d like to thank Jose Pellini for organising a very enjoyable session at World Archaeological Congress and also giving me the opportunity to contribute to this volume. Thanks also go to my parents, Ray and Brenda Codd, for their continuing support, with a special mention for my dad for his willingness to engage in long cattle-related conversations!

Works cited Baxter, Paul. “Cattle Complex.” In Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology, edited by Alan Barnard and Jonathan Spencer, 113. London: Routledge, 2002. Berger, John. About Looking. London: Bloomsbury Group, 1980. Bonte, Pierre. “Marxist Theory and Anthropological Analysis: The Study of Nomadic Pastoralist Societies.” In The Anthropology of Precapitalist Societies, edited by Joel Kahn and Josep Llobera, 22–56. London: Macmillan, 1981. Bonte, Pierre and John Galaty. “Introduction.” In Herders, Warriors and Traders: Pastoralism in Africa, edited by John Galaty and Pierre Bonte, 3–30. Boulder: Westview Press, 1991. Bull, Michael and Les Back. “Introduction: Into Sound.” In The Auditory Culture Reader, edited by Michael Bull and Les Back, 1–18. Oxford: Berg, 2003. Bull, Michael, Paul Gilroy, David Howes and Douglas Kahn. “Introducing Sensory Studies.” The Senses and Society 1, no. 1 (2006): 5–7. Buller, Henry. “Animal Geographies 1.” Progress in Human Geography 38 (2013): 308–318. Bulliet, Richard. Hunters, Herders, and Hamburgers: The Past and Future of Human-Animal Relationships. New York: Columbia University Press, 2005. Classen, Constance. “Foundations for an Anthropology of the Senses.” International Social Science Journal 153 (1997): 401–412

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—. , ed. The Book of Touch. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2005. Classen, Constance, David Howes and Anthony Synnott. Aroma: The Cultural History of Smell. London: Routledge, 1994. Clutton-Brock, Juliet. “Introduction.” In The Walking Larder: Patterns of Domestication, Pastoralism, and Predation, edited by Juliet CluttonBrock, 1–3. London: Unwin Hyman, 1989. —. “The Unnatural World: Behavioural Aspects of Humans and Animals.” In Animals and Human Society: Changing Perspectives, edited by Aubrey Manning and James Serpell, 23–35. New York: Routledge, 1994. Comaroff, Jean and John Comaroff. “‘How Beasts Lost their Legs’: Cattle in Tswana Economy and Society.” In Herders, Warriors and Traders: Pastoralism in Africa, edited by John Galaty and Pierre Bonte, 33–61. Boulder: Westview Press, 1991. Coote, Jeremy. “‘Marvels of Everyday Vision’: The Anthropology of Aesthetics and the Cattle-Keeping Nilotes.” In Anthropology, Art and Aesthetics, edited by Jeremy Coote and Anthony Shelton, 245–273. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992. de St. Croix, F.W. The Fulani of Northern Nigeria. Lagos: Government Printer, 1945. Evans-Pritchard, Edward E. The Nuer: A Description of the Modes of Livelihood and Political Institutions of a Nilotic People. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1940. Falk, Pasi. The Consuming Body. London: Sage, 1994. Ferguson, James. “The Bovine Mystique: Power, Property and Livestock in Rural Lesotho.” Man 20 (1985): 647–674 Fijn, Natasha. Living with Herds: Human-Animal Coexistence in Mongolia. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Galaty, John. “Cattle and Cognition: Aspects of Maasai Practical Reasoning.” In The Walking Larder: Patterns of Domestication, Pastoralism and Predation, edited by Julien Clutton-Brock, 215–230. London: Unwin Hyman Ltd, 1989. Gosden, Chris. “Making Sense: Archaeology and Aesthetics.” World Archaeology 33, no. 2 (2001): 163–167. Hall, Tom, Brett Lashua and Amanda Coffey. “Sound and the Everyday in Qualitative Research.” Qualitative Inquiry 14, no. 6 (2008): 1019– 1040. Harraway, Donna. Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. New York: Routledge, 1991. —. When Species Meet. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008.

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Heffner, Rickye and Henry Heffner. “Hearing in Large Mammals: SoundLocalization Acuity in Cattle (Bostaurus) and Goats (Capra hircus).” Journal of Comparative Psychology 106, no. 2 (1992): 107–113. Herskovits, Melville. “The Cattle Complex in East Africa.” American Anthropologist 28, no.1 (1926): 230–272. Hopen, C. Edward. The Pastoral Fulbe Family in Gwand. London: Oxford University Press, 1958. Howes, David. Sensual Relations. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2004. Houston, Stephen and Karl Taube. "An Archaeology of the Senses: Perception and Cultural Expression in Ancient Mesoamerica.” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 10, no. 2 (2000): 261–294. Ingold, Tim. “On Reindeer and Men.” Man 9, no. 4 (1974): 523–538. Joyce, Rosemary. “Archaeology of the Body.” Annual Review of Anthropology 34 (2005): 139–158. Lévi-Strauss. Claude. Totemism. Boston: Beacon, 1963. Lott, Dale and Benjamin Hart. “Aggressive Domination of Cattle by Fulani Herdsmen and its Relation to Aggression in Fulani Culture and Personality.” Ethos 5, no. 2 (1977): 174–186. ––. “Applied Ethology in a Nomadic Cattle Culture.” Applied Animal Ethology 5 (1979): 309–319. MacGregor, Gavin. “Making Sense of the Past in the Present: A Sensory Analysis of Carved Stone Balls.” World Archaeology 31 (1999): 258– 271. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. London: Routledge, 2002 [1958]. Meskell, Lynn. “The Somatization of Archaeology: Institutions, Discourses, Corporeality.” Norwegian Archaeological Review 29, no. 1 (1996): 1–16. Morton, C. "‘Nuer Cattle’ Southern Sudan Project (in development).” Pitt Rivers Museum, 2006. Accessed 10 April, 2014. http://southernsudan.prm.ox.ac.uk/details/1998.355.719.2/. Mullin, Molly. “Mirrors and Windows: Sociocultural Studies of HumanAnimal Relationships.” Annual Review of Anthropology 28 (1999): 201–224. Porteous, J. Douglas. “Smellscape.” Progress in Human Geography 9 (1985): 356–378. Rodaway, Paul. Sensuous Geographies: Body, Sense and Place. London: Routledge, 1994.

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Rushen, Jeffery, Alison Taylor and Ann Marie de Pasillè. “Domestic Animals’ Fear of Humans and its Effect on their Welfare.” Applied Animal Behaviour Science 65 (1999): 285–303. Serres, Michel. Les Cinq Sens. Paris: Grasset, 1985. Sherratt, Andrew. “The Secondary Exploitation of Animals in the Old World.” World Archaeology 15 (1983): 90–104. Stenning, Derrick. Savannah Nomads. London: Oxford University Press, 1959. Stoller, Paul. Sensous Scholarship. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997. Tambiah, Stanley. “Animals Are Good to Think and Good to Prohibit.” Ethnology 8, no. 4 (1969): 423–459. Taylor, Steven and Hans Hansen. “Finding Form: Looking at the Field of Organizational Aesthetics.” Journal of Management Studies 42, no. 6 (2005): 1211–1231. Tilley, Christopher. Metaphor and Material Culture. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1999. Tsing, Anna. “Unruly Edges: Mushrooms as Companion Species.” Environmental Humanities 1 (2012): 141–154. Tuan, Yi Fu. Passing Strange and Wonderful. Washington, DC: Island Press-Shearwater, 1993. Wolch, Jennifer and Jacque Emel. “Bringing the Animals Back In.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 13 (1995): 632–636. Whittle, Alasdair. The Archaeology of People: Dimensions of Neolithic Life. London: Routledge, 2003. Wilson, Wendy. “The Fulani Model of Sustainable Agriculture: Situating Fulbe Nomadism in a Systemic View of Pastoralism and Farming.” Nomadic Peoples 36-37 (1995): 35–52.

CHAPTER THREE REMEMBERING THROUGH THE SENSES: THE FUNERARY PRACTICES IN ANCIENT EGYPT JOSÉ ROBERTO PELLINI Laboratório de Arqueologia Sensorial Departamento de Arqueologia, Universidade Federal de Sergipe (Brazil)

“The stench of the sacrifice blood, the dazzling glow of hearths, the cold breeze, the intoxicating scent of the blue lotus, the sweet taste of wine and roasted meat, the smoke of incense, the frenzied sound of music, all impress my senses. Music, wine and incense are my food. I will never forget this night in which I saw my father again...” More than a simple act of storing still images of the world, memory is a corporeal act that is produced and reproduced from our daily bodily engagement with the materiality of the world. Memory is a culturally mediated material practice that is created and activated by corporeal acts and semantically signified objects. Our memories are a collage of smells, sounds, light conditions, shadows, textures, tastes, and feelings. The stronger our sensory perception/impression, the stronger and deeper will be our memories. A good example of this relationship between memories and senses are the funeral rites that occurred in Pharaonic Egypt. Whether at the funerary feast, during processions, or simply visiting the tombs, the senses were stimulated, allowing the creation of memories and, consequently, the creation and perpetuation of discourses and narratives. In this chapter I explore this relationship between memories and senses using the practices of creative narrative and alternative discourse as a tool.

Instructions from father to son Year 23, first month of shemu, day 19 of the Gold Horus, Mighty in strength, Majestic in appearance, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt,

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Lord of the Two Lands, Menkheperre, the son of Re. The new moon is coming. Within two days will begin the Beautiful Feast of the Valley, at Thebes, and once again I will break the seal of the doors of the house of the heart’s joy and meet my beloved father. I am anxious, as this is the first year that my son, who is now ten, will visit his grandfather in the valley of eternity. We spent the whole night in vigil at the port of Koptos waiting for the boats of the Temple of Karnak. When we embarked towards Thebes, Ra had not yet returned from his journey through the other world. The night was cold and mist covered the Nile, hiding its mysteries. The silence was only broken by the slow and rhythmic sound of the oars in the water. I was almost in a trance when sleep overtook me. When the first light emerged on the horizon, the Nile was transformed into a large golden lake. At this moment, the priests awoke to greet Ra, who had defeated the darkness one more time. We calmly continued navigating towards Thebes. To celebrate the triumph of the Sun, we ate bread, vegetables, and drank beer. Around ten in the morning the hot wind blew, slowly moving the boat. The day was clear and the sky had no clouds. The hoisted sails rustled with the breeze. On both margins of the Nile, the floodplain’s green contrasted with the desert’s beige. As we approached Thebes, the colourful flags of the temples of Millions of Years added to my excitement. Finally we were arriving. We landed on the western side of the city, without hurry. Before going to my father’s tomb, I wanted to take my son to visit some of the most beautiful tombs of Egypt and maybe get inspired to decorate my own grave. We walked for two hours, stopping now and then to rest and eat. My son, Ner-Neruf observed everything carefully. His eyes gleamed in front of so much beauty and splendor. When we saw the mountain’s summit emerge with its pyramidal shape, we knew we had stepped into the domains of Hathor, the lady of the mountain. Nen-Neruf: —Have we arrived at the city of the dead, Father? Siamon: —Yes, my son. This is the domain of Hathor, the lady of the mountain. This is the boundary between the world of the living and the dead. Nen-Neruf: —Are we going to the tomb of my grandfather? Siamon: —No. First we will visit some other tombs in the city of the dead. Nen-Neruf: —Why? Siamon: —I want some ideas for the decoration of my tomb and it is said that beautiful tombs are located here. Nen-Neruf: —Can we enter any tomb?

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Siamon: Yes, we can. See, the seals were removed and now the wooden doors are open, not only to the relatives and friends of the dead but to anyone who wants to come and see the houses of eternity. Come along and when we find something that catches our attention, we will enter. Nen-Neruf: —Father, can I ask you a question? Siamon: —Of course my son. Nen-Neruf: —What is death? Siamon: —Son, before you understand what death is, you need to understand that we are made of several parts. We have the body or khet; the ren, that is our name; shuyet, that is our shadow; ka, that is our double, the force that animates all individuals; ba, that is our personality, the most active part of our spirit/soul, the winged bird that moves in the tomb and beyond it; and the ankh, the manifestation of the transformation of the dead into a living being. Our body, in turn, is also formed of several parts. As a wise man named Pahery said, you have eyes to see, ears to hear what is said, your mouth talks and your feet walk, your hands and arms have movement, your flesh is firm and your muscles form a smooth arc. It is the blood moved by haty, which keeps our limbs together and gives us life. When fatigue arrives, our weakness increases and blood stops circulating. The eyes get blurry and ears deaf, the mouth becomes silent and does not speak. Your body begins to disarticulate until all parts are separated. It is the misery that comes as night. Unlike life, my son, that is unity and assembly, death is disunion and dismemberment. Your body gets dismembered when your heart is tired and cannot keep all parts together. Nen-Neruf: —And how are we reborn after death? Siamon: —We are reborn through a ritual called the Opening of the Mouth. In this ritual, priests, through magic words, revive each one of your senses. They open your mouth so you can speak again; open your eyes so you can see again; and open your ears so you can listen again, since it is through the ear that knowledge is acquired. At this time your heart, ib, beats again. Nen-Neruf: —But you said that our heart is haty. Siamon: —My son, haty is our physical heart, one that powers the body by pumping the mentou vessels with blood. The ib is our personality, our identity, our memory, our moral heart. As the stomach is the container for food, ib is the recipient of emotions and speech. The ib is a god; its shrine is the stomach; it rejoices when the limbs are festive! Nen-Neruf: —If we are reborn in another world, why do we need a tomb? Siamon: —It is in the tomb that our ka finds a place to rest and feed. The tomb is our home for eternity. Nen-Neruf: —And ka feeds on what?

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Siamon: —It feeds on the offerings that priests and family leave at the tomb. If you were a righteous person, followed life under maat, and were loved, people will always bring offerings for the ka. That is why you should never open your mouth to an elder, and must keep your tongue from harmful speech, because it is an oppressor of the weak. It is an enemy determined to destroy your being. Fast is the speech of the person who is angry. You destroy and build yourself with the tongue. God hates the falsifier of words. Do not deceive a man by pen on parchment. God abhors it. Do not witness with false words in order to put a man aside with your tongue. Keep your heart strong and strengthen your tongue. The tongue of a man is the rudder of the boat. It is through the tongue that we build our image. If your name falls into the mouth of the auctioneer, you will be forgotten and will die in life. Nen-Neruf: —But father, not all sweet words indicate a good heart. Siamon: —You’re right, my son. Sometimes someone’s lips may be sweet, but his tongue and heart are bitter. That is why you must be careful. Just as our heart keeps all the parts of our body united, it is our tongue that keeps friends, relatives, and acquaintances together. The strength of a king is in the tongue. But remember that it is useless to control your tongue if your ears are closed. The person who pays attention to what is said, will always be respected. He will be remembered in the mouths of the living by those who are on earth, and by those who will be born. As for the idiot who will not listen, he never gets anything because he does not discern knowledge from ignorance. Always listen to the words. Give your heart to understand them. Woe to the one who neglects them. Nen-Neruf: —You mean that the ear is as important as our tongue? Siamon: —Of course my son. The ear picks up everything you cannot see. If the eye reveals to us the surface of the world, its shapes, its colors; the ear reveals what is hidden from the eyes. The ear is physically located more internally. The sound of the voice reveals the mood, personal disposition; the sounds of the world reveal temporalities, dangers, establish distance, and much more. Nen-Neruf: —Do you feel a sweet smell in the air? Siamon: —Yes; it seems to come from that tomb. Let’s take a look. Nen-Neruf: —Dad, what is written on the door? Siamon: —The text says: Any person who shall pass this monument in going downstream or upstream: as you love your king, as you praise your city-gods, as your children remain in your place, as you love life and ignore death, you shall say: A Thousand of bread and beer, beef and fowl, all things good and pure on which a god lives to the ka of the revered Nakht, true of voice.

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Nen-Neruf: —What does that mean? Siamon: It means that the dead is inviting us to come in and visit the tomb. Nen-Neruf: —Then let’s go, Dad. I loved the perfume. It seems to make us levitate. Do you know who owns the tomb? Does it have the owner’s name? Siamon: —Yes, his name is Nakht. Nen-Neruf: —What did he do when he was alive? Siamon: —Come, I’ll show you. On the walls of the tomb is his whole story. Just follow the images, as they represent an autobiography, telling the story of Nakht. In the outer part of the tomb, near the door, he shows the activities of everyday life, while in the innermost part, next to the chapel and the statue, he tells us of sacred matters. The closer we get to the outside, with more light, the less sacred is the tomb’s space. On the other hand, the closer we get to the inside, with less light, the more sacred is the space of the tomb. For example, here in the scenes near the door he says he is a priest of Amón; he appears hunting ducks, overseeing fishing in the Nile, and checking the wine production. Near the statue, in the innermost part of the tomb, you can see him making offerings to the gods and receiving funerary offerings. Nen-Neruf: —Who is the woman sitting next to him? Siamon: —It is his wife, Tawy. She is gentle and kind. You would like her. Nen-Neruf: —Why did they paint a door down the hall? Siamon: —It is the so-called false door, or rewit, son. Through it Nakht and Tawy enter and exit the tomb every day. This is the door that connects the world of the living with the world of the dead. It is one of the holiest spots of the tomb. Nen-Neruf: —So, that’s where he receives the offerings? Siamon: —Yes. Nen-Neruf: —Why did we not bring any offerings? Siamon: You can bring an offering or just recite the offering formula hetep- di-nesu. Nen-Neruf: —How so? Siamon: —My son, you will learn when you go to the School of Life that words are magical. When you read or recite something that is written, you give life to things. When our great god Aton created the world he did it through the power of his voice. The breath of life that came out of his mouth gave life to the world. This way, when we read the formula of offering, we give life to the offerings. Nen-Neruf: —So that is why he asked us to enter the tomb?

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Siamon: —Remember my son, when our name is called and our history is remembered, we relive and are kept alive. When your name is not remembered you disappear both in life and in death. Nen-Neruf: —Who are those women with musical instruments? Siamon: —They are artists and musicians. They are livening up Nakht’s funerary banquet. Music, dance, food, and incense are nourishment for the dead, my son. Tomorrow, after the festival of the Great God Amon, you will attend a funeral feast in the tomb of your grandfather and you can feel what Nakht is feeling. Nen-Neruf: —This tomb is very beautiful. The white and blue remind me of the sky of Egypt. It’s all so intense, so real, that it seems I can pick up the grapes, the poultry, and the bread that are painted. Make your tomb like this one dad. Siamon: —It really is a beautiful tomb. If you liked the tomb that much, we can leave a message on the wall, so other people will know we were here and that this is one of the most beautiful monuments of Egypt. What do you think? Nen-Neruf: —I think it is great. Siamon: —Then I will write: “the scribe Siamon came, from the divine offerings of Amon, and his son Nen-Neruf, to see Western Thebes in its entirety, with life, prosperity, and strength, and found that this is the most beautiful among the beautiful monuments of all Egypt.” That afternoon we visited many other tombs and I wrote a number of ideas for the decoration of my own tomb. When it started getting dark, my son and I went to the courtyard of my father’s tomb, to rest and wait for the start of the Beautiful Feast of the Valley, when Amon, Khonsu, and Mut will leave Karnak and cross the Nile toward Djeser-Djeseru, the holy of holies. We lit a small fire and I sat back. Nen-Neruf soon fell asleep. In the distance we could see a number of small bright dots scattered everywhere. They seemed like falling stars. They were the relatives and friends of the dead who inhabit the holy city, coming to visit their relatives. At dawn, the movement was intense. From the desert sands it was possible to see the sacred boats cruising the Nile toward the processional route, bringing Amon, Khonsu, and Mut. Dancers, acrobats, and musicians, followed by priests, priestesses, soldiers, courtiers, and some officers, opened the procession. The priestesses, in particular, bore the menat necklace, emblem of the goddess Hathor, and the bronze sistras, which produced a very distinctive sound. Behind came Amon, Khonsu, and Mut, carried by priests who had shaved heads and wore only the ceremonial kilt. Beside the golden barges, torch carriers kept the sacred fire lit. A number of rest stations were located throughout the city of the

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dead so that the gods could rest. Bouquets of lotus, mandrake, lilies, and poppies were carefully arranged at these sites to perfume the hearts of the gods. Throughout the whole procession, people were gathering around the sacred barges trying to contact them in search of an oracle. Occasionally the gods answered the request of someone, prophesying or advising on some specific topic. Flowers were thrown along the procession. The music, the color of costumes and flags, the smell of incense, and the prayers all created a cheerful atmosphere along the procession. In one of the most important moments, priests created a large fire to burn the offerings. Myrrh oil was spilled in the pyre, producing a thick, sweet smoke. At the end of the day, before Ra initiated his journey to the other world, Amon, Khonsu, and Mut, were received by the Pharaoh and taken to rest in Djesen-Djeseru. This is the time that Amon would find Hathor, and that my son and I went to meet my father. We arrived at my father’s tomb and stayed at the door welcoming people that arrived. Relatives and friends brought some food and drink. My son was writing down what each brought to the celebration on a piece of ostraca, so it was possible to return the gift in the future. Hay brought five loaves of bread and one mat; Patjasa, 0.25 bushels of wheat and two loaves of bread; Monthupahapy, 0.25 bushels of wheat and one bread; Nubemryb, five loaves of bread; Nisamem, four loaves of bread; Tawerethery, one jug of beer, five rolls of bread, 1 ka; Henutwaty, four loaves of bread; Basa brought five loaves of bread and two pitchers of beer; and Amenkha, 2 hin of sesame oil. Others brought blue lotus flowers, mandrake, vegetables, honey, milk, natron, and a lot of wine and beer. To mark the beginning of the celebration, we sacrificed an ox. The smell of blood, its viscosity, and temperature impregnated our bodies. While the butcher skinned the animal, we took the foreleg and put it on the stack of offerings and burned it. A large column of fire, followed by white smoke, quickly reached the sky, and then we could start the big feast. Some of the visitors remained in the courtyard, while others preferred to stay inside the tomb, where it was warmer and more pleasant. The light from the lamps gave a yellowish tinge to the environment, at the same time infusing the air with the smell of scented oils. When the meat was ready, we ate and drank in honor of my father. Some preferred not to eat and danced wildly to the sound of flutes, lyres, harps, and tambourines. Amenka, my father’s cousin, was one of the liveliest. He girated his body to the music’s rhythm, fast and intense, as if in a trance. Before it became late that night, much of the wine had been consumed. Inside the tomb, small perfume cones were melted together with mandrake leaves and blue

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lotus. My body became lethargic. My heartbeat started to decrease and my eyes could barely stay open. I was being taken by a growing excitement. I felt that my mind began to break free. It was a sign that the veil that separates the world of the living and the dead became increasingly tenuous. People were already intoxicated by wine, beer, and narcotic odors when one of the guests shouted: “For his ka, drink the potent liquid, have a happy day with everything that our master Amon gave us, the god who loves you; follow your heart while you live, place myrrh upon your head, clothe yourself in fine linen, anoint yourself with real oils of the god's possessions.” At this moment the barrier between the two worlds fell apart and I could see my father again. He had garlands around his neck and was holding a nkh bouquet. He looked cheerful and immediately shouted in his hoarse voice: “A beautiful day! It is a public appearance, the seal is broken. The doors of my house are opened, and incense reaches the heavens. You offer, and the doors are open. What you have offered is received. My Lord, how beautiful is the beautiful thing that I have done for you, by the overseer of plough lands, every day, so that you grant to the silent one good life, smell this, because of your favor he comes to the interior of your house, great is your light when it comes, a beautiful day, one remembers the beauty of Amun, how pleasant is the heart, lifting praise up to the height of heaven even into your face, each saying ‘Our wish is to see it!’.” The tomb is no longer just a house, but a house of the hearts’ joy. We talked, he and I, the rest of the night. I asked him to intercede in my favor with the gods and he asked me to never forget his name and that I always come to visit him during the Beautiful Festival of the Valley. The conversation was good, but the fatigue was great and I ended up falling asleep. When I woke up, my father was no longer there and our friends and relatives were already leaving the tomb. My son and I gathered our things and headed back to Koptos. Navigating now, back home, I still smell the scent of flowers, the taste of roasted meat, the sound of the music, and the image of my old and beloved father. He is alive in my memory.

A barbecue in front of Medinet Habu February 20, 2013. After a hot day, a cold night falls over the city of Luxor as if announcing our farewell. It is our last day and the heart is already filled with longing. The silence in the house contrasts with the earlier days when there were lots of laughs, conversations, and music,

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coming mainly from Julian and Carol’s computers. As we are closing the last bags, Mohamed, always punctual, arrives to take us to dinner. Usually, Mohamed always offers a dinner for us, whether upon our arrival or our departure. Dinner is usually at his home, but this year Mohamed wanted something different. We went to his friend’s restaurant, near the temple of Medinet Habu. I found it odd, because it was not quite Mohamed’s style to eat in a restaurant, even more so at a farewell dinner. Restaurants do not have anything special and I know Mohamed likes to honor his friends with something more intimate, something done by him, something in which his soul is present. But this could be a new Mohamed. When we exited the car, we noticed something strange, the restaurant doors were closed and the lights were off. Mohamed knocked and soon after his friend Ahmed appeared. He greeted us and asked us to enter. As we drank the welcome karkade, Ahmed told us the story of the restaurant and how he closed the doors due to the lack of tourists. After the welcome and stories, Ahmed took us to the roof where there was a table set for four people. All was symmetrically arranged: cups, plates, and cutlery. The table, as I recall, was bluish and made of wood, and the towel was white with embroidered tips. There were only two light sources, a small lamp near the stairs to the roof and the lights coming from the temple of Medinet Habu. The restaurant was about 20 meters from the entrance of the temple and since we were on the roof nothing impeded our view. We felt as if we were inside the temple. The yellowish light, installed by the Antiquities Service to highlight the facade of the temple, fulfilled its role and we felt as if we were in Pharaonic Egypt. But the big surprise was yet to come. Hunger was increasing when Ahmed arrived with a small grill. Along with him was his younger brother, Hassan. While the boy broke coal with his hands, Ahmed carefully placed the fragments on the grill. It was not something random, it seemed that the positioning of each piece of coal was thought out and calculated. When Hassan tried to light the fire, he was immediately reprimanded by Ahmed, who had asked him to calm down. Ahmed was trying to teach his brother all of the barbecue ritual, which for him is a slow and rhythmic performance, where everything happens in time. What Ahmed sought was to awaken our senses to every step of the barbecue’s preparation. From the texture and smell of the wood, through the heat and glare of embers, up to the smell of meat and burning of fat. I began to understand that the barbecue was not just about eating, but feeling every moment and every instant. The cold increased and I approached the grill to try to warm myself. The smoke of the meat was slowly smoking me and within minutes my clothes smelled of barbecue. When the meat was finally ready, the four of us sat at the table:

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Carol, Julian, and Mohamed; and I ate one of the best dinners I have ever had the opportunity to enjoy (Fig. 3-1). The meat was perfectly cooked. The seasonings exploded in our mouths. It was a mixture of intense flavors. The meat accompanied tahine, rice and small sides, all served at the same time and in large quantities, in the best Egyptian style. The water was welcomed at times to cleanse and soothe the palate. The cold was still present and the muscles reacted. As I was eating, the meat’s fat was soaking our hands and mouth, but I did not care, as this was part of commensality. At the end of the night we went home tired, exhausted, satisfied in every sense. But it was a different tiredness; it was fatigue coming from an extreme activation of all the senses. My impression is that my senses had been overstrained.

Fig. 3-1: A barbecue at Medinet Habu (Illustrations by Suellen Correia 2014).

Upon arriving in Brazil, that dinner was still present in my nostrils and in my body. Walking with Carol around the Pampulha Lagoon in Belo Horizonte (Minas Gerais state, Brazil), we began to remember that night: Zé: —Did you enjoy lunch today? Carol: I loved. You used the cilantro that we brought from Egypt, didn’t you? Zé: —Yes, I did. When I seasoned the meat, I used all the spices we brought: coriander, cumin, and Egyptian pepper. Carol: —It reminded me of the barbecue that Mohamed offered us. Zé: —Yeah, me too. It seems that barbecue is still present in my mouth, in my body. Carol: —Funny how we can remember so intensely moments like those we experienced in Luxor that night. We can perfectly remember the flavors, textures, and even emotions. Sometimes we forget images, but flavors, sounds, and odors we do not (Fig. 3-2).

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Fig. 3-2: The smell of a memory (Illustration by Suellen Correia 2014).

Zé: —According to Pallasmaa (2012), this happens because both the auditory and olfactory memories are more effective than the visual memory. Memories are rarely complete and accurate visual recollections. Most times we do not remember the details of a door, but we remember the sound and smell of a room. Carol: —I remember the taste of food better than the restaurant. But I wonder, if we recall with greater accuracy only certain sensations and not all, it means that our memory does not always accurately portray the events we experience. This is somewhat unsettling. Zé: —Why unsettling? Carol: —Because it makes us think that most of the experiences we remember, even the most recent, are largely idealized. Zé: —But memories are idealizations for the most part. Memories are selective. When recounting past events, we remember and forget, either intentionally or unconsciously, only part of what was experienced. Our memories do not show all the information we experience in a given situation. They only show us a version of the experience, the version that is the most significant to us from a cognitive and emotional point of view. Carol: —But to think of memory like this goes against the more common notion that sees memory as a tool for storing the information we capture in the world (Mengel 2013). Zé: —Yes, I know. But I do not believe that our memory simply captures and stores information about the world, because this idea assumes that the world consists of predetermined characteristics. Bergson (1990) and Bosi (1979), for example, propose that memory is an active process of construction that depends on our sensory engagement with the world. For Bergson, memory includes not only explicit memories of the past, imagememories, but also the dispositions, skills, and costumes acquired that implicitly influence our experience and behavior in the present. While declarative or explicit memory is directed from the present to the past, implicit memory does not represent the past, but performs the past in the present through the skills, knowledge, and experiences that we live. If the

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autobiographical, declarative memory, that for Bachelard (1998) resembles the nocturnal reverie, represents the past as the past or how we imagine and build the past, implicit memory mediates the living presence, of the past, being the essential basis of the self. Memory, in this sense, is a building process that occurs through relationships, experiences, and performances that are in their origin sensory and kinesthetic (Chronis 2006). Carol: —So, our memories are a mixture of smells, sounds, lighting conditions, shadows, textures, tastes, feelings. Zé: —Memories are created and evoked materially through sensual horizons incarnated as smell, flavor, texture, and color (Fig. 3-3). There is no experience that is not sensory, as there is no experience that is not located in one place and not loaded with memory. As Bergson argues (1990), perception does not represent a momentary/fleeting contact with the material world, because all perception is loaded with memory. Through sensory experiences, mnemonic records are created and reproduced, since memories are generated in the body of participants from their daily experience. According to Seremetakis (1994), memory is a material practice that is culturally mediated and is activated by corporeal acts and semantically signified objects. Without memory we do not know who we are; we lose our identity, our personality. Without memory we lose the sense of continuity, the sense of history. This is why Sutton (2011) and Seremetakis (1993, 1994) define memory as a collective metasense that operates and structures time and experience. “Memory is the horizon of sensory experience” (Seremetakis 1994: 9). Carol: —If you’re right, when we consider memory as a meta-sense, we can think that the situations in which the senses are stimulated in an unusual manner, not quotidian, ultimately generate more intense mnemonic processes.

Fig. 3-3: Sensorial encounters and memory (Illustrations by Suellen Correia 2014).

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Zé: —This is what I stand for. The way in which the material world impresses us through the senses will thus determine the strength and quality of the processes of remembrance and forgetfulness. This is the driving force of non-quotidian ceremonial events such as holocausts, funerary rituals, celebration, etc. Carol: —But, in the case of Egyptian funerary rites, how do you think this idea works? Zé: —In the case of Egyptian funerary rites, consumption of sensory stimuli through sounds, smells, tastes, textures, colors by the public and those in mourning meant that the very image of the dead was consumed, which allowed the building of mnemonic processes and the reproduction of hegemonic discourses. This was a process that materialized more intensely in funerary banquets associated with the Beautiful Feast of the Valley. Carol: —What is the Beautiful Feast of the Valley? Zé: —It was a celebration associated with the gods Amon, Khonsu, and Mut that took place at Thebes. This occasion was intended to enable the meeting of the living with the dead. The senses were stimulated to the limit through an atmosphere that included narcotic odors, intoxicating drinks, plentiful food, and sex. The intensity of sensory stimuli allowed the formation of memories and this explains why the celebration is so often depicted in scenes at Egyptian tombs. Carol: —Do you think that this process involving sensory stimulation and memory formation was limited to the Beautiful Feast of the Valley? Zé: —No. I believe that all funerary Egyptian rites from the death of the individual until rebirth and maintenance in the tomb involved an active process of forming memories through the senses. See, in Ancient Egypt, after an individual died, a series of rituals would begin that, according to Hays (2010), aimed to transform the dead in the figure of Osiris, the god reborn. The first ritual comprised the procession to the west bank, where the body would be taken to the embalmers. The procession, which was made in boats of reeds, sought to transform the dead with the waters of the Nile by allowing the dead to cross the boundaries between East and West and, thus, definitively leave the world of the living and enter the domain of the dead. Upon reaching the West Bank, the deceased was welcomed by keeners representing Nefhis and Isis, and a group of nine individuals who were known as “The Friends.” They represented the four sons of Horus and personified the Ennead of the Gods. Afterwards, the dead man was taken to the House of God, a structure associated with Anubis, the embalming god. The body then went through an intense process of preparation that lasted around 70 days. During this period, embalmers

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cleaned and purified the body by applying aromatic oils, natron, and bitumen. Carol: —I wonder if all this chemical treatment of the body would generate a very specific odorous atmosphere, associated with the idea of death. Zé: —I agree. But this atmosphere was not just odorous, but also verbal and auditory. According to Assman (2003), during the process of embalming, the verbal treatment of the body was more important than the chemical or surgical treatment the body received, for it was through speech that the deceased was revived with consciousness and physical strength. The sarcophagus and the mummy received a magical treatment through declarative sentences and rituals, which functioned to give life to the body and the sarcophagus. At this time, the sarcophagus was no longer just merchandise; it was transformed into a magical artifact. Imagine: lighted torches in a half-lit environment; priests reciting magical incantations in unison to revive the dead and transform the sarcophagus into a magical artifact; the odors of perfume, natron, and myrrh taking over the room. It must have been an intense physical experience. Carol: —What happened after preparing the body and the sarcophagus? Zé: —The funeral procession. The deceased’s belongings were boxed and followed the sled pulled by oxen, leading the sarcophagus and the dead. Keeners and musicians accompanied the procession closely. Priests burned incense in front of the sled while they made libations with milk. This whole event generated a sensory experience that allowed the audience that accompanied the procession to consume the dead. Carol: —That is, this was a process that occurred both by visual impressions, as well as odorous and auditory. Zé: —Yes. Carol: —And after that? Zé: —Upon reaching the courtyard of the tomb, the sarcophagus was placed with the head to the south and one of the most important steps of the funeral rite would start, the Rite of the Opening of the Mouth. In some cases, an ox was sacrificed before the start of the ritual (Dodson and Ikran 2008). Through conjuring and magical formulas delivered by lector priests, each of the senses of the dead was restored, beginning with the mouth, source of life; followed by the ear, source of knowledge; eyes, reflection of the world; and nose, which can be associated with the occult. Artifacts related to the agricultural cycle of death and rebirth, like the adze and peseh-kef daggers used during childbirth, were present in this process. During the Rite of the Opening of the Mouth, the sarcophagus and funerary masks played a central role, as both could assist in the process of

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visual impression. According to Cooney (2007), the quality of the sarcophagi and funerary masks were a symbol of status that was visually consumed. Carol: —I wonder about the visual impact of Tutankhamon’s sarcophagus, for example; its brightness, texture, and the apparent sturdiness. A ton of pure gold, shining in the eyes of the Egyptians! Zé: —There is more. Flowers, garlands, incense, aromatic oils, songs, sacred chants, and magic words— it is an entire performance that would create a strong sensory impact on the public. The ritual climax was the funerary feast, in which the dead, already reanimated, also participated. There are several tombs in the Theban necropolis with representations of funerary feasts. In general, we observe the presence of naked young women, musicians, and food and drink in abundance, suggesting that the banquet was an event where all of the senses were intensely stimulated. Music, dance, perfumes, narcotics, food, drink, erotic relations, all this developed in an intoxicating environment. According to Kroeter (2009), one of the most important aspects of these events was the touch. Although not always portrayed in tomb scenes, the touch emphasized the physicality of the commensal experience, while also suggesting an erotic environment. In relation to the palate, it is interesting to note, as pointed out by Robins (1999), that although piles of food appear in the scenes, diners never appear to be eating, only drinking. Herodotus (1985) reminds us that the Egyptians were not heavy consumers of alcohol, so the festivals may have functioned as an opportunity for self-indulgence. At the same time, we should remember that alcoholic beverages served to cross the bridge between this world and the other, thus allowing for more effective contact with the sphere of gods (Kroeter 2009). Carol: —I remember that in the pictures of the funerary feast the blue lotus flower appears a lot. Zé: —This is a recurring theme in banquet scenes. The flower appears while being inhaled or in garlands. According to Hartwig (2007), although we may consider the presence of the blue lotus in feasts due to its religious symbolism, since in some cosmologies the sun god was born from the womb of the lotus, it is possible that the flower’s presence is justified given its intoxicating feature. The scent of the open blue lotus flower is strong and sweet, and has narcotic effects. The ability of the blue lotus to cause sedation and arousal resulted in the liberation of the mind, a concept that was not strange to the Egyptians since they believed that the soul had an independent life. Hartwig believes that during the Beautiful Feast of the Valley, which, above all, was a celebration that sought to allow communication between the worlds of the living and the dead, the

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consumption of narcotic substances may have played a central role. In some scenes, the lotus is replaced by a yellow fruit, which according Manniche (1997) may very well be the mandrake, which has recognized hallucinogenic effects. The fruit may be associated with the goddess Hathor, who was not only the lady of the mountain and served as a barrier between the world of the living and the dead, but was also the goddess of love, music, and drunkenness. It is no coincidence that, before anything else, the Beautiful Feast of the Valley was a party in honor of Hathor. Try to imagine the scene of a funeral feast: the glow of hearths, the strong smell of smoke, the smell of grilled meat, burning fat, the tastes of foods, the intoxicating effects of alcohol, mandrake, or blue lotus, and the sounds generated by the flutes, sistras, harps, and tambourines. All of it produced an intense sensory effect, which would have been amplified by the small space and crowding of people (Fig. 3-4).

Fig. 3-4: Senses and memory in Ancient Egypt (Illustrations by Suellen Correia 2014).

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Carol: —This reminds me what Hamilakis (2012) calls a unified body and sensory landscape. Zé: —I think that is something very similar. This sensory landscape broke the temporality of everyday life precisely because of its special characteristics. Carol: —Do you think that these sensory memories could have connected people, giving them a sense of special status due to the few participants and the strong sensoriality of events? Zé: —Absolutely. I think that the participants felt united, close, and connected by social ties. This process involved not only the living but also the dead, who returned to the social life when remembered by name. Eves (1996) asserts that the performance of celebrations and feasts involves not only the creation and circulation of memories, but processes of forgetting memories that are not socially salient. At parties, people recall through an act of socialization. In funerary rituals like the Beautiful Feast of the Valley, memories of past festivals are evoked while others are deleted. In the exchanges that occur during feasts, the settlement of old debts does not end transactions, as new debts are generated, new cycles begin, and new memories are formed. Thus, social bonds are cemented not only among the living, but between the living and the dead. In this process, the past is made present through memory, and the present is evaluated in relation to the past. Carol: —Was there anything else after the banquet? Zé: —Yes, eternity. Carol: —How so? Zé: —After the feast, the body was placed in the burial chamber, which in turn was sealed. But the story does not end here, since the process of the dead’s rebirth depended greatly upon the interaction between the living and the dead. To live for all eternity, the dead needed to be maintained through offerings and by having his name remembered in the mouth of the living. Carol: —Who officiated the funerary cults? Zé: —In general, the cult of the dead was responsibility of the eldest son or any Godly Foundation, which was paid by the deceased during his lifetime so that the offerings were completed and the cult was preserved. Carol: —What if the people directly responsible for the cult died? Zé: —In this case, another person took over the obligations or the dead would depend on other instances. Carol: —Other instances? Zé: —The Egyptians were aware that the funeral service would fail, mainly due to the death of those responsible for its maintenance. Thus, a

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number of strategies were developed to keep the funerary cult active, with tomb visitation being the most important. According to Navratilova (2007, 2011), Eighteenth Dynasty texts show that the funerary chapel was open to the public, at least on certain occasions throughout the year, such as festivals, celebrations, and especially during the Beautiful Festival of the Valley. Carol: —So that’s why all the visual rhetoric of the tomb was addressed to the living. Zé: —Sure. The decorative programs followed a pre-established canon, which factored in the sacredness of the chapel centers: the statue of the dead, located on the western boundary, and the false door and funerary stele located in the northern and southern limits of the transverse corridor. This spatial arrangement gave the chapel a sacred structure designed from the relationship of interiority and exteriority. Greater sacredness was associated with spaces more internal and closer to the statue, while the most exterior and thus closest to the entrance of the tomb were the less sacred. In the least sacred part of the tomb were biographical scenes, while in the most sacred part were the scenes associated with the gods and the world of the dead. In some tombs, architectural elements like pillars talked with the wall, forcing the visitor to constantly move in order to follow the story. At the same time, decorative elements such as varnish were applied in certain scenes in order to highlight their significance and thus attract the visitor. Moreover, anamorphisms and parallaxes show which elements of the decorative program had their position determined by the expected position of the visitor within the tomb. In TT 100, for example, the figure of the owner Rekhmire in certain scenes is distorted, unless seen from a specific location. Carol: —That is, the dead wanted his image to be observed from a position thought to be right. Zé: —All of this structure associated with the decorative programs not only guided the movement of visitors, directing body movement, but held their attention precisely by proposing a specific bodily performance. Carol: —But from what you say, beyond the attention, it was necessary that the visitor was enticed to join the cult of the dead, otherwise the dead remained dead. Zé: Exactly, and this is why owners put calls for visitors to participate in the worship, reciting, or listening to the offerings in front of their tomb, in the false door, or near the funerary stelae. These are called Appeals to the Living. Sometimes the dead is quite explicit, as in the tomb TT57 of Khaemet where one can read: “Look at these walls and read his sayings” (Doncker 2012: 24). In general, the formula used was: “Oh every living

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one [...] who shall enter my tomb to see what I have done on earth for the great god, praise [Amun] [...] forget death and remember life, love the king of your team, you may be rejuvenated by [life, when you say an offering] (...) for the kaof [...] Iamunedjeh, justified (...)” (Hartwig 2007: 10). The main goal of the Appeals to the living was to provoke a response from the visitor so he/she could conduct the funeral ritual of the dead, or at least read his/her name and be brought back to life. Carol: —So, behind the Appeals to the Living is the idea that speech has a transfiguring power? Zé: —Hartwig (2004) argues that at the base of the Egyptian magical practice was the idea that speech could turn ordinary objects into magical objects, transform written offerings into real offerings, and transform the dead into a living being. This cultural attitude related to the creative potential of speech demonstrates that the texts were considered a communicative act that was orally performed (Meyer-Dietrich 2010). Carol: —If the visitor is not literate, what would happen? After all more than 80% of Ancient Egypt’s population was not literate, mainly women and children (Hartwig 2004). Zé: —In this case, the decorative program fulfilled the function of integrating the visitor to the funerary cult. Since many objects used in the scenes were quotidian objects, it can be assumed that the recognition of these objects made the message comprehensible on some level. At the same time, in some funerary stelae, we can see the idea of hearing the appeal of the dead, which suggests according to Navratilova (2011) and Doncker (2012) that the offerings’ formulas could be read in public. Carol: —How can we evaluate if all of this strategy worked? Zé: —By measuring the reactions of visitors. Carol: —How? Zé: —Some visitors directly responded to the stimuli of the tomb, leaving what is now known as Visitor’s Graffiti. These are inscriptions that visitors left at certain points of the tomb. In some cases, only the name and occupation of the visitor was left. In others, there are comments about the beauty of the monument, such as the graffiti from Intefiqer tomb (TT60): “There came the scribe Djehuty with the scribe Iuy and the scribe Qen to see the place of the Prince Antefoqer, thereupon they praised (him) greatly” (Doncker 2012: 27) (Fig. 3-5). According to Doncker (2012), there is no pattern in the placement of graffiti, which suggests that visitors wrote their considerations about the scenes that drew the most attention. At the same time, caution appears to have been taken in order not to interfere with the scene, which shows not only an aesthetic care of the visitor, but also concern not to damage the scene, and thus undermine their

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magic and transformative efficiency. At the same time, the response to processes of sensory impression resulting from bodily engagement with the tombs can be noticed through programs of restoration and maintenance of certain tombs, the destruction of certain scenes and decorative programs, and primarily, in copies made of scenes and decorations. We know today that Montuenhat tomb (TT34) served as inspiration for the tomb of Mena (TT69), as the tombs of Wah (TT22), Djeserkaraseneb (TT38), and Amenmose (TT251) served as inspiration for the tomb of Nakht (TT52), which, in turn, served as the model for the tombs of Khaemhat, Nebamun, and Merymaat respectively tombs TT57, TTE2, and TTC4 (Angenot 2012).

Fig. 3-5: The practice of visiting tombs in Ancient Egypt - The Beautiful Feast of Valley (Illustrations by Suellen Correia 2014).

Carol: —But, do you think they copied for aesthetic reasons? Zé: —Yes, but understand that aesthetics here has another connotation. It is an aesthetic that is not only visual, but corporeal and embodied, since the decorative programs presupposed not only image, but movement, speech, sound, and performance. The aesthetic here involves the body as a whole and not just the eyes, as in modern Western society. Carol: —If we think of all of the sensory stimuli involved in these funerary practices, we see that, somehow, this whole process was intended to raise the awareness of the living. Zé: —Sure, because memories were created through sensory impression. One of the most important aspects of this process of sensory perception is that the efficacy of objects and stimuli was not simply determined by its immediate sensory effect on observers, but by the memories that were created during the interaction process, that is, the way in which the effect was maintained in the memory of observers (Gell 1998) was most important. Carol: —Here we are talking about Egypt, Luxor, and this makes me miss being there. You see, now I miss Egypt and it is your fault.

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Zé: —I feel the same way when I speak of Egypt, when I hear the sound of the Qur’an, when I drink karkade, when I eat falafel. Carol: —So let’s go home and eat shawarma. Who knows, maybe this longing will subside. Zé: —Let’s, after all we brought a pound of coriander to remind us of Egypt, right?

Remembering through the senses In a society as increasingly complex as the Egyptian New Kingdom, where social strata mingled, merged, and were interspersed, the creation of memories through burial practices served as a point of differentiation for certain communities and groups within the social fabric. All of this differentiation was performed through the stimulation of the senses, through strategies that aimed to impress the participants and stimulate the development of mnemonic processes to enable the maintenance of the cult to the dead. This discourse cemented the role of the elite, mainly because only the elite had access to this material type of memory formation. Knowing how successful this strategy was is difficult, but the existence of sanctions against the destruction, theft, and reuse of tombs suggests that these strategies were not always efficient (Baines and Lacovara 2002). Much of the effectiveness of the tomb as a memorial monument is linked to its relationship with the past. When the tie of meaning was lost, people became indifferent to the monuments. This underscores the importance of keeping the memory alive through embodied acts. Memories are created, activated, and forgotten from a sensory engagement with the materiality of the world, especially in events that extrapolate daily life. Egyptian funerary practices explored this relationship through the intense stimulation of the senses. As a result, mnemonic processes were created, thereby reinforcing or changing discourses and narratives, both about the present and about the past. An important aspect in this process of sensory perception is that the effectiveness of objects was not simply determined by their immediate sensory effect on observers, but by the memories that were created during the interaction process, that is, the way in which the effect was maintained in the memory of observers (Gell 1998). Although the memory is sensory and formed in the past, it is activated and dynamically reconstructed in the present. In most studies on memory, in psychology or even in archaeology, there is a clear tendency to think of memory as something of the past, i.e., as a temporal phenomenon. As Malpas (2012) advocates, although memory establishes a special relationship

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with the idea of time, this relationship cannot be conceived of as a priority, and the reason is simple, because time does not exist without space and space does not exist without time. Memory sensitizes us to the fact that the past is always seen through multiple additions of subsequent experiences, and this allows us to historicize the subjectivity in terms of an intersection of different moments in time. In this sense, the burial practices and the tomb not only established the link between past and present, but allowed memories and meanings to be constantly renegotiated from sensory engagement with materiality. Imagination stimulated the senses in addition to funerary practices. As Pallasma (2012) asserts, we do not judge environments and events merely through our senses, but also through our sense of imagination. In his phenomenological investigation of poetic imagery, Gaston Bachelard (1998) distinguishes between formal and material imagination. He suggests that the images resulting from materials project deeper experiences than images resulting from forms. In the Egyptian tomb, this was one aspect that assisted in appropriating the mortuary space, especially during banquets, because if memory mediated the relationship between self, past, and present, imagination projected the individual beyond himself. In this way, the tomb acted as a material instrument that created memory in three different levels (Pallasma 2012): it materialized and preserved the passage of time by making it visible; by projecting memories it affirmed the process of remembering and forgetting; and, it inspired the imagination. From a series of sensory stimuli which included the visual impact of processions; the kinesthetic sensory awareness through tombs’ decorative programs that presupposed predetermined gestures and body movements; hyperesthesia of funerary banquets with music, chants, smells, textures, and tastes; the performance of speech and listening to the recitation of offerings and formulas; senses were impressed, memory and imagination were created. All of these sensory relationships not only allowed contact between the living and the dead, but also perpetuated the name of the deceased in the memory and imagination of the living, allowing his return to the social life.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Layra Blenda for her help.

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Works cited Angenot, Valérie. “Copy and Reinterpretation in the Tomb of Nakht: Ancient Egyptian Hermeneutics.” In Evolving Egypt: Innovation, Appropriation, and Reinterpretation in Ancient Egypt, edited by Kerry Muhlestein and John Gee, 53–60. Oxford: Archaeopress, BAR S2397, 2012. Assman, Jan. The Mind of Egypt. History and Meaning in the Time of the Pharaohs. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003. Bachelard, Gaston. A Poética do Espaço. São Paulo: Editora Martins Fontes, 1998. Baines, John and Peter Lacovara. “Burial and the Dead in Ancient Egyptian Society.” Journal of Social Archaeology 2, no. 1 (2002): 5– 36. Bergson, Henri. Matéria e Memória. São Paulo: Martins Fontes, 1990. Bosi, Ecléa. Memória e Sociedade: Lembranças de Velhos. São Paulo: T. A. Queiroz, 1979. Chronis, Athinodoros. “Heritage of the Senses: Collective Remembering as an Embodied Praxis.” Tourist Studies 6, n. 3 (2006): 267–296. Cooney, Kara. “The Functional Materialism of Death: A Case Study of Funerary Material in the Ramesside Period.” In Das Heilige und die Ware, IBAES VII, edited by Martin Fitzenreiter, 273–299. London: Golden House Publications, 2007. Dodson, Aidan and Salima Ikran. The Tomb in Ancient Egypt. London: Thames & Hudson, 2008. Doncker, Alexis. “Theban Tomb Graffiti during the New Kingdom. Research on the Reception of Ancient Egyptian Images by Ancient Egyptians.” In Art and Society Ancient and Modern Contexts of Egyptian Art. Proceedings of the International Conference held at the Museum of Fine Arts, Budapest, 13–15 May 2010, edited by Katalin Anna Kóthay, 23–34. Budapest: Hungarian National Culture Fund, 2012. Eves, Richard. “Remembrance of Things Passed: Memory, Body and the Politics of Feasting in New Ireland, Papua New Guinea.” Oceania 66 (1996): 266–77. Gell, Alfred. Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998. Hamilakis, Yannis. “Afterword: Eleven Theses on the Archaeology of the Senses.” In Making Senses of the Past: Toward a Sensory Archaeology. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Occasional

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Paper n. 40, edited by Jo Day, 409–419. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University, 2012. Hartwig, Melinda. Conservation and Documentation of the Tomb of Menna. Final Report. Texas: The American Research Center in Egypt, 2007. —. “Tomb Painting and Identity in Ancient Thebes, 1419-1372 BCE.” Monumenta Aegyptiaca 10. Belgium: Brepols Publishers, 2004. Hays, Harold. “Funerary Rituals (Pharaonic Period).” In UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology, edited by Willeke Wendrich, Jacco Dieleman, and Elizabeth Frood. Los Angeles, 2010. Accessed May 10, 2014. http://www.escholarship.org/uc/item/1r32g9zn Herodotus. The Histories. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985. Kroeter, Chloe. “The Sensual Banquet Scene: Sex and the Senses in Eighteenth Dynasty Theban Tomb Painting’s.” St Andrews Journal of Art History and Museum Studies 13 (2009): 47–57. Malpas, Jeff. “Building Memory.” Interstices: Journal of Architecture and Related Arts 13 (2012): 11–21. Manniche, Lise. “Reflections on the Banquet Scene.” In La Peinture Égyptienne Ancienne: Un Monde de Signes à Préserver, edited by R. Tefnin, 29–36. Brussels: Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élisabeth 32, 1997. Mengel, Gregory. The Incarnation of the Lived Time: Embodied Memory and the Enactive Approach to Cognition. USA: California Institute of Integral Studies, 2013. Meyer-Dietrich, Erika. “Recitation, Speech Acts, and Declamation.” In UCLA Encyclopedia of Egyptology, edited by Willeke Wendrich, Jacco Dieleman, and Elizabeth Frood. Los Angeles, 2010. Accessed May 10, 2014. http://digital2.library.ucla.edu/viewFile.do?contentFileId=1701743 Navrátilová, Hana. “Intertextuality in Ancient Egyptian Visitors’ Graffiti?” In Narratives of Egypt and the Ancient Near East. Literary and Linguistic Approaches. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 189, edited by John Johnston, Wendy Monkhouse, Kathryn Piquette, John Tait, and Martin Worthington, 257–268. Louvain: Peeters, 2011. —. The Visitors’s Graffiti of Dynasties XVIII and XIX in Abusir and Northern Saqqara. Prague: Czech Institute of Egyptology, 2007. Pallasmaa, Juhani. The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses. London: John Wiley & Sons, 2012. Robins, Gay. “Hair and the Construction of Identity in Ancient Egypt, c. 1480–1350 B.C.” Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 36 (1999): 55–69.

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Seremetakis, C. Nadia. The Senes Still: Perception and Memory as Material Culture in Modernity. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1994. —. “The Memory of the Senses: Historical Perception, Commensal Exchange and Modernity.” Visual Anthropology Review 9, n. 2 (1993): 2–18. Sutton, David. “Memory as a Sense: A Gustemological Approach.” Food, Culture and Society 14, n. 4 (2011): 468–475.

CHAPTER FOUR J.T. ROBINSON’S USE OF A PSYCHIC FOR ARCHAEOLOGICAL RESEARCH AT STERKFONTEIN CAVES, SOUTH AFRICA MICHAEL A. CREMO Independent Researcher

The work of Robert Broom and J.T. Robinson in excavating remains of Australopithecus at the Sterkfontein Caves in South Africa is well known. Less well known is the fact that J.T. Robinson, in 1960, brought a theosophist psychic named Geoffrey Hodson to assist in his research. This history of this case will be examined, and placed in the larger context of cross-cultural use of psychic methods in modern scientific archaeology and historical indigenous archaeological traditions.

Introduction Modern archaeology, as a discipline, is an organized attempt to know the past from its material remains, by particularly archaeological, i.e. material, means of research. But some archaeologists find this concept in need of revision, especially for an archaeology that considers itself postcolonial. For example, Alejandro Haber believes a postcolonial archaeology needs to go beyond the material, both ontologically and epistemologically. In terms of ontology, Haber (2012: 55) states: “The definition of material remains excludes other-than-material remains from the past.” He believes nonmaterial remains should be included in archaeology. In terms of epistemology, Haber (2012: 56) observes that in much of contemporary archaeology the “relationship with the past and its remains is only mediated by knowledge via the archaeological method.” Yet, he proposes, there are other methods of knowing the past, or being connected with the past, including memory, either direct or as received through tradition. And these nonmaterial methods should be incorporated into a truly postcolonial archeology. Haber (2012: 65) calls this process

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the “un-disciplining” of the archaeological discipline, adding that “undisciplining archaeology may imply an abandoning of the West as a cultural […] platform.” In other words, it may imply openness to nonWestern, nonmaterial methods of knowing the past. In this paper, I explore an example of a Western scientist employing a nonmaterial method for understanding the connection between the past and its material remains.

J. T. Robinson, Robert Broom, and Theosophy The story of the work of J. T. Robinson (1923–2001) with Robert Broom (1866–1951) in discovering and studying bones of Australopithecus and other hominins in South Africa is told in many conventional academic books and scientific papers. But these publications fail to mention that Robinson was interested in theosophy and brought a theosophist psychic, Geoffrey Hodson (1886–1983), to the Sterkfontein Caves in South Africa to assist in his research. It is common for authors of conventional publications to ignore, or be ignorant of, the involvement of prominent scientists with the paranormal. Robinson was descended from settlers who came to South Africa from England in 1820. He grew up on a farm. His parents were strict Methodists (Sigmon 2007), but as Robinson grew older he distanced himself from his family religious background. Robinson enrolled in the zoology department of the University of Cape Town and in 1943 received a Bachelor of Science degree in zoology and bacteriology (Sigmon 2007). He then started doing doctoral work in marine zoology, but in 1946, before getting his doctorate, he was offered a research position at the Transvaal Museum in Pretoria, assisting a scientist with an entomology collection (Sigmon 2007). In the museum Robinson, then 23 years old, met paleontologist Robert Broom, who was 79 years old. Broom had been at the museum since 1934, as Keeper of Vertebrate Paleontology and Anthropology. Since 1936, Broom had been involved in discoveries of Australopithecus and Paranthropus fossils at Sterkfontein and Kromdrai. Broom told Robinson that the museum had authorized him to hire an assistant, who would eventually replace him, and asked Robinson to apply for the position, which he did (Sigmon 2007). Robinson joined Broom in his excavations, and they coauthored many scientific publications. Broom, in addition to working in paleontology, had been integrating nonmaterial influences into his ideas on biological evolution. Broom (1933: 18–19) wrote: “The origin of species and of much of evolution appears to be due to some organizing and partly intelligent spiritual agency associated with the animal or plant, which controls its life

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processes and tends to keep the being more or less adapted to its environment. But in addition to this there seem to be other spiritual agencies of a much higher type which have been responsible for what may be called greater evolution […] These spiritual agencies appear to have worked by directing from time to time the inferior agencies which are associated with the animals and plants.” Broom introduced Robinson to Theosophy, advising him to attend lectures at the Theosophical Society lodge in Pretoria (Sigmon 2007). Theosophy (the name literally means “divine wisdom”) is an esoteric spiritual and philosophical movement. Its modern institutional expressions manifested in the late nineteenth century. Robinson joined the Theosophical Society. At the Theosophical Society lodge, Robinson met members of the Liberal Catholic Church (LCC), a Christian sect founded by theosophists. Robinson later became a priest and bishop of the LCC in South Africa. Robinson came to accept that humans had a nonmaterial component that survived death, that reincarnation was a fact, and that the human mind possessed nonmaterial abilities, such as clairvoyance (Sigmon 2007). After Broom’s death in 1951, Robinson succeeded him in his post at the Transvaal Museum and continued excavations at Sterkfontein, Swartkrans, and other sites (Sigmon 2007). He made many important discoveries of hominin fossils and produced many publications about them, becoming one of the major researchers in hominin paleontology. In 1960, long after he had achieved a worldwide scientific reputation, Robinson engaged Geoffrey Hodson, a theosophist psychic, in his research at Sterkfontein. I first learned about Robinson’s work with Hodson early in 2012, from a young European archaeologist. This young archaeologist, who prefers to remain anonymous, had been reading my book The Forbidden Archeologist (Cremo 2010), a collection of my short essays for the general public. Most of the essays deal with my main area of research, archaeological evidence for extreme human antiquity. My ideas on this topic are influenced by my studies in the Puranas, the historical writings of ancient India, which contain accounts of a human presence going back many millions of years. In my earlier book Forbidden Archeology (Cremo and Thompson 1993), I documented scientifically reported archaeological evidence that is consistent with the Puranic accounts. I have also presented many papers on this archaeological evidence for extreme human antiquity at meetings of the European Association of Archaeologists and the World Archaeological Congress. Some of these papers are collected in my book My Science, My Religion (Cremo 2012). However, some of my short

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essays in The Forbidden Archeologist (Cremo 2010) dealt with topics other than archaeological evidence for extreme human antiquity. In one of those essays, I wrote about Stephan Schwartz, who applied paranormal “remote viewing” in archeological research. In another essay, I wrote about saintly persons in late medieval India who excavated lost sacred images, the locations of which they learned about through dreams and visions. After reading these essays of mine, the European archaeologist wrote to me, asking if I was aware of Robinson’s use of a psychic in his research at Sterkfontein. I was not aware of it and said I wanted to learn about it. Through the courtesy of the European archaeologist, I received a copy of a rare book, titled Clairvoyant Investigations of Prehistoric Apeman, by Geoffrey Hodson (2007). The book contains transcripts of clairvoyant sessions by Hodson at Sterkfontein, as well as copies of reports and letters by J. T. Robinson. I am grateful to Søren Hauge, who now holds the rights to this publication, for his permission to cite from it. I also obtained from Hauge a copy of a rare biography of J. T. Robinson (Sigmon 2007), written by Becky A. Sigmon, who received her doctoral degree in physical anthropology from Robinson in 1969, when he was at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. Sigmon remained in close touch with Robinson until the year before his death. In writing the biography, she received the cooperation of Robinson’s widow, who provided her with extensive archival material. I also obtained from one of Hauge’s contacts some reports by Robinson on his psychic research at Sterkfontein, which appeared in rare publications of the Theosophical Society (Robinson and Donnelly 1960, 1961).

Robinson’s Psychic Research with Hodson at Sterkfontein In a letter to Søren Hauge, dated May 6, 1998, Robinson explained how he met Geoffrey Hodson: “I knew of Geoffrey Hodson for years as a member of the Theosophical Society but only met him in the nineteen fifties just before the research began. Margaret Donnelley, also a T.S. member had invited Geoffrey to come and spend some time with her in her very large house in Johannesburg—her husband was a wealthy business man—in order to take a rest from the constant lecturing he was doing. I lived in Pretoria 36 miles away. Sterkfontein is 40 miles from Pretoria and about 20 from Johannesburg. Margaret asked Geoffrey if he would be interested to do some clairvoyant study of some of the fossil australopithecine material I had” (Hodson 2007: 68). Hodson agreed to do it (Fig. 4–1).

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Fig. 4–1: Theosophist psychic Geofrey Hodson lies on the floor of the Sterkfontein Caves, with a fossil on his forehead. Nearby, J.T. Robinson sits, asking him questions and recording his answers (Photograph courtesy of Søren Hauge).

In the same letter, Robinson described their research methodology: “We agreed to do the sessions underground in the Sterkfontein cavern system which is rather extensive. We would not let him see any of the material before he started, nor tell him anything about it. Since he operated by lying on his back and going into a yoga state with his eyes closed and the specimens to be examined had to be placed on the middle of his forehead, I had to select small specimens, e.g. a single tooth. I would select a series of suitable specimens and label them a, b, c, etc. for a single session. The first series were all of Australopithecus africanus, the form from Sterkfontein. I wrapped each specimen in paper and took them out in a closed box. When Geoffrey, lying flat on his back on a blanket on the cavern floor in the dark lit only by a carbide lamp, would indicate he was ready, I would select a specimen and go to Geoffrey who had his eyes closed, and place it gently on his forehead. When Geoffrey indicated he was ready, I would ask him a series of questions which were noncommittal in that I would not provide information about the specimen but explore what he thought he was dealing with and would not give any indication of pleasure or doubt or disappointment about his replies. Margaret was operating the tape recorder, which belonged to her” (Hodson 2007: 68). The tapes were later transcribed and analyzed. In the tests, fossil bones from three types of hominins were used: (1) Australopithecus, the oldest and most slender of the three; (2) Paranthropus,

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more robust than Australopithecus; and (3) Telanthropus, the most recent and most humanlike in appearance. After Robinson placed a fossil on Hodson’s forehead, Hodson in his trance, with his eyes closed, would describe his impressions of the creature to which the fossil belonged. He would also respond to questions. During the session on March 7, 1960, Robinson placed on Hodson’s forehead a tooth of Australopithecus. Robinson gave this summary of Hodson’s clairvoyant identifications: “Flesh eater; definite forehead, face more vertical than in apes but upper and lower jaws protuberant; noticeable canines; underslung lower jaw; prominent brow ridge over the eyes; head jutting forward more than in modern man; human-like occipital curve; nose raised but not high; anterior teeth without gaps and moderately protuberant; primitively man-like” (Hodson 2007: 52). In his evaluation Robinson (Hodson 2007: 52) noted: “Identification very accurate.” During the session on March 8, 1960, Robinson placed a Telanthropus tooth on Hodson’s forehead. Robinson gave this summary of the clairvoyant identifications by Hodson (2007: 53): “Far more human than ape; though crude is nearly a man. Walks erect; manufactures stone implements; eats fruit with relish. Skull domed and man-like but flatter; definite but low forehead; face shape distinctly man-like. Ruminative consciousness capable of some kind of deduction from what it sees”. Robinson wrote: “Identifications quite consistent with what is known” (Hodson 2007: 53). During the session on March 30, 1960, Robinson placed a Paranthropus jaw fragment on Hodson’s forehead. Usually, Robinson would not to say anything at all about the specimens he placed on Hodson’s forehead. But in this case he made an exception. Trying to mislead Hodson, he stated that he thought the specimen was very likely from Australopithecus. Robinson gave this summary of Hodson’s first clairvoyant impression: “A large gorilla-like creature.” Robinson noted: “The very first impression was quite correct,” matching robust Paranthropus rather than slender Australopithecus (Hodson 2007: 55). In some cases Robinson placed on Hodson’s forehead objects that were not hominin bones, and yet Hodson was able to correctly identify them. For example, during the session on March 14, 1960, Robinson placed a small bone tool on Hodson’s forehead. In his summary of Hodson’s clairvoyant impressions, Robinson wrote: “Deliberately fashioned bone implement made from a long bone. The use to which the maker intended to put it appears to have been to act as a spear point for hunting. It was observed in use as an instrument for piercing animal hides in the course of sewing them together. The hides being attached to each other had been

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scraped clean—the scraping process was not actually observed and it is therefore not known whether this implement was also employed for that purpose. The maker of the implement was identified as […] Telanthropus” (Hodson 2007: 57). Robinson noted: “Clairvoyant identification is quite consistent with available scientific information” (Hodson 2007: 57). In total, five sessions were conducted at Sterkfontein, and an additional two sessions were conducted in a house in Johannesburg. Robinson and Donnelly (1960: 10) noted: “In the normal course of events, the clairvoyant did not see the specimen with physical vision before or during the investigation.” Neither did the researchers volunteer any information about the hominins. Robinson and Donnelly (1960: 12) described the nature of Hodson’s clairvoyant experience: “When a question was asked, the clairvoyant would usually say that he must first look again to see what the answer was, and then described the detail asked for; or say that the creature being observed was standing in such a way that the observation could not be made for the moment—and then later, after perhaps going on to something else, say that the creature had turned so that the feature was now observable and then proceed to describe it. On being questioned closely while not actually carrying out an investigation, the clairvoyant explained that, having achieved the correct state for making the observations, it was as though he was looking through a tube in his head and observing an animated scene in full color at the end of the tube. If observing condition[s] reach[ed] the optimum, then the effect was that of passing down the tube so that the field of observation expanded and became unrestricted.”

Robinson’s Sterkfontein Psychic Research Results Dozens of specimens, from three species, were used in the investigations. From each small fragment of bone, Hodson was able to give correct descriptions of the anatomy and behavior of the type of hominin to which the bone fragment belonged. Robinson and Donnelly (1960: 12–13) noted: “With one exception all identifications in the series were quite accurate; each of the three forms being correctly identified […] The detailed descriptions were accurate as far as evidence exists which allows checking. This applied not only to anatomical detail, such as whether canine teeth protruded beyond the other teeth, the presence or not of skull crests, the presence or not of a definite forehead or chin, whether the bridge of the nose was raised or not, posture, nature of the hands and feet,

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etc. but also to behaviour, diet, etc. In no instance was a demonstrably incorrect statement made.” Robinson and Donnelly (1960: 13) gave this example of one of Hodson’s identifications: “In one instance a specimen was given with the simple request for identification and manner in which the individual met his death—a usual request. The clairvoyant immediately on speaking indicated that the individual had died a violent death as an adolescent, after being attacked in a manner which included severe head injury. Both the immature age and the head injury were facts known from scientific evidence, since open skull sutures proved the first; and two peculiar depressed fractures in the parietal region, which from their nature must have been inflicted about the time of death, proved the second. But these were not seen by the clairvoyant, since the specimen was brought out and handed to him while he had his eyes closed.” Robinson and Donnelly (1960: 13) concluded: “On the face of it the results obtained indicate a high degree of reliability of the clairvoyant powers of the subject in this series of investigations. A large amount of information was provided about creatures that have long been extinct, and with which the subject was not familiar. The amount of scientific information on this topic now available is quite considerable, and serves to show that all statements made by the clairvoyant which could be checked are correct, whether referring to broad outlines or anatomical minutiae.” They also stated in the same report: “The records are very extensive and the investigations shuttled backwards and forwards without pattern from one sort of creature to another. If this information was not coming from some definite and accurate source, it is hardly conceivable that someone quite unfamiliar with the scientific field concerned could have produced such a mass of information which is internally perfectly consistent for the anatomy, behavior, and environment of three different creatures. It would appear that the clairvoyant was tapping some sound source of knowledge, which created the appearance to him of actually being present witnessing the lives of the creatures concerned, and which had no relation to the minds of any other persons. What this source of information was is not scientifically determinable at this time” (Robinson and Donnelly 1960: 16). From all this, it may seem that the result of the investigation was a demonstration of the reality of the clairvoyant power of Hodson. The clairvoyant observations of Hodson were compared with Robinsons’ prior research results. The prior research results were consistent with the clairvoyant observations. And this demonstrated the reliability of the clairvoyant observations. But was there more to it than that? Did the

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clairvoyant information obtained from Hodson result in any new findings by Robinson about the Sterkfontein hominins? The answer appears to be yes. Robinson and Donnelly (1960: 14) reported on some relevant examples: “The first involves a stone implement which was stated [by Hodson] to have been involved in an earth movement and to have had water running over it. While in the course of excavation evidence was found which showed that two major collapses had occurred at this site, there had been no conscious thought [by Robinson] at any stage that the specimen here involved was lying in a different position after such a collapse. More significantly, it was not known at the time of this investigation that this particular stone implement was one that had come from a zone of decomposed rock. The decomposition is due to the leaching action of water. The excavation records were consulted after the investigation, and only then was it consciously thought that indeed it must have had water moving over it at some stage over quite a long period.” Here is another case in which Hodson provided information that resulted in new research results for Robinson. In her biography of Robinson, regarding descriptions of hominin behavior given by Hodson, Sigmon (2007: 272) wrote: “Some of the descriptions baffled Robinson, and even contradicted what he himself had thought about their behavior. One in particular, seemed odd. Hodson repeatedly told Robinson that he saw the large, small-canined form in trees, usually eating. Robinson at the time had concluded that this form, which was Paranthropus, was primarily a ground dweller. Hodson told Robinson that he was only describing what he was “seeing.” The solution to this discrepancy appeared to Robinson some years later, after 1962, when he began more detailed studies of the australopithecine postcranial skeleton. With the accumulation of more fossil material both from South Africa and by then, from East Africa, he began to note that certain features of the locomotor skeleton did indeed suggest that Paranthropus could have been arboreal as well as terrestrial. A technical issue that comes up among researchers in clairvoyance is this: does the information provided by a clairvoyant really come from his ability to see the past, or does it come to him telepathically from the mind of a person in the present? For example, although Hodson did not see the fossils and artifacts that were placed on his forehead, perhaps the scientifically accurate information he provided about them came not from his vision of the past state of affairs but from the mind of Robinson. To this doubt, Robinson and Donnelly (1960: 14) replied that “much of the information produced by the clairvoyant during the investigations had

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never been in the mind of the senior author [Robinson] until mentioned by the clairvoyant.”

Robinson’s Later Years In 1963, Robinson left South Africa to accept a professorship in the United States, at the University of Wisconsin in Madison. During his years at Madison, he was not, to my knowledge, involved in anything related to psychical research—until 1980. In that year, he underwent heart surgery, and had a near death experience. His biographer wrote (Sigmon 2007: 322): “Complications developed that resulted in Robinson's nearly dying. In actual fact, his heart ceased beating; he suffered cardiac arrest, for an interval of about forty-five minutes during which he was profoundly affected by a ‘near-death’ experience. What happened during this experience was to become the primary focus for Robinson from that point onward. After a long period of recovery, he wrote up a description of the experience and sent copies of it to former students and friends. He wanted to share this experience with others, as he had always shared his thoughts about the australopithecines […] From the point of his near death experience, he was no longer interested in studying australopithecines and carrying out human evolutionary research. In 1985, with retirement from the University, he ended his career in this field.” Robinson died in 2001. Based on the information now available to me, it appears that Robinson was never completely able to publicly integrate his spiritual interests with his scientific interests in hominin fossils. His psychical experiments with Hobson, although they were connected with his hominin research, were not reported in his professional scientific publications. They were recorded only in rare publications of the Theosophical Society. It remains significant, that in these publications, he did mix his scientific and theosophical interests, but only for the relatively small audience of those of his fellow theosophists who were primarily interested in research into the nature of clairvoyance. It is also significant that at the end of his life, according to his principal biographer, Robinson gave up his australopithecine research and dedicated himself fully to his spiritual interests. Perhaps that shows what was ultimately most important to him.

Conclusion Robinson was not alone in his attempts to use psychic techniques in archaeology. Early in the twentieth century, British archaeologist Frederick Bligh Bond used psychical techniques in his work at Glastonbury Abbey

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(Bond 1918). He used a psychic (John Alleyne) who employed the technique of automatic writing to gain information that helped Bond locate and verify the existence of the Edgar Chapel in his excavations of Glastonbury Abbey, which had been destroyed in the Protestant revolution in England. Automatic writing is allegedly produced under the influence of the thoughts of past persons (in this case medieval monks), somehow accessed by the psychic. Bond (1918: 19–20) explained what he thought was occurring. He thought: “that the embodied consciousness of every individual is but a part, and a fragmentary part, of a transcendent whole, and that within the mind of each there is a door through which Reality may enter as Idea—Idea presupposing a greater, even a cosmic Memory, conscious or unconscious, active or latent, and embracing not only all individual experience and revivifying forgotten pages of life, but also Idea involving yet wider fields, transcending the ordinary limits of time, space, and personality.” J. N. Emerson, an anthropologist at the University of Toronto, used a psychic to assist him in archaeological fieldwork. Emerson (1974) called his technique “intuitive archaeology.” In the 1970s, a whole crew of psychic archeologists emerged, including Stephan Schwartz (1978) and Jeffrey Goodman (1977). These activities of Western scientists fit into a larger context of uses of psychic techniques by indigenous peoples in the course of discovering material remains of the past. I documented extensive use of such techniques in the sixteenth century in the Braj Mandal region of northern India, a location sacred to worshipers of Lord Krishna (Cremo 2008). Typically, the discoveries involved saintly persons excavating lost sacred images and sacred sites, making use of psychical techniques (e.g., dreams, visions). In my conclusion, I wrote (Cremo 2008: 187): “I propose we should define archaeology in such a way as to include all human cognitive engagement with material objects that the discoverers understood as having been made by or otherwise associated with past human or humanlike beings.” I believe that this would contribute to the kind of “undisciplining of archaeology” proposed by Haber.

Works cited Bond, Frederick Bligh. The Gate of Remembrance: The Story of the Psychological Experiment which Resulted in the Discovery of Edgar Chapel at Glastonbury, 2nd ed. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1918 Broom, Robert. “Evolution—Is There Intelligence behind It?” South African Journal of Science 30 (1933): 1–19.

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Cremo, Michael A. “Excavating the Eternal: An Indigenous Archaeological Tradition in India.” Antiquity 82 (2008): 178–188. —. The Forbidden Archeologist. Los Angeles: Bhaktivedanta Book Publishing, 2010. —. My Science, My Religion: Academic Papers (1991-2009). Los Angeles: Bhaktivedanta Book Publishing, 2012. Cremo, Michael A. and Richard L. Thompson. Forbidden Archeology. Los Angeles: Bhaktivedanta Book Publishing, 1993. Emerson, J. Norman. “Intuitive Archeology: A Psychic Approach.” Archaic Notes 3, no. 5 (1974): 1–2. Goodman, Jeffrey. Psychic Archaeology: Time Machine to the Past. New York: Berkeley Medallion, 1977. Haber, Alejandro. “Un-disciplining Archaeology.” Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress 8, no. 1 (2012): 55–66. Hodson, Geoffrey. Clairvoyant Investigations of Prehistoric Ape-Man. Auckland: Theosophical Society in New Zealand, 2007. Robinson, John and Margaret Donnelly. “An Investigation of Clairvoyance as Applied to the Study of a Chapter in Primate Evolution.” Science Group Journal 4 (1960): 9–16. —. “Reply to Comments on the South African Investigation of Clairvoyance.” Science Group Journal 5 (1961): 2–8. Schwartz, Stephan A. The Secret Vaults of Time. New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1978. Sigmon, Becky. “The Making of a Palaeoanthropologist: John T. Robinson.” Indian Journal of Physical Anthropology and Human Genetics 26, no. 2 (2007): 179–341.

CHAPTER FIVE SEALERS WERE NOT BORN BUT MADE: SENSORY-MOTOR HABITS, SUBJECTIVITIES, AND NINETEENTH-CENTURY VOYAGES TO THE SOUTH SHETLAND ISLANDS MELISA A. SALERNO Instituto Multidisciplinario de Historia y Ciencias Humanas, Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Científicas y Técnicas (Argentina)

Sealers were the first people to visit Antarctica; particularly, the South Shetland Islands. One of the most important goals of the international project “Landscapes in White” is to discuss the early history of the archipelago. In this way, the members of the project want to learn more about the people who were silenced by the official narratives of the region. For years, we have taken for granted what it was like to be a sealer. In this chapter, I would like to question this idea, considering the process by which somebody became a particular kind of sailor and hunter. This challenge makes me focus on the figure of the “green hands” (those who entered the trade). Furthermore, it makes me go beyond the South Shetlands, including some other scenarios which were also part of the sealing voyages. The analysis considers the ways in which the green hands acquired new habits as part of their sensory-motor engagement with different material contexts. It also considers the ways in which these habits could have shaped specific subjectivities.

Introduction The international project “Landscapes in White” (made up of archaeologists, anthropologists, and historians from Brazil, Argentina, Chile, among others countries) seeks to learn more about the encounter between human beings and Antarctica over time. In addition to discussing

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present encounters (including the relationship between researchers and the landscape –Zarankin 2014), a significant part of the research is interested in the past (Pearson et al. 2010; Salerno 2006, 2011; Senatore and Zarankin 1996, 1997, 1999; Stehberg 2011; Zarankin and Senatore 1999, 2005, 2007; Zarankin et al. 2011). The South Shetland Islands were the first region of Antarctica to be visited by human beings. In the early nineteenth century, the sealing industry was looking for new hunting grounds. In the context of the exploration of the South Seas, sealers arrived at the archipelago for the first time. Similarly, they dominated the encounters with the region until the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. For years, the study of the encounter between the sealers and the South Shetlands was conducted by historians from a traditional perspective (sensu Burke 1999). Following logbooks, researchers elaborated a series of narratives focusing on the concept of “discovery” (see, for instance, Braun Menéndez 1974; Fitte 1962, 1974; Gould 1941; Martin 1940; Miers 1920; Pinochet de la Barra 1976; Stackpole 1952, 1955). Generally speaking, these narratives shared some features. First, most historians paid special attention to “relevant characters,” such as captains and officers, who were presented as the leading characters of the same events they themselves recorded (Zarankin and Senatore 2007). Second, the very notion of discovery involved an asymmetrical relationship, with the landscape being regarded as passive in the face of human agency. Third, most historians understood the discovery from a disembodied “cartographic view” (see Salerno et al. 2010; Salerno and Zarankin 2014 for more details). The project “Landscapes in White” intends to develop an alternative approach. On the one hand, the members of the project want to give voice to the groups traditionally silenced by the official narratives of the region (Zarankin and Senatore 2007). By this we are referring to most of the people who came on board the sealing vessels, and participated in the hunting and processing activities. On the other hand, the members of the project want to discuss the dynamic character of the relationship between the sealers and the landscape (considering that the landscape could have played an active role too). Finally, we are particularly interested in integrating bodily experience in the research, stressing the multiple dimensions of sealers’ sensory-motor engagement with the material world (Cruz 2014; Salerno 2011; Salerno and Zarankin 2014; Salerno et al. 2010). This chapter is part of the efforts of the project to explore sealers’ experiences. However, instead of discussing the encounter with the islands

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(as we have done recently -Salerno and Zarankin 2014), I would like to approach the very experience of being a sealer. For some time, I thought I knew what this particular way of “being-in-the-world” involved. In order to describe what a sealer was, I simply said that he was a sailor and a hunter, but I did not add too much information. Today, I understand that, if I want to approach the people who visited the South Shetlands in the nineteenth century, I need to go beyond this oversimplification. Being a sealer was neither something given nor something reducible to a label. On the contrary, being a sealer was something that people could only become. It is this process of “becoming” that I would like to consider in this chapter. Within the framework of the project, we have begun to explore nineteenth-century sealing voyages to the South Shetlands. As a first step, we have decided to focus on the American fleet, not only because it took centre stage in many of the voyages, but also because American institutions provide abundant, systematic, and easily accessible information on the subject (consider, for instance, the websites of the National Maritime Digital Library, the New Bedford Whaling Museum, etc). As a result of the research, we are beginning to understand that, even though the sealers visiting the South Shetlands were interested in seals (and other pinnipeds such as sea elephants), they also combined sealing with whaling (Senatore et al. 2010). As Stackpole (1955) suggested many years ago, sealers were opportunistic and took advantage of the availability of different species at different times and places. In the context of this chapter, every time I refer to the sealers, I will be implicitly referring to this mixture of sealers and whalers. It is worth mentioning that we have also begun to search for and analyze the crew lists and the course of the sealing voyages to the South Shetlands (Salerno 2011; Senatore et al. 2010). The lists show that—on average—the crews were made up of 30 people, including the captain, 4 officers, 4 boat-steerers, and 20 seamen. It was not strange that the members of the same crew were from different parts of the world, including the United States of America, the United Kingdom, Portugal, and some regions of Africa, Oceania, among others. A significant number of the seamen were “green hands” with no prior experience in the trade (Nordhoff 1856). In the case of this chapter, I believe that the figure of the green hands will be useful to reflect on the process of becoming a sealer. Defining the course of the vessels has been relevant to estimate the length of the voyages, and to connect the South Shetland Islands with other scenarios (widening the scope of the research, and preventing us from understanding the archipelago as if it were not part of an

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interconnected world). While some voyages lasted a few months, some others lasted a year or even more. The visit to the South Shetlands took place during the summer, and it usually lasted from a couple of weeks to the whole season. During a sealing voyage, the crew had to live and work in different settings: the port, the vessel, the hunting grounds, etc. Considering the voyage as a whole provides interesting tools to examine the diversity of material contexts that the green hands had to face. In order to study the process by which somebody became a sealer, I decided to divide the chapter into three sections. In the first one, I will present the conceptual framework guiding the discussion; the documentary and the archaeological evidence used in the analysis, and the ways I decided to approach it. In the second section, I will focus on the case study, discussing how the green hands could have gained a practical understanding of the trade. I will consider how the materiality of different settings requested (and was requested by) the sensoriality and motricity of the bodies; and how the familiarity with these contexts encouraged the acquisition of specific habits. In the third section, I will suggest how the recognition of specific habits materialized in the bodies contributed to the definition of sealers’ subjectivities and their sense of intersubjectivity.

Some considerations… …regarding practical understanding From the moment we are born, we find ourselves involved in a series of settings with specific material conditions. Joining the crew of a sealing vessel frequently required to participate in a whole new series of contexts. To become a sealer, a green hand should learn a particular way of “beingin-the-world” (sensu Heidegger 2007). Such learning did not entail a theoretical course or guide, where abstract instructions were given on how to behave in future situations. On the contrary, it depended on the possibility of developing a “practical understanding” of the trade (sensu Merleau-Ponty 1993). This understanding was clearly different from the one traditionally celebrated by modern science; and allowed a green hand to define (without a particular insistence on objectivation) what was reasonable for him to do, wait, or ask for (sensu Bourdieu 1999, 2007). Approaching practical understanding needs to consider an embodied subject and her/his engagement with the material world. In order to understand, the body orients itself to the world and responds to its request in specific ways (Merleau-Ponty 1993)—not only as a result of physical impositions (Edgeworth 2012), but also as a result of the culturally-

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informed ways that this interaction is supposed to take (Crossley 1995b, 2001; Csordas 1990, 1993). Within a non-dualistic framework, both the body and the world can play active and passive roles. Furthermore, the boundaries that were traditionally considered to separate the subject and the object can be transgressed and blurred (Merleau-Ponty 1993). At this point, it is important to say that people’s engagement with the world brings sensoriality and motricity into play (Warnier 2001). Sensoriality allows for the perceptual experience which results from the material encounter with the world (Fahlander and Kjellstrom 2010; Hamilakis 2013; Howes 1991, 2003; Skeates 2010; Stoller 1989). For its part, motricity allows for bodily movement, and the possibility of using the body as a tool (Farnell 1999; Mauss 1979; Warnier 2001). Sensoriality and motricity are so closely related that one cannot exist without the other. Extending Merleau-Ponty’s (1993) ideas on sight and movement, it is possible to say that thanks to sensory perception, people move their body in the material world and orient themselves to it; similarly, because they move their body in the material world and orient themselves to it, they can perceive it through the senses. Sensoriality and motricity are inevitably contingent. They do not only vary from culture to culture; they also vary from one social group to another, being connected with gender, age, status, etc. The materiality of different contexts produces—and is, in turn, produced by—specific sensory-motor experiences (Hamilakis 2011, 2013). These experiences can be differentially valued; the emphasis on sight and the contempt for the rest of the senses in the Western world being just an example (Classen 1997; Howes 2003; Synnott 1991). Despite the importance given to certain experiences—be they visual, auditory, tactile, or otherwise—it is worth mentioning that they cannot be understood in isolation (Howes 2006; Sullivan 1986). Quite the contrary, they are intertwined with a multitude of other experiences, not always brought to the front, defining a multi- and inter-sensory-motor field. When somebody faces a new context, her/his body can feel the lack of agreement between her/his own materiality and the materiality of the world (Merleau-Ponty 1993). This is particularly noticed at the level of sensoriality and motricity. Bodily movements do not match the gestures which are deemed necessary; the difficulty of getting used to specific sensory experiences interrupts the flow needed for action. As the body becomes exposed to the regularities of the new context, it also becomes familiar with it (Bourdieu 1999, 2007). Following Merleau-Ponty (1993), it is no exaggeration to say that the body “understands” the world when it acquires a new habit. Habits involve a “know-how;” an agreement

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between intentionality and achievement. In other words, habits entail the possibility of getting a skill and reaching effectiveness (Mauss 1979; Warnier 2009). Gaining familiarity with the materiality of the world has an impact on the definition of the body schema. This schema (which combines sensoriality and motricity) allows people to grasp the position of their own body, as well as the dynamic configuration of its parts and boundaries (Grosz 1994; Salomon 2010). Merleau-Ponty (1993) insists that getting into a habit requires the body to participate in the materiality of the world; or otherwise, it requires the materiality of the world to participate in the “voluminosity” of the body. He also believes that this situation only confirms the ability of the body to expand and extend itself over the world, defying its physical boundaries by means of attaching the materiality of other things and beings. The world embraces us, in the same manner that we embrace the world. In the realm of experience, the body and the world are made from the same “fabric.” Getting into a habit plays a significant role in the constitution of subjectivity. This is possible as long as sensoriality and motricity are connected with emotion. The ways in which people engage with the material world inevitably make them who they are (Malafouris 2008; Naji 2009; Warnier 2001, 2009, 2011). Considering that the world I am here referring to implies the presence of “others,” subjectivity is intimately connected with intersubjectivity. Intersubjectivity involves the experience of the other in me, and the experience of me in the other (Crossley 1995a; Weiss 1999). This shared experience takes place in the body. Therefore, it can be considered to be “intercoporeal” (Merleau-Ponty 1993).

…regarding the case study As suggested above, in order to approach the process by which somebody became a sealer, I decided to focus on the green hands and a series of material contexts they had to gain familiarity with. By this, I do not mean that the only participation in an initiatory journey transformed people once and for all. Recognizing oneself (and being recognized) as a sealer was part of a more extensive and complex process, which could only be produced and reproduced over time. However, as long as the green hands needed to acquire some basic skills which were considered essential for the job, I understand that the relevance of these characters should not be overlooked. The world of sealing, as well as that of the navy, was hierarchical and stratified in nature. Besides the captain, the officers, and the boat-steerers,

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most of the crew were simply defined as “hands” (Browne 1846; Nordhoff 1856; Holmes 1861). This concept draws attention to the bodily and practical engagement with the trade (Salerno 2011). Hands were divided into two groups: the “able seamen;” and the green hands, “greenhorns,” or “greenies.” All these expressions describe a straightforward relationship between the time spent in the trade and the mastering (or the lack) of specific skills. In the case of the green hands, references to the color green could have described their immaturity (Camden 1865), the particular tone of their skin when they got seasick (see below) (McKissack and McKissack 1999), their rural origins (Melville 1851), etc. Documentary sources show that the sealers lived and worked in different settings. Sealing vessels left the port of departure, sailed to open seas, and visited several ports until they got to the South Shetlands. Depending on the amount of resources obtained, the vessels could proceed to other hunting grounds or not. Once the hold was full, the vessels returned home. On some occasions, sealers stopped to sell their goods in foreign lands. However, in order to simplify the analysis, I will address three different scenarios: the port of departure/arrival (United States), the vessel (on the high seas), and the hunting grounds (the South Shetland Islands). All of these settings were part of the sealing voyages to the region; and historical sources stress the role they could have played in the training of the green hands. In the case of the port of departure, I will consider how sealing companies hired the men and how they assessed their skills (or the potential of their bodies to acquire these abilities). Furthermore, I will discuss the first impact that working for a sealing company could have had on green hands’ sensoriality and motricity, considering the requirement to dress like a sailor. Life on board a vessel and in the hunting grounds involved people’s corporeality in specific ways. To guide the discussion (and encourage future comparisons among different contexts), I will focus on three interrelated processes: gaining familiarity with the materiality of the vessel and the hunting grounds; acquiring new habits to deal with the work; acquiring new habits to participate in “non-work activities”. To understand how the green hands gained familiarity with the vessel, I will consider how they learned to walk on a moving surface, and how they grasped the general plan of the ship. Meanwhile, to understand how they became familiar with the hunting grounds, I will consider how they managed to “incorporate” a landscape unknown to them (in this case, the South Shetland Islands). Regarding the habits connected with work, I will discuss—in the case of the vessel—how the green hands acquired the necessary skills for sailing and being prepared for the hunting grounds;

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and—in the case of the hunting grounds—how they learned the specific techniques for killing and processing the animals. Finally, considering the habits associated with non-work activities, I will take into account—in the case of the vessel—the practices carried out in the forecastle; and—in the case of the South Shetlands—the practices carried out in the shelters. It is worth noting that, to evaluate how the green hands acquired the practical knowledge to become sealers, I will analyze documentary and archaeological evidence. As suggested above, and as part of a broader strategy within the project “Landscapes in White,” I will focus on the documentary sources of the American fleet. The selected sources can be better described as “accounts of voyages.” Considering that the sealers often acted both as sealers and whalers, and that even in those cases where sealing and whaling were kept separately, both activities showed several points of contact (especially concerning the organization of the vessels and the crews), I decided to include accounts which were traditionally associated with the world of sealing, but also with the world of whaling, or both of them. In the nineteenth century, the accounts of sealing and whaling voyages became so popular that American literature witnessed the development of a new genre. In this chapter I will consider a series of accounts written by crew members of sealing vessels. While some accounts refer to specific voyages; some others combine the events which took place in several voyages, and refer to them as if they were part of the same journey (Lefcowiks 2001). In a research dealing with dates and specific historical characters, this kind of sources would be rejected. However, as they provide unique references on green hands’ experiences, I decided to include them. Most of the accounts analyzed in this chapter describe voyages bound to hunting grounds other than the South Shetlands. Some other accounts, however, describe the voyages undertaken by American vessels to the archipelago. Even though these narratives do not always provide significant information on the port of departure or the living conditions on board the vessels, they do provide some clues on the challenges faced by the green hands on the islands. Furthermore, they open a productive dialogue between documentary sources and archaeological evidence. At this point, I would like to mention that—within the framework of the project—we are still looking for accounts, logbooks, and some other documents connected with sealing voyages to Antarctica. For the past 20 years, the members of the project “Landscapes in White” have conducted archaeological fieldwork on the South Shetland Islands. Most of the surveys and excavations took place on Livingston (the

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largest island of the archipelago); especially, on Byers Peninsula (a place particularly associated with sealing). So far, the archaeological survey has detected 27 sites, which can be defined as the remains of old sealing camps. They are located on the coasts of the peninsula, and usually consist of two or more stone structures (Senatore and Zarankin 1996, 1997, 1999; Zarankin and Senatore 1999, 2005, 2007; Zarankin et al. 2011). Some archaeological sites have been studied in detail. The information collected thus far has been essential to learn more about sealers’ life on the South Shetlands. At first, the members of the project analyzed the location of the camps and the construction of the shelters (Senatore and Zarankin 1996, 1997, 1999; Zarankin and Senatore 1999, 2005). Subsequent studies focused on different sets of practices; especially those connected with eating, drinking, dressing, etc. (Moreno 1999; Muñoz 1997, 2000; Salerno 2006, 2007, 2009). At present, some of us are discussing sealers’ daily life from an embodied and experiential standpoint, considering the interrelationship among different practices (Cruz 2014; Hissa 2012; Salerno 2011; Salerno and Zarankin 2014; Salerno et al. 2010). The results of this research, and some other ideas, provide significant information for this chapter.

Gaining familiarity with the trade The port of departure Green hands’ participation in a sealing voyage began with their recruitment and hiring. According to documentary sources, the owners of the sealing companies resorted to intermediaries or “agents” for selecting the crews (Browne 1846; Holmes 1861). Agents had their offices in the major ports of the United States (where the vessels were ready to set sail), but they also looked for men in other regions of the country (Georges and Jones 1995). It is important to bear in mind that the sealing industry grew dramatically in the nineteenth century (Ryan 1994). The owners of the sealing companies needed thousands of hands, and many people (who had never been on board a vessel) thought they were given a chance to pursue their dreams and ambitions (visiting exotic places, making a fortune, escaping justice, etc). As mentioned above, the owners of the sealing companies frequently hired a significant number of green hands. This was associated with two key factors. First, each man was paid a fixed proportion of the season’s catch or “lay” (Currie 2001; Davis et al. 1997). Green hands were poorlypaid employees, as they received smaller lays than the able seamen (Smith

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1887). Second, living and working conditions on a sealing vessel were harsh. Some captains and officers did not provide the crew with enough food; some others punished the men with unreasonable cruelty (Butts 1848). Green hands were considered to be tolerant, as their inexperience made it difficult for them to desert or start a mutiny. Documentary sources stress that the agents were careful in selecting the men. Among other things, they wanted to prevent the able seamen from passing as green hands (especially, when their positions were taken) (Creighton 1995). Some narratives describe that the able seamen disguised themselves as green hands, wearing garments not expected for an “old salt” (an expert sailor). The agents examined the materiality of the applicants’ bodies, including their gestures, movements, clothes, etc. (Nordhoff 1856). They knew that the experience gained at work was— sooner or later—made flesh; and that, despite all efforts, embodied habits could not be concealed: they were naturalized as part of people’s subjectivities (see below). The agents wanted to be sure that the green hands had the physical conditions necessary to face the challenges of a sealing voyage. Therefore, one of their goals was to define if the men were healthy and robust (Salerno 2011). The “constitution” was something to worry about; in other words, “the particular frame or temperament of the human body” (American Dictionary of the English Language 1857: 219); a sort of relationship between weight and height. In some cases, a surgeon took part in the examination (Davis 1874). The “complexion”, frequently defined as “the color of the skin, particularly of the face” (American Dictionary of the English Language 1857: 202) could have been less important. Unlike other nineteenth-century industries, American sealing vessels had a heterogeneous population. Once the “shipping articles” (a sort of printed contract containing the names of the sailors and the description of the voyage—Butts 1848) were signed, the men were given some money in advance (Hunt’s Merchants’ Magazine and Commercial Review 1859; Hutching’s California Magazine 1857). The owners and the agents maintained close relationships with a series of stores. The men were offered an “outfit” to meet the needs of resting (mattress, quilt, blanket, pillow), eating (spoon, pan, pot), and dressing (Davis 1874; Holmes 1861; Nordhoff 1856). Here it is worth noting that three quarters of the content of a sailor’s sea-chest were garments. Sealers’ clothes included jackets, flannel shirts, duck trousers, tarpaulins (hats made of tarred or painted cloth), etc. (Salerno 2011). According to documentary sources, when green hands wore these items for the first

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time, most of them felt uncomfortable (Dana 1842). Clothing was given an unexpected relevance, as the bodies were not used to the garments. On the one hand, the materiality of the items (their shape, size, and texture) allowed for specific movements and sensory experiences. On the other, the cultural meanings attached to the clothes required people to wear them in particular ways. For this reason, the green hands made a huge effort to imitate the gestures of the able seamen.

The vessel Being on board a sealing vessel was a unique experience. Once it set sail, the ship remained relatively cut off from the world left behind. The vessel was a limited socio-material context (Foucault 1984). Sealing vessels were small and maneuverable in order to chase whales and reach the shores where the seals rested. As suggested above, the number of people on board a sealing vessel was small. The ship was an enclosed space. It forced the crew to participate in its universe. In this scenario, the green hands had to acquire a new set of habits. One of the first things the green hands needed to overcome was the constant movement of the vessel; especially, when there were gales and the sea got rough. These circumstances were connected with “seasickness” (A Roving Printer 1861; Holmes 1861; Nordhoff 1856). Modern medicine states that motion sickness is caused when the vestibular apparatus (located within the inner ear) perceives movement, but this experience cannot match the information received through sight or proprioception (or even what is expected from previous experience) (Benson 2002). Considering the relationship between human beings and the material world, it is important to point out that seasickness involves the lack of an agreement between one’s own body and the “body” of the vessel (Salerno 2011). The vessel, which follows the movement of the sea, has a particular rhythm (Stoffregen et al. 2013). Meanwhile, one’s own body has a particular way of moving; the result of having embodied specific cultural practices (Mauss 1979). It is clearly not the same to stand up, walk, or work on a stable surface than on an unstable one. Seasickness highlights the fact that our way of moving is not natural, but learnt. The symptoms of seasickness are easily recognizable. People turn pale (or even greenish); they can have an upset stomach and feel fatigue. The final stages include nausea and vomits (Benson 2002). According to documentary sources, the green hands could not get out of their bunks. Those who were able to reach the deck, could not do anything but hold on to something tightly. When they were given an order, they were unable to

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comply with it, as they could not alter their position (Whitecar 1864). Seasickness was the cause of a deep sense of nostalgia, making people wish to get back home. The green hands neither deserved compassion nor were given special treatment. Captains, officers, and able seamen used to say that nobody was ever known to die of seasickness. The sick were made fun of, insulted, and even pushed out of the way—as they were considered a hindrance to the work (Browne 1846; A Roving Printer 1861; Whitecar 1864). Seasickness was a sign of weakness; and even a sign of the lack of familiarity and intimacy between the sailor and the vessel. At the same time, seasickness was regarded as a challenge to be mastered in order to gain familiarity with the trade. Seasickness can last from a few minutes to days, and even weeks. When people are on board a vessel, they experience significant changes in the way they walk, including the stance width (Stoffregen et al. 2013). The repetition of certain conditions allows the body to become familiar with the ship, and to respond to its requests. Finally, the vessel is incorporated into the sensory-motor schema. Being in control of the body is essential to interact with the surrounding world. It was only when the green hands “got their sealegs,” that their training could get started (Davis 1874; Nordhoff 1856). The limited space of a vessel (consider, for instance, the case of a bark) was divided into different sections (US Government Printing Office 1887). The upper level corresponded to the deck, where the whale-boats (on boatbearers) and the try-works were located. The intermediate level corresponded to the lower deck, which was frequently divided into four other parts. The forecastle was in the bow; and the cabin, in the stern (Olmsted 1841). The blubber room and a place for storing casks were between the foremast and the mainmast; and the steerage and another place for storing casks, between the mainmast and the mizzenmast. The lower level corresponded to the hold. It was through increasing familiarity with the different sections of the vessel that the green hands understood (in a practical way) their place in the hierarchies on board. The cabin accommodated the captain and the officers. The captain had his own rooms; while each of the officers had a private state-room. The steerage accommodated the boat-steerers and some other employees (such as the cooper, the blacksmith, etc). It was located next to the cabin. Even though the cabin and the steerage had a similar size, the steerage was an undifferentiated space shared by twice the number of people than the cabin. The forecastle accommodated the men,

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including the able seamen and the green hands. It was located opposite the cabin; and it was clearly separated from the steerage. Given my interest in the green hands, I would like to spend a moment on the forecastle. The forecastle was larger than the cabin or the steerage, but it did not cover an area larger than both spaces put together. Despite this, the forecastle accommodated twice the number of people than the cabin and the steerage combined. The forecastle was an undifferentiated space. The bunks were arranged in rows, creating a sort of triangle formed by the sides of the vessel and the wall next to the foremast. The floor was covered with sea-chests. The forecastle was devoid of furniture except for a table. The room frequently had a cabinet for cooking supplies. Documentary sources indicate that most of the green hands found the material conditions of the forecastle shocking. The forecastle was reached by a ladder from the deck. A small hatchway was the only means of ventilation. The forecastle was dark, and in some cases it was simply described as a “hole” (Browne 1846). Lighting depended on oil-lamps which burned day and night (Melville 1847). The smells of oil, food, sweat, and dirt were hard to bear; especially for those not used to them. Some documents sarcastically insist that nobody should enter this room without a piece of cloth on his or her nose (State Street Trust Company 1915). The forecastle did not have private state-rooms like the cabin. The only place which was devoted to the singularity of the body was the bunk. The bunk was a little uncomfortable, and some accounts even describe it as a “coffin.” Most people needed to get out of it in order to turn over (State Street Trust Company 1915). The forescastle was dominated by the table, collectively used by all men to eat, talk, etc. The forecastle highlighted the importance of sharing. However, the green hands were not immediately fond of the idea, as they needed some time to get to know the people they were forced to share with. The population of the forecastle was too large for its surface. Therefore, the place was crowded. Men’s bodies were so close to each other that the boundaries of personal space operating in other contexts were transgressed. In this inter-subjective space, all men experienced the same material conditions of existence (although they did not necessarily understand them in the same way): the light of the oil-lamp, the shadows of the bodies, the smells of the place, the voices of the men, etc. What one did was immediately available to the rest of the crew; and what the rest of the crew did was immediately available to oneself. Some documents stress that the living conditions in the forecastle were part of a “sailor’s horrors” (State Street Trust Company 1915). However,

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as the days passed, the green hands began to get used to the room. Even though the bunks were still uncomfortable, the men suffered less while lying there. Even though the smells persisted, they were not so easily noticed. The forecastle remained poorly lit, but the eyes got used to the shadows. The green hands became acquainted with the rest of the men; they began to understand who they were and what they were able to do. Everything ended up (at least to some extent) being naturalized. The forecastle strengthened solidarity. Furthermore, the proximity of the bodies encouraged the development of close relationships among the men. Besides eating the same food and sleeping in the same room, some other practices reinforced the intertwining of their lives. In the forecastle, the able seamen told stories about their own or other people’s voyages, and the green hands learned some of the cultural meanings of sealing (Davis 1874; Holmes 1861; Nordhoff 1856). This allowed experience to reach a higher level of inter-subjectivity, transcending the forecastle and including the members of the trade. The forecastle was a place where the men could celebrate the little accomplishments of everyday life. Documentary sources refer to dances, songs, excessive drinking, etc. (Olmsted 1841). The forecastle was also a place where people attempted to resolve their conflicts. In some cases, the same conditions that strengthened solidarity caused friction among the men. The settlement of disputes was necessary to make life tolerable. In the forecastle, the sailors expressed themselves differently than on deck. They were able to take distance from labor discipline, and they frequently followed a different course of action. As soon as the green hands recovered from seasickness, they began their “training” (Davis 1874; Holmes 1861; Nordhoff 1856). Most of this process took place during the first part of the voyage. On the one hand, the men should acquire the skills to sail the vessel. On the other, they were expected to make preparations for the hunting grounds. The captains and the officers knew that once they got there, it was necessary to cease all activity and focus attention on the animals. The second stage of training took place at the hunting grounds, where the green hands should learn how to chase, kill, and process the resources. One of the first challenges the green hands had to face was running up the rigging. At first, most of the men were afraid of heights. They moved one step at a time, and they tried to hang on to something with all their strength. They were only allowed to come down when they got as high as the top (and if they could not do it by their own means, they were hauled up with the help of a rope) (Nordhoff 1856). As days passed, most of the green hands were able to take their turn at the masthead to look out. The

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men also had to learn how to handle the sails. At different times of the day, and considering the wind conditions and the course of the vessel, it was necessary to open or shut the sails in specific ways. This skill required the green hands to gain familiarity with technical terms and perform the right movements at the right time. In order to have everything ready for the hunting grounds, the green hands had to fit the whale-boats. They sharpened the irons and lances, stretched and coiled down the lines, prepared the wooden clubs, etc. (Browne 1846). They also fitted the whale-boats with things considered necessary to establish the camps; for instance, pieces of old canvas to roof the shelters, try-kettles to boil the fat, provisions such as alcohol, tobacco, etc. Through this procedure, the green hands became familiar with the material universe of a territory still unknown to them. The green hands had to learn how to propel the boats that would lead them to the whales and the shores of distant lands. Part of the training focused on the exercise of “pulling” (rowing). The officers insisted that all the men should place their oars in the water and lift them out with one motion at the same time (Nordhoff 1856). Even though it was a simple command, it was not easily put into practice. Besides attending to one’s own body and the materiality of the oar, it was relevant to synchronize one’s own body with other people’s movements. Furthermore, it was relevant to synchronize one’s own body with the movement of the sea. When a man failed to reach the water with the oar, he simply lost his balance and tumbled over. In order to chase the animals, it was necessary to reach speed, slow down, and turn round quickly. Becoming a good oarsman took a lot of time and practice.

The hunting grounds As suggested above, sealers were involved in the killing and processing of seals and some other pinnipeds such as sea elephants. However, they also killed and processed whales when they were available. Seals were mainly sought for the quality of their skins; sea elephants, for their oil; and whales, for their oil and some other products including whale bone. As whaling took place at sea, and sealing and elephanting took place at land (thus implying the establishment of hunting camps), I will start by referring to whaling. Later, I will describe some of the challenges of living and working in the material context of the South Shetlands. When the lookout shouted “There she blows!,” everybody on board got excited. The men worked on the final preparations. The whale-boats were manned by an officer, a boat-steerer, and four oarsmen: a bow-oarsman, a

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midship-oarsman, a tub-oarsman, and a stroke-oarsman (Nordhoff 1856). Each of these men played a specific role, and their efforts were coordinated to perfection. The officer gave instructions (Anonymous 1823). He was in charge of steering the boat until the whale was harpooned. The whales dived and surfaced, disappeared at one point and reappeared at another. All the senses were at the service of hunting. It was important to watch the whales, to listen to their spouts, to attend to the movement of the water, etc. Understanding the behavior of the animals was essential to anticipate their actions. It was hard to get within dart distance. The officer asked the boatsteerer to stand up and throw the harpoon. It sometimes took several attempts to “get fast” (embed the harpoon in the whale). From that moment on, the “struggle” could last several hours. The officer took the place of the boat-steerer to kill the animal (Anonymous 1823). The bowoarsman prepared the lances and gave them to the officer. The midoarsman wielded the toughest oar. The tub-oarsman threw water on the line when the whale sounded to prevent it from burning. The strokeoarsman kept the line clear. It took time for a green hand to become a midoarsman, and even more to become a boat-steerer or a boat-header (Nordhoff 1856). To check if the whale was dead, it was necessary to recognize some signs. Whales mortally wounded spouted blood and went into their “flurry.” When it was over, the crew started to process the animal. The whale was tied to the vessel and placed on one of its sides. The officers and the boat-steerers made specific cuts, and inserted a hook attached with ropes into the animal. When the men pulled at the ropes, it was possible to obtain a “blanket piece” (Aldrich 1889; Barker 1916). The strips were taken to the blubber room, where a couple of men cut them into “horsepieces.” Once in the deck, these pieces were minced in a machine by some other men. The officers and the boat-steerers lighted the fire and filled the try-kettles with blubber. The oil thus obtained was cooled. Meanwhile, some casks were coopered, filled with oil, and stored in the hold. Documentary sources insist that most of the green hands were shocked by the experience of processing whales. The men frequently had to go barefoot on a deck covered with blood and blubber. In this context, it was not easy to walk, and they had to slide to go from one point to another. The garments and the whole body were saturated with oil (Nordhoff 1856). Historical accounts describe that the flames of the try-works illuminated the vessel in a particular way (especially, at night). The smoke was acid and chocking. The green hands found the smell of the cracklings used to fuel the try-works incredibly nauseous (Davis 1874). Processing a

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whale took many hours. As these hours followed the excitement and physical effort of the hunting, the men ended up exhausted. Sealing and elephanting on the South Shetlands depended on landing a series of “gangs” on the islands (Stackpole 1955). The distribution of archaeological camps on Byers Peninsula accounts for this strategy. Most gangs consisted of six men including an officer (the usual number of people on board a whale-boat). Having left the vessel, the hunters were forced to select a place to establish their camps. Archaeological works show that the camps were located near animal colonies, freshwater sources, and rocky outcrops that offered protection from the wind and provided materials for the construction of the shelters (Senatore and Zarankin 1996, 1997, 1999; Zarankin and Senatore 1999, 2005, 2007). For those who had never been on the South Shetlands, the Polar Regions, or any other hunting ground, the encounter with the archipelago must have been peculiar. I will not dwell on this issue here, as we are dealing with it in other works (see, for instance, Salerno and Zarankin 2014). I just would like to say that visiting the South Shetlands involved getting familiar with subzero temperatures, winds that occasionally reached hundreds of miles per hour, a sun that never set, animal sounds and noises, the scarcity of cultural marks. In order to walk through the landscape, the men had to incorporate the materiality of the hills, the snow, the streams, the rocks. They marked the way and imposed specific conditions (look at the floor, jump, climb, etc!). As days passed, these features became sensory spots attached to specific references. Archaeological work on Byers Peninsula shows that many of the camps had similar characteristics. Probably under the orders of an officer (just as in other activities), the men engaged in the construction of shelters. The hunters frequently used the rocky outcrops as one of the walls of the structures. By doing so they expected to reduce work and protect the buildings from wind, rain, and snow. The rest of the walls were the result of piling up stones. The shelters were small; their walls were low; and the roofs were covered with old canvas and the skins of animals. Many of the camps had two different structures. One of them served as a “room” for the hunters, while the other was devoted to processing activities (Salerno 2006; 2011; Senatore and Zarankin 1996, 1997, 1999; Zarankin and Senatore 1999, 2005, 2007; Zarankin et al. 2011). The so-called room had similarities and differences with the rooms on the vessel. On the vessel, the members of each rank were accommodated in different spaces; at the camp, everybody shared the same shelter. On the vessel, the materiality of the cabin, the steerage, and the forecastle gave place to different experiences; at the camp, the materiality of the shelter

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made the officer and the rest of the men share some experiences. The room at the camp had no divisions, and left little space for individuality. For several years now, the members of the project have suggested that, even though the hierarchies did not disappear, sharing the same conditions of existence could have reduced social friction in a context perceived as hostile (mainly as a result of the extreme weather, and the poor living and working conditions) (Senatore and Zarankin 1999; Zarankin and Senatore 1999, 2005). With respect to experience, it is important to note the conditions imposed by the size of the shelters (Salerno and Zarankin 2014). As the walls were low, the men had to remain kneeling, sitting, or lying down. The inner surface of the shelters was so reduced that there was only room for a hearth and some whale vertebrae used as seats. The place was crowded; and touching (and being touched by) somebody else was inevitable. What was offered to one’s sensory-motor experience was also offered to the rest of the men: the heat of the fire, the smell and taste of the food, etc. Although living here must have been a challenge, as far as the experience of sharing was concerned, the forecastle provided a previous lesson for the green hands. The killing took place not far away from the camp. There were different techniques for killing seals and sea elephants. According to documentary sources, it was necessary to kill the seals before they reached the water. The hunters formed a line and drove the animals to it. Finally, they knocked the seals down using clubs (some of which have been found on the coasts of Byers) (Delano 1817). In the case of the sea elephants, the hunters used a club to kill the youngest; a lance, to kill the older ones; and a musket to kill the largest bulls (Fanning 1833). The officers and the able seamen could have been in charge of knocking down the animals; while the green hands could have lanced them to make sure they were dead. It was necessary to kill the animals as quickly as possible, not only to avoid their suffering, but also to prevent the rest of the colony from escaping. Processing activities began at the site of the killing. In the case of the seals, the green hands could have cut off the fins; while the able seamen could have skinned the body. In the case of the sea elephants, the blubber and the skin were cut into strips (Fanning 1833). The rest of the body was left on the beach. Documentary sources describe the amount of blood spilled. Processing activities continued at the camp. The preparation of seal skins varied depending on the market they were intended for. In general, it was necessary to take off part of the meat and the fat; then wash and clean the skin from the blood; and finally dry it or salt it. Trying out sea elephant blubber was comparable to trying out the blubber of a whale

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(Fanning 1833). However, instead of carrying out the activity on the vessel, the try-works were set up on the shore, in a separate structure near the men’s room. The visit to the South Shetlands could last from a few days to the whole summer season, depending on the availability of animals and the plans of the captains (including their desire to continue the exploration of the region). Documentary sources stress that a single gang could kill and process hundreds of animals (Basberg and Headland 2008). At times, the work must have been exhausting. On some occasions, however, there was not much to do (especially, when weather conditions forced the men to stay in the shelters or when they had killed enough seals or sea elephants). Finding ways to cope with boredom was thus essential (Zarankin and Senatore 2007). At some point, the vessel returned and picked up the men, the oil, and/or the skins (Stackpole 1955). From that moment on, the ship proceeded to some other hunting ground, a merchant port, or the United States.

Sealers’ subjectivities The return to the port of departure marked the end of the voyage. Documentary sources stress that the conditions in which the men and the vessels arrived provided an indication of the efforts made in the voyage. The transformation undergone by the green hands was amazing. After months, a year, or more, the men who had been selected for not having the marks of the trade on their bodies, came back with weathered skins; a constitution shaped by extreme physical effort; the garments stained with oil, and patched over and over again. For somebody acquainted with the world of the sea, there was no doubt that these men had become sealers (Nordhoff 1856; Davis 1874). During the voyage, the green hands oriented themselves and responded to the materiality of different settings. Acquiring specific skills involved sensoriality and motricity, thus crossing a series of emotional thresholds: the discomforts of seasickness; sharing the forecastle with strangers; overcoming the fear of heights while running up the rigging; learning to “pull” with the rest of the men; feeling the excitement of chasing and killing a whale; feeling the exhaustion of trying out blubber for hours; landing in an unknown territory such as the South Shetlands; building their own shelters to survive; withstanding extreme working and living conditions; killing and processing seals and sea elephants, etc. As a result of these circumstances (and of many others not considered in this chapter), a specific subjectivity began to be shaped; that is to say, a

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specific way of being-in-a-material and sociocultural-world. It is clear that this process did not take place in isolation, but involved an inter-subjective dimension. The recognition of oneself in the other, and of the other in oneself depended on sharing similar experiences. Among sealers, as well as among the men of other seafaring trades, this usually led to the development of an “esprit de corps” (Cooper 1849): a collective spirit which depended on blurring the boundaries of a self-contained individual, and which required the commitment of the flesh and the intertwining of the bodies (Salerno 2011). Of course, being a sealer implied much more than only one voyage. Once they returned to the port of departure, the green hands were paid and released from service. While some men did not want to go sealing again, some others decided to adopt it as a lifestyle. Being a sealer required to refine the skills acquired during a first voyage and acquire some new abilities. In any case, the first voyage was a sort of turning point, where the most basic things of the trade were learned (something I have tried to explain throughout this chapter).

Final words This work has shown that nobody was born but made a sealer. The characteristics of the trade cannot be simply taken for granted. Considering the acquisition of specific habits provides an understanding of a substantial part of these people’s daily life. As archaeologists, we need to delve into the stories not always told about the material relationship between the body and the world, including the sociocultural dimension of sensoriality, motricity, and emotion. In this chapter, I have taken a first step in discussing sealers’ subjectivities, supporting the efforts of the project “Landscapes in White” to reintroduce experience in the study of the South Shetlands. However, there is much more to be done. In this context, we are discussing the “materialization” (sensu Butler 2002) of sealers’ bodies (Salerno in preparation), and the experience of living in specific sealers’ camps (Salerno, Zarankin, and Cruz in preparation). I am sure that all of these issues will be relevant to better understand the particularities of sealers’ “being-in-the-world”.

Acknowledgements I want to thank Andrés Zarankin for his readings and valuable suggestions, and the students of the postgraduate course “Cuerpo, Materialidad y Teoría Social” (Facultad de Filosofía y Letras, Universidad

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de Buenos Aires, first semester, 2014) for their questions and comments. Thanks to CONICET, UFMG, and the institutions that support our project –CNPq (Proantar), FAPEMIG.

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(Chile).” Vestígios. Revista Latino-Americana de Arqueologia Histórica 5, no. 2 (2011): 139–158. Stoller, Paul. The Taste of Ethnographic Things: The Senses in Anthropology. Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Press, 1989. Sullivan, Lawrence. “Sound and Senses. Toward a Hermeneutics of Performance.” History of Religions 26, no. 1 (1986): 1–33. Synnott, Anthony. “Puzzling over the Senses: From Plato to Marx.” In Varieties of Sensory Experience, edited by David Howed, 61–76. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991. Verrill, H. Hyatt. The Real Story of the Whaler. Whaling, Past and Present. New York and London: D. Appleton & Company, 1916. Warnier, Jean-Pierre. “A Praxeological Approach to Subjectivation in a Material World.” Journal of Material Culture 6, no. 1 (2001): 5–24. —. “Technology as Efficacious Action on Objects… and Subjects.” Journal of Material Culture 14, no. 4 (2009): 459–470. —. “Bodily/Material Culture and the Fighter’s Subjectivity.” Journal of Material Culture 16, no. 4 (2001): 359–375. US Government Printing Office. The Fisheries and Fishery Industries of the United States. Washington DC: United States Commission of Fish and Fisheries, 1887. Weiss, Gail. Embodiment as Intercorporeality. New York and London: Routledge, 1999. Whitecar, William. Four Years Aboard the Whaleship Embracing Cruises in the Pacific, Atlantic, Indian and Antarctic Oceans. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co., 1864. Zarankin, Andrés. “A Persistência da Memória… Histórias Não-Lineares de Arqueólogos e Foqueiros na Antártica.” Revista de Arqueologia da SAB (2014). In press. Zarankin, Andrés and María Ximena Senatore. “‘Estrategias y Tácticas’ en el Proceso de Ocupación de la Antártida–Siglo XIX.” In Desde el País de los Gigantes. Perspectivas Arqueológicas en Patagonia, edited by Juan Belardi, Flavia Carballo and Silvana Espinosa, vol. 1, 315–327. Río Gallegos: Universidad Nacional de la Patagonia Austral, 1999. —. “Archaeology in Antarctica, 19th-Century Capitalism Expansion Strategies.” International Journal of Historical Archaeology 9, no. 1 (2005): 43–56. —. Historias de un Pasado en Blanco. Arqueología Histórica Antártica. Belo Horizonte: Argumentum, 2007. Zarankin, Andrés, Sarah Hissa, Melisa A. Salerno, Yaci-Ara Froner, Gerusa Radicchi, Luíz Assis and Anderson Batista. “Paisagens em

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Branco: Arqueologia e Antropologia Antárticas–Avanços e Desafios.” Vestígios. Revista Latino-Americana de Arqueologia Histórica (2011) 5, no. 2: 9–52.

CHAPTER SIX TOUCHING THE PAST: THE SENSES OF THINGS FOR LOCAL COMMUNITIES IN AMAZONIA, BRAZIL MARCIA BEZERRA Universidade Federal do Pará Conselho Nacional de Desenvolvimento Científico e Tecnológico (Brazil)

This chapter considers the relationship between local communities and the archaeological heritage in the Amazon, regarding haptic perception as an important element for the recognition and appropriation of the things of the past. Based on a survey of case studies from different localities, I propose a reflection on promising investigations concerning the senses that pervade these relationships, and their contribution both to legitimate native discourses on the past and to enhance archaeological resource management.

Introduction The reflections on the relationship of different local communities with the archaeological heritage have had a direct impact on the recognition of native narratives about the past and the management of such resources. However, despite the significant number of works on the subject (Ebbit 2010; Ferreira et al. 2011; Gnecco and Ayala 2010; Herrera and Lane 2006; Londoño 2003; Okamura and Matsuda 2011; Pyburn 2009; Silva 2002), there are important points that still merit examination. Among these, I emphasize here the sensorial entanglement (Classen 2005; Hodder 2012; Thomas 1991) of people in the present with the things of the past—a poorly contemplated subject, particularly by archaeologists. One of the few aspects explored, and which represents almost an intervention, is the contemporary use of archaeological resources. I refer here to the artifacts and the sites appropriated as materializations (Bell and

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Geismar 2009), detached from the category of “patrimony,” but attached to the daily landscapes of the communities. I cite as examples the practice of football in the ruins of Sacsayhuaman, in Cuzco, Peru, narrated by an archaeologist, he himself a participant of the game with local villagers (Stanchi 2001); and the use of polished axes—of pre-colonial periods—as door weights in the Amazon, among others. These situations present a series of elements fundamental to the understanding of the perceptions of material culture. Thinking about these cases contributes to the consolidation of the field of sensorial archaeology and broadens the discussion on the contemporary sensitivities surrounding the “things”1 of the past. It is from that perspective that I have been, over the last years, mapping the distinct contemporary use of archaeological things. This has led me to consider, in a previous work (Bezerra 2012), such practices as a result of particular ways of engaging with the past. It is always important to emphisize that I am not supporting the legitimation of acts of vandalism and/or the looting of archaeological sites; however, I suggest that it is crucial to understand the emic categories of what we classify as “archaeological heritage.” In this framework, I consider Castañeda’s (2008: 40) idea of an “ethnographical installation” as a locus for the construction of other interpretations about the things of the past. Having as a premise that the contemporary appropriations of material culture constitute a particular way of engaging with the past, I emphasize the importance of considering the sensorial domain of these perceptions— particularly, their tactile nature (Pye 2007). Therefore, based on case studies from the Amazon, I propose to reflect on: 1) the underestimation of of sensorial analysis in the comprehension of archaeological practices; 2) the paradoxes of the discourses of contemporary archaeology when dealing with this subject; and 3) the instrumentalization of heritage in the field of preservation. The examples in this chapter will show that the shifting view on heritage—from the norm of preservation to the norm of engagement—and the changes from the category of “heritage” to that of “things” contribute to the debates on symmetry regarding the relationship between archaeologists and local communities.

The study of the senses The study of the sensorial system as a way to analyze culture is not new in the field of anthropology. Researchers such as Classen (1997, 2005), Gosden, Edwards, and Phillips (2006) have produced intriguing

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data and creative interpretations about the “sensitive objects” and their role in different sensorial orders. In the Amazonian context, the order of the sensitive was exhaustively discussed by Viveiros de Castro (1996) when dealing with Amerindian perspectivism. From this standpoint, the world is made up of different categories of beings—humans and non-humans. Each one sees itself as human and the rest as non-human. In the Amerindian cosmologies that produce these elaborations, all beings were human in the beginning, and afterwards, through “technological acts” (Van Velthem 2003: 90), they differentiated from each other becoming humans, plants, animals, and artifacts. However, if for Viveiros de Castro objects play a secondary role in this dynamics; to Santos-Granero (2009) things are central to human life and reproduction, having an “occult life.” The significant production of knowledge on this subject has led Santos-Granero to propose the existence of an Amerindian epistemology of material culture2. In the field of Brazilian archaeology, the contributions that consider the dimension of the sensible in the Amazon are still in their initial stages. The studies conducted by Barreto (2008), Gomes (2012), and Schaan (2004), among others, resulted in interpretations of the pre-colonial archaeological record which, directly or indirectly, benefited from discussions about the order of the sensible. The reflections proposed by Machado (2012) on the relationship between people and plants in the Caviana Islands contributed to the study of the sensible domain of the landscape for riverine populations. In the context of the present discussion, I emphasize the work currently conducted by Cabral (2011) with the indigenous Wayãpi, in Amapá State, anticipating a certain “archaeology of the sensible.” However, the active and daily relationship that local communities have with the things of the past requires thinking about the logic of construction of other “epistemes” (Fig. 6-1). In the Amazon, it is common to observe that houses are placed on top of archaeological sites. Funerary urns and other vessels serve for the storage of water and/or flour. Villagers make use of the anthropic dark earth sites in order to plant their fields. The children, in turn, play with ceramic fragments, store objects found on the margins of the rivers, streams, and dirt roads, and form small collections (Ravagnani 2011). There is still record of the use of ceramic sherds as moist-retainers in plant vases and even of a stoneware bottle put to use as a flower vase (Moraes 2012).

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Fig. 6-1: Dona Vera and her collection. Vila de Joanes, Marajó Island (Photograph by A. Garcia).

Zarankin (2012), when discussing the sensorial aspects of the archaeological practice, ponders: “Which archaeologist has never thought about the feelings and thoughts of the people she/he studies?” Following the reflection of this colleague, I ask: “Which archaeologist thinks about the feelings and thoughts of the people she/he deals with during fieldwork?” The answer may seem obvious. After all, over the last decades, we have witnessed a significant increase in the number of articles, books, forums, and workshops that reflect on the countless categories of contemporary archaeology: action (Sabloff 2008), collaborative (McDavid 2002), participatory (Pyburn 2009), indigenous (Gnecco and Ayala 2010), with descendants (Colwel-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008), community (Marshall 2002), symmetrical (Cabral 2011), among others. However, if on the one hand all of these “archaeologies” share concerns about the decolonization of the archaeological practice and the “symmetrization” of native and scientific discourses about the past; on the other, they do not consider the sensorial experience and the entanglement of people and (archaeological) things (Hodder 2012; Thomas 1991), which have a fundamental role in the recognition of the multiple elaborations of the past. Debates on sensoriality are not new in archaeology (Hamilakis 2013; Hurcombe 2007; MacGregor 1999, 2002; Ouzman 2001), but today there is a growing interest in the subject. The book edited by Fahlander &

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Kjellström in 2010, reveals the challenges of studying the perceptual domain in the past, suggesting theoretical and methodological paths to elaborate more in-depth interpretations concerning sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch, based on the archaeological record. The works of MacGregor (1999), Hurcombe (2007), and Ouzman (2001) show, in a particular way, the importance of tactile perception in the study of lithic and ceramic collections, and even in the study of rock art. It is interesting to note that, despite the fact that archaeology inevitably deals with the concrete, the tactile dimension of the archaeological practice has attracted few researchers—something in line with the criticisms made by Classen (1997, 2005), Edwards, Gosden and Phillips (2006), Howes (1991), and Stoller (1989) to the first studies in the field of the anthropology of the senses. According to these authors, there is a primacy of sight when compared to the rest of the senses. As Stoller emphasizes (1989: 7), it is necessary to “open [our] senses to the worlds of the others,” in a way to make it possible to “uncover the distinctions and interrelationships of sensory meaning and practice to a culture” (Classen 1997: 401). Classen (2005: 277) states that the visitors of a museum, for example, wish to touch the objects so as to “verify their nature and experience them intimately.” This is because touch approaches the subject to the object, contrary to sight which always implies a certain distance for the observer to see the observed. In this way, the entanglement of the one who touches and of what is touched annihilates “not only space, but also time” (Classen 2005: 277). Just like the museum visitors observed by Classen (2005), those who live in the vicinity of archaeological sites also wish to examine the objects, not only visually but, above all things, through tactile experience. This wish, however, reveals more than a mere curiosity for the object: touch is a meaningful element in the process of exploration and (re)cognition of the world.

The hands that hold the sherds The sensorial metaphors elaborated by the members of the communities with which I have been in the company of in the Amazon, give us a measurement of the importance of mapping the sensitive relations that these people establish with their landscapes. Images such as “the well has feelings,” “the churches’ mortal remains,” “the hair of the sea,” “the dead water,” or “listen to the earth,” “mess with the eye of the

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well to spring up water,” among others, demonstrate the recognition of the anima of things3 and the relationship with the domain of the senses. It is in this way that Dona Darlete, a subsistence farmer who lives in the Transamazônica highway4, describes a ceramic bowl (Moraes 2010): I found a little pan like this... of actual clay... it is made of actual clay... because today they’re going to make it... [when it is] made on the wheel, it’s well polished... we see that this is made manually… because there is a place where we see […] the fingers marks, like this… where it [was passed] like this, see… the ‘bottom’ of the finger, you know… and the mouth is not so round… it’s kind of crooked… it is not given the same finishing that the other one… a thing made like this… made roughly, you know?

The description of the piece is accompanied by the fingers of Dona Darlete, who scrutinizes the ceramic in order to recognize its shape, following its reentrances. In this way, she tries to understand a sherd which is naturalized by sight, turning it into something strange, “detached” by touch. This act repeats itself on many occasions. Another subsistence farmer, Dona Maria de Jesus, says “a piece of a pot so pretty, scratched like this” (Moraes 2010), showing the incised decoration with the tip of her fingers. Valtinho, a schoolteacher in Primavera5 and a collector of diverse objects (mainly polished axes), describes the sensorial system activated by him—sight and touch—in order to identify a polished axe found in the vicinity of an archaeological site: Okay, the first detail that I notice—shape. [L]ook, the other boy said. [I]t was the water, the rain, but there, where he found it, there is no river, it wasn’t in the river, and another detail is that I also think that it’s too sharpened, do you understand? [A]nd another detail that I also notice is by the shape, like this. [A]nd there is a small groove that is maybe [used] to put a piece of wood to tie [the axe] and make the rigging. [It] is very clear, very evident here. [T]his one also has [the groove], it has it right here, see?

Besides these and other similar examples, I have observed the practice of rubbing fragments, mainly ceramic but also lithic. This tactile act activates the imagination—and memory—of contemporary experiences and past stories, but also points to what Ingold (2008: 3) calls the “active and exploratory engagement of the whole person” in a given environment; that is, not only the sense organs as domains in themselves, but as entangled in a technic-symbolic network (Fig. 6-2).

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Fig. 6-2: Touching the Past. Primavera (Photographs by M. Bezerra and L. Ravagnani).

Ingold (2000) has been one of the main critics of the field of the anthropology of the senses. According to him, there exists a gap between the “perceptual practice” and the “sensorial imagination” that such theoretical proposition has not been able to resolve satisfactorily. One of his main arguments is what he considers to be an exaggerated relativism in the interpretations. To him, “the anthropology of the senses [...] must restore the virtual worlds of sense to the practicalities of our sensing of the world” (Ingold 2011: 317). Although I recognize such divergences, I feel that it is useful for the discussion to make use of some of the elements present in these perspectives. Returning to tactile engagement, I consider it important to think about these practices as perceptions that occur in an “immediate” and, because of that, more “rude” form—as Kant states (2006: 155) when discussing the “faculty of knowledge.” The narrative of Seu Zuza, a subsistence farmer from the city of Primavera, suggests this perception. He says: “I think that it is born in the actual earth,” referring to a ceramic object. The relationship with the land is crucial to these communities. The main means of subsistence is agriculture, followed by fishing, implying a daily and tactile experience of the land and of what is found in it. The tactile recognition of things is part of farming practices. The hands and the fingers act like instruments of exploration, of verification, of construction of knowledge. Therefore, if on the one hand, the ceramic and lithic

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fragments are naturalized in the daily landscape; on the other, they are turned into strange things in the process of rubbing their surfaces. The relationship of these communities with the things of the past is activated by tactile sensitivity, which is constituted by an empirical knowledge, but also by a “sensorial imagination” (Ingold 2008) of the environment. In this way, to touch an archaeological object means to incorporate it into one’s universe of knowledge, based on a personal logic of thought. These fragments—which, to us, are parts of a whole represented by an object—are parts of another whole: the landscape lived by these people. They are also elements with which they have a metonymical relation, for they engender a network of experiences and senses in which they are immersed and entangled. This logic can also be thought in the context of the archaeologist’s work. During research our sensorial system is activated, at every moment, as an integrating part of the process of identification, analysis, and classification of different materials. MacGregor (1999) believes that the process of analysis and interpretation of archaeological artifacts sometimes depends more on tactile than on visual aspects. However, when it encounters the “other,” the praxis of archaeology, and the praxis of science in general, goes against such notion. The interdiction of the other’s—the non-archaeologist’s—tactile perception of objects restricts sensorial experience, since only sight is legitimated. This points to a mismatch in contemporary archaeology: while some debates reinforce the discourses on the decolonization of archaeological practice; at the same time, they promote the underestimation and even the suppression of specific ways of sensorially engaging with the past. That is, the rhetoric of symmetry conceals the practices of interdiction. The discourses on the preservation and conservation of heritage are also domains, par excellence, of these idiosyncrasies. The specialists— archaeologists, museologists, restorers, conservators—have the benefit of engaging with the objects; those who find themselves outside of this restricted group are asked not to touch the “things of the past.” More than this, they have their sensorial perception disciplined by heritage rhetoric and their epistemologies annihilated by scientific discourses. When discussing the functions of heritage, García Canclini (2003: 160) argues that these resources, by being taken “a priori” as prestigious gifts received from the past, are considered unquestionable and, because of this, are the target of acts which promote their preservation, conservation, and dissemination. To the author, it is this perspective which makes heritage “the place where the ideology of the oligarchy, that is, the substantial traditionalism, best survives today” (the translation is mine), and which

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does not allow the several groups interested in heritage to perform their particular manners of engaging with the past. Chauí (1981), when reflecting on the role of science, states that the distance it takes from society and the private nature of the knowledge it produces, create what she calls a “competent discourse,” according to which: “It is not everyone who can say anything to any other, in any occasion and in any place. With this rule, [the competent discourse] produces its other face: the social incompetents” (Chauí 1981: 2) (the translation is mine). The discourse of competence increases the authority of the researcher and, in the case of archaeology, contributes to the destruction of other logics of knowledge and to the instrumentalization of heritage. Londoño (2003: 4), when dealing with the exclusion of other senses of materiality in the peasant practice of “guaquería6,” states that the groups involved in this activity have a particular way of approaching pre-Hispanic materiality, based on other logics. To the author, the “juridical puritanism” applied to heritage prevents the democratization of the discourses about the past. It is in this same way that Smith (2007: 2) uses the notion of “government technology,” developed by Rose and Miller (1992: 175) in reference to the set of programs, techniques, apparatus, documents, and procedures by which “the authorities seek to incorporate and effect the governmental ambitions.” Smith suggests thinking the archaeological heritage as a “government technology,” an apparatus constituted by disciplinary authority and a notion of expertise. The non-recognition of the several ways of engaging with the past and its things legitimizes the privileged position of archaeology in the Western world and strengthens its condition of “government technology.” Both these factors contribute to the underestimation of the native interpretations of the archaeological record, and the management and conservation7 of the material repertoire that makes up archaeological sites (Bezerra and Machado: 2011).

Final considerations The examples of the ways people engage with material culture in the Amazon contribute to the study of the perceptions that the communities inhabiting the surroundings of archaeological sites have on what has been conventionally called “archaeological heritage.” Thinking about the sensorial dimension of these relationships reveals the complex nuances of cultural elaborations, and also points to a fertile path to review

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preservation actions and reflect on disciplinary practices, considering the sensible dissonances of the discourses of contemporary archaeology. With these initial reflections on the sensorial relationships between the people of today and the things of the past, I intended to show that the understanding of the forms of appropriation of the “archaeological heritage” cannot dispense with the mapping of the perceptual forms of engaging with things. Furthermore, I emphasized that field studies interested in the senses may enrich discussions on the recognition of the sensorial systems involving material culture from archaeological contexts. I provided some examples in which the residents of small localities in the Amazon narrate their tactile experiences with archaeological objects. Finally, I concluded that both the discourses of science and heritage, discipline, interdict, and ordinate the sensorial perceptions of the other, establishing landscapes of power (Silveira and Lima: 2005) that affect the legitimacy of the contemporary senses of the things of the past in the Amazon.

Acknowledgments To the villagers of Joanes, Rio dos Cacos and Água Azul for their reception and for authorizing the use of their narratives and images.

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Sully, Dean, ed. Decolonising Conservation: Caring for Maori Meeting Houses outside New Zealand. Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press. Thomas, Nicholas. Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture and Colonialism in the Pacific. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1991. Van Velthem, Lúcia. O Belo é a Fera: A Estética da Produção e da Predação entre os Wayana. Lisbon: Assírio & Alvim, 2003. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo. “Os Pronomes Cosmológicos e o Perspectivismo Ameríndio.” Mana 2, no. 2 (1996): 115–144. Zarankin, Andrés. “‘Once upon a time...’ Historias no Contadas sobre Arqueologos en Antártida.” Work presented at VI Reunión de Teoría Arqueologica de América del Sur, Goiás, Goiânia, September 17 to 21, 2012.

Notes 1

As already discussed in previous work (see Bezerra 2012), I adopt the term “thing” based on Bell and Geismar (2009). According to these authors, the term “thing” deconstructs the customary naturalization of material culture as a category that “obscures the local distinctions.” I understand that this notion allows, therefore, to think about these relations beyond the category of “heritage” invented by the State. 2 In a previous work, I have discussed the indigenous perspective on the ethnographic objects that compose museum collections, considering the sensible dimension of these relations (Bezerra and Machado 2011). 3 For a discussion on the “soul of things,” see Lima Filho and Silveira (2005). 4 Heritage Education Project, coordinated by the author, and conducted in the context of the “Programa de Arqueologia Preventiva da BR-163 (Guarantã do Norte até BR-230) and Rodovia BR-230 (Miritituba-Rurópolis) DNIT/UFPA”, coordinated by Denise Pahl Schaan. 5 Heritage Education Project, coordinated by the author, and conducted in the context of the “Projeto Primavera–Prospecção Arqueológica e Educação Patrimonial na Área de Implantação da Fábrica de Cimento da Votorantim–Distrito de Primavera/PA, Votorantim/Archaeo,” coordinated by Suzana Hirooka and Sirley Hoeltz. 6 Practice of looting of archaeological sites. In the words of Londoño (2003: 6) “Guaquería is, in effect, a cultural, socially established [understanding] through which certain individuals represent to themselves what archaeologists and lawyers define as the archaeological record.” 7 For a discussion on the decolonizing practices in the preservation and conservation of cultural goods, see Sully (2009).

CHAPTER SEVEN SENSING THE PAST: THE SENSORIAL EXPERIENCE IN EXPERIENTIAL ARCHAEOLOGY BY AUGMENTING THE PERCEPTION OF MATERIALITY DRAGOù GHEORGHIU Doctoral School, National University of Arts (Romania)

Introduction: Modern society and the senses During the last century the Western world has witnessed the appearance of various schools of thought focused on the re-discovery of the human body (see Le Breton 2008), but despite this tendency, contemporary culture has remained oculocentric, based merely on visual experiences (Jenks 1995; see also Back-Danielsson et al. 2012). Such a restrictive awareness of the world deprives modern individuals of the complexity of the phenomenological experiences of the past, since the limitation to the visual reduces the experience of the quality of substances, objects, or places. Despite this predilection, the existence of a sensorial capacity of bodily knowing and knowledge was recognised first by philosophers, to cite for example Edmund Husserl (1954), Maurice Merleau-Ponty (1962), Gaston Bachelard (1969), Henri Lefebvre (1991), Pierre Bourdieu (1990), or Mark Wynn (2008); it was later followed by anthropologists, who conceived of an anthropology of the senses (for an extended bibliography see Pink 2006); and the latter, in turn, has influenced the archaeological field (Campbell and Hansson 2000; Cummings 2002; Fahlander and Kjellström 2010; Hamilakis 2002; Houston and Taube 2000; Houston et al. 2006; Lazzari 2005).

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As sensoriality is a result of personal experiences, this “inner view” requires a first-person discourse like the one employed in the study of consciousness (see Varela and Shear 1999). Experiments have revealed that to generate complex phenomenological descriptions, this first-person approach of the individual living a sensorial experience, and the oculocentric third-person approach of the observer witnessing the experiment, must be interconnected. In the present text the author played both the role of participant and spectator (or external observer) of the event, hence the different modes of address during the narration, due to the necessity to connect the two perspectives.

Towards an archaeology of the senses: The sensorium as an instrument for exploring the past From my personal practice as experimentalist in archaeology and visual arts, I arrived at the conclusion that visual experience is not the only determinant in understanding the properties of materials; the latter being enhanced by the tactile knowledge and proprioception, and even the perception of the world through the whole body (Gheorghiu 2005, 2009a; see also Hamilakis et al. 2001, 2002). When relating the individual’s sensorium with the material culture of the past, or with reconstructions of ancient objects and their contexts, one accomplishes an experiential exploration of the past under the form of phenomenological data about the relationship between the body and the natural (or artificial) contexts. For example, tactile perception proved to be of extreme importance in the exploration of the surrounding world (Classen 2005; Mallgrave 2011: 202; Martin 1992; Mattens 2009; O’Shaugnessy 1980; Scott 2001). In some of my experiments, I use reenactments in the archaeological contexts reconstructed to allow the immersion of the actors into the stage-designs created, and to create a sensorial experience analogous to the original context. By emphasizing sensorial experience through different kinds of augmentations of the attributes of re-constructed contexts (Gheorghiu 2012; Gheorghiu and Stefan 2012), one can influence the perception of reality of the performer, as well as that of the observer. Nevertheless, today, archaeology is mainly concerned with the study of material culture rather than with anthropology, and phenomenological archaeology is still in its early stages (Hamilton et al. 2006; Shanks 1992; Tilley 1994, 2004, 2008). As a consequence, phenomenological studies in archaeology are not yet accepted as a sub-discipline of experimental archaeology. Experimental archaeology is still less interested in the human

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presence within the application of a technology, than in the identification of its chaîne-opératoire. Consequently the re-enactment (i.e. experientiality) is considered to be a subjective approach (the subject of “subjectivity” being rarely approached by theory; see Hansen 2008; Shanks 1992: 105 ff.).

Augmenting the sensorium Since during a re-enactment, the quality of the experientiality of the performer is determined by the access to as many “feelies” as possible, corresponding to the sensations of touch, smell, sight, and sound (see Karhulahti 2012), an augmentation of these would increase the sensation of immersion in a context. An accentuation of the experiential side of the archaeological experiment, by emphasizing the qualities of the materials in relationship with the senses, like colours and textures, could produce a strong effect on the performer, without altering the chaînes-opératoires of the experiment. During the course of such experiments I noticed that by emphasising the sensorial experience, one could attain experiential states similar to the catharsis produced by works of art. The augmentation of the sensoriality of the performer-experimentalist represents the subject of my current research, that mixes archaeology with performance and visual arts (see Gheorghiu 2009a, 2009b, in press a). In this framework, the present paper will discuss the augmentation of “feelies” by means of art techniques during a study of the pyro-technologies of a Roman villa rustica.

The archaeological experiment with the augmentation of the materials’ qualities: The built context In order to establish the setting of a sensorial experience for both experimentalists and the public, in some of my experiments I create threedimensional scenic contexts imagined from the archaeological record, whose reconstruction involves a mixed approach consisting of archaeological, architectural, and ethnographic studies. This objective stage is followed by a subjective one, represented by the augmentation of the qualities of the materials and sometimes by some scenery interventions. In the present text the context discussed is a reconstructed fragment of a Roman villa rustica, built in the village Vădastra, near the Danube River, in the south of Romania. The purpose of the experiments carried out in this context was not only the study of the specific technologies, but also of the phenomenological relationships between

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people, objects, and the built space. In a first stage of the study the experiments of melting and blowing glass, or melting and processing iron ore, carried out by a group of technicians and sculptors from the National University of Arts in Bucharest and coordinated by the author, were conducted to allow the understanding of the chaînes-opératoires of these technologies. A second stage was dedicated to the phenomenological problems raised by the experientiality and immersion in context. The building of the context comprising workshops, furnaces, and kilns started after tracing the perimeter of the courtyard’s walls and the positioning of the pyro-instruments and of the water reservoir (Fig. 7-1). This fragment of the villa rustica was furnished to form a composition where experimentalists could work and be filmed, with the resulting images credibly implying a complete building (Fig. 7-2). In this built context, beside the accurate ergonomic execution of the technological operations, an additional problem was that of the experientiality of its materiality.

Fig. 7-1: Building a corner of a Roman villa rustica and its pyro-instruments. Vădastra, May 2012 (Photograph by the author).

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Fig. 7-2: The corner of a Roman villa rustica completed. Vădastra, June 2012 (Photograph by the author).

Materials-Qualities Currently, materials are understood in processual terms and not as substances (see also Conneller 2011:125) that can be experimented (see Gheorghiu and Children 2011), probably due to the relational theories (Bourriaud 2002; see also Gheorghiu 2001) that focused attention on relations more than on substances (see Back-Danielsson et al. 2012: 7; Ingold 2010: 92), and on “the processes of formation” rather than on “the states of matter” (Back-Danielsson et al. 2012: 7). The experiments in the Roman villa rustica were focused on the way past materiality reveals the sensoriality of the past worlds through the augmentation of the qualities of the substances. For example, the textures of the wooden objects were put into evidence by rubbing them with oil or paint according to the position of the object in the material context of the reconstruction, and the exaggerated modelled thick lime paste under the natural and artificial light emphasised the materiality of the walls (Fig. 73). The original pieces of Roman stone, such as the water reservoir found in situ, were left covered with moss to accentuate the tactility of the material (Fig. 7-4). Other recycled old materials were the tiles which covered the roof of the workshop that evoked the materiality of the Roman tegula. All the technological sub-products like ash, charcoals, shards, and melted iron were spread around the pyro-instruments, thus being

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introduced into the daily activity area and therefore experienced by all performers (Fig. 7-5).

Fig. 7-3: The materiality of the place augmented with colours and emphasized textures. Vădastra, June 2012 (Photograph by the author).

Fig. 7-4: An original Roman water reservoir used in pyro-experiments. Vădastra, June 2012 (Photograph by the author).

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Fig. 7-5: Charcoals from the furnace for iron casting. Vădastra, June 2012 (Photograph by the author).

To augment the materiality of the scene, and in addition to the instruments necessary for the functioning of the furnaces and kilns, a series of technological objects and possible objects of daily use in a workshop of a villa rustica were added, such as wooden benches, ceramic pots, cups, fleece, threads, cart wheels, and different agricultural utensils (Fig. 7-6).

Fig. 7-6: A cart wheel positioned on a row of original Roman tegulae. Vădastra, June 2012 (Photograph by the author).

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Light The lighting of the built context was an essential element of the mix, emphasizing not only the volumes of the architecture and objects, but also the timing of the actions, and proved to be another instrument in the augmentation of the sensorial experience. In addition, the natural light variations occurring throughout the day and their effect on the textures and colors of materials were documented, in order to observe their influence on the ergonomics of the technological work. Some experiments were carried out in the dim light present before dawn, when the perception of the performers was focussed only on the light of the pyro-instruments, and the rest of the context was hidden in obscurity (Fig. 7-7); some were conducted in full daylight to observe the experimentalists’ visual perception of the materiality of the working space around them (Fig. 7-8). A similar study was conducted at night using artificial light (Gheorghiu in press b), to study the visual ergonomics of the technological performance in the chiaroscuro of the pyro-technologist (Fig. 7-9).

Fig. 7-7: Controlling the process of burning in a glass furnace at dawn. Vădastra, August 2012 (Photograph by the author).

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Fig. 7-8: Controlling the process of burning in a glass furnace at noon. Vădastra, August 2012 (Photograph by the author).

Fig. 7-9: Controlling the process of burning in a glass furnace at nighttime. Vădastra, August 2012 (Photograph by the author).

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Atmosphere During the pyro-experiments, one method used to augment the sensoriality of the scenes was the exploitation of the visual effects of the technological smoke, which in natural and artificial light created an atmosphere that attenuated the contours of the pyro-instruments and the neatness of their textures (Fig. 7-10), but highlighted the colours of other objects and architectural features. At the same time the combination of the light of dusk, and the light of the lamps and torches produced visual effects that augmented or attenuated the qualities of the objects during the technological processes. This atmosphere, which was primarily a technological product, generated a strong olfactory effect, creating an olfactory space of work, and therefore influencing the memorization of the event (for the relationship between memory and smell, see Classen et al. 1994).

Fig. 7-10: Controlling the process of burning in a ceramic kiln at nighttime. Vădastra, August 2012 (Photograph by the author).

Sounds Each action involving processing of materials is characterised by a set of specific sounds; for example, the sounds inside the kiln inform the experienced operator about the technological stage of burning, without the need to look inside the burning chamber. In a theatrical performance sounds play an important role, affecting the spectators and enhancing the

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degree of immersion in the scene played. For example, in the plays directed by Jerzy Grotowsky: “The soundscape includes singing, chanting, roars, purrs, and a myriad of inarticulate sounds uttered by the actors, as well as the rhythmic clomping of the wooden shoes, a melancholy violin, and the harsh metallic clang of hammers and nails. Each sound, spoken or otherwise, was precisely coordinated with the physical action” (Slowiak and Cuesta 2007: 106). Combined with the technological sounds, the verbal commands of the craftsmen to the apprentices, amplified by the close space of the workshop, formed a soundscape (Goldhahn 2002; Tilley 1999) similar to the one from the theatrical representations mentioned, and whose dimensions exceeded the boundaries of the smoky atmosphere perimeter, and of the olfactory space. To confer a higher degree of veracity to the soundscape and consequently to the sensorial experience, the technological scene was complemented with a series of possible events that might have occurred in a Roman household, whose sounds combined with the technological ones; for example, the passage of a flock of sheep (Fig. 7-11), or the return of the horses from the fields were included in the scene. A long textile screen enclosing the workshop allowed the selective hearing of the experiments’ sounds.

Fig. 7-11: A sheep flock passing through the villa’s courtyard. Vădastra, August 2012 (Photograph by the author).

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The corporal involvement in experimental archaeology: Technology–Body–Context All the experiments developed in contexts analogous to the original one (i.e. the reconstructed workshop of the Roman villa rustica) tried to replicate in detail the antique technological processes to allow the study of biomechanics, visual ergonomics, and phenomenological aspects of ancient pyro-technological contexts (Fig. 7-12). The augmentations that were introduced in the actions of the performers (such as textures, illumination, or sounds), did not alter the scientific side of the experiments, but drew the attention to some unobserved aspects of visual ergonomics of the pyro-technologies, highlighting the differences between the laboratory experiment and the one carried out in context. The study of the relationship between the human body and technology (Mauss 1934), conducted in a context analogous to the original one, leads to a series of interesting data; thus the connection between humans, instruments, and environment offered data on the proxemics of pyrotechnologies, and at the same time a complex image of a technological scenography, where technology revealed a high degree of theatricality and immersion. During the experimentation of ancient technologies the human body functioned as a memoriser of the sensorial experiments (Csordas 1999; Hamilakis et al. 2001), as Juhani Pallasmaa (2005: 45) asserted: “The world is reflected in the body, and the body is projected onto the world. We remember through our bodies as much as through our nervous system and brain […] The skin reads the texture, weight, density and temperature of matter”. Last, but not least, the costumes played an important role in the development of the technological operations; they were copied after Roman iconography with the decoration simplified to a maximum, and stressing their functional characteristics. The experimentalists needed some time to get used to the costumes, which sometimes imposed a series of body movements, different from the ones they were familiar with from their modern practice (Fig. 7-13).

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Fig. 7-12: An experiment on the ergonomics of the glass blowing process. Vădastra, August 2012 (Photograph by the author).

Fig. 7-13: Experimentalists dressed in Roman costumes performing a technological operation. Vădastra, June 2012 (Photograph by the author).

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Immersion Immersion is the quality of a work of art, be it a text (Wodaski 1996), art installation, architectural object (Grosz and Eisenman 2001; Sloterdijk 2006) or video game (Karhulahti 2012), which allows the receptor to mentally transpose himself into an artificial environment. Until now immersion was studied only for virtual reconstructions and not for reenactments. In game design Staffan Björk and Jussi Holopainen (2004) identified three types of immersion: sensory-motor, cognitive and emotional, these being also identifiable in the archaeological experiments, both for the performers and the spectators. The immersion in a technical activity is simultaneously sensory-kinaesthetic and mental, and determines a sense of “presence” when it is sustained by a strong sensorial immersive context. Such a detachment from reality and the sensation of being present in another space are specific to the theatre, probably the most comprehensive way of immersion (Reaney 1999). In the reconstructed context discussed, immersion functioned for two categories of receptors: the ones outside the experiment (the spectators) and the performers (the experimentalists). For members of the first category, that physically assisted the experiments, or that visualised the videos of the experiments on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=-HD0vXfO-5c), the visual sensoriality functioned as an immersive factor (see Jacobson 2008: 234), and consequently all the material qualities of the objects were augmented. This receptor category experienced the phenomenon of “telepresence” (Sheridan1992; Steuer 1992), namely the sensation of being present in an artificial environment as real as a real one (Ryan 1994). By contrast, the experimentalists had a haptic experience, which strongly influenced their sensorium and their presence in (the artificial) space. Harry Francisc Mallgrave (2011: 188) reminds us of the complex meaning of hapticity: ‘Hapticity’ is a term that has been traditionally ascribed to the sense of touch, but this definition has been expanding in recent years. Jean Piaget referred to haptic perception as the process whereby a child, in an early stage of spatial development, translates ‘tactile-kinesthetic impressions’ into ‘spatial image of a visual kind’ [Piaget and Inhelder 1956]. His contemporary James J. Gibson emphasised [1966] that hapticity is a system that yields ‘information about solid objects in three dimensions.’

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Consequently, the experimentalists experienced a direct sensory presence of the ancient material culture through direct bodily engagement, some of them taking an active part in the construction of the environment, and others being involved in the haptic exploration of the context, before the beginning of the experiments. Their perceptions were amplified by the artifices of the augmentation of visual images and tactility, but also through a synesthetic experience of colours, smells, sounds, and touch, mixed with the technological gestures that had an effect on memory. The somatic memory of the experimentalists was also influenced by the fact they lived for a couple of days in the built context where they worked, ate, and slept near the pyro-instruments (see also Stoller 1997). Personally, I remember the tactile experience of building the kilns and furnaces that I associate with the smell of wet clay, wood, charcoal, and food (see Fahlander 2010), but also with the ergonomic shape of the working space. I noted that this memory issued from experientiality becomes durable in time, after the formation of technological routines. From the recorded personal experiences of the experimentalists, and from the discussions with the spectators, one can infer that sensorial augmentation in an archaeological experiment can generate experiential moods similar to catharsis, or the immersion generated by the works of art, that influence both the performer and the audience.

Conclusions As experiments demonstrate, a sensorial approach of reconstructed contexts can lead to phenomenological states that increase the sensorial experience of the performers and the public, and allow the immersion of the viewer; particularly if the qualities of the materiality of the context are augmented. The whole haptic experience in a built context is crucial in creating a state of immersion, by this meaning the sensory experience of “light and shadow, colour, texture, grain, repetition, contrast, coherence, transparency, temperature, sound, scent, and site” (Mallgrave 2011: 203204). The augmentations of the qualities of materials and the performances in context did not alter the archaeological experiment, but on the contrary, added new data on the relationship between the human body, technology, objects, and the environment. A structural analysis of this study of sensorial archaeology would reveal a rhetoric approach to the reality of the past, since the context was made of fragments of architecture or of objects, i.e. metonymies, whose perception could evoke a whole. Evocation (see Tyler 1986), and not representation, acted in a creative way on the

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imagination of the performer, experimentalist, or archaeologist. An additional rhetoric trope used was the hyperbole of the materiality, through its sensorial augmentation. From the viewpoint of art, the technological scenes created were inspired from the antique theatre, as they represented fragments, needed no perspective, and used the “cheironomia” (language of gestures) (McCart 2007: 252) (Fig. 7-14) to evoke the actions related to the pyrotechnologies. Beside the relevance of the sensorial experience to approach the past, the experiment also tried to test the limits of the first person experience (Varela and Shear 1999), i.e. the limits of the transmissibility of a sensorial experience in language, as for the most part, it cannot be formulated verbally.

Fig. 7-14: Experimentalists drinking water during a break. Vădastra, August 2012 (Photograph by the author).

Acknowledgements The author thanks the editors for the kind invitation to contribute to this book. Thanks are also due to the team whose contribution was determinant in building the ancient contexts: the architect Professor Arh. Andreea Hasnaú, the sculptors Adrian Soare, Marius Purice, the artistsexperimentalists Alexandra Rusu, Dan Popovici, Gabriel Oúan, Pantelimon Arnautov, Ioana Stelea, Catalin Oancea, Marius Stroe, the technician Ion Dimcea, and the film operators Adrian ùerbanescu and

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Ovidiu ùerbanescu. Many thanks to the villagers from Vădastra who hosted our experiments for more than a decade. As usual, my thanks go to Bogdan Căpruciu for helping with the English version. This research was founded by the PN II IDEI research grant Time Maps. Real Communities– Virtual Worlds– Experimented Pasts (www.timemaps.net).

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Stoller, Paul. Sensuous Scholarship. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997. Tilley, Christopher. A Phenomenology of Landscape. Oxford, Providence: Berg, 1994. —. Metaphor and Material Culture. London: Blackwell, 1999. —. The Materiality of Stone. Explorations in Landscape Phenomenology. Oxford, New York: Berg, 2004. —. Body and Image: Explorations in Landscape Phenomenology II. Oxford: Berg, 2008. Tyler, Steven. “Post-Modern Ethnography: From Document of the Occult to Occult Document.” In Writing Culture. The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, edited by James Clifford and George Marcus, 122–140. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: California University Press, 1986. Varela, Francisco and Jonathan Shears, eds. The View from Within. FirstPerson Approaches to the Study of Consciousness. Exeter: Imprint Academic, 1999. Wodaski, Ron. Virtual Reality Madness. Indianapolis: SAMS Publishing, 1996. Wynn, Martin. “Knowledge of God, Knowledge of Place, and the Aesthetic Dimension of Religious Understanding”. Australian Ejournal of Theology 11 (2008). Accesed August 4, 2014. http://www.acu.edu.au/about_acu/faculties_schools_institutes/faculties /theology_and_philosophy/schools/theology/ejournal/past_issues/aejt_ 11/Aesthetic_Dimension_of_Religious_Understanding/

CHAPTER EIGHT FEELING THE ROMAN SKIN: UNSETTLED, CONFORMED, AND PLURAL BODIES LOURDES CONDE FEITOSA Universidade do Sagrado Coração (Brazil)

PEDRO PAULO FUNARI Universidade de Campinas (Brazil)

“...the body represents the particular site of interface between several different irreducible domains: the biological and the social, the collective and the individual, structure and agent, cause and meaning, constraint and free will” (Meskell 1998: 158)

Feelings and senses are not usually associated to archaeology, and this is easy to understand. Archaeology has been defined from its inception as the study of materiality, the way people do, use, and forge artefacts. However, at the root of the discipline there has always been the presence of feelings, senses, and subjectivity. Johann Joachim Winckelmann is thus considered a major forerunner of archaeology as the pursuit of sensual pleasure, in midst of Enlightenment and the study of antiquities as part of this quest for self-knowledge through objects. It is however true that archaeology would only pay due attention to subjectivity, feelings, and senses much later, in the wake of the demise of the positivist certainties and the loss of innocence of the 1960s and 1970s. The postmodern condition would taint any attempt to understand material culture as neutral and subject to ahistorical, transcultural behavior of human beings, regardless of time and space. Postmodernity led to the exploration of the

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depths of the human condition in diverse and conflicting social settings and conditions. Symbolism, subjectivity, and even feelings from the abime du temps (Olivier 2008) compounded new understandings of archaeology as a practice in deep intercourse with outer and inner senses. In this overall disciplinary context, the archaeological study of the past with documentary records faced a particular challenge, for the archaeological narrative must include different kinds of expression, beyond material culture, such as literature, but also epigraphy and iconography. Historical archaeology considered as the study of modernity used a wide range of social theory interpretive frameworks to try and address this variety of data, including the study of scarification and other manipulation of the body as shown in iconography, in documents producing discourses about the subject but also the direct material evidence of those practices. The archaeological study of pre-modern societies, such as the Greek and Roman, also known as classical archaeology, gained a lot by interacting with historical archaeology of modernity, as in the studies of cemeteries and grieving, or of control of space and bodies (Funari and Zarankin 2001). In this chapter, we thus try and address ancient Roman bodies, including skin perception, using ancient literature, epigraphy, and iconography to highlight difference, as the ancients felt skin and body in specific, non-modern manners. The complex relationship of different narratives—literary, epigraphic, and iconographic—leads us to ponder how archaeology is uniquely concerned with putting together a variety of data and social theories to interpret such a complex issue as senses, feelings, and subjectivity.

Bodies and skin In recent decades, intense debate over the historical construction of femininity and masculinity, and discussions about the separation of biology and gender have broadened the scope of studies about sexuality, eroticism, pleasure, love, and the way in which people relate to their own bodies. The aforementioned categories, which had so far been considered trans-historic and universal, have been identified as historical constructs (Louro 2000; Meskell 1998; Montserrat 1998) and understood as part of the particular chronological and spatial contexts in which they were once constituted; they have been reframed into their corresponding traditions, cultures, social groups and gender relations (Feitosa and Rago 2008; Wyke 1998).

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Analyses of gender and sexuality grant special attention to the body. Posture, gesture, customs, care, and ornaments all become important markers in the definition of masculinity and femininity, and permeate debates among several groups in the social field. It has become explicit that the body is constantly enmeshed in relations of power and domination, both in the social field and in the realm of discourse and representation (Foucault 1990). But, at the same time, the body is not a mere object of these onslaughts, and can be seen as a suffering objectbeing which, at the same time, exerts transformations, resistances (Del Priory and Amantino 2011; Rago and Funari 2008); a field of forces, both biological and symbolic, at once constantly distressing and comforting... an endless source of restlessness (Sant’ Anna 2006: 3) The relationships between individuals and society are far more complex and varied than what any single dimensional model can account for (Meskell 1998), despite the ordering effect that, as Foucault put forth, power structures have on social atmospheres. Although the preconceptions of aesthetic ideals will always fail to account for the diversity of perceptions—in both past and present societies—their study must necessarily include analyses of specific places, the sense that “real” people make of them (Meskell 1998: 154), and perceptions of what is considered to be beautiful, of the pursuit of beauty, its entitlement and enjoyment. The aim of this analysis is therefore to identify bodies, but also the sensations and cares, which made up the idea of aesthesis in aristocratic and popular universes in ancient Rome, as expressed by literary, iconographic, and epigraphic records. All of these materials have been used as the basis of our search for shared looks, values, and behaviours in a heterogeneous and pluralistic society such as the Early Roman Principate at the start of the first century A.D.

Feminine beauty In order to track the aesthetic ideal represented in literature and the means by which men and women hoped to come closer to it, we shall follow the pattern suggested by Ovid’s two literary works, Amorum Libri and Ars Amatoria [Art of Love]. We shall also use the ruins of the Roman town of Pompeii as a source of materials, from paintings and sculptures found at aristocratic houses to hand-made popular inscriptions or graffiti, which reveal opinions, desires, experiences, and feelings about a wide range of subjects on the city walls (Feitosa 2005; Funari 2003); and which refer specifically to male and female aesthetics.

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In his work Amores, Ovid presents a love situation in which he sings of the joys and feats of a secret and furtive love; in The Art of Love, he advises women about the best tactics for romantic conquests, listing the most favourable places, physical, care and generally valuable behaviour in the pursuit of conquests; and finally, the best ways to preserve them. Ovid’s biography, like those of many Latin authors, is lacking in detail and inaccurate. He was born in 43 B.C. in the town of Sulmo and appears to have been the son of an equestrian family. He was schooled in Rome and completed his education in Athens; he worked in Sicily and Asia Minor and participated in politics for a time, later to abandon it in favour of poetry; he died in the year 17 or 18 A. D. His writings were intended for a general audience and echoed across the far corners of the Empire. In Amores, the poet presents the beautiful attributes of his beloved: “her hair was long [...] her cheeks were snowy white with rosy blushes, roses are blushing still amidst the snow” (III, 3). “Winding around my neck your snowy white arms, upon me beating a white chest...” (II, 16). This description reveals a clear aesthetic connection with the social locus of the beautiful woman described. In a rural-based society where large sections of the population worked in the sun, white skin symbolised the prestige of those who had no need to undertake such work and whose skin remained untanned. Idealised white female skin is also envisioned recurrently in Pompeian sculptures and paintings. A gold-ornamented marble Venus found in an aristocratic residence is a famous example of Pompeian statue art. The name Colonia Cornelia Veneria Pompeiorum, given to Pompeii when annexed by Silas to the Roman Empire in the year 80 B.C., proves the importance of this Venus in the local context. Beautiful, rich, and superb, she is the protector of the city and its lovers; a symbol of feminine perfection and of mythological representations of beauty (Fig. 8-1). As a counterpoint to the links between beauty and deity, so strong in aristocratic settings, which might highlight the difficulty of achieving such beauty—popular accounts of Venus’ beauty tend to humanise the goddess and to identify her with real, palpable girls from this social group, thus rendering her close and accessible: “(Non) ego tamcuro Venerem de marmorii, factam s... carmin...” [I’m not concerned, in my verses, with a Venus made of marble, but with one of flesh and bone…](CIL, IV, 3691). Or even: “Si quis non uidi(t) Venerem quam na.... pupa(m) mea(m) aspiciat talis et e...” [If there is anyone who hasn’t seen the Venus that Apelles painted, behold my girl: she is just as beautiful!] (CIL, IV, 6842).

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Fig. 8-1: Venus. Marble statue with golden decorations. Pompeii, IX, 1, 7 (Photograph by Lourdes C. Feitosa).

As for the meaning of the word “svelte” or “slender” as used in the poet’s description, it does not correspond exactly to our contemporary idealisations, where the term acquires connotations of thinness. In these verses the idea of slenderness corresponds to “rounded” shapes, since thinness would have been associated with poverty. This idealisation of the female body is represented by the image of a maenad in the fresco of the House of Caecilius Iucundus (V, 1, 26), as seen below (Fig. 8-2):

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Figure 8-2: Satyr and Maenad. Pompeiian fresco found inside the house of Caecilius Iucundus (V, 1, 26). National Archaeological Museum of Naples (http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Satyr_maenad_MAN_Napoli_Inv110590.jpg)

White and fleshy was the aristocratic ideal for women. In his work Art of Love, Ovid provided a few tricks for those who did not fit this profile: You’ve learnt how rouge can play complexion’s part, And lacking blood to blush with, blush by art (III, 200). If lean, a gown of ample cut select That from the shoulders downwards flows unchecked. Bright patterns best with sallow skins comport, Dark ones to Egypt’s fabric should resort. From skinny legs the cross-bands ne’er unlaced. If shoulder-blades be high, let pads be low, Round a flat chest a big-cupped bra should go (III, 266).

The poet addresses part of his work to women who have not been favoured by the gods and gives them some advice as to the precautions to take to come closer to the desired aesthetics: How nearly had I warned you to beware. Lest armpits smell or legs be rough with hair! Nor leave your teeth to blacken and decay (III, 194). Make sparing use of gesture while you chat. Whose nails are scrubby or whose fingers fat (II, 267).

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Talk not when empty if your breath offend, and always keep a distance from your friend. If teeth be big, or black, or set askew, To laugh would be a fatal thing to do (III, 280).

Along with thinness, natural or sun-tanned skin and pale skin, all of these elements were also considered evident signs of poverty that must be camouflaged; they were all aesthetically undesirable to the aristocratic gaze. Meanwhile, popular graffiti provides examples of two cleverly knit verses, one by Ovid himself (Amores II, 11, 55) and another one by Propertius (I, 1, 15). It is interesting to contrast these observations with the indications made above, as they portray popular passions in their immediate everyday fluidity; wrapped as they are in feelings and sensations commanded by the heart: “Candida me docuit nigras odissse puellas. Odero si potero; si non inuitus ambo” [A light-skinned girl taught me to hate dark girls. I shall hate, if I can. Otherwise, I shall love grudgingly] (CIL, IV, 9171) (Funari 2003: 103). Always sensitive to questions about beauty, Ovid questions: “Beauty’s a gift of God. How few can boast of beauty? It’s a gift denied to most” (Art of Love III, 104). When considering beauty and the art of romantic conquests, the author uses the word munus. The term falls into the semantic fields of both laborious duties and gifts; it designates that which is given, in this case beauty, as a gift of the gods, and, at the same time, something that requires constant dedication and effort to be fulfilled (Funari 1989). In this way, it can be perceived from Ovid’s descriptions that the suggested body posture, gait, and elegance characterise the appearance of a free and wealthy woman. The description of the beauty presented is not random and generic for each and every Roman woman, but limited and defined by a particular conception, dictated by the Roman aristocratic social pattern. The long, combed hair and understated elegance make up the female aesthetics of women who have sufficient time and financial means to cultivate it. Bright eyes suggest sagacity and the forehead, mouth, and small limbs indicate delicacy. This physical type is also recurrent in poetry, as reflected by the works of Catullus (61, 9; 68, 30). Still, charm is not solely defined by discrete elegance, but also includes speaking in a melodious voice, learning to sing, and to read poetry: Next you must con Callimachus’ page, The bard of Cos, and Teo’s vinous sage, And Sappho whom all wantonness inspires,

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Chapter Eight … Nor some of sweet Propertius’ songs omit, Nor some by Gallus or Tibullus writ Nor Varro’s tale how Phrixus’ sister rued (Art of Love III, 333).

And yet, did Ovid’s teachings have all Roman women in mind? The following verses reveal the subtle play on words by which he hints as to who his audience might be, a secret only half unveiled in his Art of Love: “Pay attention to my lessons, youth that propriety and the law permit” (III, 132); “Once again I declare I do not sing here of the pleasures that the Law prohibits, and in no way does our advice involve ladies” (II, 114). Or even: I shall speak not of how to escape the reasons of a sagacious husband or a watchful guard. May the married woman fear the husband; may her vigilance be well kept; this is fitting and so say the Law, rights and propriety. You too, submitted to this vigilance, you who have just been freed recently, what will you do? To be able to fool, come and join my creed (III, 178).

Among the elite it was believed that slaves would have grown up in an atmosphere of promiscuity, slave marriage not being permitted until the third century A. D. (Treggiari 1991). As non-virgin women, they were also seen as promiscuous, and assumed to lack the proper upbringing of respectable women. As certain examples seemed to confirm this idea and the stereotype was then generalised to all freed women, it is justifiable that Ovid should choose a freed woman to represent a romance that does not question respectable morality. In principle we may assume that he is referring to non-aristocratic marriages, that is, romances among plebeians where wealth, heirs, and political alliances were not involved, and where infidelities were perhaps tolerated (Veyne 1985). Still, he states “pleasure is smaller when not surrounded by danger” (Art of Love III, 176) as when aristocratic women are involved, whether married or not. Therefore, in a subtle and gradual process Ovid slowly moves from addressing his advice to freed and plebeian women, to subtly reach out to the etiquette of the upper class, to the free and wealthy, to single and married women alike. Hence his constant word play as he attempts to circumvent the aristocratic morals of the circles to which he belonged. In the face of all this idealisation of beauty, posture, care, and efforts to be deployed in its pursuit, a short verse written by an anonymous source in Pompeii would seem to sum up the essential in the perception of beauty:

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“Nemo est bellus nisi qui amavit” [No one is beautiful except my beloved!] (CIL, IV, 1797).

Aesthetics of the male universe Next, we shall analyse the definitions for male aesthetics. The following reflections are based on similar indications by Ovid in the Art of Love. It is to youths inexperienced in the art of love, that Ovid’s advice is initially addressed: “First strive to find someone to love... your second task is to entice the young one you love. Third, to make that love last” (I, 4). In order to conquer a woman it is important to know the right locations for romantic conquests. Public squares, theatres, and horse races can often provide the adequate backdrop. There it is possible to find: “Who to Love, and who to have fun with, who you shall meet only once and with whom you will build a lasting relationship” (I, 10). There are different women for different types of relationships, but Ovid teaches the art of conquering and retaining love: “I prepare a great accomplishment, how to make possible, by art, the permanence of Love” (1, 68). With this objective and, very similarly to how he has proceeded with women, Ovid establishes a male profile for beauty and highlights several characteristics and care routines which he considers important to his readers: “Don’t relish in rolling up your hair in curls, or taking out hair from your legs with pumice. Cleanliness is agreeable: tan your body by exercising in the Mars Field” (I, 42, 44).

Fig. 8-3: The Grande Palestra athletics field (Photograph by Lourdes C. Feitosa).

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The close links between cleanliness and exercise become clear. In Roman tradition, gymnastics were associated with hygiene and not sports, so the Palestra, which was built as an open space, surrounded by columns and next to the thermal baths, was used to warm up the body before bathing and to optimise the effects of a good bath (Fig. 8-3). This was intended for both men and women, but the main entrance to the Palestra was accessible only to the men; women were to use a secondary door which led directly to the thermal baths and were not to take part in the exercises (Étienne 1971).

Fig. 8-4: Pompeiian fresco of a section of the triclinium at the Casa dei Vettii (VI 15, 1). National Archaeological Museum of Naples (http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pompeii_-_Casa_dei_Vettii__Ixion.jpg).

The fresco confirms that bodies then considered beautiful did not necessarily correspond with our present-day conceptions (masculine muscles and feminine slenderness) (Fig. 8-4). Other standards prevailed, such as a basic roundedness, which was a sign of health (the original Greek meaning of the word hygiene), but also seriousness. It is in this respect that Catullus’ reprimand to Ignatius makes perfect sense: Egnatius, because he has bright white teeth, always smiles: If someone comes to the defendant's bench, when the speaker arouses weeping, he

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grins. If there is weeping at the funeral pyre of a dutiful son, when the bereaved mother laments her only son, he grins. Whatever it is, wherever he is, whatever he is doing, he grins: he has this disease, neither elegant, as I think, nor refined. Therefore I must warn you, my good Egnatius (Catulo 1933, translated to the Portuguese by Silva).

Roman citizens used their togas as physical markers, visual symbols of their social status (Huskinson 2000) and Ovid indicates that they should be proper and immaculate (I, 42), as can be seen in the case of Emperor Nerva (Fig. 8-5).

Fig. 8-5: Emperor Nerva, 96-98 a.C. Chiaramontimuseum. (http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Togato,_I_sec_dc._con_testa_di_restauro_da_un_ ritratto_di_nerva,_inv._2286.JPG)

Ovid tells his male readers: Don’t let your tongue be numb or your teeth gather tartar, or your feet to bounce around in shoes that are too big. Don’t let your hair get deformed by a bad cut, and may a skilled hand cut both your hair and beard. May your nails be clean and don’t let any hairs come out of your nostrils. May

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While all of these physical measures are agreeable indeed, they are not enough to maintain a romantic relationship and Ovid devotes The Art of Love to teach men, as he had already done with women, the qualities that help to preserve love: “To keep your lady and not be abandoned, add spiritual qualities to your physical virtues. Outside appearance is frail; as the years go by it become less ...” (II, 74) “and soon you will have white hair and wrinkles will dry up your body” (II, 76). Physical beauty is an ephemeral attribute which quickly gives way to the loss of vitality; men’s tricks to hide it are scarcer than women’s: “We are not as resourceful when it comes to hiding them, and when old age turns our hairs weak, they fall like leaves, shattered by the winter wind” (III, 140, 142). Ovid teaches both men and women innumerable ways to preserve this fast-escaping physical beauty and so advises both to cultivate the qualities of spirit and knowledge, which are indeed eternal. What should these be? Man must be kind to be loved (II, 74), to cultivate the thought by liberal arts and to learn two languages: Latin and Greek (II, 76); to be eloquent: Ulysses was not beautiful but he was eloquent; and thus experienced the Love of two goddesses from the sea (II, 76); man must be eloquent: “Sweet talk is favorable to Love” and should never be inconvenient: “Whenever you desire her, come closer; whenever you wish to avoid her, keep a distance. It does not befit an educated man to be imprudent” (II, 108). The poet advises women to avoid men who are full of themselves, unlikely to cultivate love: “Avoid men who declare their elegance and beauty and who are afraid of getting their hair in the wrong place” (III, 162). He also disapproves the attitude of indiscreet men who boast their nightly encounters and those who make unelegant comments about women: Nowadays, still, we announce our nightly conquests, and not out of pleasure, for which we pay an even higher price than for the ability to speak. What’s more: some invent that which they would deny if it were true and there is not a single one out there that they haven’t had an affair with (II, 116).

Ovid’s descriptions of the physical beauty and conduct of the ideal man clearly define the traits of such a man. As well as being free, the text establishes other aspects that define this man’s status. The first trait to be highlighted is the conscientious elaboration of his garments and his habits

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of hygiene, as well as the severe criticisms of those who are excessively vain. Praise of strong and tanned bodies and black hair as symbols of vigour and physical prowess all feature prominently in Ovid’s male physical descriptions. Interestingly, the skin’s bronze tone stands in stark contrast to the fair skin valued in women; this is due to the fact that such strong physique was the result of hygienic habits which involved exercise and baths, as emphasised by the poet, which would cause the tanning of the skin. Therefore, both male and female skin tones are in accordance with adequate body care practices and not the result of outdoor work. Men of leisure are full citizens and are thus exempt from daily work; thus they have enough time to dedicate to cultivating their mind, spirit, and virtue. Good appearance is sanctioned by a well-cut beard and hair; wellfitting shoes and toga; a clean mouth, body and nails; and the absence of the odour of sweat, all of which are the hallmarks of a privileged, elegant, and well-cared-for man. A beard is often associated with youth. White hair, wrinkles, and balding are associated with old age, loss of vitality, and mental decline. Qualifying adjectives about physical vigour and old age present ambiguous connotations, as the associations of youth, beard, and hair may indicate a lower status and less authority. Wrinkles, white hair, and balding can also be markers of wisdom, prestige and riches. If we turn to the most direct expressions of the lower social strata we find a number of peculiarities. Popular graffiti representing masculine bodies also highlights long hair as a sign of youth and balding as being connected to old age, but adds other elements such as the lack of teeth and large ears, attributes that emphasise the most evident aspects of a decline in physical vigour. The young are characterised by their main sign of masculinity: abundant hair (Funari 1993). This might help us distinguish clearly between rough masculine skin and the delicacy and softness of female skin, a recurrent theme in popular literature and more popular perceptions of beauty. The scars of war contributed to make men’s skin rougher and more masculine, as did growing additional hair that could compensate for increasing baldness overtime. Could it have been the scars that seduced Cleopatra when the bald Caesar approached her?

Flesh, skin, and feelings It was argued in this chapter that Roman were not modern and perceived their own feelings, senses, and bodies in different ways, foreign to most modern perceptions, even if we can of course relate to them and

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find similarities here and there. We also argue that archaeology is a discipline particularly disposed to address the issues resulting from putting together different narratives. Ancient literature was produced by a small group of elite male authors whose perspectives were biased towards male and elite prejudices and world views. It is thus possible to compare them with evidence coming from archaeological fieldwork, as was the case of inscriptions produced by ordinary people and iconography of mixed production. It is argued here that archaeology is uniquely able to include these different data in an original narrative. The body was the central concern of the ancient Romans and their literary representations and images reflected their perceptions, both scholarly and popular, of the way in which presence was conceived in the world. On the one hand, corpus referred to both the physical body and the idea of the coming together of things in an articulated manner, hence the feeling of corporation, of diverse members joining together to compose a whole. As we have seen in this chapter, masculine and feminine bodies had different attributes, not only in contrast to each other, but also in relation to their social disposition, as the rich did not have to overcome the same obstacles as the poor. It is not by chance that the word cutis means both skin and body, thus representing the whole (which, in Greek, would be the soma, the body). In this chapter we have tried to show how certain markers shaped the difference between epidermises, masculine and feminine, rich and poor. An upper-class girl was expected to be as fairskinned as possible, whilst a peasant girl could not help but be tanned, yet was desired nonetheless. However, in respect of the latter, the evidence is less abundant, as could be expected of a society where only 15% lived in cities and in which most peasants were illiterate. Perceptions of aesthesis varied but concerns about skin were common, particularly regarding texture, teneritas, or female softness, and asperitas, or male roughness. These are, of course, somewhat radical oppositions but they do capture essential aspects of the skin, the interface between the inside and the outside, man and woman, and which reflect, for the ancient Romans, the internal character of one and the other. It was as if rough skin, through the male fibres and scars, suggested a harsher inner self, more resistant to the world’s aggressions and therefore full of promising and positive meanings. The skin was the clearest and most direct way to demonstrate masculinity, without any words or explanations interfering. Thus, as we have suggested, Caesar’s baldness was a minor concern in light of his hair elsewhere and his countless scars. What present-day plastic surgeons might wish to repair was in Caesar’s day an even clearer mark of masculinity: rough skin. Women’s appeal, however, lay in their

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softness (blanditia). Even more than in their speech, this was found on their skin, in the soft contours of their rounded bodies which, as we described, showed an irresistible teneritas, the same quality that Italians would later refer to as tenerezza and which, in the vernacular means tenderness. Hair and body, this is the exterior that reflects the internal, or vice-versa.

Acknowledgements The authors wish to thank the editors and Lynn Meskell, Margareth Rago and mention the institutional support of the University of the Sacred Heart (Universidade do Sagrado Coração), the University of Campinas (UNICAMP), the CNPq (Brazilian National Science Foundation), FAPESP (São Paulo State Science Foundation). The responsibility is of course restricted to the authors.

Works cited Catulo. Poesias. Texto estabelecido e traduzido por Agostinho da Silva. Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade, 1933. Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, uolumen quartum. Inscriptiones parietariae pompeianne, herculanenses, stabiannae. Berlim: Akademie der Wissenschaften, since 1871. Étienne, Robert. La Vida Cotidiana en Pompeya. Madrid: Aguilar, 1971. Feitosa, Lourdes and Margareth Rago. “Somos tão Antigos quanto Modernos? Sexualidade e Gênero na Antiguidade e na Modernidade.” In Subjetividades Antigas e Modernas, edited by Margareth Rago and Pedro P. Funari, 107–121. São Paulo: Annablume, 2008. Feitosa, Lourdes. Amor e Sexualidade. O Masculino e o Feminino em Grafites de Pompéia. São Paulo: Annablume, 2005. Foucault, Michel. História da Sexualidade, vol. 2, O Uso dos Prazeres. Rio de Janeiro: Graal, 1990. Funari, Pedro. P. And Andrés Zarankin. Algunas Consideraciones Arqueológicas sobre la Vivienda Doméstica en Pompeya. Revista Gerión 19 (2001): 493–511. Funari, Pedro P. A Vida Quotidiana na Roma Antiga. São Paulo: Annablume, 2003. —. Cultura Popular na Antiguidade Clássica. São Paulo: Contexto, 1989. —. “El Carácter Popular de la Caricatura Pompeyana.” Revista Gerión 11 (1993): 153–173.

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Huskinson, Janet. “Looking for Culture, Identity and Power.” In Experiencing Rome. Culture, Identity and Power in the Roman Empire, edited by Janet Huskinson, 3–27. Oxford: Routledge, 2000. Louro, Guacira. L. (Org.) O Corpo Educado. Pedagogias da Sexualidade. Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2000. Meskell, Lynn. “The Irresistible Body and the Seduction of Archaeology.” In Changing Bodies, Changing Meanings. Studies on the Human Body in Antiquity, edited by Dominic Montserrat, 139–161. London and New York: Routledge, 1998. Montserrat, Dominic. “Reading Gender in the Roman World.” In Experiencing Rome. Culture, identity and power in the Roman Empire, edited by Janet Huskinson, 153–182. Oxford: Routledge, 2000. Olivier, Laurent. Le Sombre Abîme du Temps. Mémoire et Archéologie. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 2008. Ovid. The Love Poems. A new translation by A.D. Melville. Worlds Classics: Oxford, 1953. Ovídio. Os Amores e Arte de Amar. Tradução de Antônio F. de Castilho. São Paulo: Cultura, 1945. Del Priori, Mary and Márcia Amantino, eds. História do Corpo no Brasil. São Paulo: Unesp, 2011. Rago, Margareth and Pedro P. Funari, eds. Subjetividades Antigas e Modernas. São Paulo: Annablume, 2008. Sant’Anna, Denise. “É Possível Realizar uma História do Corpo?” In Corpo e História, edited by Carmen Soares, 3–23. Campinas: Autores Associados, 2006. Treggiari, Susan. “Ideals and Practicalities in Matchmaking in Ancient Rome.” In The Family in Italy from Antiquity to the Present, edited by David I. Kertzer and Richard P. Saller, 91–108. New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1991. Veyne, Paul. A Elegia Erótica Romana. São Paulo: Brasiliense, 1985. Wyke, Maria, ed. Introduction. In Parchments of Gender. Deciphering the Bodies of Antiquity, edited by Maria Wyke, 1–12. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998.

CHAPTER NINE MAKING SENSE OUT OF THE SENSES: THINGNESS, WRITING, AND TIME ALEJANDRO HABER Escuela de Arqueología, Universidad Nacional de Catamarca ConsejoNacional de InvestigacionesCientíficas y Técnicas (Argentina)

Disciplining the world In late January 1897, Carlos Bruch, a middle-aged entomologist from La Plata Museum, was sent to Hualfín in order to conduct archaeological excavations and collect the objects for an international exposition to be held in Paris. He would return to Hualfín ten years later, but in 1901 he decided to write a first report on his research in this place, where “soon one is aware of the ruins and cemeteries, last vestiges of its primitive owners; remains of a very numerous tribe: the old Hualfines”1 (Bruch 1904: 14). In his 1901 Descripción de Algunos Sepulcros Calchaquís Resultado de las Excavaciones Efectuadas en Hualfín (Provincia de Catamarca) [Description of Some Calchaqui Burials Resulting from the Excavations Conducted in Hualfin (Catamarca Province)], published 3 years later, Bruch (1904: 14) wrote, With the help of a laborer, my guide and companion during the journey, the next day I started my excavations, whose outcomes I will mention in the same order as they have been done. On the little terrace to the right and close to Mr. Leguizamón’s house there are several ruins of stonewalls, beside which I observed several ovals formed by half buried regular sized ordered stones. Assuming they could be burials I had the first excavated and, at little depth, I found several fragments of big vessels, mixed with stones and bones from a skeleton, finding the cranium at fifty centimeters depth. Then I discovered a big vessel and at its side a well preserved skeleton. The burial had 80 cm depth; it had been built with an oval-stonewall that was marked in the soil surface by other stones (fig. I).

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Chapter Nine The vessel (nº1) has 60 cm height; the surface is crude, not well smoothed, of color of a well burnt brick, with two small broad handles, a bit bent and horizontally placed almost in the lower third of the height. Below the mouth there is a face represented in bas-relief: the irregular vertical bands are painted in black. I found this vessel empty and covered with what is likely to have been the bottom of other similar bowl.

He then went on describing one by one the tombs, human bones, and associated finds he excavated every day, and only when Bruch finished with that, he wanted to leave us a clue: “In order to give at least a small graphical idea of the Quichua population today inhabiting the Calchaqui regions, and which we can consider to be descendant of that civilized nation, we represent, in Plate 4, two portrait pictures that I had the opportunity to take at Leguizamón’s house” (Bruch 1904: 26). Having said that, similarly detailed descriptions of a thirteen-year old girl and a middle-aged man followed (Bruch 1904: 26–27): The No. 1 is a thirteen-year old girl, well developed. The head is quite big, rounded; the hair is black, tight, irregularly cut and extending over the forehead, where it forms an irregular limit. None artificial deformation neither of forehead or occiput nor of the cranium in general is observed. The eye slit is small; the Mongolian fold is well pronounced, but the lacrimal caruncle is still distinguished as it is the greater part of the upper eyelid. The base of the nose is wide, but not too low; the back is wide and straight; the tip is quite wide, rounded; the nasals are visible from the front. The mouth and the mandibular part, in general, are quite protruding; lips are a bit thick. Little is seen of the ear, quite deformed by a scabby eruption. The no. 2 is a middle-aged man, robust and well developed. The cranium is interesting, mainly because of its hypsicephalic characteristic shape. The forehead rises obliquely backward; the occiput quite perpendicular upward. It is also surprising the great narrowness of the brain capsule and of the entire cranium if we compare it to its height. It is always interesting to observe in the alive this shape of crania that we are used to observe in the dead material. Aside from this, the considerable height and the outstanding narrowness feature a distinctive character of the head of this individual. Going to details, the hair is black, well developed; the forehead very narrow, relatively tall; the hair limit is irregularly lost. The supraorbital arches of the frontal bone do not protrude. The eye slit is oblique, very narrow, thus the pupil, which is very sunken in the orbit, remains inconspicuous. This impression is even more outstanding because the nose base is very high and for the very protruding zygomatic arches. The nose is of a middle proportion, almost small; the back is straight with a tiny elevation in the midpoint.

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The mouthpart is not protruding; the lips are narrow and the upper lip is quite well arched. Sunken cheeks. Over the upper lip there is a smooth down and in the middle of the lower lip a tuft of hairs (fly); over the chin a true goat’s beard. The ear is narrowly stuck and the anthelix protrudes a bit in the middle; beside this there are no particularities. Reserved, taciturn physiognomy.

Neither the thirteen-year old girl nor the middle-aged man talk in Bruch’s text; they do not even have a name. They are mute samples of the Quichua population from Hualfín, descendent from the old Hualfines. At the same time, for some reason Bruch accepted they retained something to say in mouth, something implicit, tacit. Thus he wrote “reserved, taciturn physiognomy” (Bruch 1904: 27) as the last note of his detailed external description, intended to illustrate the appearance of the Hualfines, that is, the past owners of Hualfín, whose dead were buried in the tombs he had excavated. La Plata city was founded in 1882, 50 km south of Buenos Aires, as an administrative center for the Buenos Aires province once divided from Buenos Aires city, the federal capital of the Argentinian national state. Meticulously designed in a rational fashion, La Plata included a Museum among its first projects. The Museum of La Plata, defined as a museum of natural history, soon was to represent one of the main seats of national academy. Archaeology was one of the main occupations of the Museum, and its director Francisco Moreno sent researchers towards the borders of the country (often as part of military forces that massacred indigenous populations and robbed their lands) in order to gather the Museum’s collections. In late January 1897, Carlos Bruch, a German-born middleaged entomologist from La Plata Museum, was sent to Catamarca in order to collect natural history objects for the Universal Exposition in Paris. With the specific aim of collecting archaeological objects, he arrived in Hualfín on January 18. “Poplar and willow trees, so characteristic of towns in Catamarca, form there the fences of huge properties and fields extending at both sides of the river” (Bruch 1904: 14). As seen from the metropolitan academy, Hualfín was in the very frontier, where archaeological objects could be mined for the museum’s interests. In fact, Hualfín was close to the borderline between Catamarca (Argentina) and the neighbor republics of Bolivia and Chile. Bruch’s text, written in a liminal time for the disciplinary language, aids in the understanding of the consolidation of a particular kind of relationality between beings, a particular regime of care, an archaeological episteme.

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There are at least six different kinds of beings mentioned by Bruch: Hualfín, the old Hualfines, material remains, descendent people, landowners, and himself. These beings are related in different ways: the material remains are the vestiges of the old Hualfines; the described people are descendants of the old Hualfines too; the landowners, as those who hosted Bruch during his time there—Leguizamón, for instance—, owned the land of Hualfín; Bruch observed and described both material remains and descendant people, remained himself at Leguizamón’s house, and wrote about the old Hualfines. Such a web says a lot about the different kinds of relationships involved: on one hand there are social relationships of property to land (bought and sold in exchange for money, and inherited through descent lines) and inter-personal solidarity (hosting the metropolitan scientist); on the other there are knowledge relationships of vestigial matter (people and objects from where knowledge of the past is mined) and the past (the Hualfines who are enclosed in the past). Such a difference between both kinds of relationships—social and knowledge—is not just a question of diversity, but a difference in terms of hegemony. Bruch talks about the Hualfines as if they were an object that could only affect his knowledge, but never his social being. He could know more or less the Hualfines, but Bruch wrote as if the Hualfines had nothing to do with himself as a social being. The very fact that he traveled so long to Catamarca from La Plata reinforced that ontological distance between the scientist observer and his object of knowledge. He was able to write that the described people were descendants of the old Hualfines, that the Hualfines once were the owners of Hualfín, and that the archaeological ruins showed that the Hualfines were really there; such assertions will prove difficult to find in archaeological texts once the discipline became institutionalized around 1910. After that date, archaeology addressed objects, ruins, and the past, and local people were displaced to marginal notes of acknowledgments, or even to neighbor disciplines like anthropology, ethnology, and folklore. The noteworthy issue is that Bruch remained mute about the social and historical relationships between his hosts (with whom he related socially) and the local people (with whom he related through knowledge). It is inescapable today, as it was in Bruch’s times, that the land tenure by his hosts was possible once the land rights of the descendant population were negated. And the very fact that local peoples were descendants of their ancestors, who were violently dispossessed of their land, altogether “documentable” through the presence of indigenous remains in the land, was excluded from the text because it was excluded from archaeological language. Once the relationship with the archaeological thing is

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understood as an exclusive relationship of knowledge, to name something as archaeological, that is, to name it as a vestige, implies at the same time its repression as a social relationship. Colonialism is the only answer to the unquestioned question of why the land is not owned by the descendants of its former owners but by someone else. But, at the same time, that question remains unquestioned because the relationship of descent is seen as ontological among white people, but as epistemological among dark people. That is, white descendants inherit their ancestors’ (economic) patrimony, which determines their social being; at the same time, dark descendants inherit their ancestors’ (cultural) patrimony, which determines their social (cultural) difference. This means that colonialism remains in the shadows because it is already built in the observer’s episteme, and hard-wired within academic disciplines (what is named as coloniality—Mignolo 2000). The coloniality implied in Bruch’s social relationships in Hualfín demanded a repression of meaning and vocality of the co-present subjects, an epistemic violence. Archaeological vestiges and local people are mute in Bruch’s text, as they would be in archaeological episteme altogether. While colonial violence is the condition of possibility of capitalist land property as the severing of ontological ties between a territory and its inhabitants, this is silenced in the pragmatics of fieldwork. At the same time, the condition of possibility of considering a certain kind of beings— archaeological objects and ruins—as media for knowing the past, that is, as objects of knowledge, is the severing of social and historical (constitutive) ties between them and the descendant people. While Bruch could literally see the property relationships between the old Hualfines and Hualfín—the formers were the old owners of the latter—, and between contemporary landowners and Hualfín—the lines of poplar and willow trees—, he himself related as knower to the first relationship and as a social being to the second. Given that the “past is already gone” this didn’t seem strange at all. But because he also had the chance to see local workers in the houses where he was hosted, he saw them as material vestiges of the external shape of the bodies of the old Hualfines. Local workers were mute in Bruch’s writing not because they were mute but because their muteness was a condition of his own writing. If allowed to tell their relationship to the past, that is, to the old Hualfines and their material vestiges, he would have had the opportunity to listen to their memorial links to Hualfín. But Bruch was not there in Hualfín as an occasional and unprepared visitor. He was already socialized and institutionalized within a particular way of understanding the “proper” relationships in the world. The repression of local memory was the

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condition of possibility of his approach to archaeological vestiges as media for knowing the past, as it would be for archaeological discipline in general. The same can be said of the vestiges themselves. Their muteness is part of Bruch’s (his discipline’s) attribution that makes it possible for him to write about them. The old Hualfines, together with their vestiges, ruins, and descendants were there to be known by Bruch, who could only be affected as knower by his relationship to those beings. Bruch’s entitlement to move around, interfere in Hualfín territory, dig up tombs, photograph and draw, take bones and pots back to his museum, and finally write about Hualfín, is only possible once the condition of muteness of Hualfín (including ancestors, gods, and people) is well established. The same kind of relationality would be recapitulated by the archaeological discipline whatever the name to be used for the vestiges (archaeological vestiges, archaeological objects, archaeological record, material culture, material past, etc.). Moreover, the very definition of archaeology as the study of the past through its material remains implies the repression of social memory as a counter-hegemonical relationship to the land. Colonialism is the condition of possibility of archaeological disciplinary language, and it can be said that the vestiges as such can only exist under the assumption of the absence of memory and agenciality. The conditions of possibility of the archaeological past are the same conditions of possibility of social present.

Knowledge as textualization The kind of relationality exposed in Bruch’s text, typical of archaeological disciplines as it is, is in fact a recapitulation of a former and broader blend of othering and textualization within the canonical theoretical and methodological assumptions of Western historiography. It was Herodotus who in the fifth century B.C. coupled, within his historiographical founding work, the different ontological operations that were afterwards consolidated in Western epistemological tradition. Herodotus coupled together a common Greek classification of peoples and a classification of sources of historical knowledge. Greeks classified peoples as having or lacking a true language (Greek language) (Santiago 1998). Greeks and Barbarians (non-Greek language speakers) were classified at each side of a line of cultural/linguistic intimacy or difference to the writer (Herodotus himself, for instance). Sources of knowledge were classified from eyewitnesses’ accounts of facts (closer to truth) to secondhand legends and traditional lore (closer to falseness). Sources of knowledge about past facts were linguistically communicated to Herodotus

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(either in oral or written text). Herodotus himself didn’t witness the facts, but he knew them as already worded in his sources. The wording of facts was made by every kind of people, also people that fought on either side of the Medic wars (Greeks vs. Persians), but the eye witnessing of facts by Greek speaking people had the opportunity to be communicated to the (Greek) historian as a knowledge of the highest hierarchy and closest to the truth. Collective memory, traditional knowledge, and Barbarian knowledge were classified in the lowest hierarchies, even if it was knowledge about Barbarians themselves. Cultural othering was thus coupled to the idea of facts as knowledgeable through an external individual observation worded in the language of the historian. The Other had no chance for a word, not even for returning the gaze. Such decisions were later consolidated within Western historiographical tradition, within the hard-core framing of the discipline of history as the expert knowledge on the past. The ontological understandings of knowledge and past were correspondingly naturalized. Archaeological discipline would extend such ontology to the archaic past, that is, the linguistically un-mediated past. The operation of unilateral observation and wording, once delimited within linguistic/cultural intimacy by Western historiography, ended bounded within the methodological operations of the archaeologist her/himself, who sees facticity and writes down the words that make it communicable (interpretable, explainable, etc.). The discipline, thus, attributes the thing with the value of not being able of returning the gaze nor the word. Moreover, once we closely see the thing, we note that the thing, even before being perceived and named, is already attributed as lacking relationship with ourselves: the thing is pre-conceived as if it could be only matter without its constitutive relationships. History—what it is said about what happened—is thought as a textual representation of history—what actually happened. Textuality representing facticity, already codified within a cultural intimacy with the historian, means that certain specific cultural understandings concerning time, knowledge, and matter are shared (or assumed to be shared) between the historian and the author of the written source (the original textualizer of things). Cultural otherness (other ontologies different from the historian’s) are excluded from the sources or otherwise neglected (and in this respect, it is relevant here to highlight the decolonial sense of oral history—Rivera Cusicanqui 2010). Epistemic violence is codified within the historical method of the hierarchy of sources, which excludes other sources, and correspondingly other epistemes, as lacking seriousness and constituted by falseness.

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Archaeological discipline textualizes facticity within its own methodology: the archaeologist writes down texts on facts (field forms, recordings, sketches, field reports, papers, etc.) instead of “discovering” already written texts in archival repositories. Archaeological textualization is done within the disciplinary social collective and in the disciplinary language. Epistemic violence is introduced by archaeological language, that is, before methodology. Once a thing is considered to be an archaeological object (an object to be known by the archaeological discipline), a whole set of possible relations to that thing is implied and a whole series of other relationships is excluded from the disciplinary relation. As was shown before in relation to Bruch’s text on his excavations in Hualfín, this implied a former ontological violence: the excision of things from the relations in which they are being. Within disciplinary relations, every attribution of meaning or interpretation occurs after an original repression of meaning. While facts are perceived mainly through the senses, Western historiography places a heavy load on those facts already being textualized within a cultural/linguistic intimacy to the author/reader. The tendency is thus to neglect both social memory and descent as sources of knowledge. While the repression of social memory and descent as sources of knowledge of the past were already discussed by decolonial authors in relation to the according importance of oral history (as a way of reintroducing the textualization of facts from the subaltern side of the cultural/linguistic difference) (Mignolo 2002; Rivera Cusicanqui 2010), the complete process of making sense out of facts remains involved in the same process of textualization (whether alphabetically or linguistically mediated). At its turn, the archaeological discipline expands on nonlinguistically-mediated-times the same kind of process of making sense through textualization, now within a disciplinary linguistic intimacy, and again expropriating to the other his/her capacity of knowledge. The archaeologist assumes that the semiosis of the other is reducible to the linguistically-mediated process implied in disciplinary textualization (Derrida 1997). Taciturnity, as described by Bruch as a feature of the unnamed middle-aged man from Hualfín, is not equivalent to absence of meaning, but its meaning cannot be made sense through language (‘writing’ in Derrida’s terms). There is another non-linguistical (unwritten) language within which Hualfín people make sense of their world, but that remains un-heard by Bruch’s disciplinary violent assumption of their taciturnity/muteness/mono-linguism.

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Making sense of taciturnity, or knowledge as relationality It is probably interesting to delve a bit more under the tranquil waters of the disciplinary language. I would like to bring a possible counterpoint or, more than that, to confront the discipline with its impossibility. That is, the kind of thing that is based on the expropriation of the capacity of sensibility, contemplation, conversation, and agency of the object by the disciplined investigator, would be put in a situation contested by the object. In other words, I’ll try to think what can be implied in taciturnity. With that aim I’ll bring here a second vignette, one in which I am not only the narrator but also a character. After twenty years conducting archaeological research in the Atacama plateau of Northwestern Argentina, in the Antofalla territory of the southcentral Andes (where I also live and teach), I wanted to undertake a test excavation near the recently modified stone fence of an agricultural plot. I asked Severo Reales, the owner of the plot, for permission, though I had already acquired legal authorization from the state anthropology bureaucratic agency. Severo said he had no problem at all and that he would come with us (a small group of students and myself) the first morning of work. The next morning, he came along with wine, alcohol, coca leaves, and cigarettes; he dug a hole near the spot I wanted to dig and gave ritual food to the antiguo. After lighting a cigarette, he invited each person present to make an offering of some food while he addressed the excavation site: “Holy Earth Pachamama, beautiful old things shall be bred for Mr. Alejandro.” Severo was severe enough: in addition to his words of friendship, he also provided me with a theory of relatedness, including relationships with the antiguos, that is completely different from the theory of relatedness I assumed was valid. According to Severo’s theory, the antiguos are not the vestiges from a perfect past, but are rather still alive, and breed themselves under the soil; the past is not gone and distant; the past has not passed in a perfect sense; and the relationship with the past is not mainly about extracting knowledge but about reciprocal feeding, care, respect, fear, and love. For Severo, archaeological objects—considered by the archaeological discipline (as well as heritage legislation and international agreements) to be its exclusive domain, variously named but always referring to vestigial matter originating in the more or less distant past—exist and act upon people in the present, demand obligations of them, and, rather than being accessible or inaccessible in absolute terms, modulate their relationships— including access and avoidance—through ritual.

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Severo’s significant practice challenged my common understandings of the relationship I had had with the antiguos of Antofalla. But he also challenged the central assumptions of the archaeological discipline, its apparently solid foundations, and together with them every piece of legislation (provincial, national, international, and multilateral) that shared with the archeological discipline the same basic set of assumptions: the materiality of the archaeological object, vestigiality from a past located at a distance along a time vector, the archaeological discipline as the medium for relating with an otherwise inaccessible past, asymmetrical knowledge as the normal relationship, and the illicitness (and displacement along the vector) of relations-other-than-disciplined. It is not that there are simply other possible interpretations of history, but that history—the past and its objects—is interrelated and related with other things (people, the earth, the sun, the moon, food, and so forth) in completely different ways, according to Other theories of relatedness. Those Other relationalities are made through and by the relationship to the Other. This Other is not the Other to the West, that is, the cultural Other to be placed at a different point along a vector of time, culture, or development; outside its own borders, out there to be reflected negatively in the configuration of a self-image and finally captured as an object of science, tourism, or social or international aid. Neither is it the negative of Western alterization, an alterization that would assume a local perspective for alterizing the West. The Other from the Other-to-the-West’s perspective is both metaphysical and immanent in a particular moment, given that its relation to those animated powerful beings is itself the fabric of those implied in the relationality. These theories of relationality are based on local ontologies (local epistemes) and are grounded locally; but they are not isolated from the Western hegemonic episteme, which includes the archaeological discipline. Severo knew quite well what I was thinking about the archaeological site, what my ontological assumptions were, what I was looking for, and what kind of praxis I would develop with respect to the antiguos. That is why he came to intervene before I started my excavation; he placed my relationship to the antiguos within the terms of the local theory of relatedness, and through our involvement in a ritual conversation with the antiguo he implicitly explained to my students and me what kind of relations they—the antiguos—expected from us. In doing so, he implied that from the locus where we stood as archaeologists, we had no choice but to ignore the local episteme, and he intervened to put things in order. We were epistemically eaten by the local relationality. Archaeological objects are enmeshed with local theories of relationality, and are then actively related. The inter-epistemic relation is

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constructed in time as hegemony/subalternity. Subaltern local theory includes its own positionality with respect to the hegemonic episteme, a perspective on its relation to hegemony, but its main feature regarding the hegemonic episteme is that it can either incorporate Western beings (objects, concepts, gods) within its own episteme (“phagocitosis”), or actively ignore hegemonic agents (“ignoration”). Phagocitosis (Kusch 1975) and ignoration (Londoño 2012) are two different attitudes to hegemony that preserve local theories of relationality. From local theory there is not an outer space of alterity where the self can draw its own contours and expand, as is the case with the modern West. Alterity as a condition of relationality is already thought and practiced by each being with another being. Parents and children, people and Pachamama, Upper winds and Lower winds, alive and defunct, and so forth, are relations of alterity already patterned through the local theory of relationality. Phagocitosis is usually seen from the West as some kind of degradation, mixture, hybridity, adulteration of a straight state of purity into “mestizaje.” Ignoration, at its turn, is usually seen as lack of language or muteness, as with archaeological objects; or lack of a proper language or barbarism, as in Herodotus classical neologism; or as taciturnity, as in Bruch’s text. The voice of the other, including the vestiges, seems to be unarticulated, incomprehensible, isolated from proper communication, but even though tacit, haunting in the inner side of the other. Taciturnity seems to mean the reflective image of epistemic violence, where the conditions of possibility of the dispositive of violence (discipline) are the collapsing of the other within a taciturn physiognomy. In order to end this text, I’d like to refer to the tacit implications of the vestige. I’d like to think on the possible meanings that the vestige could have had once, before disciplinary violence could twist its meaning within colonial modernity.

An archaeology of the vestige The Latin noun vestigium refers to the sole; as an extension, it means the footprint that the sole left. Thus, facere vestigium in loco is to set one’s foot in a place. It is interesting that vestigium means at once the sole and the footprint. Cause and effect are fused in one concept, that is, it is not that the footprint means the sole, but that both are the same term. To scrutinize the vestigium is to do it with both the footprints and the feet that left them. Per vestigial alicuius ire is to follow someone’s footprints. And to follow the footprints allows me not just to know the walker’s steps but, and importantly, also to know the direction of the walk through that place.

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Moreover, to follow the footprints is something I can only do with my body, allowing myself to be led by someone who, while not in the same space-time as myself, left the footprints while wandering here. I can’t anticipate my own wanderings; I can only try to follow them. I will follow more closely the footprints the less I’ll try to hold in a previously fixed direction. I cannot even anticipate that I’ll arrive somewhere in particular. I can only know that I’ll try to follow the footprints, wherever they lead me, even if nowhere (Haber 2011). The word “investigation” comes from the Latin investigatio: the act and result of investigating. The etymology of this word—in vestigium— leads me to a familiar term as archaeologist. Unsurprisingly, in vestigio means “in one and the same place,” and immediacy is called as e vestigio. Such is, thus, the main feature of the vestige: it abridges in the same place, at once, immediately, the sign and its meaning. The vestige says that the sole is the same and indissoluble thing with the footprint that it leaves in the soil. Positive and negative are immediate. There is no vestigium-sole without vestigium-footprint and vice versa. The footprint, the negative of the sole, does not represent the sole in a linguistic sense. Both the sole, the foot, and the walker, ambush behind the footprint; the footprint ambushes behind the walk. When we follow the footprints, we are led by the walker. The gone walker negotiates with us splitting her/himself in her/his negative. I am here following one by one the footprints; I am in immediacy both with the footprints and the walker, this one in other time-space. Classical investigation says something surprising: we displace ourselves—we allow being displaced—by the immediacy of both what appears and what refuses to us. Among the Romans, while the vestigator was the investigator or spy, investigare was “to follow the track or the footprints” and, also, “to scrutinize.” To investigate is to follow the footprints, meaning to follow the footstep that leaves them, the feet and body of which they are part of, to follow the one who is not here, in the same time-space, and who negotiates with us while not-being-here. The investigation (evestigation) is not just to know the world, but also to be negotiated by it, by the immediacy of the things that are here and those that are not, positives and negatives, presences and absences (Haber 2013a). Evestigation seems to tell us that to know is something that happens to us in our bodies when we relate with things and their specters. The vestige seems to tell us that there is immediacy between what presents itself to us mediated by a rupture in time-space and the investigation. To follow the “evestigial” relations means to be led by the trail of immediacy within what is already mediated.

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Eventually the Barbarians attacked the Romans and their Law, and they didn’t leave them enough time for also inventing scientific investigation. For this we had to wait for the Moderns. The immediacy of the vestige, the complicity between discontinuous time-spaces, the bodily commitment of investigation that displaces it where the footprints lead it, knowledge as an opening to spectral negotiation, summing up, those that seem to be the features of the Latin investigatio, have been abandoned and forgotten by the modern colonial investigation. This one introduces an essential—Cartesian—split between cause and effect, body and soul, present and past, theory and practice, data and interpretation, researcher and researched, fact and text, sign and meaning. Modern colonial investigation assumes a rupture between space-times, an unbridgeable gap, which at the same time defines the role of investigation: to bridge the rupture through methodologically managed knowledge (Haber 1999). In modern disciplinary research the vestige is a consequence of a process that causes it; the cause can be known through scrutinizing the remaining consequence. Following the trail offered by the symptom, the physician interprets the illness that causes it. The archaeologist, scrutinizing thingsas-remains, interprets—puts into words—the world-where-they-remainfrom. The vestige is definitely partitioned, now sign excised from meaning. The researcher interprets data, indices, footprints that lead him to know the unknown world. The modern colonial world seems to need a hermeneutist. In disciplinary (modern/colonial) terms, the silence of the object is the condition of my own mindfulness. Only because the object is pure materiality, pure bodily substance, I can be pure mind myself. The condition of my knowledge, that is, the superiority of my knowledge as a territorial agencying of the Other’s territory, is the silencing of the Other’s world, the Other, the territory, the things, and the gods. The territory of the Other has to be understood as pure facts ready to be made sense by my pure mind. Silence in the shape of muteness, lack of proper language, or taciturnity, is always reference to un-relatedness. While the Other is mute and unrelated to myself, I am entitled to know the Other, that is, to make sense of its material (mute) nature, putting into words what I observe through my (mainly visual) senses. Attribution of muteness and unrelatedness is one and the same act as textualization; that is, making sense of the world by writing down or speaking out facts.

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Time at the other side of the mirror Instead, what from the logos is seen as taciturnity, is an active conversation among beings. The gods of Hualfín, the former Hualfines, the ruins, and the middle-aged man and the thirteen-year-old girl, all of them silent and taciturn, ignorated Bruch, vocal and writer. Another thing is to be related with. The gods Severo asked to breed beautiful things for me were already related to the gods of the water and the earth, and to Antofalla people. Wakas are everywhere. They are not objects but animated things (gods) that act upon their relationship with other things (humans). As in any conversation, any semiopractical utterance is a reply to the other’s real, imaginary, or expected utterance (Grosso 2008). Archaeological objects as vestiges have power only in instrumental terms: as media for obtaining knowledge, mute signs to be put into words. But for Severo, the antiguos and wakas in general are not media for obtaining another aim, and neither are the antiguos there to represent some absent reality (like vestiges of the inaccessible past). Archaeological objects/sites don’t mean the past; they are purposeful and powerful actors whose social relations are embedded within the rest of things in the (local) world. Time and space are not dimensions in the Western modern sense, but conversations among animated beings, relationality codifying alterity. In the Antofalla episteme, space and time are the same as “the place,” that is, my lived-in place. And this idea of soil—not, as in the Western episteme, a dimension—is not even a thing as in the Western thought of the others. Pacha, a concept of “space/time” and “this place,” the noun root of Pachamama, the so-called Andean Mother Goddess, makes sense only as a web of lived relationships in which one comes to being. I’ll say it again: Pacha makes sense only as a web of lived relationships in which one comes to being. In this sense, to know is to be related with; no knowledge (Haber 2013b) can exist without a lived-in relationship. That is why knowledge cannot be an intellectual (linguistically mediated) inauguration of a relationship to the world; that world already was related to myself; we already made sense for each other. Because we are in the world before we word it, the whole idea of bounding, “making sense out of the senses” within an intellectual linguistically-mediated process as a paradigm for knowledge, is already an epistemically violent decision. It implies the erasure of both previous senses and other senses. Archaeology, if undisciplined from its disciplinary episteme, may make sense of its being bodily, immediately, and sensitively related to other time-spaces. The

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heterological and subversive ways in which the senses do make sense in immediate and practical ways is not just something to be considered as an expansion of the object target of archaeology. Most importantly, archaeology as a craft of making sense out of things has a fundamental part in the building of counter-hegemonic relations of knowledge.

Works cited Bruch, Carlos. “Descripción de Algunos Sepulcros Calchaquís Resultado de las Excavaciones Efectuadas en Hualfín (Provincia de Catamarca).” Revista del Museo de La Plata 9 (1904): 13–27. Derrida, Jacques. El Monolingüismo del Otro. Buenos Aires: Manantial, 1997. Grosso, José Luis. “Semiopraxis en Contextos Interculturales Poscoloniales. Cuerpos, Fuerzas y Sentidos en Pugna”. Espacio Abierto 17, no. 2 (2008): 231–245. Haber, Alejandro F. “Caspinchango, la Ruptura Metafísica y la Cuestión Colonial en la Arqueología Sudamericana: El Caso del Noroeste Argentino.” Revista do Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia 5 (1999): 529–541. —. “Nometodología Payanesa. Notas de Metodología Indisciplinada.” Revista Chilena de Antropología 23, no. 1 (2011): 9–49. —. “Evestigation, Nomethodology and Deictics: Movements in UnDisciplining Archaeology.” In Reclaiming Archaeology. Beyond the Tropes of Modernity, edited by Alfredo González-Ruibal, 79–88. London: Routledge, 2013a. —. “Relocalizar el Conocimiento. Prólogo.” In Localidad de Villa Vil: De la Relocalización como Razón Científico-Técnica hacia la Emergencia de una Teoría Local del Conocimiento, edited by Daniela Iriarte, 5–8. Catamarca: Instituto Nacional de Tecnología Agropecuaria, Centro Regional Catamarca-La Rioja, 2013b. Kusch, Rodolfo. América Profunda. Buenos Aires: Bonum, 1975. Londoño, Wilhelm. “Fausto Ignorado. Una Etnografía sobre Construcción e Ignoración de la Modernidad en la Puna de Atacama.” PhD diss., Facultad de Humanidades, Universidad Nacional de Catamarca, 2012. Mignolo, Walter. “La Colonialidada lo Largo y a lo Ancho: El Hemisferio Occidental en el Horizonte Colonial de la Modernidad.” In La Colonialidad del Saber: Eurocentrismo y Ciencias Sociales. Perspectivas Latinoamericanas, edited by Edgardo Lander, 55–85. Buenos Aires: CLACSO, 2000.

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—. “El Potencial Epistemológico de la Historia Oral: Algunas Contribuciones de Silvia Rivera Cusicanqui.” In Estudios y Otras Prácticas Intelectuales Latinoamericanas en Cultura y Poder, edited by Daniel Mato, 201–212. Caracas: CLACSO and Universidad Central de Venezuela, 2002. Rivera Cusicanqui, Silvia. Ch’ixinakaxutxiwa. Una Reflexión sobre Prácticas y Discursos Descoloniazadores. Buenos Aires: Tinta Limón, 2010. Santiago, Rosa-Araceli. “Griegos y Barbarous: Arqueología de una Alteridad.” Faventia 20, no. 2 (1998): 33–45.

Notes 1

The translation of this and the rest of the citations from Bruch are mine.

COMMENTS “I HAVE A FEELING THAT SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN!” BUT WITH ARCHAEOLOGY? JOSÉ ALBERIONE DOS REIS Federal University of Rio Grande (Brazil)

"Unless there is something to be said, one must remain in silence!" (Lovecraft, H. P. Cthulhu's call and others stories, 2012)

Rio Grande, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil, October, full moon, spring Dear friends Jorge and Mirna, How does it feel to be back in London? Are you enjoying autumn up there? Down here, in southern Brazil, spring has arrived with heavy rains, thunders, and the typical heat of the tropics. I have a strong feeling of disorder, just like the flowers. I am not really sure which season I am, as a result of the contrasting effect of the heat, the rains, and the storms. I begin this letter the way we usually start our conversations: talking about the weather. It has to be so because corporeality has a close relationship with the feelings that nature, through the seasons, the weather, and the different smells, sounds, and images, arouses in our own sensoriality. The body does not respond to these external changes and movements in a biologically determined way. Our cultural, spiritual, gender, and psychic condition, from within ourselves, from our inner being, interacts with these changes and movements producing sensations. I am saying all this because I am writing some comments about a book that will be published in England. I hope that you will be there when it is released. It is a volume organized by my dear fellow “Zé Rober” Pellini, Andrés Zarankin, and Melisa Salerno. It has several contributions and it is devoted to what is called “sensory archaeology”. The editors believe that our first contact with the world is corporeal. They say that sensory experience is essential to face the truths of the world. It is through the

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senses and the body that we understand the material world surrounding us. The body and the senses, from the beginning, have marked us all, including people from the most varied contexts. Corporeality and perception shape (and are, in turn, shaped by) social practices. They are both part of different ways of understanding and experiencing the world. However, Latin American archaeology has not yet paid enough attention to corporeality or the senses. It seems as though the body and the senses are too ephemeral, fruitless, and immaterial to be studied by archeology. It is through sensory experience, mediated by materiality, that we create our identities, our being in the world. I know that none of you are archaeologists, but since you are avid readers, I decided to write this letter just to bring you closer to this task of mine. Archeology is going through a crisis of representation. The word “archeology” is currently accompanied by the most varied adjectives: public, community, queer, contemporary, of the present, hard, gender, post-processual, among others. The book I am trying to comment on is part of this movement, as it is devoted to sensory archaeology, to an archaeology of the senses. You are probably asking yourselves how it is possible to conduct—in practice—that kind of archaeology. As a matter of fact, I have asked myself a similar question, but from another perspective, as I am a professor of archaeology. I do not separate practice from theory. This false antagonism is probably the oldest disease of Western science. I wonder what is the cause for the word archaeology to remain unchanged while a number of adjectives come and go like the leaves falling from a tree, dancing, flowing, and touching imaginary borders until they finally reach the ground. Sensory archaeology deals with the most varied and intense flows of sensitivity. The biological body is not a boundary, nor is it limited to produce sensations. The flows of sensitivity stem from, arrive at, and go through the body. They are what make us humans. Sensory archeology is part of this flow. Look at that! I have just remembered two different situations that illustrate what I am saying. The first one involves our visit to Stonehenge, in England. Do you remember that morning? We arrived at the site. It was shrouded in mist. Even standing close, we could not appreciate the monumentality of the stones. We saw some crows perching on them. Little by little, the fog faded away. The monument then showed its magnificence, its telluric force. As a result of heritage regulations, we could not touch, embrace, smell, kiss… those splendid rocks. I would like to stress the sacred nature of the monument. Do you remember that the tourist guide talked a lot about the visit we would pay later to the city of Bath, where we could see the remains of the Roman civilization? Before

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getting to Bath, we stopped by a place in the middle of a field. It only had stones. The tourist guide said that it was a place where the Celtic druids performed their “primitive” rituals. We would only find “civilization” in the splendorous Roman ruins. However, to me, an old Indian from the mountains, raised in a place shrouded in mist like Stonehenge, the stones had the power to revive old memories and cosmic perceptions. I was invaded by the same sacred feeling I usually had in the place where I was born. The materiality of Stonehenge reminded me of a distant and mythical past. On Monday, after a long walk through the streets of London, we got to the British Museum. When we entered that place, I remember you told me something about the expressiveness of the building: a monument at the service of culture and Western civilization. I realized I was in a place surrounded by myths and sensations, although pretty different from the ones I had experienced in Stonehenge. We visited several rooms. There were different thematic exhibitions, including one about the materiality of the Viking culture. The architecture of the British Museum conveys a sense of eternity, as if it were impossible to tear down the building. However, as I left the place, I realized that the beauty and the greatness of the museum was a result of looting other people’s resources. Sensory archaeology is about all these flows of sensitivity. I am loving the challenge of commenting on the book I told you about. Well, my dear friends, this is where I say goodbye. I miss you both. Greetings to your beautiful daughter and great anthropologist, Carolina; and also to Marina’s daughter. Perhaps we can meet in London again, and visit the beautiful parks of the city. Perhaps we can sit on a bench, have a good chimarrão, and read that book about sensory archaeology . Hugs and kisses to everybody. Alberione, the Old Indian from the mountains. *** Porto Alegre, Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil, October, full moon, spring Dear friend Mariana Petry Cabral, Are you in the torrid North of the Amazon region? How did you find the 7th Meeting of Archaeological Theory in South America (TAAS)? I assume that the program was marked by social, political, and educational interests. I am writing some comments about a book organized by my fellow “Zé Rober” Pellini, Andrés Zarankin, and Melisa Salerno. The book is devoted to sensory archaeology, a subject discussed at the 7th TAAS. But it is not about archaeological theory that I want to talk about. I

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remembered you because of the book’s Introduction. It starts with a series of letters exchanged by two Englishmen. One of them, George, is in the Amazon, living among the Indians. This is why I remembered you. The other one, Alphonso, is working at a British University and living in London. The letters were written in the middle of the nineteenth century. They talked about the way we perceive the world and give it meaning. Some people—like George—believe that meaning comes from the senses; while some others—like Alphonso—believe in the power of Western scientific knowledge. George surrenders to the sensory experience of living in the Amazon. He says that the natives have a particular relationship with the material world. They associate things with a cosmological and mythological order. In this way, they get in touch with their own senses and the meanings that exist in the material world. “Things have a life of their own!,” says George. Alphonso believes that in order to do science we only need our eyes, specific methods, and techniques. We cannot trust the senses. They are deceptive. Alphonso says that the Indians make use of sensations because they are lazy, lustful, and irrational. He tells George: “Be careful with the natives and the forest […] Do not let yourself be influenced by these people”. As time passes, George and Alphonso take different paths. George’s letters describe the ways he gradually changes his mind. Because of his new experiences, he believes that the senses play a fundamental role in the interpretation of the world. George’s letters become longer and more intense. On the other hand, Alphonso’s letters become more severe, defending the principles of Western scientific knowledge. Alphonso resists, telling George that things only have a life of their own in children’s imagination and witchcraft. Alphonso’s letters become shorter and show his despair. Why am I telling you this? You have been in Amapá for four years, working and living the most varied sensory experiences among the Waiãpy. You have felt in your own body, in your own conceptions about the world and science, the same conflict that appears in those letters. What I am worried about is the conflict between reason and feeling in the context of scientific production. I have learned that at the 7th TAAS, Benjamin Alberti gave a lecture on this subject. Alberti highlights the importance of an ontological approach in contemporary archaeological theory. This approach is calling for an ontological change, challenging the principles of the discipline through materiality studies and a particular consideration of indigenous animism. In his lecture, Alberti described animism as an “excess”: something exceeding Western scientific possibilities of interpretation. This “excess” unsettles us. It throws away our pretensions of truth, as they are

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based on a particular idea of rationality. As you have suggested in your PhD dissertation, you have also experienced this “excess” among the Waiãpy. You were not afraid of it. A passage in your dissertation illustrates this well... It was a hot day, and you were lying on a sleeping net. Next to you, a Waiãpy woman was reading a textbook. The woman asked you about the meaning of culture and nature for white people. This dialogue had a profound impact on your ideas. Now, you are dealing with a “Waiãpy archeology”; and you talk about the “blade of an axe that snores on the floor”; the “roads of the dreams” as the main source of communication, both in and for the world; etc. For the Waiãpy, what we call “excess” is not “excessive”; it is not out of place. The material things of the world do not stand for something else, they exist! They exist as cosmologies, mythologies, both in the present and in the past, and in any material expression. We do not need to believe. Things and myths exist; they are present in oral narratives and materiality. Well, this is where I say goodbye. The morning is coming to a close, and I am a little hungry. Let’s keep in touch. I am attracted to “excess”. I am not afraid of it. Hugs and kisses to everybody. Alberione, the Old Indian from the mountains. *** And I keep writing…. Yannis Hamilakis also gave a lecture on sensory archaeology at the 7th TAAS. He said that sensory archaeology should be considered an alternative paradigm to Western dominant tradition, mainly defined by a logocentric and anthropocentric perspective. Hamilakis believes that the senses transcend our sensory organs. He claims that sensory experiences are produced by sensory flows built in transcorporeal landscapes. Within these landscapes, things are an essential component of the sensory field. According to Hamilakis, this theoretical proposal does not attempt to fetishize thing. Hamilakis says that sensory flows, involving movements and interactions, produce undulations and exchanges of substances, feelings, memories, and ideas. He talks about a multi-temporal archeology, as the materiality of things simultaneously activates different times through sensory and mnemonic processes. What Hamilakis says fits in well with the ideas of Alejandro Haber, a contributor to this book, who stresses the need to “un-discipline” modern archaeology. ***

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I will take Hamilakis’ words as the starting point of my comments. I will present my notes in the following way: First I will refer to each of the chapters, and later I will write about the feelings I had while reading this book. I agree with Marilyn Strathern (2013: 22): "I am certain that I share with many colleagues the experience of discovering that an intellectual problem is also a personal one, or better, that the problem is driven by an intellectual need, that is also emotional."

"An Archaeology of a Tear; Delusions within a Tent in a Stormy Day in Antarctica" – Andrés Zarankin I am still in Antarctica, though not in a literary sense. Zarankin poses questions about the role of the narrator. It is common for archaeologists to appear as disembodied beings in their own texts. Zarankin believes that authorship is usually based on the figure of an absence. The person who writes does not seem to have feelings or sensations. Zarankin is probably in line with Geertz’ ideas of authorship as a tormented presence. Zarankin asks: Is it possible to talk about the past (objectivity) without feeling it (subjectivity)? In one of his works, Foucault (2006) discusses the role of the “author”, as her/his name plays a classifying role within discourse, allowing certain texts to be regrouped or confronted, defining the specific character of the writing. Zarankin asks questions about the authorship of archaeological texts, highlithing the importance of feelings and corporeality. He talks about his own experiences in the exotic Antarctica. His own inclusion in the text is the result of an archaeology interested in “story-telling”. Zarankin refers to two different possibilities: a) creating stories as projections; and b) creating transversal stories. In this case, he prefers the second option. He presents himself in the solitude of a tent, in an imaginary confrontation with Binford, who appears like a rhetorical ghost. Finally, his feelings crystallize as tears. By the way, tears produce new transversal stories for Zarankin. I have learned he has recently given a lecture at the 7th TAAS. He told the audience that he would not speak about a past epidemic. No! He would talk about an archaeology interested in “spreading” new ideas, sensations, emotions, and stories. For all this, Zarankin’s tears are still wet.

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“When the Cows Come Home: A Consideration of the Sensorial Engagement between Pastoralists and their Cattle” – Julie Dunne This is a text where “the other” is another one without an auto-declared episteme. We are talking about animals. More specifically, those said to be domesticated by “human animals.” Julie Dunne explores the relationship between pastoralists and their cattle in contemporary African societies. The theme of domestication, as well as the transition from a huntergatherer to an agro-pastoral way of life, has been extensively studied. Archaeologists have analyzed its ecological, economic, and technical implications for decades. Dunne refers to an alternative way of understanding the relationship between humans and animals. She suggests that animals need to be understood as social actors with agency, sharing the same environment with humans and other species. Dunne believes that it is necessary to stress humans’ sensory engagement with animals. She highlights the intimate nature of this relationship, where the bodies of people and animals are brought to the front.

“Remembering through the Senses. The Funerary Practice in Ancient Egypt” – José Roberto Pellini This is a text of dialogues, resorting to memories brought about by the senses. In the year 23, in the month of Shemu, in the 19th day of Golden Horus, Simon and his son Nen-Neruf were visiting the most beautiful tombs of Egypt. In 2013, José Roberto Pellini and Carol were visiting Pampulha Lagoon, in Belo Horizonte, Minas Gerais, Brazil, recalling a sumptuous and tasty dinner. Both dialogues evoke feelings associated with events which took place in different contexts. Pellini plays with the reader, reflecting on memory, materiality, and the senses. Sensory perception stems from the relationship between people and the material world. However, it is the memory of these impressions what really matters. In Ancient Egypt, the diversity of burial practices created memories, differentiating communities and social groups. Memory plays an active role in our sensory engagement with the world. Mnemonic records are thus produced and reproduced by corporeality and sensory experience. This is precisely what Condillac (1982: 158, 160) said: "It is thus sensations that give rise to the whole system of man: A complete system of which all the parts are connected and mutually sustaining [...] Our capacity for having sensations is thus shared between the sensation that we had and the one we are having. We perceive them both at the same time,

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but we perceive them differently: one seems past, the other present". Memory exists in the space between past and present sensations. It is active; it is mediated by corporeality; and it is metonymically signified through objects.

“J.T. Robinson’s Use of a Psychic for Archaeological Research at Sterkfontein Caves, South Africa” – Michael A. Cremo Michael Cremo finds his own way of “un-disciplining” archaeology. In his work, “excess” is not a source of discomfort. Cremo exposes the relationship of violence that the discipline creates within its own locus of power. Robert Broom and J.T. Robinson were two eminent researchers of human evolution. They worked in South of Africa, excavating the remains of hominids. In 1960, they invited Geoffrey Hodson, a theosophist psychic, supporter of relational theories, to help them in an archaeological research project at Sterkfontein. Once in the caves, Hodson laid on the floor with his eyes closed. Robinson placed a fossil behind his forehead. It was an Australopithecus, but he was not allowed to see it. Hodson began to talk, describing the daily routine of the hominid. He provided information that resulted in new research interpretations. Look at that! Is this Archeology? A psychic in a state of trance as a source of information? This is an “excess.” It is irrationality; it is a delusion. Colonial scientific knowledge must be horrified. What a shame! Fortunately, this irrationality is knocking on the doors of the episteme that supports the presumed “scientificity” of archaeology. What Cremo refers to is not new. These events took place in the 1960s, but they remained hidden until today. They now come to light to “undiscipline” archaeology. What happened at Sterkfontein is often called “psychometry” (Denton, 1871; Steiner, 1904; Bozzano, 1998; Miranda, 2013). It is a psychic capacity that some people have. It allows them to tell stories or events associated with material objects that are brought into contact with them. This is in line with Miranda’s work (1994: 288): "Even the inarticulate thought inscribes itself upon the psychic ether together with history, in the rocks, the stones, the animals, and the fossils […] Psychometrists frequently prove this, when they mention ideas and motivations long forgotten or never revealed.” In psychometry, the objects presented to the sensorium are made evident. Far from acting as simple stimuli, they are truly favorable intermediaries. They establish specific relationships between the psychometrist and a distant context. According to Cremo, Robinson did not do anything exceptional. In England,

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psychometrists helped identify archaeological remains in the excavations of Glastonbury Abbey. In Canada, archeologists from the University of Toronto employed psychometry and talked about an “intuitive archeology.” Cremo (2010) himself has been working with psychometry in India.

"Sealers were not Born but Made. Sensory-Motor Habits, Subjectivities, and Nineteenth-Century Voyages to the South Shetland Islands” – Melisa A. Salerno Melisa A. Salerno writes about a silence. More than silence, it is omission, or even neglect. But who were silenced by the official narratives of Antarctica? Sealers: a particular kind of sailor-hunter who sailed to the South Seas in order to hunt seals, sea elephants, and whales. Salerno’s work is part of the project “Landscapes in White”, focused on the history of the South Shetland Islands. Salerno refers to the experience of being a sealer. She describes the most varied sensory and bodily experiences—on board the vessels and in the Antarctic landscape—associated with what she calls a process of “becoming”: the transformation of men into sealers. It is in this experience of being-in-the-world that subjectivity and intersubjectivity became intertwined with the materiality of different contexts. Combining historical and archaeological evidence, Salerno highlights the subjective corporeality of the sealers and their material engagement with the world. The word “engagement” was pretty valued by the French school of thought. I agree with Sartre (2001: 65-66) when he says: “consciousness exists precisely to the degree that it is consciousness of existing [...] it is precisely for the human reality that to exist is always to assume its being.” Salerno brings to light the process of assuming a particular subjectivity, breaking the official silence around the presence of sealers. Corporeality and worldliness alternatively play active and passive roles. This interplay produces (and is, in turn, produced by) motor-sensory experiences that are part of the inevitably contingencies of “being-in-theworld.” Finally, Salerno claims that the construction of sealers’ subjectivities was part of an intense, complex process. After all, nobody was born a sealer.

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“Touching the Past: The Senses of Things for Local Communities in Amazonia, Brazil” – Marcia Bezerra Is it possible to conduct a contemporary archeology permeated by the senses and involving present communities? Yes! This is Marcia Bezerra’s answer. But how is it possible? It is possible as long as people in the present engage with the things of the past. In anthropology, the study of sensory systems is not new. In the Amazon, the anthropologist Eduardo Viveiros de Castro has approached “sensible objects” in the context of Amerindian perspectivism. Once again, “excess” comes back! However, in the field of Amazonian archeology, the study of the relationship between the senses and archaeological remains is still in an early stage. The life of Amazonian communities is intimately connected with the things of the past. Houses are built on top of archaeological sites. Children play with ceramic sherds. People form small collections of objects. It is in this scenario that Bezerra reflects on the relationship between these communities and cultural heritage. On the one hand, the relationship is regulated by the state; on the other, it is enjoyed and preserved by daily sensitivities. Communities have built and thought specific epistemes around this heritage. According to Bezerra, it is through haptic experience that these people produce a sensory imagination associated with the past. Feeling the presence of past remains, local communities create metonymies representing their own relationship with the landscape. This is a good example of what Alejandro Haber calls theories of relationality. Bezerra’s work poses questions about the incompatibility between the discourses on the preservation of heritage and the sensory engagement with the things of the past. In this context, archaeological discourses on symmetry conceal the practices of interdiction.

“The Sensorial Experience in Experiential Archaeology by Increasing the Perception of Materiality” – Dragoú Gheorghiu Contemporary society is becoming more oculocentric. The prevalence of sight reduces the experience of substances, things, and places. As Dragoú Gheorghiu refers, visual experience is not decisive for the understanding of the intimate dimension of things. Giving examples of particular experiences in the field of experiential archeology, Georghiu states that touch is of extreme importance for our relationship with the surrounding world. The author conducts a series of scenary experiments, reconstructing a fragment of a Roman villa rustica in Vadastra, near the

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Danube River, in the southern region of Romania. This experience was not only aimed at studying specific technologies, but also at discussing the phenomenological relationship among people, objects, and space. Gheorghiu believes that experimental archeology still resists phenomenological approaches. It would be important for experimental archaeologists to start considering subjectivities and sensations. Focusing on the effect of archaeological experiments in historical sites, Gheorghiu highlights the sensory engagement with the surrounding atmosphere through sounds, smells, and physical contacts. It is the sense of presence in archaeological reconstructed contexts that encourages sensory immersion. In the case of experiential archeology, the author considers that the sensory-motor, cognitive, and emotional engagement with the reconstructed contexts have a significant impact on the corporeality of the people participating in the performances.

“Feeling the Roman Skin: Unsettled, Conformed, and Plural Bodies" – Lourdes Conde Feitosa and Pedro P. Funari Bodies and skin, biology and gender, sexuality and eroticism. What does it all have to do with archeology? Using literary, epigraphic, and iconographic sources, Feitosa and Funari study the perception of skin among the ancient Romans. The authors seek to understand the idea of aesthesis among aristocratic and popular groups, considering corporealities, body care, and sensations. Türcke (2010: 107) says: “sensation is the meaning of the world, and the more elementary, subjugating, and compelling, the more evident it becomes” (the translation is mine). The body and its perceptions were central for the Romans, as it is well presented in the study conducted by the authors. Feitosa and Funari believe that archaeology has the potential to shed light on past corporealities. They focus on the marks distinguishing the skin of women and men, the wealthy and the poor in Roman contexts. Their work highlights the skin as an interface between the inside and the outside, between masculinity and femininity, etc.

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“Making Sense out of Senses. Thingness, Writing, and Time" – Alejandro Haber This text approaches “excess” from a different standpoint. “Excess” challenges disciplinary rules; especially in those cases where the colonial discourses of archaeology have been blind and deaf. Alejandro Haber asks: Why is the world, mainly consisting of things, intellectually presented and understood through written words? In the first section of his work, called “Disciplining the world”, Haber refers to the case of an entomologist from La Plata Museum, who was in charge of conducting archaeological excavations and collecting objects in Hualfín during the late nineteenth and the early twentieth century. Through this example, Haber discloses the disciplinary operation creating distance between the researcher and her/his object of study. The act of referring to some things as archaeological is an exercise of epistemic violence that demands the repression of other meanings and voices. The “other” does not have a chance to say a word. Coloniality wants to have access to the past, and traditional archaeology depends on the possibility of having access to things and defining them as archaeological. Western scientific knowledge codifies coloniality through the establishment of a hierarchy of sources, and the exercise of an epistemic violence that excludes the “other” (describing other sources, other epistemes as naïve, irrational, or false). As Haber points out: “Epistemic violence is codified within the historical method.” The author presents another case study. Action takes place in Antofalla, Northwestern Argentina. During an archaeological excavation, Haber talks to Mister Severo Reales, a man from the locality. He brings the voice of the “other”; of another local and relational episteme that the archaeological research needs to consider. Severo’s words interrupt the researcher’s interpretative flow. Relational theories of the world confront the colonial hegemony associated with Western academic knowledge. These epistemic confrontations encourage Alejandro Habers’ reflections. He claims that archaeology should not be limited to discipline. In order to “un-discipline” archaeology it is necessary to search for other epistemic relationships, simultaneously recognizing the violence of an objectifying modern research. It is essential to consider other subjectivities and theories of the world. The opportunity to “un-discipline” archaeology does not lead to archaeology’s disappearance. Haber says (and I agree) that the process “un-disciplining” archaeology involves a new art, a new type of archaeological research, based on concrete relationality, anti-modern simultaneity, and the excavation of violence.

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Well, this is it. After writing these comments, I have a good feeling about the prospects for archaeology. Strathern inquires (2013:24): “How is it to be in the middle of a change, when ideas have not settled and any critical position is not well shaped?” I do not take a critical stance. However, it is clear that archeology is currently experiencing a crisis of representation. This is the reason for my good feeling. “Excess” is always uncomfortable, creative, and joyful. Thanks, reader, for joining me in this journey!

Acknowledgements I am grateful to José Roberto Pellini, co-organizer of this book, for believing in me and inviting me to participate in this project. I am also thankful to my dear friend and colleague Mariana Petry Cabral. Finally, my gratitude to the archeologist Fernanda Bordin Tocchetto, to whom I owe everything I do, and for being the love of my wandering life.

Works cited Bozzano, Ernesto. Enigmas da Psicometria. São Paulo: Federação Espírita Brasileira, 1998. Condillac, Étienne B. Philosophical writings of Ettiene Bonnot, Abbé de Condillac, transl. by Franklin Philip with the collaboration of Harlan Lane. New York: Psychology Press, 1982. Cremo, Michael A. The forbidden archaeologist. Los Angeles: Bhaktivedanta Book Publishing, 2010. Denton, William and Elizabeth M. Denton. The soul of things; or, psychometric researches and discoveries. Boston: William and White Company, 1871. Foucault, Michel. “O que é um autor?” (1969) In Ditos e Escritos – Estética: literatura e pintura; música e cinema. Rio de Janeiro: Forense Universitária, 2006. Geertz, Clifford. Obras e vidas – o antropólogo como autor, 3rd ed. Rio de Janeiro: Ed. UFRJ, 2009. Lovecraft, Howard P. O chamado de Cthulhu e outros contos. São Paulo: Hedra, 2012. Miranda, Herminio C. Memória Cósmica. Bragança Paulista: Instituto Lachâtre, 2013. —. Diversidade dos Carismas – teoria e prática da mediunidade. Niterói: Publicações Lachâtre, 1994.

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Sartre, Jean Paul. Jean-Paul Satre: Basic writings. London and New York: Routledge, 2001. Steiner, Rudolf. Memoria cósmica – prehistoria de la tierra y el hombre. Biblioteca Upasika, Coleção Antroposofia, 1904. Accessed Oct. 17, 2014. http://eruizf.com/ Strathern, Marilyn. Fora de contexto; as ficções persuasivas da antropologia. São Paulo: Terceiro Nome, 2013. Türcke, Christoph. Sociedade excitada – filosofia da sensação. Campinas: Edunicamp, 2010.

CONTRIBUTORS

José Alberione dos Reis is currently a professor and researcher at the Federal University of Rio Grande (Brazil). He has a B.A. in history at the University of Caxias do Sul, and a master’s degree at the Pontifical Catholic University of Rio Grande do Sul. He completed his PhD at the University of Campinas. His research interests include archaeological theory, pre-colonial archaeology, Brazilian archeology, post-colonial history of human evolution. Márcia Bezerra is professor of archaeology at the Federal University of Pará (Brazil), and adjunct faculty member at the Department of Anthropology of the Indiana University (United States). She is the current president of the Brazilian Society of Archaeology and Junior Southern Representative of the World Archaeological Congress. Her main interests are public archaeology in the Amazon, material culture studies, and the teaching of archaeology in South America. She conducts three public archaeology projects in the Amazon. She also directs with K. A. Pyburn the “Public Archaeology” research group at CNPq. She has authored and co-authored several articles and books and has a strong commitment with the training of archaeologists in Brazil. Michael A. Cremo is an independent historian of archaeology. He has been a member of the World Archaeological Congress since 1994. Julie Dunne is a PhD student in the Organic Geochemistry Unit at the University of Bristol. She is using the technique of organic residue analysis to research dietary and subsistence practices of prehistoric groups in northern Africa. Her other research interests include the complex relationships between these ancient peoples and their cattle, with particular focus on the sensorial engagement between them. Lourdes Conde Feitosa is a professor at Sacred Heart University (Brazil). She has a B.A. and a master’s degree in history at São Paulo State University. She finished her PhD at the University of Campinas. She has recently published The Archaeology of Gender, Love and Sexuality in Pompeii (British Archaeological Reports, 2013).

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Pedro Paulo A. Funari is a professor of archaeology and history at the University of Campinas, and a research associate of Illinois State University and Barcelona University. He is former secretary of the World Archaeological Congress. He has written and edited many books, including Back from the Edge (Routledge, 1999), with Martin Hall and Siân Jones; Memories from Darkness: Archaeology of Repression and Resistance in Latin America, with Andrés Zarankin and Melisa A. Salerno (Springer, 2009); etc. He has published hundreds of papers in scholarly journals such as Current Anthropology, Historical Archaeology, International Journal of Historical Archaeology among others. Dragos Gheorghiu is professor of cultural anthropology at the Doctoral School of the National University of Arts (Romania). He is a Board Member of Time & Mind (Berg); and Director of the “Vadastra Project” (interested in experimental and experiential archaeology, art, and ecodesign). He has published several books and articles. Alejandro Haber is an Argentinean archaeologist and anthropologist, working at the National University of Catamarca and the National Council for Scientific and Technical Investigations (CONICET). He is focused on the Andean region, and he is interested in colonialism as coded by academic disciplines. He is currently involved in “un-disciplining” archaeology as a “no-methodology” for cultural and social research. His recent books include Hacia una Arqueología de las Arqueologías Sudamericanas (Uniandes, 2004); Domesticidad e Interacción en los Andes Meridionales (Unicauca, 2008); La Casa, las Cosas y los Dioses (Encuentro, 2012). José Roberto Pellini is associate professor and director of the Laboratory of Sensory Archaeology (LAS) at the Federal University of Sergipe (Brazil). He is also the reseach coordinator of the Museum of Archaeology of Xingó, Sergipe. He completed his PhD and his postdoctoral research projects at the University of São Paulo. Between 2008 and 2012, he was Director of Excavation of the Argentinean Mission in Luxor, Egypt. In recent years, he has dedicated himself to the study of sensory archaeology, landscape archaeology, memory, storytelling, and the relationship between illlusion and reality. Melisa A. Salerno is a researcher at the National Council for Scientific and Technical Investigations (CONICET, Argentina). She has a B.A. in anthropological sciences (with a specialization in archaeology) at the

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University of Buenos Aires. She finished her PhD in the same institution. She is particularly interested in historical archaeology, silenced groups, bodily experience, dress, subjectivities, and identities. She has published several books, including Arqueología de la Indumentaria. Prácticas e Identidad en los Confines del Mundo Moderno (Del Tridente 2006); Memories from Darkness: Archaeology of Repression and Resistance in Latin America, with Pedro P. Funari and Andrés Zarankin (Springer, 2009); Historias Desaparecidas: Arqueología, Memoria y Violencia Política, with Andrés Zarankin and María Celeste Perosino (Brujas, 2012). Andrés Zarankin is currently full professor of archaeology at the University of Minas Gerais (Brazil). He is also a researcher at the National Council for Scientific and Technical Investigations (CONICET, Argentina). He took his anthropology degree at the University of Buenos Aires, as well as his master's degree in architecture. He completed his PhD at the University of Campinas (Brazil). His main research interests include archaeology of architecture, archaeological theory, and historical archaeology. He has written and edited many books, including Global Archaeological Theory: Contextual Voices and Contemporary Thoughts, with Pedro P. Funari and Emily Stovel (Kluwer/Plenum 2005); Memories from Darkness: Archaeology of Repression and Resistance in Latin America, with Pedro P. Funari and Melisa A. Salerno (Springer, 2009); etc.