Power and Identity in Archaeological Theory and Practice : Case Studies from Ancient Mesoamerica [1 ed.] 9781607812173, 9781607811749

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Power and Identity in Archaeological Theory and Practice

Power and Identity in Archaeological Theory and Practice Case Studies from Ancient Mesoamerica

edited by Eleanor Harrison-Buck

The University of Utah Press Salt Lake City

Foundations of Archaeological Inquiry James M. Skibo, series editor Copyright © 2012 by The University of Utah Press. All rights reserved. The Defiance House Man colophon is a registered trademark of the University of Utah Press. It is based on a 4-ft-tall, Ancient Puebloan pictograph (late PIII) near Glen Canyon, Utah. 16 15 14 13 12     1 2 3 4 5 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Power and identity in archaeological theory and practice : case studies from ancient Mesoamerica / edited by Eleanor Harrison-Buck.    p. cm. — (Foundations of archaeological inquiry)   Includes bibliographical references and index.   eisbn 978-1-60781-217-3 (eBook) 1. Indians of Mexico — History — Case studies.  2. Indians of Mexico — Politics and government — Case studies.  3. Indians of Mexico — Antiquities — Case studies.  4. Power (Social sciences) — Mexico — ​ History — Case studies.  5. Group identity — Mexico — History — Case studies.  6. Social archaeology — ​ Mexico — Case studies.  I. Harrison-Buck, Eleanor.   F1219.P735 2012 — dc23  972'.01  2011050260

Contents

List of Figures   vii List of Tables   ix Preface  xi

1. Current Theory and Practice in the Archaeology of Power and Identity: An Introduction  1 Eleanor Harrison-Buck



2. Dance, Power, and Ideology in Ancient Maya and Aztec Society   8 Matthew G. Looper



3. Changing Social Practices as Seen from Household Iconic Traditions: A Case Study from Formative Central Tlaxcala   21 Richard G. Lesure, Jennifer Carballo, and David M. Carballo



4. Memory and Power at Joya, Yucatán   39 Scott R. Hutson, Aline Magnoni, Travis W. Stanton, Donald A. Slater, and Scott Johnson



5. The Phalli Stones of the Classic Maya Northern Lowlands: Masculine Anxiety and Regional Identity   53 Traci Ardren



6. Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico   63 Claudia García-Des Lauriers



7. Objects as Persons: Integrating Maya Beliefs and Anthropological Theory   82 Julia A. Hendon



8. The Encompassment of Subordinate Lords in the Tarascan Kingdom: Materiality, Identity, and Power   90 David L. Haskell



9. Rituals of Death and Disempowerment among the Maya   103 Eleanor Harrison-Buck



10. Conjuring Meaning from Archaeological Remains   116 Patricia A. McAnany



11. Change, Scale, and Goals in the Study of Power and Identity in Mesoamerica   120 Barbara L. Stark

List of Contributors   125 References Cited  127 Index  157 v

Figures

2.1. Impersonator of the Aztec deity Ilama tecutli dancing. 10 2.2. Bonampak Room 1 mural, detail of main dancers, south wall. 12 2.3. Dance of God K impersonator before enthroned lord dressed for dance. 13 2.4. Bonampak Room 3 mural, detail of main dancers, east, south, and west walls. 14 3.1. Central Mexico, with sites mentioned in the text. 25 3.2. Figurines of the Cuatlapanga and Ehco types. 26 3.3. Variety of pottery forms and decoration present at Amomoloc and Tetel during the Middle Formative. 27 3.4. Zoomorphic censers. 28 3.5. Fragment of the zoomorphic censer in which the animal is depicted with paws on snout. 29 3.6. Seated, sexless figurine supporting broken shallow, open vessel, Tlatempa phase. 30 3.7. Fragments of white-slipped Old God braziers from the Terminal Formative occupation at La Laguna. 30 3.8. Ceramic mask fragments, Texoloc and Tezoquipan phases. 31 3.9. Percentage of individual motif occurrences by phase. 35 3.10. Example of possible transformations of the basic line break motif. 36 4.1. Map of Yaxuná and Proyecto de Interacción Política del Centro de Yucatán survey transect. 40 4.2. Map of Joya. 42 4.3. Map of Joya sacbe and plaza. 43

4.4. Map of settlement on the east edge of Yaxuná. 43 4.5. Map of Rejollada 1, Joya. 45 4.6. Photo taken from inside Rejollada 1, Joya, looking west. 46 4.7. Perforated stone wall in the west rockshelter, Rejollada 1, Joya. 46 4.8. Glyph in Rejollada 1, Joya. 47 4.9. Niche with artifacts in the north rockshelter, Rejollada 1, Joya. 47 4.10. Wall with calcium carbonate cementation, north rockshelter, Rejollada 1, Joya. 48 5.1. Two-meter-tall stone phallus at Loltun Cave, Yucatán. 55 5.2. Stone phallus set into the wall, Temple of the Phalli, Chichén Itzá, Yucatán. 56 5.3. Stone phallus and other carved stone photographed by Alice Le Plongeon near the Nunnery Quadrangle of Uxmal, ca. 1881. 58 5.4. Standing stone phallus in the murals of the Great Ballcourt, Chichén Itzá, Yucatán. 59 6.1. Map of Mesoamerica, with detail of the Tonalá region. 64 6.2. Proyecto Arqueológico Los Horcones (PALH) 2005–2006 map of Los Horcones, Chiapas. 66 6.3. PALH 2005–2006 detail of Groups F and G, Los Horcones, Chiapas. 67 6.4. PALH 2005–2006 detail of Groups B and D, Los Horcones, Chiapas. 67 6.5. PALH 2005–2006 detail of Groups A and C, Los Horcones, Chiapas. 68 6.6. Los Horcones, Stela 3. 70 6.7. Los Horcones, Stela 4. 71 6.8a. Pozo B1. 72 vii

Figures

6.8b. Pozos B1 and B1, ext. 1. 6.9. Plan view of Los Horcones, Offering 1. 6.10. Bowl and lid, Los Horcones, Offering 1. 6.11. “Portrait”-style figurines from Los Horcones, Offering 1. 6.12. Figurines with platelet shell helmets, Los Horcones, Offering 1. 6.13. Teotihuacán-style figurines, Los Horcones, Offering 1. 6.14. Anthropomorphic figurine pendants, Los Horcones, Offering 1. 6.15. Figurines similar to Tehuantepec Mayoid mold-made figurines, Los Horcones, Offering 1.

73

6.16. Zoomorphic figurines, Los Horcones, Offering 1. 78 6.17. Ceramic rattles, Los Horcones, Offering 1. 78 8.1. Approximate extent of the Tarascan kingdom ca. ad 1500. 91 8.2. Lake Pátzcuaro and sites mentioned in the text. 91 8.3. Modern town and survey units of the site of Erongarícuaro. 95 8.4. Three obsidian drill fragments recovered in the 2005 excavations. 97 8.5. Obsidian bezote failures in the collection of a local informant. 97 9.1. Map of the Maya area, showing sites discussed in the text. 106

74 74 75 76 76 77 77

viii

Tables

5.1. Register of Stone Phalli in the Northern Maya Lowlands. 6.1. Population Capacity for the Largest Plazas at Los Horcones. 6.2. Radiocarbon Dates for Los Horcones, Offering 1. 8.1. Counts and Percentages of the Total Sample of Obsidian Artifacts from Excavations in ER-01, ER-02, and ER-07.

8.2. Results of Sourcing Analysis of 44 Obsidian Artifacts from the 2005 ER-02 Excavations. 99 8.3. Results from the Neutron Activation Analysis of 30 Obsidian Artifacts from the ER-01 and ER-16 Survey Collections. 99 9.1. Characteristics of Termination Deposits from Lowland Maya Sites. 111

57 69 73

98

ix

Preface

This volume stems from a symposium entitled “Identity, Place, and Power in Archaeological Theory: Case Studies from Mesoamerica,” which I organized in 2008 for the 107th Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association (AAA). My aim was to bring together both junior and senior scholars working in Mesoamerica who could offer new insights on two major “problem domains” in archaeology — ​power and identity — ​ and provide a strong synthesis of current archaeological theory put into practice. While materiality figures prominently in defining structures of power and identity, it is clear that many studies in the current literature are not “grounded in the materiality of human life” (Walker and Schiffer 2006:​67) and fail to link the artifacts with the social theory. The primary goal of the symposium was to address this weak link in “knowledge production” (sensu Conkey 2007). In organizing the AAA symposium, I challenged each participant to strike a balance between method and theory, and they successfully presented a series of innovative social theoretical ideas that were supported by robust archaeological data sets. The resulting volume illustrates how materiality in the archaeological record constitutes social practice and memory, agents of change, and ­varied power and identity formations and relations. The case studies presented here cover an extensive geographic region of ancient Mesoamerica (from Honduras to central Mexico) and a wide temporal range spanning over 2,000 years (from the Formative to Postclassic periods). The contributions offer multiple scales of inquiry, ranging from settlement survey and site-based studies to specific studies of artifact collections. Each chapter examines varied archaeological contexts (from monumental to domestic space) and a diverse array of data sets (iconography,

epigraphy, offerings, mortuary remains, ethnographies, etc.). A primary strength of the volume is the emphasis on theoretical pluralism. The nature of being human requires theoretical pluralism, as advocated by feminists such as Conkey and others who promote “[breaking] boundaries of identity categories themselves” (Conkey 2007:300) and deconstructing these “natural” domains (Meskell 2001:​188). Concerns with masculinity and gender relations, human agency, embodied performance, ritual practice, bodily experience and collective memory, relational personhood, and encompassment frame our discussions of power and identity as ongoing and engaging social formations. Each of the chapters explores these issues within an integrative social-theoretic landscape, and intellectual collaboration is consciously emphasized. Elsewhere, scholars have complained that the popular models of dominance and resistance have traditionally overpowered the embodied individual and agency-oriented research (Meskell 1996), while others argue that “humanist dreams of being free to be what we will” are hyperindivid­ ualistic and equally problematic (Thomas 2007:​ 217; see also Miller and Tilley 1984:4). By examin­ ing power and identity relations, the scholars in this volume present archaeological analyses that address broader segments of society and offer theoretical models that go outside the ­dominance-​ oriented hierarchical structures that frame most traditional reconstructions of past societies (Nelson 2004; Sweely 1999). The contributors to this volume are careful in their studies to avoid the search for a s­ ingular term, like agency, to encompass the myriad questions asked of the material record. Instead, they look for “webs of significance” that bind time and space and build the physical and material r­ esidues xi

Preface

of daily life (Thomas 2000), which serve as expressions of both individual and collective memories and identities. Seeking out a singular model is not always the best approach, as Conkey (2007:​ 299) notes, and many of the essays included here seek to create conceptual connections or meta­ theories that build on and/or bridge theoretical programs as advocated by Schiffer (2000:6–7) and others. Each chapter in this volume provides a ­social-​theoretical­approach that stems from a wide range of related disciplines and philosophical frameworks, including ­feminism, queer theory, performance theory, ­postcolonial theory, indigenous ontology, and cognitive ­studies (such as framing, semiotic structures, objectification, personification, and relatedness). The archaeological case studies in this volume answer the call of those like Culler who suggest that “there is little engagement with theory... in the old-fashioned sense of theory as ‘providing foundations and methods for further study’” (1994:13, 15, cited in Conkey 2007:299). This volume demonstrates that “high” social theory can be put into practice. While it is not without its challenges, it is a worthwhile endeavor that should not be abandoned, as some a­ rchaeologists have recently suggested (Smith 2011). Such “knowledge production” encourages dialogue within our broader field of anthropology and ­strengthens the discipline of archaeology. It is one of the primary goals of the volume to encourage the development of social-theoretical models that can be tested and further cross-examined in other archaeological contexts. The combination of innovative theoretical applications and supporting archaeological data, as

xii

well as the use of theoretical pluralism, and the emphasis on interdisciplinary research make this volume a significant scholarly contribution to the field of anthropological archaeology. The volume is intended for archaeologists but also will be of interest to a broad range of scholars in socio­cultural anthropology, history, and art history, among other fields. I have no doubt that the case studies and exciting theoretical applications presented herein will stimulate both interest and debate among scholars working in and outside of Mesoamerica. I would like to thank James Skibo, the editor of the Foundations of Archaeological Inquiry series, for expressing his interest in publishing this volume. I am very grateful to Reba Rauch, the acquisitions editor of the University of Utah Press, for all her support throughout the publication process. I wish to thank the participants of the AAA symposium, including the three discussants — ​Barbara Stark, Patricia McAnany, and Scott Hutson. As I organized the volume, I wanted to incorporate a wider area of Mesoamerica and include more diverse regions of study. In this regard, I am pleased that Richard Lesure, D ­ avid Carballo, Jennifer Carballo, Travis W. Stanton, Donald A. Slater, Scott Johnson, and David Haskell could join the original participants of the session. I would like to thank two anonymous reviewers who provided constructive feedback, which served to strengthen the volume. I also thank Christina Dokopoulos for all her hard work and production assistance with the volume. Finally, I am grateful to David Buck for his support and constant encouragement throughout the project and dedicate the volume to him.

1

Current Theory and Practice in the Archaeology of Power and Identity An Introduction Eleanor Harrison-Buck

“Theory” is often dismissed as being either “not real archaeology” (which is, it seems, mostly digging), or “too abstract” for the real on-the-ground work of archaeology. —Margaret W. Conkey (2007:286)

One of the most common criticisms in the field of anthropological archaeology with regard to social theory is the lack of strong case studies and corroborating facts supporting the abstract and often complex social-theoretical concepts presented by scholars. The contributions in this volume address this weak link in the “knowledge production” in archaeology noted by Conkey (2007) and others and focuses on the intersection of theory and archaeological practice. This group of chapters represents a diverse set of archaeological studies in Mesoamerican scholar­ ship that are all theoretically rooted to larger, global debates concerning issues of power and identity — ​two logically paired concepts. Identity formation often involves a confrontation with another group and a struggle for power, be it class distinction, ethnic affiliation, gender, religious belief, and so on (Insoll 2007:1). Case studies and bodies of theory brought to bear in this volume are aimed at addressing these two major “problem domains” in archaeology and consider an array of theoretical contexts in the study of archaeological ­phenomena (Yoffee and Sherratt 1993). How we approach structures of power and identity

impacts our theory and practice in archaeology. Being explicit about one’s method and theory provides a conscious recognition of where one stands in relation to structures of power and prestige. . . [and] helps us perceive how deeply our gendered selves (as well as other attributes of race, ethnicity, class, etc.) structure our ways of encountering the world, even our scholarship, our science [Nelson 2004:6]. Each chapter in this volume provides a social approach to archaeology that stems from a wide range of related disciplines and philosophical frameworks, including feminist theory, performance theory, indigenous ontology, p ­ ostcolonial theory, and cognitive studies. Surprisingly, some scholars are now advocating that we abandon such “high-level” social theory in favor of more parsimonious and empirically grounded theoretical explanations and focus on building more bridges with other disciplines, such as the sciences (Smith 2010, 2011).1 The case studies presented herein demonstrate that this is not an either/or state of affairs and that empirical data 1

Eleanor Harrison-Buck

and more abstract social theory can go hand in hand. To abandon our work in certain areas of social theory in favor of strictly empirical or socalled scientific explanation in archaeology would not only marginalize key “problem domains” of our research but also inhibit a broader dialogue within our own field of anthropology, where important and relevant social and theoretical insights can be gleaned. The contributors to this volume advocate alternative and varied approaches to understanding social phenomena, aimed at opening up new areas of exploration in archaeological theory and practice. The emphasis on interdisciplinary research and the use of theoretical pluralism, as well as the combination of innovative method and theory, makes this collection of essays an important contribution to the field of anthropological archaeology.

web” that operates as fluctuating cycles of political integration and separation of social segments at multiple scales (Stark, this volume). This theory of power has its roots in feminist and critical thinking and builds on Miller and Tilley’s (1984) model of power in archaeology born out of PostProcessualism. This concept of power relies on the social-theoretical work of Foucault and Marx and focuses on human agency “understandable only as it [is] historically constituted by social relations” (Miller and Tilley 1984:4). These social theorists define “power as ubiquitous in all social relations, [but focus] on how subjects are produced by cultural institutions, rather than the other way around” (Sweely 1999:2). In his theory of structuration, Giddens (1984) expands on Foucault’s notion of power, arguing that power is an interactive relationship and an ongoing flow of activities continually shaped and changed by both structural conditions and the actions of all people. More recently, feminist anthropologists, such as Sweely (1999:1), have suggested that power relations (except in extreme cases of domination) are negotiated and constructed vis-à-vis public discourse and individual opinion and action, which, in turn, affect structures of a­ uthority. This concept of power reinforces the notion that “contesting interests rather than the directives of an apparently dominating faction within a society...is the driving force of culture change” (Sweely 1999:3). The strength of Sweely’s (1998, 1999) model is its consideration of power beyond large-scale, dominant structures, but its hyperindividualism fails to explain stasis in the archaeological record. In many ways, it is at odds with numerous ethnoarchaeological studies concerning nonWestern­societies that point to an overarching need to conform to social rules. Stasis or conservatism in cultural traditions or ideological institutions is not necessarily a reflection of repressive power. More likely, it represents choices that are socially informed actions and conveys information about social practice and the degree of shared ideological and/or functional concepts among various social groups (Stark 1998). According to H ­ odder (1977:​261–264), the need to conform both discourages innovation and produces the differences in the distribution of material culture between social groups that define one’s identity. Yet, as ­Giddens (1984) notes, it is this very ten-

The Archaeology of Power and Identity

While social identity in archaeology has been the focus of more critical analysis in recent years (e.g., Berdan et al. 2008; Casella and Fowler 2005; Diaz-Andreu et al. 2005; Insoll 2007; Meskell 1999, 2001, 2002; Shennan 1989; Stark 1998), the concept of power has received less attention in contemporary theory and practice (Walker and Schiffer 2006:69). Most studies of power in archaeology focus on large-scale, institutional forms, such as the development of the political state, public architecture, and objects of royal investiture. Frequently, models of social power are defined in terms of authority structures, where political dominance is a conscious “strategy” on the part of elites (Clark and Blake 1994; ­DeMarrais et al. 1996; Paynter and McGuire 1991; ­Rosenswig 2000, 2007; Smith 2011). This approach to power tends to disregard the actual individuals operating within these large-scale power structures, outside of the dominant group: “The resulting definition of power makes it difficult to view the concept outside of a hierarchical, dominanceoriented­framework” (Sweely 1999:1). More recent studies of power in archaeology advocate a shift in theoretical perspective, emphasizing relations of power, rather than placing the sole focus on the dominant group (Fowler 2001; Sweely 1999). Power is not passive or static but can be viewed as part of a complex “scalar 2

Current Theory and Practice in the A rchaeology of Power and Identity

sion between the social structures and people (the agency that reproduces the social conditions) that can also lead to social change. Ethnographic studies illustrate the close relationship between power and identity and reinforce the notion that both are (re)generated and (re)defined through widely shared social constructs. In many respects, current theories on relations of identity in archaeology directly apply to relations of power — ​both can be defined based on “a shared understanding of how things are done” (Stark 1998:4–5), rather than the coercive nature of a single individual or a dominant cultural institution. In this heterarchical sense of moral order, power and identity are sanctioned by a larger social network (Brück 2004; Gillespie 2001; Lucero 2003, 2006; McAnany 1995; Potter 2000b). In such cases, identities defined based on kin ties, eso­teric knowledge, military p ­ rowess, and/or ritual performance on the part of the ruler may confer power, status, and wealth, but a shared ideology and solidarity among subordinates is a necessary component for legitimizing social distinctions (Haskell, this volume; Hutson et al., this volume; Stockett 2007:92). More recently, relational models of power and identity have been proposed that are less anthropocentric, including the agency of objects, inspired by the writings of scholars such as Alfred Gell, Bruno Latour, and Tim Ingold (e.g., Gillespie 2001, 2008b; Hendon 2010 and this volume; Knappett and Malafouris 2008). Scholars of archaeology are currently engaging in a dialogue “about the nature of ontology, materiality, agency and the respective roles ‘objects’ and ‘subjects’ play as agents in the world” (Alberti and Bray 2009:337). Approaches to relational, objectbased agency theory have led to a conversation about our assumptions concerning a universal Western ontology, and some consider the possibility of multiple ontologies or worlds, rather than multiple worldviews (Alberti and Marshall 2009; Henare et al. 2007; Holbraad 2009; but see Fowles 2010).

chaeology and integrate native perspectives (Brown and Emery 2008; Harrison-Buck 2012 and this volume; Houston et al. 2006:57–81). In his chapter, Matthew Looper critiques Western theatrical models traditionally applied to Aztec and Maya ritual performance. He examines an alternative ontological status for dance and suggests that it was an animating practice that embodied both structure and real action or agency. Looper presents a wide range of data (mural art, painted pottery, glyphic texts, and ethnohistories) that suggest that these dance performances were mental concepts imbued with ideological power. He concludes that the use of Western theatrical models and the concept of ideology in theatrical theories of representation is problematic. Meso­american dance performances are nonlinear presentations constituted through physical embodiment and feeling or sensation, rather than the clearly delineated and objectified field of communication between actor and audience that defines the European notion of theater. Looper emphasizes that Mesoamerican dance p ­ erformance was not a reenactment that was separate from the world it represented. On the contrary, performers transformed into gods, and captives were compelled to dance before their hearts were extracted. The dance embodied physical and spiritual transformation that resulted in “real” consequences. In this way, dance embodied relations of power that were continuously (re)structured through the action of ritual performance. Case studies presented herein avoid “essentialist” explanations by addressing power and identity formation in the context of ongoing performance and ritual practice, as well as social engagement and daily human activity (­Pauketat 2001:​7 5; Preucel and Hodder 1996:308–309). While materiality — ​“the stock and trade of the archaeologist” — ​in many ways is essentialist in its final context, it is best viewed as part of a larger process reflected in the material record (Thomas 2000:​153–154), that is, the process actors themselves deployed in the act of constructing, maintaining, and negotiating different social structures and actions over time (Barth, ed. 1969:6; see also Gosselain 2000). This is perhaps best exemplified in the chapter by Richard Lesure, Jennifer Carballo, and David Carballo, who examine gradual changes in four iconic traditions from central

Overview of the Volume

In Mesoamerican archaeology, more explicit theoretical models and analytical methodologies for approaching ontological alterity have been recently put forth in an attempt to decolonize ar3

Eleanor Harrison-Buck

Tlaxcala, ­Mexico, that occurred over a millennium, developing throughout the Formative period. They present an analytical framework that examines the interplay between style and iconography and suggest that the materiality and iconicity of images form a potentially powerful role for interpreting subject matter and form. Their work builds on Gell’s (1998) theory of “distributed objects” as “extended minds” and Freedberg’s (1989) study of “the power of images,” which examines people’s cognitive response to images. Lesure and colleagues suggest that as inherited practices of fabrication, iconic traditions develop through shared ritual and daily practice. Formed by community structure and action, the iconic traditions of Formative Tlaxcala represent a powerful locus of social memory and were embedded within a group’s collective identity and experience, reproduced and redefined over time. The chapter by Scott Hutson, Aline Magnoni, Travis Stanton, Donald Slater, and Scott Johnson is also concerned with the construction of memory and identity, as well as shifting power, in this case across a landscape. The authors present the results of a recent total-coverage archaeological survey in the center of the Northern Maya lowlands. Their survey revealed changing features of the built environment (new architectural patterns, ritual use of subterranean features, and road networks connecting sites) that point to shifting population with the development of new settlements over time. Hutson and colleagues suggest that these elements of the cultural landscape were both the result of and the trigger for ongoing, dynamic power struggles in the past. Like others in this volume, these scholars view power as relational and negotiated, rather than forcibly imposed by a dominant elite. Hutson et al.’s study illustrates how shared human experience imbues a place with power, identity, and social memory and, in some cases, can transform ambient space into a contested, cultural landscape. Different social practices and domains of power (e.g., memory, ideology, warfare, and ritual performance) crosscut divisions of identity and group affiliation (e.g., status, ethnicity, kinship, gender, and age). These social formations are distinctive but often overlap and engage in active relationships with one another. Traci Ardren’s study addresses the intersection of gender iden-

tity, s­ tatus, and power in Classic Maya society and suggests that masculinity was not only a script for power relations between women and men but also determinative of power relations among men representing different forms of masculinity. In her chapter, Ardren presents a study of large carved stone phalli found primarily in the Northern Maya lowlands during the Late and Terminal Classic periods. Despite the prevalence of these disembodied male subjects, this northern sculptural tradition has rarely been the subject of serious scholarly consideration. Yet Ardren notes that the carvings represent important components of the social construction of masculinity — ​a topic often ignored by scholars because it is considered the de facto or normative social identity. She suggests that this art form expresses a regional identity and contains embedded dominant social values consistent with ideal conceptualizations of Classic Maya hegemonic masculine power. Ardren employs feminist and queer theories in her study to deconstruct this idealized gender identity seen in the phalli tradition with real practices expressive of lived experience, namely, with regard to ritual acts of penile bloodletting performed by the ancient Maya. Ardren concludes that rituals of penile bloodletting and other male/ male activities or forms of competition, such as the ballgame and warfare, allowed for the performance of masculinity among peers while also providing a forum in which cultural anxiety or ambivalence about male identity and power could be strictly defined and contained. The interconnections between different identities make it difficult, and sometimes even unproductive, to treat them separately (Insoll 2005; Meskell 1999, 2001, 2002). More holistic studies of identity that contextualize different social forms and deconstruct social domains reveal “the full spectrum of social difference” (Meskell 2001:197) and put into practice theories of identity formation. In her chapter, Claudia García-Des Lauriers adopts a contextual approach to social difference in order to discern ethnic identity at the site of Los Horocones on the Pacific coast of Chiapas, Mexico. Here, evidence of interaction with the distant central Mexican capital of Teotihuacán has been detected during the Early Classic period (ad 250–650). The presence and distribution of Teotihuacán-style architecture and iconography 4

Current Theory and Practice in the A rchaeology of Power and Identity

are examined, as well as artifacts associated with ritual deposits in both public and private spaces at Los Horocones. García-Des Lauriers’s study theorizes ethnicity through the lens of practice theory and reveals how power and identity are negotiated through multiple scales of ritual performance and participation. She explores the social implications of Teotihuacán’s power and influence outside the Basin of Mexico and concludes that Teotihuacán represented an encompassing corporate identity at Los Horocones. As a “gateway city” between central Mexico and other parts of southern Mesoamerica, Los Horocones likely contained multiple ethnic groups. In García-Des Lauriers’s excavations of the smaller public spaces, such as Group B, where more intimate public rituals took place at Los Horocones, she suggests that a more hetero­doxic discourse of identity is reflected in the material culture. García-Des Lauriers and other contributors to this volume argue that social formations, particularly with regard to power and status, “may be fossilized in architecture, spatial patterns, mortuary customs, and style,” among other material contexts (Hendon 1991:894). Monuments, objects, and buildings often have distinct “­ritual life-​ histories­” (Brown 2004:35) that undergo cycles of spiritual birth and death (Stross 1998a). Julia Hendon’s chapter addresses how objects of human manufacture are imbued with spiritual power or coessences and can serve as an extension of the self, following Gell’s (1998) sense of “distributed” personhood. As personified objects, these materials undergo ritual birth (or animation) and death (or deanimation) through their interaction with the people who made and used them (see also Brown 2004:34–35; Freidel et al. 1993; Hendon 2010; Sanchez 2005; Stross 1998a; Van Dyke and Alcock 2003:5–6; Walker 1995, 1999, 2008). In the present volume, Hendon applies this semiotic theory of relational personhood to an analysis of architecture, stone sculpture and monuments, clay figurines, pottery vessels, and mundane tools from both ceremonial and domestic contexts of Formative, Classic, and Terminal Classic period societies in Honduras. Hendon argues that relational personhood offers a conceptual framework that sheds new light on the active role objects played within these societies, expanding our understanding not only of Mesoamerica but of how

identities and relations of spiritual power are created with and through objects. Contributions in this volume examine f­ acets of ideological, political, and economic power in ancient Mesoamerican society. Relations of power and powerful agents are present in all societies but vary in their scope and scale, ranging from g­ entle and benign to large and extreme in measure and impact (Arnold 2000:14–15). Conquest states such as the Aztec and Tarascan empires of Mexico exemplify the extreme end of authoritative power. David Haskell’s chapter discusses the process by which a Tarascan king encompassed subordinate nobles. His case study examines recent data excavated from Erongarícuaro, a secondary administrative center in the core of the Tarascan kingdom. Haskell combines agency theory with concepts of distributed personhood to explain how the king, in effect, transformed the lords into an extension of his own identity. Haskell’s model of identity and power conjoins several approaches to hierarchy and encompassment presented by Dumont (1980) and Turner (1984) and applies Gell’s (1998) definition of primary and secondary agency and the notion of indexical relationships between objects and persons (cf. Gillespie 2008b for a discussion of indexicality, encompassment, and self-magnification of kingly identity in the Maya area). Using these abstract theoretical concepts, Haskell ­conceptualizes a process of encompassment whereby a primary agent (the Tarascan king) “invests” an object with his own agency and produces an unambiguous material signature that witnesses recognize as an indexical signification of the primary agent. Haskell’s study illustrates how the lords of Erongarícuaro were transformed into encompassed secondary agents of the Tarascan king via “invested” material objects, namely, lapidary works that marked their status as nobles. Like Haskell and Hendon, I incorporate elements of a semiotic theory of distributed person­ hood in my own chapter but also consider the relevance of Bird-David’s (1999) theory of “relatedness” among the ancient Maya. I e­ xamine deposits consisting of defaced elite objects and residential architecture. My study demonstrates that such deposits are strongly patterned and found at many sites across a broad area of the Maya lowlands during the so-called collapse 5

Eleanor Harrison-Buck

period (ca. ad 760–900). I interpret these patterned deposits as the “causal remains” of endemic, enemy-waged warfare aimed at killing the vital force (or ch’ulel) imbued in the personal objects and residential architecture of the elite. Using ethnographic comparisons, I suggest that the social practices that (re)produced these material signatures served to disembed elite power. As a prescribed ritual practice, “termination activity” continued to have “real” agency long after the actual warring event. That most of these termination deposits remain undisturbed implies to me that a relational ontology existed among these Maya groups whereby an “other-thanhuman­” power (sensu Hallowell 1960) prohibited scavenging and/or reoccupation of these spaces. I conclude that these deposits marked important thresholds where human and other-than-human agents interacted and, in this way, resemble BirdDavid’s (1999) concept of “relatedness” — ​a different way of knowing the world that emphasizes one’s relationship with it (see also Alberti and Bray 2009; Harvey 2006; Ingold 2006). My study highlights the complex and long-lived processes that materiality undergoes in the archaeological record (cf. Meskell 2001:189). Two commentary essays round out the volume. Both discuss the commonalities and problematic dimensions of power and identity in the studies presented herein and consider how the chapters in this volume contribute to broader debates in archaeology. Patricia McAnany frames her commentary discussion around two main themes: performance of power relations and crafting of identity. She notes how contributors in this volume share a practice/performancebased approach and view power as relational, rather than as a dominant, “top-down” ­hierarchy. McAnany observes how a number of the contributions reflect a broader ontological shift in the field of anthropology toward a distinctly indigenous Mesoamerican perspective that critiques Western bias embedded in traditional interpretations of the Mesoamerican past. Barbara Stark presents a second commentary where she discusses past and present approaches to power and identity. She identifies three shared principles among the chapters included in this volume: the importance of the moral economy, practice- and agent-based approaches, and commoner life as a

locus of actions. Woven through these remarks are the topics of social change, scales of analysis, methodologies, and cultural meanings in relation to power and identity. Stark suggests that an important next step in future studies of power and identity is a consideration of social and economic change. She highlights the importance of considering comparative perspectives, a variety of specific times and places, and multiple scales of analysis in order to contextualize and account for change. Both commentaries situate these studies historically and raise new questions for future research in the archaeology of power and identity. Conclusions

Generally speaking, much of the twentieth century was dominated by an “interpretive” archaeology, with scholarship focused on exposing the “symbolism and meaning” behind objects of power and identity. In this volume, contributors are asking not just what the objects (e.g., the artifacts, art, architecture) mean but also the more complicated question of what these objects do as constitutive forms of power and identity, examining the relationships, contexts, and practices that serve as pivotal thresholds for ongoing power relations and identity formation. The studies presented herein conjoin embodied social structures of both power and identity relations with action or agency theory (see Archer 1982; Giddens 1979, 1984), akin to Lesure’s definition of structures as “frameworks of beliefs and practices that help to create different kinds of agents and to distribute powers and constraints among them” (2004:80; see also Lesure 2005). This practice-based approach acknowledges the reality of structural constraints of various kinds that are advocated in many past theoretical paradigms but also considers agency or “the processes that produce and reproduce those constraints — ​social practices” (Ortner 2006:2). This volume demonstrates that “high” social theory can be put into practice and that, while it poses challenges, it should not be abandoned as part of the anthropological project. This kind of “knowledge production” strengthens the discipline of archaeology, encouraging the development of social-theoretical models that have been tested and can be further cross-examined in other archaeological contexts. 6

Current Theory and Practice in the A rchaeology of Power and Identity

Note 1. Michael Smith (2011) has recently proposed an “empirical urban theory.” Similar to a phenomenological approach, empirical urban theory attempts to link the built environment to the actions of people within it and incorporates ideas concerning “monumentality, access, visibility, planning, and levels of meaning” in such landscapes (Smith 2011:168). Under this approach, Smith defines an “architectural communication theory” that “relates to Rapoport’s model of middle-level meaning, in which deliberate statements about identity, status, wealth, power, and other traits are communicated directly through buildings and cities” (2011:174). This approach resembles Wobst’s (1977) theoretical ­approach to style. In an attempt to place style in a less passive role, Wobst (1977) suggested that group identity is consciously communicated through certain styles of material culture highly visible to all members of a social group, such as public archi-

tecture. Wobst’s theory has been critiqued over the years by a number of scholars (e.g., Dietler and Herbich 1998; Hegmon 1992, 1998) who question how accurate these public “displays” are as material reflections of community-wide social identity, based on comparative ethnoarchaeological studies. Some conclude that style is not necessarily “a deliberate manipulation of highly visible aspects of the material world” (Gosselain 2000:188) and that studies of identity necessitate more sophisticated ways of interpreting material culture (Lightfoot and Martinez 1995). Diachronic studies that consider multiple lines of evidence and examine both style and technology may offer a more effective means for understanding the construction, maintenance, and negotiation of social identity, as well as power in the archaeological record (in addition to the examples in this volume, see also Harrison-Buck et al. 2012; Masson 1997; Stark, ed. 1998).

7

2

Dance, Power, and Ideology in Ancient Maya and Aztec Society Matthew G. Looper

Dance performance was a culturally significant and pervasive ritual form in ancient Mesoamerica. Scholarship focuses on the dance traditions of two prominent civilizations, the Aztecs of central Mexico and the Maya. Much of what is known about Aztec dance derives from the encyclopedic ethnographies compiled during the sixteenth century, particularly by the friars Bernardino de Sahagún and Diego Durán. In contrast, only brief descriptions of Maya dance survive from the early years of European contact, such as ­Diego de L ­ anda’s Relación de las cosas de Yucatán. However, these data are supplemented by extensive textual documentation and images of dance from the Late Classic period (ad 600–900 [Grube 1992; Looper 2009]). Although Maya and Aztec ritual dance d ­ iffer in certain details, many features were shared. In particular, one might cite the ­religious focus of performance (Kurath and Martí 1964). For both cultures, dance had strong sacrificial connotations and was often part of ritual cycles ­structured according to the sacred calendar (­Sahagún 1951; Tozzer 1941). Aztec and Maya dance was also generally communal, with m ­ ultiple performers and a collective audience. It involved inter­media presentation (combined with song, i­ nstrumental m ­ usic, and comic sketches), ­frequent ­performance in temple and plaza locations as well as secluded venues, and the use of specialized training facilities (popol otot for the Maya, cuicacalli for the ­Aztec [Durán 1971:​289–292; Stevenson 1968:5]).

The staging of dances in sacred centers stressed the role of ritual movement in sustaining the ­cosmos. In addition, both cultures shared a reliance on elaborate costumes, body paint, masks, and other apparatus such as stilts, litters, or platforms (Sahagún 1951). Finally, dance had a political context, though this differed somewhat owing to the divergent political structures of the two civilizations. For the Maya, dance often related to dynastic succession and articulated a complex system of alliances and dependencies among r­ ival city-states. In contrast, the Aztec system integrated ceremonies on a regional scale to reinforce imperial power (see Durán 1971:​92–93). However, both societies performed dances to petition divinities for success in warfare (Sten 1990:​44). Presumably, many of the parallels in dance traditions between these two cultures stem from their development within the Mesoamerican sphere of cultural interchange. During nearly five centuries of research on ancient Mesoamerican religion and ritual, scholars have invoked theatrical metaphors to describe these dances. This usage is rooted in the history of intercultural contact in the early colonial period (sixteenth and seventeenth centuries), when late medieval and Renaissance notions of theatrical performance were systematically imposed upon, and hybridized with, native traditions (­Horcasitas 1974; Mosquera 2004; Ravicz 1970; Sell 2004). To the chroniclers, ancient Mesoamerican dances were understood as theatrical representations 8

Dance, Power, and Ideology in Ancient Maya and Aztec Society

and described using terms such as teatro and entremés. During the mid–twentieth century, for reasons related to cultural politics, some ­scholars devoted much energy to demonstrating that ancient Mesoamericans had theater in the classical Greek sense of the term (Taylor 1991). Even today, Aztec specialists commonly use theatrical metaphors, including the term teatro/theater, to describe the multimedia dance performances of Late Postclassic central Mexico (Broda 1987:100; Carrasco 1991:37, 1999:141; Clendinnen 1991:92). Max Harris refers to Aztec festival performances as “a form of spectacular ceremonial or traditional theater” (2000:94). Beginning in the 1980s, several scholars revitalized this dramaturgical metaphor through the designation of Maya and Aztec societies as “theater states” and public rituals as “­political ­theater” (Carrasco 1991:37; Demarest 1984, 1992b, 2004:​ 206–207; Houston 2006:139; Ino­mata 2001, 2006a, 2006b). This model was adapted from theories of ritual performance in relation to state power within the negara (city-states) of n ­ ineteenth-​ century Bali (Geertz 1980; Tambiah 1976, 1977). According to this controversial theory, the ideal negara was a relatively weak city-state in which ritual expressions of ideology, rather than military coercion or economic control, maintained social order (cf. Hauser-Schäublin­2003). The rituals sponsored by the negara included l­ avish displays of wealth, manifestations of divinity, and exhibitions of largesse such as feasting. These rites unfolded in a cosmologically orientated court/capital, which provided the model of civilized existence. At the center of the negara was the sacred person of the king, whose prestige was directly related to these ceremonial displays. The perceived economic weakness and emphasis on ritual in Maya kingdoms made this analogy particularly attractive to Maya archaeologists. Several scholars have already observed that theatrical terminology and concepts may not be useful for ancient Mesoamerican performance. Referring to Aztec rites, Louise Burkhart stated, “Despite an affinity for costumes, impersonation, and recitation, the Nahuas at the time of the conquest had no concepts of ‘theater,’ ‘stage,’ ‘actor,’ ‘script,’ ‘audience,’ or ‘play’ as such” (1996:45). More recently, Diana Taylor (2004:354) has noted a series of important disjunctions between pre-

hispanic American (mainly Aztec and Inka) ritual performances and the European concepts of the theater, including linearity, representation (mimesis), and ephemerality, concluding that these theoretical concepts occlude as much as they clarify. In a similar vein, I have argued elsewhere that the dances performed by ancient Maya rulers had transactional or presentational rather than representational functions (Looper 2009). The dances served as a medium for the display, consumption, and distribution of luxurious and sacred foods, objects, and images. In the present chapter, I discuss the conceptual linkages between the notion of ideology, which is central to the theory of the theater state, and European theories of the theater. My goal is to peer into the shadow cast by the concept of ideology as it is presently employed in the interpretation of ancient Mesoamerican dance performance, thereby revealing some of the ways in which this highly loaded concept colors our understanding of ancient Mesoamerican ritual and its relationship to political power. Rather than attempting a comprehensive review of the complex and controversial issue of ideology, this chapter describes the dependence of the concept of i­deology on theatrical theories of representation.1 The crosscultural­validity of this concept can be effectively critiqued in light of the data on Aztec and Maya dance. Dance and Theories of Theatrical Representation

European theorists as diverse as Aristotle and Antonin Artaud share the notion of theater as representation or construct (see Harris 2005:37–44; Taylor 2004:353). Scholars and dramatists usually differ, however, as to where they place ­theater on the continuum between pure realism and abstraction.2 There is also debate concerning the precise meaning of Aristotle’s concept of mimesis, which Harris (2005:42) argues is not merely the realistic depiction of life by the actor but the presentation of types via a narrative that inspires reflective thought in the audience. The debate about mimesis and representation can be traced to the typical division of the theatrical field of performance into the three horizons of performer, audience, and text. Hans-Georg Gadamer (1975:273) argues that, in the European tradition, theatrical 9

Matthew G. Looper

american dance, the “text” embodied in dance movement, costume, and song was not separate from the world that it represented. For example, in Aztec festivals, dance was essential to the transformation of performers into gods, prior to their sacrifice. Typically, these performers were either war captives or slaves purchased for sacrificial purposes. In the early stages of the conquest, captives, including even Spaniards, were compelled to dance before their hearts were extracted. ­Sahagún describes a characteristic example for the feast of Tititl, the seventeenth month, which honored the aged earth goddess: Upon [this] feast died a person named Ilama tecutli — ​[one in] her likeness, a ceremonially bathed [slave]. The majordomos procured her. . . . And before she died, she danced. The old men beat the drums for her; the singers sang for her — ​they intoned her song. And when she danced, she wept much, and she sighed; she felt anguish. For time was but short; the span was but brief before she would suffer, when she would reach her end on earth [1951:​143–144; see Figure 2.1]. Following this dance, the living goddess was led to the place of sacrifice in the temple, where her heart was cut out and she was decapitated. The head was then grasped by a second d ­ eity-​ performer­, who danced around the temple, marking time with the head: “And the vicar, the likeness, of Ilama tecutli, he thus danced: he stepped back, kicking his heels up behind him. And then he went off supporting himself upon his staff, a cane” (Sahagún 1951:144). On other occasions, persons dressed as deities participated in collective dances prior to their sacrifice. For example, elaborate festivities in honor of the god Tezcatlipoca were held during the month of Toxcatl. At the climax of these ceremonies, a living image of Ixteucale, companion of the war deity Huitzilopochtli, participated in a “serpent dance” with young men and women:

Figure 2.1. Impersonator of the Aztec deity Ilama tecutli dancing, Codex Borbonicus, Folio 34, early ­colonial period (drawing by the author).

r­ epresentation occurs through the double fusion of the textual horizon with those of the performer and audience (see also Turner 1987:24). The fusion of text with performer through a character’s actions and speech encompasses myth and/or history, while the fusion of text with audience embodies social relevance.3 This process enables the complex referential structure of theater, which imitates or denotes the worlds that exist beyond the performance. The differences between European concepts of theatrical representation and Mesoamerican dance aesthetics are marked, indicating fundamental differences in notions of signification and personification through performance. In Meso-

He danced with the others; he danced the serpent dance. He went first in line guiding the others. And purely of his free will, when he wished, he would die. When he wished, then he delivered himself to the place where he would die [Sahagún 1951:73]. 10

Dance, Power, and Ideology in Ancient Maya and Aztec Society

In order to understand why dance was crucial to the sacrifice of deity representatives, it is important to appreciate their status within the Aztec worldview. The term used to describe living gods was tēteō īxīptla, “images or representatives of gods.” This term derives from the roots teō, “god”; īx, “face, front”; and xīp, “skin.” Thus, the victims were not mere “impersonators” of divinity, to cite a widely used term of reference (Harris 2000:76; Thomas 1993:387). Rather, they were understood as avatars who gave the gods a physical face and body. Explaining the ritual function of these persons, Alfredo López Austin writes, It was not men who died, but gods — ​gods within a corporeal covering that made possible their ritual death on earth. If the gods did not die, their force would diminish in a progressively aging process. Men destined for sacrifice were temporarily converted into receptacles of divine fire, they were treated as gods, and they were made to live as the deity lived in legend. Their existence in the role of ixiptlatin, or “images,” could last from a few days up to four years [1988:I:377]. The dance performances of the tēteō īxīptlatin prior to their sacrifice can be interpreted as a sign that their transformation was not superficial. They were transformed into the divinity they represented. Aztec imitation was therefore not mimetic, as in a reenactment, but a performed embodiment and an animating act that rendered sacred forces present through the creation of a deity-image (Clendinnen 1991:253). Calendrical timing was critical in these ceremonies, suggesting that synchronicity of action was of fundamental importance in achieving divine embodiment and ritual efficacy. Rather than representing the supernatural realm symbolically, dance revealed a reality that was continuous with it (see Tomlinson 1996). Unfortunately, relatively little is known about the representational status of Maya dancers. Ancient Maya monuments and small-scale art preserve abundant images of performers wearing deity attributes; however, the terminology used to refer to this ritual is imperfectly understood. A glyphic compound, perhaps reading ub’aah(il) aan, has been identified as a reference to ritual “impersonation” in dance, though its precise

meaning is not clear (Houston et al. 2006:270). In Maya art, dancers often wear deity attributes clustered near the head, especially the headdress and mask, which may be rendered as a single unit. The state of deity transformation through dance may therefore focus on the head and face, similar to rituals suggested by the Aztec term īxīptla (face-skin). Maya texts and images do, however, provide evidence of characterizations as synchronous ritual transformations, similar to those of the Aztecs. In particular, humans merged with the characters they represented in dance through complex sequential and calendrically timed r­ ituals of training, purification, and especially adornment. Maya ceramics provide evidence of the importance of costuming for dance, d ­ epicting numerous scenes of nobles being dressed in f­ eathers, jewelry, and body paint by male and female attendants. The Room 1 mural from Bonampak shows an elaborate scene of three dancers being adorned in complex dance costumes with feather back racks on one wall, while the opposite wall shows the same dancers fully dressed, in performance (Figure 2.2; see Houston 1984; Looper 2009:61–72; Miller 1986). The paradigm for this transformation was the Maize God’s triumphant dance of resurrection, following his adornment with feathers and jewelry (see Looper 2009:114–131; Taube 2009). These preparations provided the basis for additional psychosomatic transformations that unfolded during the course of the performance. Techniques included feasting, singing, instrumental music, genital bloodletting, and captive sacrifice, in addition to the expected rhythmic, stylized movements and gestures. Ancient Maya dancers also partook of entheogens or other ­consciousness-​altering substances such as alcohol. There was thus a fundamental qualitative distinction between the techniques by which a dancer “gets into character” in Mesoamerican and European traditions. Dance and Theatrical Concepts of Communication

Returning to the European theatrical formula of performer-text-audience, a further point of disjunction with Mesoamerican dance aesthetics is evident. In particular, the third element, or the audience, is typically conceived as human, with 11

Matthew G. Looper

The University of Utah Press does not hold electron rights to display this image. To view it, please refer to the print version of this title.

Figure 2.2. Bonampak Room 1 mural, detail of main dancers, south wall (illustration by Heather Hurst with Leonard Ashby. Courtesy of the Bonampak Documentation Project, Mary Ellen Miller, © Bonampak Documentation Project).

penitential dance and mahcēhualiztli as a dance of rejoicing, López Austin (1997:​186) and LeónPortilla (1985:​28) observe that the documents that describe sacred ritual dance regularly use terms derived from ihtōtiā. The etymologies of these terms for ritual dance are revealing. The term ihtōtiā probably derives from the word for “speak,” ihtōa, plus -tiā, a causative suffix (López Austin 1997:187). Thus, according to López Austin, in Nahuatl, “to dance” is literally “to cause to speak or express.” This usage underscores the fundamental role of dance in Aztec society as a medium for divine revelation and communion through sacrifice. The other word for dancing, mahcēhu(a), is related to a series of terms for penance or making merit (Karttunen 1983:​130; see also Siméon 2002:244), for example, • mahcehua, tla-. they perform penance. b.4 f.7 • mahcehua, qui-. he achieves it; he gains it as his desert. b.8 f.5 • mahcehual, in-. their merit. b.4 f.4 • mahcehuale. one who deserves; one who has merit; person of merit. b.4 f.17

the goal of the performance to address, influence, and even entertain (see Beeman 1993:383–384; Schechner 1988:137; Turner 1987:147–148). Indeed, as Harris (2005:59) observes, it is difficult to envision theatrical performance taking place without an audience. Although people did observe dance performances in ancient Mesoamerica, the audience for dance ranged from passive observers to participants, depending on the nature of the rite (Harris 2000:95). Moreover, Mesoamerican dance was explicitly cosmological, rather than humanistic in focus. This orientation is most clearly expressed in the basic terminology for dance. For the ancient Maya, the term ahk’ot referenced ceremonial dance, especially by male rulers (Grube 1992). The main sign (T516) used to indicate “dance” was also employed in phrases referring to the offering of gifts to the gods, suggesting a possible ­semantic relationship between these terms.4 The connection between terms for “dance” and “make an offering” is especially clear in modern Yucatec: Compare óok’ot, “dance,” to ok’ot b’a, “to pray, intercede and defend someone, and thus prayer and intercession” (Acuña 1978:19).5 In Nahuatl, two verbal roots are used with reference to sacred ritual dance (usually translated as bailar, danzar): itotia (ihtōtiā) and maceua (mahcēhu[a] [Karttunen 1983:101, 130; Molina 2001:​18r]).6 From these are derived the nouns netōtiliztli and mahcēhualiztli (Molina 2001:50v, 71r). Although it is traditional for scholars to follow Motolinía’s designation of netōtiliztli as a

Miguel León-Portilla explains the cosmological function of dance among the Aztecs: The key concept of tlamacehua denotes the primary and essential relation human beings have with their gods. These, through their own penance and sacrifice, deserved — ​brought in existence — ​human beings. The gods did this because they were in need of someone who 12

Dance, Power, and Ideology in Ancient Maya and Aztec Society

The University of Utah Press does not hold electron rights to display this image. To view it, please refer to the print version of this title.

Figure 2.3. Dance of God K impersonator before enthroned lord dressed for dance depicted on an Ik’-style vessel (MS1814.© Justin Kerr K4120).

and interpreter of the message (Beeman 1993:379; De Marinis 1993; Fischer-Lichte 1992:139–140; ­Pavis 1998:​395). This model underlies the assumption that Maya ritual performances including dance provided “objectified notions on which [the participants] could reflect and act” (Inomata 2006a:​819). However, the objectification of these displays should not be taken for granted. First, it should be noted that in both Aztec and Maya societies, as in Renaissance Europe, rulers assumed key roles as both dancers and witnesses of performance (Looper 2009:200; Sahagún 1951:151–152). In some Maya images, the roles are completely merged, such that rulers, dressed for dance performance, sit upon thrones observing other performers who dance before them (Figure 2.3). The distinction between subject (audience) and object (actor) in such a case is difficult to define. Maya elites may also have believed that they enjoyed heightened aesthetic experiences compared with commoners (Houston et al. 2006:141, 156, 173– 175). Nobles not only presented themselves as the centers of aesthetic interest but considered themselves to possess superhuman senses of hearing, sight, and smell. Maya dancers often peered into mirrors during performance, with the reflected image averted from the gaze of the rest of the participants (Looper 2009:225). This suggests that the perceptual field of audiences and p ­ erformers was far from uniform, with an emphasis on the aesthetic experience of the elites, to whom the

would worship them, someone who would provide them, the gods, with sustenance so that they could continue to foster life on earth. They could not, however, do this without human cooperation. There was to be a reciprocal obligation between the gods and humanity. People also had to perform tlamacehualiztli (“penance, the act of deserving through sacrifice”), including the bloody sacrifice of offering human beings [1993:43–44]. The term mahcēhu(a), therefore, underscores the meaning of dance for the Aztecs, just as it did for the ancient Maya, as a sacrificial rite. The dance of a tēteō īxīptla opened the path to the spiritual world, simultaneously enabling the sacrifice of the god for human benefit as well as transforming human life into a form suitable for divine consumption. The profound sacrificial meaning of Mesoamerican dance contrasts markedly with the function of European “vernacular” religious dramas, which served to instruct a mostly illiterate audience (Harris 1992:49). The tripartite universe of audience, actor, and text posited by the Aristotelian dramaturgical model highlights symbolic communication as the most important function of performance. According to this model, the onstage world is a picture, a “symbolic reality” composed of its own discrete semiotic system, with the actors producing the sign, the onstage action and dialogue as the sign vehicle, and the audience as the recipient 13

Matthew G. Looper

The University of Utah Press does not hold electron rights to display this image. To view it, please refer to the print version of this title.

Figure 2.4. Bonampak Room 3 mural, detail of main dancers, east, south, and west walls (illustration by Heather Hurst with Leonard Ashby. Courtesy of the Bonampak Documentation Project, Mary Ellen Miller, © Bonampak Documentation Project).

sensory arrays of the dances were specifically directed. Like most hieroglyphic inscriptions, the documented Classic Maya dance performances seem to have an overwhelmingly elite and supernatural orientation. In addition, unlike European dramatic traditions, Mesoamerican performance especially among the Aztecs tends to violate the context of the “stage.” Both Maya and Aztec dance performances included sequences that took place on elevated pyramid platforms, inside temples, or within “palace” courts, invisible to persons assembled in the relatively accessible plaza areas (Burkhart 1996:44; Looper 2009:179, 185–186). These performances unfolded simultaneously in multiple locations and often over the course of a number of days (Harris 2000:94–95). Maya art provides evidence of this discontinuous performance structure, through the depiction of different dances within distinct visual fields. Examples include the late eighth-century ­ B onampak ­murals, which relegate images of dances performed as part of a single ceremonial cycle to disconnected rooms of a building (Figures 2.2 and 2.4; see Miller 1986). Likewise, in scenes from Ik’-style pottery painting, successive dances associated with the accession and martial rites of a ruler are depicted on separate cylinder vessels (e.g., Figure 2.3; Reents-Budet et al. 2000). The complex, nonlinear, obscured, and spatially unbounded qualities of Mesoamerican dance performances thus violate conventional models of

the communicative act, with its emphasis on the seamless transmission of clear, coherent messages between performer (sender) and audience (receiver). The nonpropositional character of Maya and Aztec dance raises important questions concerning the textuality of these performances. Despite the fact that many contemporary Mesoamerican performances involve written scripts, there is little concrete evidence to support the contention that ancient performances were scripted. Burkhart (1996:43) states that Mesoamerican performances mainly involved visual communication through gesture and costume, rather than through verbal narratives. For the ancient Maya, a single text, the inscription from Hieroglyphic Stairway 4 at Dos Pilas (dated ca. 682–684), has been cited as a performance script (Houston et al. 2006:​272). The topmost step of this monument describes a “victory” dance performance by the ruler B’alaj Chan K’awiil. This dance may have commemorated three previous victories of the ruler over his enemies that are recorded on the lower steps. Although there is no additional evidence to confirm it, this dance may have acted out each of these events in the form of a historical drama. In some sense, then, the text of the stairway might be a script that served as a t­emplate for dance performances. Other than this, only the general co-occurrence of singers with d ­ ancers suggests the importance of the concept of a script to Maya dance. 14

Dance, Power, and Ideology in Ancient Maya and Aztec Society

For the Aztecs, the closest approximation to a script for dance is the songs that frequently accompanied it. In central Mexico, song and dance were related through terms such as cuicoyanoa, “to harmonize a song with a dance” (León-Portilla­ 1985:27–28). The training of young people in song and dance was part of basic universal education. While schools for commoners emphasized instruction in songs and dances of a religious nature, nobles were required to attend the cuicacalli, “House of Song.” Here, boys and girls between the ages of 12 and 14 were taught songs and dances of heroes, kings, war, and love (Durán 1971:289– 292). Therefore, the songs that accompanied dances were known to the populace, which encouraged mass participation in ritual. The songs that accompanied sacred dance often consisted of hymns of praise directed to the gods, while other song/dance performances celebrated warfare, the good things in life (xopancuicatl), and erotic pleasure (León-Portilla 1985:​ 27–34). For some occasions, the tlahtoani decided which songs (and dances) were to be performed (Sahagún 1979:25). However, scholars disagree as to the degree to which the texts of these songs were fixed or improvised (see Burkhart 1996:45; León-Portilla 1992). The inclusive, participatory nature of ancient Mesoamerican dance performances, together with their intense focus on visual imagery and nonlinguistic sound (instrumental music), suggests a distinctive, nonrhetorical function of the “script.” This orientation differs markedly from the logocentric European drama, which usually features a verbal narrative content directed toward a human audience. The model of dance as a scripted act stems from the same dramaturgical metaphors that have inspired some of the most influential theories of performance in Mesoamerican archaeology. In particular, it brings to mind Judith Butler’s frequently cited theory of gender performativity, which posits identity as retroactively and tentatively constructed through discourse: The act that one does, the act that one performs, is, in a sense, an act that has been going on before one arrived on the scene. Hence, gender is an act which has been rehearsed, much as a script survives the particular actors who make use of it, but which requires indi15

vidual actors in order to be actualized and reproduced as reality once again [1990:277]. Although Butler’s semiotics of performance is primarily iconic-indexical rather than purely symbolic, it is an idealist perspective, reducing the performance event to the status of an object/text that is a sign for something else (see also Sandford 1999). The semiotic approach to performance is fundamentally at odds with what is known about ancient Mesoamerican dance, in which dancers perform as vessels for “real” deities, as discussed above. The native belief that the “meaning” of an image is inherent in the image itself renders irrelevant the iconoclastic dichotomies that are at the core of much of Western philosophy, from Plato to Marx. Indeed, it could be argued that the fundamentally embodied nature of theater and r­ itual derails the antirealism of semiotic approaches to theatrical representation (Harris 2005:38–39). The semiotic approach to performance strips performance of its distinctive strategic qualities, especially the social effects set in motion through its production (see also Schieffelin 1998:198–199; States 1985:7). Ideology as a Theatrical Metaphor

The Aristotelian notion of theater as a means of affecting an audience is rendered controversial in part through its concept of catharsis, which holds that the aim of tragedy is to induce a cleansing or purging of excessive emotion in the human audience. Since this concept was introduced, theorists have had serious doubts about the extent to which catharsis can be controlled. In fact, it has been argued that Aristotle’s notion of catharsis might have been developed in reaction to Plato’s condemnation of theater as a dangerously coercive force (Harris 2005:69). More recently, moralists from Augustine and Turtullian to the Puritans have railed against the sensory excesses of theater, seeking to ban productions that seemed to seduce the audience into applauding the “sinful acts” depicted onstage (Barish 1981:80). Interestingly, such ­iconoclastic notions were fundamental to the empiricism of Francis Bacon, who employed theater as one of the four prime metaphors of falsehood in his treatise Novum Organon, published in 1620. In his view, truth lay in the inductive analysis of

Matthew G. Looper

nature rather than the fantasies instilled by academic or philosophical dogma. These systems, he wrote, are the “Idols of the Theater; because in my judgment all the received systems are but so many stage plays, representing worlds of their own creation after an unreal and scenic fashion” (quoted in Summers 2003:9). Thus, in addition to critiquing the Aristotelian method of deduction through formal logic, Bacon demolishes the Aristotelian theory of mimesis, using theater as a metaphor for the distortions that cloud men’s minds. Through this argument, Bacon completes a full circle, returning to Plato’s allegory of the cave. Bacon’s “idols of the theater” was a key concept in the development of the theory of ideology. The philosophers of the French Enlightenment evoked the theatrical basis of ideology when they employed metaphors such as magicians and f­ akirs along with the ubiquitous priests to illustrate religious duplicity (Larrain 1979:22–24). These ­writers prefigured the modern Marxist concept of ideology, which conceives of religion, ­morality, and other forms of sublimation as a “false consciousness” through which the material ­realities of the world are distorted to the advantage of the ruling class (Summers 2003:10). In Karl Marx’s own writings, optical illusions and occult i­ magery, rather than theater itself, provide the metaphors for ideology (Larrain 1979:38; Mitchell 1986:​160– 178). Nevertheless, Marx’s view on the opposition between the imaginary and the real was analogous to a radical distinction between theater and labor (Rayner 2002:541; see also Derrida 1994). The latent theatricality of the Marxist concept of ideology was recognized by playwrights such as Bertolt Brecht (1967:15:129), who noted that only after reading Das Kapital did he begin to understand his own plays. Brecht’s general approach to drama was to dismiss catharsis and illusion as bourgeois conceits that distract the audience from the ideological content of the text. Like ­Bacon, Brecht acknowledged the artificiality and potentially subversive nature of drama, which allowed him to exploit its capacity as an ideological vehicle. The concept of ideology, as developed by Marxism, thus emerges from a discourse with dramatic theory, taking an antirealist stance toward representation and asserting the researcher’s skepticism through his or her role as a cultural

critic. The orthodox Marxist notion of ideology informs Eric Wolf ’s (1999) study of Aztec sacrifice, which stresses ritual as a form of power used to manage and mobilize subordinate populations. Wolf locates power as external in origin and conceives ideas as prior to action, defining them as “mental constructs rendered manifest in public representations” (1999:4). Such a consideration of embodied practice as the outward expression or material manifestation of reified ideology is extremely common across the humanities and social sciences (e.g., Brandes 1988; Taylor 2004:364; cf. Furani 2008). Nevertheless, it is theatrical metaphor, parallel to the prioritization of script over performance in European drama, and as such, polarizes and oversimplifies the relationship between the mental and the material in cultural performance. The theater-state model for Mesoamerican performance likewise betrays its Marxist pedigree by emphasizing the ideological manipulation of the populace through royal court performances. In fact, in the widely read essay “Ideology as a Cultural System,” published several years before his book on the negara, Clifford Geertz revises the “Machiavellian view of ideology as a form of higher cunning,” preferring to define ideology, after Fallers, as “that part of culture which is actively concerned with the establishment and defense of patterns of belief and value,” patterns that may be those of either a socially subordinate or a socially dominant group (Geertz 1973:202, 231). As “schematic images of social order,” ­ideologies amount to extrinsic patterns of interworking meanings (informational-symbolic systems) that are used as models for human life. Through such a schema, Geertz disconnects ideology from its economic basis as in orthodox Marxism while retaining the theatrical/semiotic antirealism and communicative functionalism upon which the notion of ideology traditionally depends.8 Yet the theatrical formulation of Geertz’s model of ideology creates several problems. For one, the equation of onstage performance with ideological communication ignores diverse sites for ideological action, including sponsorship and patronage, authorship of scripts, management and production, actor commitment, criti­cal reception, and audience reaction. Geertz’s approach also lacks an adequate strategy for ­interpreting 16

Dance, Power, and Ideology in Ancient Maya and Aztec Society

ideology, as he is primarily interested in the symbolic meaning of cultural texts rather than their production and maintenance. Therefore, in order to understand religious or ideological systems, it is of paramount importance to identify “who symbolizes and defines significance, and on whose behalf, or at whose expense” (Scholte 1986:​10). The authoritative discourses that embody ideologies should be analyzed in relation to human intentions and cultural understandings in particular historical and performance contexts (see Asad 1979:619; Mitchell 1986:163). One implication is that Mesoamericanist archaeologists and art historians must seek evidence of synchronic or diachronic variation in ideologies that otherwise remain historically vague in relation to agency. There are in fact many instances of such variation related to dance. An example is found in Maya art in the Late Classic, during which most texts recording dance performance refer to para­ mount rulers. However, several monuments commissioned by rulers depict secondary lords and women as well as kings dancing. In contrast, women are frequently shown as dancers on polychrome ceramics, which were available to a wider segment of the population. Finally, the relatively popular art form of mold-made ceramic figurines depicts numerous images of female as well as male dancers. These data suggest that as the social prestige and elite control of artistic format increase, so does the “masculinization” of dance. This could be taken as an example of divergent gender ideologies of dance in Maya society, associated with different social classes (Looper 2009:​ 227–228). Maya art also provides a good example of diachronic change in dance ideologies observed during the Late and Terminal Classic periods (ad 600–​900). The Late Classic period — ​a time of significant social change in the Maya lowlands — ​was also the period of maximum visibility of dance performance, rendered permanent through the plastic arts. The murals of ­Bonampak (dedicated ca. 792), which use paired dance performances (Rooms 1 and 3) to frame a climactic battle scene (Room 2), are perhaps the most vivid example. In fact, ideologies are not always prominent in cultural discourse but may come to the surface in times of change, posing as a voice

of conservatism. As López Austin (1988:I:12) observes, Mesoamerican political ideologies are relatively sensitive to infrastructural change, whereas sacrificial rituals like dance are less so. At the time the murals were executed, these two ideological systems were out of phase with each other. Because it could embody both of these ideological systems in a single medium, dance provided a mechanism for bolstering the more unstable political symbolism. This capacity of dance to adapt to changing political climates may also explain the continuity of images of dancing Maize Gods as ritual-political symbols from the Late Preclassic (San Bartolo) through the Late Classic (Holmul ceramics) to the Terminal Classic (Chichén Itzá). Ideology and Performance in Ancient Mesoamerica

Given the longevity of dance in the Mesoamerican tradition — ​the earliest representations of dancers perhaps being the Early Formative (1250– 900 bc) “acrobat” figurines from sites such as Tlatilco — ​the adaptability of dance performance to different political and cultural contexts in Mesoamerican history seems clear. This leads one to ask: To what degree was ideology supported (or negotiated) through performance? And are these performances always ideologically saturated? According to López Austin (1988:I:6), Aztec class inequality was justified and maintained largely by ideological means through a belief in the “natural” obligation of the dominated to the dominator, based on a divine mandate. Nevertheless, there is little evidence for state control of performance content. State ideology seems largely to be expressed metonymically or indexically, such as through the architectural venues for performance and the “costumes,” which often incorporated exotic materials or the remains of captives who had been acquired and killed through state-sponsored institutions. The weight of tradition and custom provided much of the support for ideologies in this society, as elsewhere in Mesoamerica. Meso­ american dance performance may therefore have been less focused on conveying or communicating ideologies to an audience in the manner of European theater and more focused on fulfilling religious obligations through communal r­ itual practices. These acts were not unthinking or 17

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­ evoid of political significance, but neither were d they as calculated as is often supposed. Indeed, I would go so far as to argue that the communication of cognitive meanings (as ideologies are usually conceived) constitutes a relatively minor component of dance performance. This is because performance enlists the intersubjective practices that are integral to social life and therefore constitutes symbolic reality in social terms rather than merely as a cognitive argument or proposition (Schieffelin 1985). In addition, based on speech-act theory, several scholars of performance and ritual note that the illocutionary force of a performance (the social effect that the event names) is closely tied to the manner in which it cites preestablished formulae or laws (Butler 1993:​13). These rules, which become formalized through repeated usage, constitute a distinctive style, which distracts from the “rational,” rhetorical content of the performance (Bloch 1974). The goal of this formalization is not to obfuscate but, rather, to harness the aesthetic awareness through which these acts achieve their illocutionary force. In short, dance, like other rituals, is not performed with the explicit goal of communicating, explaining, or interpreting religious or social ideologies. Indeed, the cognitive significance of ritual would undoubtedly have had varying meanings that were tied to individual participants’ intentions and are therefore largely inaccessible to the archaeologist or historian. Instead, performers constructed social identities through the activation of performative qualities that point away from the self, toward an external authoritative referent, particularly the gods or ancestors. The conventional Marxist critique would see this attitude toward citation as pure mystification. However, within the context of ancient Mesoamerica, the conformity of an act to social and cosmological norms provided the basis for the exercise of power. Ritual performances are formalized in such a way that they engage the participants’ senses in the recognition and production of forms and configurations that some scholars term aesthetic tropes (Armstrong 1975:45; Tambiah 1985). These tropes do not “represent” a social reality separate from them but, rather, are actualities themselves, in that they are the emotionally loaded patterns through which social memory is perceived, orga-

nized, and manipulated. An example of this is the pattern of hierarchical ranking and triadic grouping that appears in the depiction of dance performance in Bonampak Room 3 (Figure 2.4). The uppermost triad of dancers conforms to a triadic arrangement that is one of the abstract patterns associated with cosmogenesis in Maya art and architecture (Looper 1995). The vertical distribution of dancers (with the upper trio wearing extended cloth or paper waist banners emblazoned with red solar disks) probably relates to the cosmological notion of the axis mundi, another Maya aesthetic trope of great antiquity. The elevation of titled individuals to the uppermost tier of the platform maps social hierarchy onto a cosmological schema. Aesthetic tropes, as components of cultural or corporate art styles and performances, constitute the very language necessary for sociopolitical negotiation (see Reese 1996; Haskell, this volume; Hutson et al., this volume). Also resisting ideological-functionalist interpretations of Mesoamerican dance is the fact that performances were frequently undertaken in a subjective state, unbounded by the rational mind. For example, the Aztecs frequently gave living deity images pulque (fermented maguey juice) to drink prior to their dances, and dance in other contexts was frequently accompanied by the consumption of psychotropic mushrooms (Durán 1994:307, 322; Sahagún 1959:38–39). The Maya likewise danced in altered states of consciousness or intoxication. For instance, the text of Piedras Negras Lintel 3 reads: On July 27, 749, Ruler 4, king of Piedras Negras, completed his first k’atun [7,200-day period] in reign, witnessed by Yo’pat B’ahlam II, king of Yaxchilan. Two days later, on July 29, Ruler 4 performed the descending macaw dance. That night, he drank fermented cacao. An important theme in Classic Maya dance performance was the transformation of humans into wayob, the dangerous spirits of death and disease. This was enabled by the consumption of pulque and possibly also hallucinogenic or tobacco snuff (Looper 2009:140–142). These performances are frequently depicted on serving vessels used in the feasts that accompanied the dances, thereby involving the audience directly in the process of consumption. To what degree can ideology be 18

Dance, Power, and Ideology in Ancient Maya and Aztec Society

communicated within such a collective state of transformation of consciousness? Ritual dance seems to pertain to a universe much larger than the semiotic field of ideology, as it is conventionally understood. A more balanced view might consider ideology as existing in a dynamic relationship with performance. Ideology is more than a mental concept represented in performance and is constituted through both physical embodiment and feeling or sensation. As mental, emotional, and embodied presuppositions and attitudes that are used to interpret the world on a daily basis, ideologies are continually subject to and generated within specific historical and experiential circumstances. Performances may be co-opted to manipulate ideologies, but there will always be a gap between dance and ideology, owing to the contextual situation of the performances themselves. The conceptualization of performance as an inherently thoughtful act renders moot the question of the primacy of ideology vs. materiality (see Farnell 2000; Looper 2003). Numerous ancient Mesoamerican rituals, including dance, exemplify the dynamic tension between ideology and performance. To cite an Aztec example, one might point to the c­ oronation ceremonies for the tlahtoani Motecuhzoma II, as described by Durán (1994:405–407), during which numerous enemy rulers were present. Unbe­ knownst to the leaders of the allied cities of ­Tacuba and Tezcoco, the guests were invited into the city and given lavish gifts of jewels, mantles, loincloths, and sandals. Following this and for the next four nights, the visiting lords danced in their finery to dimmed torchlight so as to avoid detection. After several days of feasting and drinking cacao, the tlahtoani was anointed, captives were sacrificed, and then everyone consumed mushrooms, under the influence of which “they saw visions and had revelations about the future” (Durán 1994:​407). Finally, the guest lords were presented with more jewels and “weapons and shields with their insignia done in fine featherwork,” after which they departed under armed guard (Durán 1994:407). The rituals described here inculcated various ideologies through complex processes of embodiment. The ideology of interpolity competition and violence was clearly promoted through

the goading of enemy lords during the festivities. After being treated as ceremonial equals in dance and feasting and being subjected to the s­ pectacle of captive sacrifice, these lords were presented with ceremonial weapons and returned home. Likewise, the giving of gifts and the consumption of luxury foods in a quasi-sacred context explicitly embodied the economic system of tribute extraction in exchange for state-run ritual.9 For example, the cacao consumed in these ceremonies was considered to enhance the ability of the pipiltin to rule, as well as to amplify the corporeal differences between the upper and lower classes (López Austin 1988:I:395). The transformation of the physical substance of foodstuffs into feasts through the actions and sensations of diverse human agents actually brought the ideology of social hierarchy into existence. Nevertheless, because of the gap between performance and ideology, the meanings are never fully realized; nor are they simply reproduced by the performance. Each individual, such as a young noble “intoxicated” by cacao for the first time, would develop d ­ ifferent views about the ritual based on his unique experience. Similarly, the individualized visions experienced under the influence of mushrooms were only partly transformed through discussion and interpretation with other participants (see S­ ahagún 1959:39). Performances, and thus ideologies, remain out of step with each other, as both are always in a process of becoming. In conclusion, in a discussion of ideology in ancient Maya civilization, Arthur Demarest remarked that “little seems to be gained by retaining Marxist terms loaded with variable and controversial preexisting meanings” (1992a:9). Despite its conceptual insubstantiality, the notion of ideology has proved surprisingly durable and will likely remain relevant to archaeological theory. Art historians and archaeologists are particularly susceptible to the Marxist dialectic of ideology and commodity, forever in search of the conceptual complements for material objects (see DeMarrais et al. 1996). But to define art as an ideological vehicle is just as simplistic and presumptuous as to characterize its social role as “stocks and stones” fetishism (see Mitchell 1986:187). Likewise, performances are fundamentally embodied and therefore not merely the physical manifestations of preexisting ideologies. ­Ideologies are 19

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local and historically contingent and are intrinsic to the aesthetic tropes that structure performances. Without a proper appreciation for the implications of the term, the concept of ideology

can yield an ethnocentric and distorted view of the nature and modes of deployment of power in ancient Mesoamerican societies.

Notes 1. Current theories of ideology are of course dominated by Marxism, focusing mainly on the issues of its relationship to modes of production. See Asad 1979; Donham 1999; Freeden 2003; Friedrich 1989; Godelier 1977, 1978; LaCapra 1988; Larrain 1979; Williams 1988; Zeitlin 2001. For discussions of ideology in the context of Mesoamerican archaeology, see Carrasco and Broda 1978; Conrad and Demarest 1984; Demarest 1992a, 1992b; Wolf 1999. 2. Richard Schechner (1988, 1994), for instance, invokes mimesis through his fundamental conceptualization of performance as the approximation of the real. The opposite approach, exemplified by Peggy Phelan (1993), sees performance as acknowledging the impossibility of equivalence with the Real (see also Butler 1990). Rayner (2002:535) suggests that the framing of action on the theatrical stage generates a phantasmic double for the actor, who is simultaneously present and not present. 3. For example, here is what Albert Irizarry, a 31-yearold teacher from Queens, New York, said about the first Broadway show he saw, Rent: “It reminded me a lot of just living in the city, getting to know other people. I’ve lived in the city and Queens for a long time and I guess it’s like a reality-fantasy” (Parsons 2008).

4. On the epigraphic details mentioned here, see ­David Stuart, cited in Grube 1992:204; Schele and Mathews 1998:101–108. It is even possible that the term for dance, ahk’ot, is derived from the verb ahk’, “give,” though historical evidence for this is lacking (see Macri and Looper 2003:206). 5. Here, b’a is a reflexive particle. 6. Note that mahcēhu(a) contrasts with and is unrelated to mācēhual-li, “subject, commoner, indigenous person, Nahuatl-speaker” (Karttunen 1983:​ 127). 7. Excerpted from a list compiled by R. Joe Campbell, online at http://lloyd.emich.edu/cgi-bin/wa​?A2​ =ind0708a&L=nahuat-l&D=1&P=589. 8. Although López Austin (1988:I:9) explicitly cites the Marxist notion of ideology as a systematized ensemble of symbols (beliefs, images, ideas) derived from systems of production, he (1988:I:6) indicates that ideologies are not related to production systems in a simple, mechanical schema. Rather, they are structured in distinctive, idiosyncratic ways that depend on specific historical circumstances. 9. Note here how the economic system is directly incorporated into the ideological framework; see Godelier 1978; Miller and Tilley 1984; Polanyi et al. 1957.

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3

Changing Social Practices as Seen from Household Iconic Traditions A Case Study from Formative Central Tlaxcala Richard G. Lesure, Jennifer Carballo, and David M. Carballo

The first decade of this new century has been a stimulating one for interpretation in anthropological archaeology. Having set aside the antagonism that characterized theoretical work in the previous two decades, archaeologists find a panoply of interpretive perspectives — ​processual, postprocessual, and beyond — ​at their disposal. Yet emancipation from old antagonisms seems only to have exacerbated anxieties about the status of theory. Dobres and Robb (2000) have memorably asked whether agency was “paradigm or platitude” without providing a definitive answer. Theory-as-platitude takes a turn toward the pernicious in Conkey’s (2007) examination of its social constructedness. Citational practices, writing styles, and genealogies of theory all shape archaeological interpretations. While Conkey worries that a tendency to reduce theory to method cloaks the social construction of theories, Smith (2011), surveying current practice in urban archaeology, vents frustration at generalized social theory as a starting point for interpretation. He advocates instead attention to the middle range of theory in the Mertonian sense. Dobres and Robb (2005) have likewise moved toward “middle-range interpretive methodologies” in their efforts to take the platitude out of agency. Pauketat and Alt’s methodology for historicalprocessual interpretation begins with the effort to “document practical variability through time

and space”; the histories of culture-making that they envision will require “considerably more empirical detail” than demanded by previous archaeologies (2005:230). Of all the above, it is this last position that seems to best characterize the orientation we take in this chapter to the “problem domains” of identity and power (Harrison-Buck, Chapter 1). We imagine identity and power as constituted in daily practice, and like many of the other contributors to this volume, we have great hopes for the strategy of studying practice by examining its ­durable material component. Like Pauketat, we view material culture as “causal” and its production as “an enactment or embodiment of people’s dispositions...that brings about changes in meanings, dispositions, identities, and traditions” (2001:88). Still, we remain wary of the trap of merely imposing a complex theoretical language on the archaeological record. In the present contribution to the investigation of changing social practices in Formative period Tlaxcala, Mexico, we restrict ourselves primarily to the initial stages of Pauketat and Alt’s (2005) methodology, exploring variability and comparing genealogies quite narrowly defined; we only begin to address the question of interrelations across scales. Inspired by Gell’s (1998) discussion of “distributed objects” as “extended minds,” we examine the fabrication of similar objects across multiple generations as 21

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a source of insight into how social practices were reproduced and transformed. Inherited traditions of fabrication set bounds on the form of an object produced at any particular point in the sequence, but they also provided settings in which manipulation and innovation occurred. Our goal is to extract insight into the material topography of changing practices by examining differences between such sequences. Specifically, we chose four iconic traditions from the Formative period of central Tlaxcala — ​masks, effigies on censers, figurines, and incised decorations on pottery serving ware — ​all in fired clay and all recovered from domestic refuse. Art historians and anthropologists alike have explored what David Freedberg refers to as “the power of images” — ​ people’s cognitive response to objects that resemble something else but yet are not that thing (Freedberg 1989; Gell 1998). Rosemary Joyce (2000a) elaborates that theme, suggesting, for instance, that the selective inscription of recognizable human attributes in clay figurines would have helped to constitute the very categories depicted in the figures. Such is the power of images that gestures depicted on figurines could thereby be naturalized as gestures expected of actual young women (Joyce 2000a:38). In this formulation, the materiality and iconicity of images inculcate dispositions and identities. Lesure (2005) suggests that a tension between subject matter and form is an important locus of these powers and proposes an analytical framework for the study of ancient imagery that plays iconography and stylistic analysis against each other. The present essay develops that approach in the context of a concrete analysis. Material culture traditions of the Formative era in central Tlaxcala were closely linked to those of important nearby centers of social and political innovation, particularly the Puebla-Tlaxcala Valley and the Basin of Mexico. Still, during its millennium-long Formative occupation, central Tlaxcala was on the periphery of the transformations that led, by the first century ad, to the urban synthesis of Teotihuacán. The study area was first occupied by village agriculturalists only around 900 bc (Lesure et al. 2006). Thereafter, population growth was rapid, and a complex, multitiered settlement system was in place less than two centuries after initial settlement. The last half of the

first millennium bc marked a regional florescence in the Puebla-Tlaxcala Valley (García Cook 1981:260), which was brought to an end by the first or second century ad in demographic disruptions occasioned by an e­ xpansionary Teotihuacán state (García Cook and Merino Carrión 1996). The iconic traditions we examine all occur on objects manufactured, stored, and disposed of in household contexts. We assess the interplay of subject matter and form over the course of centuries as each tradition gradually changed. Was there structural stability or directional change in these traditions of fabrication? How do the patterns in the different traditions relate to each other? Do they seem to be linked to larger social processes? Overview of the Analysis

The sequences of fabrication to be examined all involve a distinct functional class of artifact: masks, censers, figurines, and pottery serving ware. Each has one or more associated iconic subtraditions. The iconicity of the masks, censers, and figurines is easily recognizable. By contrast, whether the incised decorations on pottery in fact depict anything is debatable; however, they are related to a larger tradition that was more clearly iconic prior to 900 bc. They can be considered “quasi-iconic.” We have analyzed the traditions themselves in three steps. Our first step was to assess the overall coherence of each sequence as a diachronic series of related forms. Was the functional class under consideration associated with a single or with multiple iconic traditions? Over the long term, were there increases, decreases, or fluctuations in the use of each class of object? We also tried to relate each locally observed functional class and/or its associated iconic traditions to wider material culture patterns in central Mexico. Our next steps were inspired by Gell’s (1998) book Art and Agency. To derive social insight from a sequence of related forms, Gell (1998:228– 242) would set aside the idea of grasping the sequence in its entirety, from a single vantage point. To get at the human experiences involved — ​dispersed across generations — ​he proposes entering into the sequence and moving through it, considering the “now” of each constituent object. 22

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At the level of concrete analysis, one ends up with the goal of identifying and assessing variability in the phenomena that make up the sequence. Only with some means for grasping variability can one appreciate what is different from the perspective of distinct “nows” that make up the sequence. While we will not forswear the archaeological urge to look for a directional social narrative among the sequences, by attending to variability both within and between the sequences, we believe that we have incorporated key insights from Gell’s analysis of “distributed objects.” Gell’s suggestions on how to actually investigate variability are not particularly useful for our purposes, and we have devised our own approach. A tension between the iconicity and the materiality of images lies at the heart of their “power.” Of interest here are the variable manifestations of that tension within and between sequences. But how are we to link actual observations of the objects to the tension between subject matter and form? Gell (1998:162–163) provides another helpful suggestion in his account of the cognitive salience of style. Certain elements in an image reference the subject matter; we can call these iconographic elements. They can be contrasted with stylistic elements, which reference other works in the same style. Style is thus an important domain for the perception of materiality, and we can get at the “power” of images by pursuing iconographic and stylistic analysis (Lesure 2005). The distinction between iconographic and stylistic elements is heuristic, and art historians long ago pointed out that subject matter could become style and style, subject matter (Ackerman 1963:​167–168; Schapiro 1953:305). For prehistoric cases, it may be far from clear whether any given element should be regarded as “iconographic” or “stylistic.” Still, the distinction provides a point of entry for the assessment of variability. Our second analytical step is to try to distinguish “iconographic” and “stylistic” elements in each tradition and then to explore the general patterning of those elements. On the basis of elements identified as iconographic, we try to characterize the subject matter of the images. Of particular interest is whether the subject might have been specifically identifiable, even nameable — ​a deity, for instance. In order to promote correct

identification of images, artists sometimes provide ­visual clues — ​St. Simon is distinguished by a saw; St. Perpetua, by the cow standing at her side. Even when the subject matter cannot be identified in detail, we might be able to identify the use of clues of that sort or perhaps characterize the coding strategy more generally. For instance, what is the density of iconographic attributes? Are there many? Few? Further, how coherent and consistent are they? Do the same elements always recur, or does their expression vary? Elements identified as probably “stylistic” — ​ that is, as referencing other objects rather than subject matter — ​we approach with an analogous series of questions. We try to distinguish “styles.” That game can be played at a variety of scales. Our choice of scale is much narrower than that of interest to Gell (1998), and it actually lies between what art historians would call “period style” and “individual style.” It will, however, be familiar to archaeologists as the scale of traditional “types.” We ask: What is the density, coherence, and consistency of attributes that make up a style? The second step of our analysis thus involves making a heuristic distinction between iconographic and stylistic elements and exploring patterns within each of those categories. The third step brings the strands together. We look for relations or tensions between subject matter and style within each tradition but also between traditions. Those considerations allow us to consider substantive changes but also structural shifts in the relation between attributes of style and subject matter. Toward Social Interpretation

The final step is to move from our synthesis of variability to insights into the organization and transformation of social practices during the first millennium bc. One question we pose is whether there is a relation between our sequences of changing forms and the intracommunity contexts of use of the objects. The objects we consider would have mediated social interactions of different sorts, at different scales. We envision use contexts of the artifacts considered as falling along a spectrum from more formalized, integrative, and large in social scale — ​in short, more classically “ritual” — ​ to more fluid, small scale, intimate, and (in the case of one artifact, ceramic serving ware) overtly 23

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open to display and competition. The objects considered probably had use lives of at most a few years. Even those at the more ritualized/public end of the spectrum seem likely to have been used in integrative activities of a scale smaller than the community as a whole — ​at the level, for instance, of kin units such as the extended family (Flannery 2002) or crosscutting organizations such as wards and sodalities (Flannery 1976a, 1976b). Of the four artifact classes considered, we place masks and censers at this end of the spectrum (on masks, see Flannery 1976a and Grove and Gillespie 2002; on censers, see Manzanilla 2002 and Plunket and Uruñuela 2002). Figurines and decorated serving ware we place toward the other end. We suspect that figurines were used in smaller social settings, likely within the nuclear family (e.g., Marcus 1998, 1999). Even if they were deployed in domestic ritual, we envision the activities involved as less formalized than those associated with censers and masks. Of all the artifact classes considered, decorated pottery is most likely to have been deployed in overtly competitive in addition to integrative inter­actions, across potentially a spectrum of intracommunity scales (e.g., Clark and Blake 1994; Hayden 1995; Potter 2000a; Rosenswig 2007). Decorated pots appear to have been used for everyday food consumption in ­nuclear-​family or extended-family contexts, and we expect activities associated with them to have been fluid and varied. Another question is whether some large-scale processes might provide a social narrative for one or more of the sequences considered as wholes. We consider sociopolitical complexity, which appears to have increased steadily during the first half of the first millennium bc (García Cook and Merino Carrión 1997a). Several preliminary indications from our work at the regional center of La Laguna (scale of architectural construction, access to imported goods, distribution of deer bone) suggest continued increases in at least some dimensions of sociopolitical complexity through the end of the local Formative. We will consider to what extent a long-term social narrative of increasing complexity might “explain” the trajectories taken by our sequences of fabrication and whether the possibilities for such explanations might differ according to the spectrum of use contexts just outlined. We also, however, consider

other possibilities. For instance, our sequences of fabrication might be best explained as following their own internal histories, or there might be structural stability over the course of the Formative. Ultimately, all this is best regarded as an initial step toward a history of power and identity in daily practices in Formative central Tlaxcala. The focus of our social interpretation is on two simple questions of context and scale: the topography of changes in daily practice (in public vs. intimate settings) and the degree of correlation between microscale household/community traditions and large-scale sociopolitical transformation. Excavations and Chronology

Materials analyzed derive from archaeological investigations carried out in Tlaxcala (Figure 3.1) beginning in 2000, first by the Apizaco Formative Project directed by Lesure (field seasons 2000–2004) and then by the successor Proyecto Arqueológico La Laguna directed by D. Carballo (field seasons 2005–2009 [Carballo 2009]). We also consider some materials excavated by Aleksander Borejsza (2006) in his dissertation project conducted under the umbrella of the Apizaco Formative Project. García Cook and Merino Carrión (1997a, 1997b; Merino Carrión 1989) surveyed a large area including our study region and established a Formative sequence of four phases. Our analyses validate the four ceramic complexes and support their identification as sequential phases, but we propose revisions to the associated dates, primarily by compressing the entire sequence into the first millennium bc (Lesure et al. 2006). Since we have validated the Formative ceramic complexes reported by García Cook and Merino Carrión (1997a, 1997b; Merino Carrión 1989), we accept their successive settlement pattern maps for the reconstruction of large-scale social processes even though we would change the absolute dates assigned to them. The Formative period ceramic phases and our proposed dates in calendar years are as follows: Tzompantepec, 900–800 bc; Tlatempa, 800–650 bc; Texoloc, 650–500 bc; and Tezoquipan, 500 bc–ad 100. Subdivision of the Tezoquipan phase is currently in the works. Materials considered here derive mainly from domestic refuse contexts, distributed unevenly through the millennium from 900 bc through 24

Changing Social Practices as Seen from Household Iconic Traditions

Figure 3.1. Central Mexico, with sites mentioned in the text (ASTER GDEM satellite topographic data from http://wist.echo.nasa.gov).

ad 150. Our first phase (Tzompantepec) is represented by a single bell-shaped pit from the site of Amomoloc (Figure 3.1). We have a much larger Tlatempa-phase sample from the village sites of Amomoloc and Tetel. A smaller Texoloc-phase sample derives mainly from village contexts at ­Tetel and Mesitas, though we do have a few refuse

contexts from the regional center of La Laguna, this last our only excavated site with standing architecture. From 500 bc our excavated contexts derive solely from La Laguna. Excavations in numerous locations across that 100-ha site have yielded evidence of occupation from 650 through 400 bc (Texoloc and Tezoquipan phases) and 25

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dramatically in frequency to become rare at posthiatus La Laguna. Our consideration of pottery concentrates on the early part of the sequence. Elaborate decoration is concentrated in a whiteware tradition with strong ties to that described by Serra Puche and colleagues (2004) at Xochitécatl and clearly derived from something equivalent to the Manantial complex (1200–900 bc) of the Basin of Mexico (Niederberger 1976, 2000). Manantial whitewares bear postslip incised and excised designs that include depictions of animals and supernatural creatures. The status of our decorations as iconographic is less clear; many of the individual design elements are similar to those used on earlier pottery from Tlapacoya or the Valley of Oaxaca to depict supernatural subjects, but the Tlaxcalan elements are highly stylized and generally appear alone (that is, not part of a coherent suite of elements that together depict, for example, a “fire serpent” [Marcus 1989]). Many of the most spectacular decorations from Tlapacoya appear on the exteriors of deep bowls or the interior bases of open dishes (e.g., Niederberger 1976:Láminas XLII, LI). In our material, there is some simple decoration on interior dish bases (Figure 3.3a, f, i), and we have a few elaborate designs on the exterior walls of deep bowls and cups (Figure 3.3d, h, j–k). However, most of our decoration appears on the interior upper rims of open dishes during the Tlatempa phase (Figure 3a, e–g, i) and on the down-curving exterior rims of open dishes during the Texoloc phase (Figure 3.3m–n). The functional category of effigy censer or brazier is well known, but its most common specific manifestation in Formative central Tlaxcala is not. We have hundreds of fragments of roughly finished, bottomless ceramic “vessels” that were likely set over burning coals or incense so that smoke would filter out one or more perforations. Two basic design schemes are represented (Figure 3.4). The earliest (Tzompantepec–Tlatempa) is a hollow ceramic cone, topped by a solid, highly schematic but typically zoomorphic head. Perforations are at the sides or back of the cone. The later design (Tlatempa–Tezoquipan) is more cylin­drical, with the head hollow and perforations located at the top of the piece rather than on the body.

Figure 3.2. Figurines of the Cuatlapanga and Ehco types (drawings by Jeremy Bloom).

again from 100 bc through ad 150 (late Tezoquipan[?] and Teotihuacán phases) but nothing in between. It appears that there was a significant hiatus at this important regional center. The upshot for the current analysis is that we have detailed evidence for the first 500 years of the local Formative, from 900 through 400 bc, then a gap of 300 years in our sequence, and then further evidence of occupation between 100 bc and ad 150. Overview of the Four Artifact Classes and Iconic Traditions

The four artifact classes considered here have been regularly noted elsewhere in the Formative of central Mexico and beyond. In the case of figurines and decorated pottery, the linkages between our assemblage and well-known ones from Puebla and the Basin of Mexico are particularly strong. Our two most common figurine types, Cuatlapanga and Ehco (Figure 3.2), are local expressions of types identified by Vaillant (1930, 1931) in the basin (respectively, C1 and E2; the first matches the “Puebla variants” of C1 described by Reyna Robles [1971]). Other types described by Vaillant and/or Reyna Robles have local counterparts in our Tlatempa, Texoloc, and Tezoquipan phases, including D3/K, B-large, C10, A, F, E3, and G/I/L. What we understand to be early Tezoquipan figurines recur in our ad 1–150 sample, but we believe them to be “carry-ups.” If we are correct in that interpretation, then figurines declined 26

Figure 3.3. Variety of pottery forms and decoration present at Amomoloc (a–e, g–k) and Tetel (f, l–n) during the Middle Formative. Tzompantepec phase: (a) white-slipped dish with interior rim incising (also note scalloping on rim) and interior base grooving; (b) white-slipped jar with exterior incising near rim. Earlier Tlatempa phase: (c) white-slipped dish with exterior rim grooving (also note scalloping on rim); (d) white-slipped bowl with grooved and painted decoration on the exterior; (e) red-on-white slipped dish with interior rim incising and exterior painted decoration. Later Tlatempa phase: (f ) white-slipped dish with excising on the interior rim and base; (g) white-slipped dish with interior rim excising; (h) white-slipped cup with exterior excising; (i) red-onwhite dish with painted design on interior rim; (j) red-on-white cup with excised and painted designs on exterior; (k) white-and-brown bowl with burnished brown interior and excised design on exterior. Texoloc phase: (l) red-on-brown bowl with grooved decoration on lip and exterior; (m) brown dish with exterior rim grooving; (n) red-on-brown dish with exterior rim grooving (drawings by Jennifer Carballo).

Figure 3.4. Zoomorphic censers: top, conical design; bottom, cylindrical design (drawings by Jennifer Salazar [top] and Sascha Munson [bottom]).

Changing Social Practices as Seen from Household Iconic Traditions

This particular tradition, first reported by García Cook and Merino Carrión (1997b:Figure 5a–e), seems to have been characteristic of Tlaxcala and the northern Puebla-Tlaxcala Valley. Although a very similar censer is on display at the archaeological museum in Cholula and at least one was recovered by Vaillant (1931:Plate LXXX) at Ticomán, the specific tradition appears to have been rare in the southern part of the PueblaTlaxcala­Valley and the Basin of Mexico. While the distribution of these objects suggests a regionally and temporally restricted set of ritual practices, the subject matter may not be as unique or ephemeral as it appears at first glance. The heads are crude and schematic, but there appear to be links to pan-Mesoamerican iconographic themes sometimes identified with a badger (tejón) but probably better understood as an opossum (tlacuache [Czitrom 1993; López Austin 1993]). There are no absolutely conclusive attributes that would seal the identification. Although most pieces have a vaguely mammalian snout with protruding ears, specific opossum attributes do not emerge. The opossum is a marsupial, the female carrying her young in a pouch on her stomach, and Czitrom (1993:320) thinks that trait was a source of the animal’s mythological importance in ancient Mesoamerica. It might be relevant that many of our censers depict what we interpret as “breasts.” However, they are not shown with stomach pouches, and linkages between the opossum and human sexual attributes in later imagery are not simple or straightforward (Czitrom 1993:323). Likewise, the presence of this imagery on incense-burning paraphernalia conceivably makes sense given that several Mesoamerican cultures possess origins-of-fire myths in which the opossum brings fire to humans (Munn 1984), but that linkage is hardly unique. Two heads in our collection are shown with paws resting on the snout (Figure 3.5). That theme occasionally appears on later pieces more securely identifiable as opossums, though often only one paw (instead of both) is positioned in that way (Czitrom 1993:Figures 370–371, 373, 375). A second, rarer effigy censer is also quite different in form. It consists of a dish-shaped brazier either on an anthropomorphic pedestal or supported by a modeled, seated figure. The two seem to overlap from later Tlatempa through the Tex-

Figure 3.5. Fragment of the zoomorphic censer in which the animal is depicted with paws on snout (drawing by Sascha Munson).

oloc and Tezoquipan phases. As Carballo (2007) demonstrates, this second type is more clearly recognizable than the first. The iconographic complex is the Old God of Fire, with well-known incarnations in Classic and Postclassic pantheons. (We avoid using Nahuatl names so as not to implicate the full suite of attributes associated with deities known from later documentary records.) Old God braziers of the Classic period involve a receptacle attached to the head or back of a seated or hunched male figure displaying signs of advanced age such as wrinkles or m ­ issing teeth (Pasztory 1997:162–166). Formative examples are known from Copilco, Cuicuilco, Ticomán, Xalapazco, and Tlalancaleca (see, respectively, ­Gamio 1920:Figure 8, 1922:Lámina IIIb; Cummings 1923:210; Vaillant 1931:Plates LXXIXc, LXXXIX; Seler 1915:Plate LXVIa, Figures 1, 3, and Taube 2004:Figure 47; and García Cook 1981:Figures 8-4, 8-5). Among these figures, the crucial iconographic elements seem to be (1) the general relationship between brazier receptacle and anthropomorphic figure and (2) the seated posture; however, not all identified Formative examples have both (Carballo 2007). Attributes suggesting old age appear on some but not all of the Formative braziers. Among our finds we identify a single likely Tlatempa-phase Old God brazier from Amomoloc (Figure 3.6) and at least two Texoloc pieces from La Laguna. In all these cases the ­braziers are small and the anthropomorphic figure is depicted with no attributes of age, in the style of the most common figurine type of the corresponding phase. A more coherent set of larger, white-slipped figures (including a head with wrinkled cheeks) from La Laguna we ascribe to the late occupation at the site (100 bc–ad 150) and infer that ritual activities involving Old God 29

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Figure 3.6. Seated, sexless figurine supporting broken shallow, open vessel, Tlatempa phase, interpreted here as an early Old God brazier (drawing by Laura Baker).

though these were not big enough to completely cover a human face, a few well-known Early/ Middle Formative figurines from the ­Basin of Mexico depict an elaborately attired individual wearing a small mask over the lower face only (Coe 1968:Figures 157–158; Niederberger 1987:Figures 285, 290). The mask pieces of this sort in our collection tend to be early (Tlatempa). They are generally schematic, and aside from their anthropomorphic aspect, they appear to share no specific attributes. We propose diverse and/or unspecific subject matter and interpret them as a crude local manifestation of the Early–Middle Formative masking tradition known from Tlatilco and Tlapacoya. The second class of mask is thin and flat to slightly concave when viewed from the back (Figure 3.8). These may be somewhat larger than typical in the first class, but they were more fragile and are consequently broken up into frustratingly small pieces. We can document fewer suspension holes in this set, and it is possible that similar design criteria were used for two different sorts of objects, such as masks and (perhaps) censers. We have not, however, identified anything to which

Figure 3.7. Fragments of white-slipped Old God braziers from the Terminal Formative occupation at La Laguna (photo by David M. Carballo).

braziers had increased in importance by that time (Figure 3.7). Masks constitute the rarest functional class considered here. The collection is also quite fragmentary. Still, it is divisible into two groups. The first consists of small, round, ­anthropomorphic faces, usually 9–10 cm in diameter and distinctly concave when inspected from the back. Holes for suspension appear in the middle at each side and/ or at the top edge. There are perforations at the eyes and mouths in most but not all cases. Al30

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Storm God imagery on masks. The usual associated object is some sort of bottle or other restricted-mouth, necked vessel (Barba de Piña Chan 1956, 2002; Bracamontes Quintana 2002; Nicholson 1976; Piña Chan 1971), and we have documented at least one of these from La Laguna. However, Storm God imagery appeared on a diverse set of material media by the Classic period in central Mexico, and the same point may hold true for the Formative in the area as well (Klein 1980; Taube 1995). The Three Specific Subjects, Compared

We have identified three specific subjects, the Old God of Fire, the Storm God, and a schematic opossum with some anthropomorphic attributes. We begin our inquiry into variability within and between iconic traditions by asking: How comparable and stable were the coding strategies used to depict these three subjects? Do we see stability or directionality over the course of our occupation? We first consider the opossum images and then turn briefly to the two other subjects before comparing all three. As we weigh the identification of attributes as “iconographic” or “stylistic,” we face the issue of how specific the referent of the opossum i­ magery was. Are these depictions of a specific entity, a deity, a mythological creature, or a divine mediator? Our answer is “probably yes.” One issue is whether there might have been multiple subjects or diachronic change in subject matter. Certain features — ​the snout, the ears, and the extreme overall schematization — ​are pervasive. Three instances of potential iconographic variability can nevertheless be identified. Two pieces have schematic but clearly anthropomorphic faces. These are significant but very rare, and interpretation raises subtleties beyond what we can cover in this essay. Two other pieces are depicted wearing necklaces. The images are not systematically differentiated in any other way, and we suspect that this is an idiosyncratic embellishment. The most prevalent potential iconographic variability is the presence or absence of rounded protrusions on the upper chest (“breasts”) and arms, two traits that usually appear together. These traits are common early and gradually fall off; we suspect that they were stylistic and did not distinguish one image as distinct in subject from another.

Figure 3.8. Ceramic mask fragments, Texoloc and Tezoquipan phases, interpreted here as representations of the Storm God (photo by Richard G. Lesure).

these pieces seem likely to have been attached, and we consider them all to be masks. While eyes and mouths both tend to be perforated, the eyes were asymmetrically positioned; the masks might thus have been difficult to see through if worn by a performer. Carballo (2007) identifies the central imagery as the Storm God. The identification hinges on the curled, double upper lip revealing a mouthful of teeth on a face that is otherwise anthropomorphic. Although the somewhat exaggerated eyeholes are not as large as the goggles of representations of the Teotihuacano Storm God and Postclassic Tlaloc, they are consistent with the exaggerated eyes on other depictions of the Late– Terminal Formative Storm God. Asymmetrically positioned eyes seem to be a recurring element of the Formative iconographic complex but not on later Storm God images. Eye asymmetry is observable on an early Middle Formative predecessor to later Storm God pots (see Serra P ­ uche 1993:32) and on a mask fragment recovered by Vaillant at Ticomán (personal observation by Lesure, American Museum of Natural History). In contrast to the situation with the Old God braziers, where the match with more widespread patterns involves both imagery and functionality, there is less precedent for the appearance of 31

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The opossum depictions thus involve a single, specific subject — ​a mythologized Opossum — ​ associated with a suite of potential iconographic attributes, not all of which were depicted in any particular instance. There is stylistic variability. During the Tzompantepec and Tlatempa phases, the conical design predominated. Small-scale stylistic variability included the presence or absence of breasts, arms, and navels as well as how those were depicted and located in relation to each other. In the Texoloc and Tezoquipan phases the cylindrical design became prevalent. Censers were still simple, but surfaces were somewhat better finished. The selection of iconographic attributes was narrowed (body traits were less often depicted, and attention centered on the face), but their presence was more consistent, and a certain level of zoomorphic naturalism was more regularly achieved. In other words, certain standardized conventions seem to have been more pervasively inculcated. Still, there was what we consider stylistic variability, centered on the details of facial features. We do have fragments of these censers from deposits postdating the hiatus at La Laguna; however, none of these are large, reconstructible fragments, and our preliminary interpretation is that they are carry-ups — ​that use of zoomorphic censers ceased sometime before the first century ad. Our other two specific subjects are rarer, and we are restricted to impressionistic observations on iconography and style. It seems likely that Old God braziers replaced opossum censers in our study area toward the end of the Formative. Most of our collection of the former derives from the post-hiatus occupation of La Laguna; it is, however, fragmentary, and beyond the observation that it appears to have stylistic and iconographic integrity (for instance, the figures were slipped white and of a characteristic size), we can say very little. Of considerable interest are the rare cases of what appear to be Old God braziers in the Texoloc and Tlatempa phases. If we are correct in these identifications, then while the iconographic complex can be pushed back considerably in time (to 700 or even 800 bc), its material expression was very rare. That expression also had a “local” character since the anthropomorphic figures supporting the braziers are in each case stylistically identical to the most common figurines of the

phases in which they occur. No systematic artistic effort was made to mark these figures as different from figurines that seem to depict not deities but “people”; it is only the fact that the images in question are sexless and seated (traits shared with some figurines) and also supporting braziers (an otherwise unprecedented trait) that allows their identification as the Old God. Adopting the “now” of these objects, we would be unlikely to single them out as depictions of deities; it is only in relation to later events in the sequence of fabrication that these pieces take on such significance. Admittedly, this could mean that we are “wrong” in our identification of these objects; however, in a moment we will propose an alternative line of argument. The situation is different with the Storm God masks. A suite of iconographic attributes — ​ curl­ing lip, bared teeth, asymmetrical eyes, all organized in a generally anthropomorphic scheme — ​distinguishes these from other objects. The suite of traits appears at two sites (La Laguna and Tetel), and while the collection is too small and fragmentary to provide much basis for a discussion of style, we can be sure that the set of traits was not mixed up with local stylistic canons as observed for the Old God braziers. We conclude by comparing Storm God, Old God, and Opossum imagery. The Storm God appears somewhat later in our area (Texoloc, 650– 500 bc) than the earliest proposed expression of Old God imagery (Tlatempa, 800–650 bc); the Opossum probably arrived with the earliest agriculturalists in the area (Tzompantepec, 900– 800 bc). The Storm God had iconographic and stylistic coherence and distinctiveness from other iconic traditions from the moment of its first appearance in central Tlaxcala. Coding strategies suggest that at its initial appearance the subject was already a deity. Though Old God imagery seems to have somewhat greater time depth in central Tlaxcala, its expression was extremely rare and closely integrated with figurines; only contextually (by being attached to braziers) and with reference to later occurrences are the early instances identifiable as “deities.” Coding strategies associated with Old God imagery underwent a significant transformation sometime after 400 bc. We propose that the shift in strategy reflects a transformation of subject matter. Before 32

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400 bc, the Old God of Fire was probably less a god than a mythological character. By the posthiatus occupation of La Laguna, however, he had been reformulated as a deity. Carballo (2007:62– 63) suggests that a similar transition can be traced for the Storm God in the Basin of Mexico, prior to its appearance in Tlaxcala. Although there is variability in Opossum imagery not seen in the other two cases, coherence increased through time. In terms of the overall configuration of the tradition — ​the number and internal relations of iconographic attributes, the nature of stylistic variation and its diachronic patterning — ​Opossum images seem similar to those of the Storm God at its first appearance in our study area and of the Old God after 100 bc. The closeness of those three cases is emphasized when we compare them collectively with the Old “God” images from prior to 400 bc.

ther attract the viewer’s attention to this part of the body. Torsos rarely include evidence of clothing, and there are often stylized sexual attributes (most have breasts; some, perhaps a loincloth or male genitals; some, neither). Postures and gestures vary somewhat, but the overwhelming majority are standing with arms extending stiffly out to the sides. In the Tlatempa phase, many figurines were elaborately painted. If we attempt to characterize subject matter based on the individual objects, we find that the various iconographic attributes do not seem to fall into clusters. Body paint and headdress style, for instance, do not vary in a systematic way with sexual attributes. The subject matter was not specific in the way we have seen for masks and censers; figurines appear to have depicted “people,” perhaps more particularly the public presentation of the self (as argued for other Formative figurines by Joyce [1998, 2003]). An additional point about our collection that does not necessarily hold for other Formative assemblages is that there appears to have been no systematic iconographic effort to distinguish categories of people. Sexual attributes are not emphasized any more than posture or ornamentation, and there are few correlations among these different sorts of attributes. When we shift our focus from subject matter to style, the picture is completely different. Figurines tend to have a high density of “stylistic” attributes: Particular ways of depicting eyes, noses, mouths, ears, ornaments, arms, legs, and feet can be identified and distinguished from others (Figure 3.2). Further, variation is clustered: A certain sort of eye tends to go along with a mouth or a foot made in a particular way. As a result, “types” emerge with clarity from the collection. Many of those types are identifiable as local versions of well-known regional types. It seems possible to claim that “stylistic” elements of figurines cooperated to prompt viewers to link one figurine to others in the same style in much the way that iconographic elements of Opossum censers cooperated to prompt identification of the creature depicted in the effigy. In other words, if we imagine artists as incorporating clues in their works to guide a viewer’s response, the clues in the case of figurines seem to have pointed not so much to people and their characteristics (age, gender, role) as to other objects fabricated in similar or

Figurines: Style as Subject Matter?

The clay figurines are in a sense the most frustrating of the four iconic traditions under consideration since the objects themselves do not provide any clear indication of the sort of use to which they were put. Considerable attention was lavished on the production of these figures, which were discarded regularly in domestic refuse (one figurine for every two–three broken pots during the Tlatempa phase). Voigt (2000) has developed an array of material, use-wear, and depositional criteria that might allow archaeologists to distinguish among four hypothesized uses of small clay figurines: cult images, vehicles of magic, initiation figures, and aesthetic objects (a category that would include toys). According to Voigt’s criteria, the Tlaxcalan figurines would most likely be aesthetic objects. Mesoamericanists have tended to favor the idea that they were used for domestic rituals of some sort (e.g., Marcus 1998). Consideration of this spectrum of possibilities (household ritual, aesthetic object, toys) along with the small size of the objects has led us to propose their use in small-scale (nuclear-family) contexts even if we cannot specify exactly what the uses were. The subject matter of figurines is likewise difficult to pin down specifically. They are mainly anthropomorphic. Heads are unnaturally large in relation to bodies, and the elaboration of facial features and headdresses often helps to fur33

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c­ ontrasting ways. Among the figurines, “style” seems arguably to have been the center of attention. How should we interpret these patterns? Stylistic variation among figurines was probably read not as intrinsic differentiation among m ­ akers (such as ethnic differences) but as contingent variation in ways of making. A given maker of figurines might at any moment choose someone else’s way of making as her own. How a figurine was made was more socially important than its subject matter.

are the “line breaks” in which a horizontal line curves up (toward the vessel exterior) or down (toward the vessel interior) and then ends. Line breaks can appear singly, doubly, and/or in opposed pairs (A–E). Other motifs include steps (F), conjoined arcs (G–H), star or cross (K), scroll (S), inverted V (T), and crossed bands or quatrefoil (V). While these in themselves are not obviously iconic, they become more plausibly so when they are placed in the context of Mesoamerican imagery of the later Early Formative. Flannery and Marcus suggest that designs such as the “double line break” on pots of this period in the Valley of Oaxaca might be stylized depictions of supernatural forces such as “Earth” or “Sky” (1994:147; see also Marcus 1989). A part standing for the whole is a recurrent theme in imagery of the period (­Pohorilenko 1996:124). Simple motifs from larger images were placed on ceramic vessels, where they seem to have referenced something larger than themselves. It thus becomes relevant that our individual motifs can be identified as parts of earlier compositions. The crossed bands and star motifs are directly derived from Early Formative imagery (Joralemon 1971:14 [Motif 98], 15 [Motif 116]). But our most common element, the horizontal line that curves up or down and ends, also appears as part of the stylized “Olmec dragon” (Covarrubias 1957:Figure 3.9; Joralemon 1971:​36) or “fire serpent” (Flannery and Marcus 1994:141) motif. In this light, the question of whether the decorations on our pottery might have had a synecdochic relation to some identifiable subject becomes more reasonable. Still, our materials date from a couple hundred years after the more iconic Early Formative materials. Were ours iconic, or might the motifs by this point have lost any referential aspect and become “mere decoration”? We have been trying to devise ways to produce internal evidence (from the collection itself) on this point and have been experimenting with ­analyses at multiple scales. At the smallest of scales, it is possible to derive much of the variation in motifs from a few basic elements (e.g., lines and broken lines) subjected to a few simple rules of transformation (e.g., mirror imaging, multiplying, concatenation). An example of the field of possibilities is shown in Figure 3.10. While we do not

The Quasi-Iconic Tradition of Pottery Decoration

Our analysis of decorated pottery focuses on the subset of 1,172 rim sherds from 19 datable features from 900 to 500 bc. Rims were coded according to (1) the design depicted, (2) where the design was located on the vessel (exterior, exterior rim, lip, interior rim, interior), and (3) how the design was executed (excised, grooved, incised, painted). The overall percentage of decorated sherds increases from Tzompantepec (900–800 bc, 21 percent of rims) to Texoloc (650–500 bc, 40 percent), but the most spectacular and complex designs (Figure 3.3g–k) occur in the Tlatempa phase (800–650 bc). After Texoloc, the percentage of incised/excised designs declines dramatically and designs become, overall, simpler. General motifs in the Tzompantepec through Texoloc assemblages at Amomoloc and Tetel are shown in Figure 3.9. The most common design (motif code X) is the presence of one–four circumferential horizontal lines (incised, grooved, or excised); all lines are parallel, usually spaced evenly apart, and found on the exterior of the vessel just below the rim, on the exterior rim, lip, or interior rim. Considering the fragmentary nature of our sample, it is not surprising that the majority of our sherds display parallel lines instead of the “line breaks” that occur two–eight times per vessel (Figure 3.3a, c, e, n). We concentrate on pieces with more than simply horizontal lines. At first glance, it would seem far-fetched to suggest that the set of motifs in Figure 3.9 depicts anything. Different effects are created by incising, predominant in A–G; grooving with excised areas in, particularly, K–N; and, occasionally, painting with red slip (some of A, H, and N). Noteworthy 34

Changing Social Practices as Seen from Household Iconic Traditions

Figure 3.9. Percentage of individual motif occurrences by phase (note that a single sherd may depict more than one motif ). Motif X (one–four parallel lines) is not included in the percentages (drawings by Jennifer Carballo).

know if the original makers actually devised motifs according to this logic, if individual motifs at this scale referenced some subject, then we might expect actual occurrences to be clumped in this diagram: It is hard to imagine how dispersion of occurrences across the field of possibilities could promote recognition of subject matter unless all of it referenced the same subject. The pattern we find seems best characterized as dispersion.

At the opposite end of the spectrum of scales, it might be the case that individual motifs added up to something at the compositional scale. This is difficult to assess in a fragmentary collection, but focusing on the 42 complete or semicomplete vessels in the sample, we see a pattern of endlessly rearranged juxtapositions, ­transformations, and compositional “play” with the smaller-scale motifs (e.g., Figure 3.3g–h, j–k). But did the ­potters 35

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Figure 3.10. Example of possible transformations of the basic line break motif. The number of occurrences of individual motifs is given in parentheses next to each letter; note that only exact copies of motifs in the sample are counted here (drawing by Jennifer Carballo).

follow a set of “rules” when organizing individual motifs into a compositional whole? How many times does a motif repeat around the rim of a vessel? Can we identify any correlations between motifs on the interior base of a vessel (typically stars of varying points) and rim decoration? What we find is that a motif is most likely to be repeated three times along the interior rim, while repetition two or four times is most common for exterior decoration. There is little relation between interior rim and interior base design composition. We have stars with four, five, and six points, some with crosses or cross-hatching within them; we have circles with excised grids (grater bowls); and none correlate with specific motifs or division of space on the interior rim. If these decorations depicted something — ​ that is, if they referenced anything besides themselves — ​then consideration of the sources of the motifs (in Early Formative art) suggests that the subject was likely to be supernatural. The high de-

gree of variation of both individual motifs and their arrangements into compositions would seem to rule out multiple, specific subjects: Variation is such that it would obfuscate recognition. A more likely possibility — ​assuming, again, that there actually was some content being represented — ​would be a limited set of themes, perhaps themes that were themselves evocative and in some way analogous to the rich compositional and motival play of the imagery. If that was the case, then the structure of the representational system — ​including the internal relations between iconographic elements and their referential relations to the subject — ​was quite different from those associated with the other specific and seemingly supernatural subjects on masks and censers. The imagery on masks and censers seems to point more directly to a particular, identifiable, bounded reference; that of pottery, if it is in fact representational, seems to represent in a diffuse, evocative way. 36

Changing Social Practices as Seen from Household Iconic Traditions

The effect of evocativeness comes about through the complex networks of cross-referencing among the elements. Although the motifs are seemingly endlessly varied in their details, each version recalls others that are similar, but different, as exemplified by the possibility of deriving many specific motifs from a few elements (Figure 3.10). In other words, this motival and compositional play lies in the domain we have been referring to as stylistic. As with figurines, the stylistic domain seems to predominate over the iconographic. Yet there the similarity ends, for the two were stylistic in different ways. The stylistic elements of figurines referenced well-defined and internally coherent clusters of traits, the archaeologist’s “types.” Decorations on pottery are not typable in that way. There was a spectrum of slightly varying motifs that crosscut any “types” identified — ​in the traditional manner for this area and period — ​ on the basis of surface color.

caught up in the “fluidity” of overt social display and competition — ​yet that very competition might involve use in settings more “public” than “intimate.” The continuum we propose seems fair as a heuristic construct, as long as we do not try to push it too far. Our first question is to what extent the structure of the different iconic programs is linked to the social contexts of use of the artifacts involved. There does seem to be a relation between structure and use context. It was among masks and ­censers that we found coding strategies that pointed to a specific subject (Storm God, Old God, Opossum). In (parts of) the relevant sequences, iconographic attributes were coherent, consistent, and not shared on other artifacts, indicating a boundedness that would have further promoted identification of the subject. In contrast, among figurines and ceramic serving vessels, stylistic differentiation was more visually important than subject matter. The distinct styles of figurines behaved like bounded entities, whereas decoration on pots was characterized by endless stylistic play, perhaps diffusely evocative of some supernatural subject. Interestingly, in iconic programs on artifacts deployed in smaller-scale, more fluid, and generally more intimate social settings (figurines, pots) we find looser, more diffuse relations between image and subject matter. Further, if the decorations on pots referenced supernatural subjects, they did so through an evocative stylistic play very different from the direct, codified relations we find among masks and censers. It would appear that there were significant differences in the iconic programs chosen for deployment in these two sorts of social settings. We can push that issue one step further by noting that formalized, ritual practices typically portray themselves as invariant, especially in contrast to the fluidity of everyday life — ​and yet we are well aware that traditions can be invented (Bell 1992:​119–124). Our analyses allow us to consider the question of invariance within our traditions at the level of substance (e.g., Was the same god always depicted?) as well as of structure (e.g., the patterning of and relations between stylistic and iconographic attributes). The iconic programs of the more public/ritual objects do display ­significant continuities at the substantive level, though in no case was there invariance

Toward Social Interpretation

The objects we have been considering were made of fired clay. They were discarded with domestic garbage and likely formed parts of household inventories. Still, each artifact — ​masks, censers, figurines, pottery serving ware — ​constitutes a distinct functional class. We have explored what might be thought of as the structure as well as the substance of the iconic tradition(s) associated with each sequence of fabrication. We made a heuristic distinction between subject matter and style, assessing, in each case, the density, coherence, and consistency of attributes. We also considered the likelihood that some specific, nameable subject was represented. The idea was that iconicity structured in different ways would signal variation in the topography of social practice. We have found differences in structure, and in what follows we make an attempt to account for those. We proposed above that the use contexts of the objects under consideration fell along a rough spectrum from more public/ritual — ​masks and censers — ​to more intimate/fluid — ​figurines and decorated serving ware. Admittedly, we are simplifying what was actually a complicated interplay of dimensions. Decorated pots were used every day for food service (“intimate”), and more than any other artifact considered they were ­probably 37

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t­hroughout the entire period under consideration. Opossum persisted as a subject on censers from 900 bc until sometime after 400 bc. The Storm God appeared after 650 bc in Tlaxcala, though it likely appeared earlier in the Basin of Mexico. It persisted into the late occupation at La Laguna and became one of the major deities in the Teotihuacano pantheon, serving as an index of that city’s power in iconography elsewhere in Mesoamerica. The Old God persisted from 800 or 700 bc through the late occupation and became a major domestic deity at Teotihuacán. In contrast to these, the substance of what was depicted on pottery and figurines is ephemeral (except perhaps for a persistent theme of femaleness among the figurines). Turning to the level of structure — ​the density, coherence, and consistency of iconographic and stylistic traits and the relations between those domains — ​we find considerable variation between the artifact classes, variation that does not seem explicable in terms of our spectrum of use contexts. Figurines (in many ways the most ­unstable in substance) had the most structurally stable iconic program, though they did decline in frequency. Censers were also associated with stability of iconic program, though there was a gradual substantive change from Opossum to Old God. Masks, on the other hand, underwent a simultaneous substantive/structural shift between the Tlatempa and Texoloc phases (ca. 650 bc) as the subject matter became for the first time bounded and specific (the Storm God). Decorations on pots changed gradually but continually in structure as well as substance; we have considered here only pottery of the period 900–500 bc, in part because later decorative programs are not really comparable to that of the early whiteware t­ radition.

To what extent might we explain the direction taken in our sequences in terms of that longstanding concern of anthropological archaeology, increasing sociopolitical complexity — ​definitively a process unfolding at a large scale during the period under consideration? Two developments among the more public/ritual artifacts appear amenable to such an approach. There is the trend toward relatively greater sophistication and standardization among Opossum censers and, among masks, the shift from nonspecific subject matter to the representation of a specific, nameable deity. Another observation is that gods recognizable from Classic period pantheons appear during the course of our sequence. The Storm God was probably adopted already formed from an adjacent region. For the Old God, we propose a transition in central Tlaxcala from mythological figure (whose depictions differed little from figurines) to the more formal status of deity. Still, our structural analysis of iconic programs prompts us to avoid drawing too definite a line between increasing complexity and “the appearance of gods.” The presentation of specific, bounded, probably named subjects recurs throughout the sequence. Even if Opossum was not a “god,” the structure of its associated iconic tradition was similar to that of the later Storm God. The censer tradition, in other words, displays a structural stability that contrasts with changes in pottery, where the complicated early decorative program considered here disappears, to be replaced by structurally and substantively simpler programs. We are led to propose that, in terms of the material accoutrements of daily practice, developing complexity had a greater impact on more intimate domains of social action than on intracommunity (but supra­ household) ritual activities.

Acknowledgments Work described here was funded by grants to Lesure from the National Science Foundation (BCS-0003961 and 0313762), the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research (6722), and the H. John Heinz III Fund of the Heinz Family Foundation and by grants to D. Carballo from the National Science Foundation (BCS-0941278), the National Geographic Society, the University of California Institute for Mexico and the United States, the Consejo Nacional de Ciencia y

Tecno­logía, and the Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc. We would like to thank Joaquín García Bárcena, Roberto García Moll, and the Consejo de Arqueología of the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia for their support of our work, as well as Angel García Cook, B. Leonor Merino Carrión, and Mari Carmen Serra Puche for their advice and encouragement. 38

4

Memory and Power at Joya, Yucatán Scott R. Hutson, Aline Magnoni, Travis W. Stanton, Donald A. Slater, and Scott Johnson

All beginnings contain an element of recollection. This is particularly so when a social group makes a concerted effort to begin with a wholly new start. — Connerton 1989:6

This chapter uses survey data from three sites — ​ Joya, Tzacauil, and Yaxuná — ​in the center of the Northern Maya lowlands (Figure 4.1) to discuss the role of power and memory in the political history of Joya. Archaeologists working in Mesoamerica and elsewhere have developed increasingly sophisticated perspectives for under­ standing political transformations (see, for example, Haskell, this volume). This builds from a recognition that relations of authority result from negotiations in which multiple actors participate. In the early 1980s, the introduction of structuration theory in archaeology, and its ­companion concept of agency, permitted fresh critiques of the notion that polities were ruled from the top down (Miller and Tilley 1984; Parker Pearson 1984; Shanks and Tilley 1982). These critiques precipitated a number of studies focused on how commoners, women, and other historically marginalized agents resisted attempts to disempower them (Brumfiel 1996; Joyce 1993; McCafferty and McCafferty 1988; Miller et al. 1989; references in Paynter and McGuire 1991). These studies set the stage for new views of political organization that recognize the complexity of social interactions. Two aspects of this complexity stand out for our purposes. First is the heterogeneity of

a­ ctors. Many ancient Maya communities contained people with disparate statuses, political connections, and professions. This heterogeneity strains the usefulness of categories — ​such as “commoner” — ​into which such actors are often lumped (Lohse and Valdez 2004). Yaeger’s (2000, 2003) investigation of San Lorenzo, Belize, a small settlement located 1.5 km to the southwest of the major Maya center of Xunantunich, serves as a good example of the diversity of identity. The community of San Lorenzo, which consisted of 20 mound groups, contained nobody that we would call elites, though some actors at San Lorenzo did try to enhance their connections to the elites of Xunantunich. Despite this lack of elites, San Lorenzo shows a surprising range of intrasettlement heterogeneity: “Variability among households is evident in domestic group size and morphology, construction techniques used in residential architecture, frequency of faunal remains, presence of items made of exotic materials, and burial practices” (Yaeger 2003:43). Thus, community heterogeneity confounds the elite/commoner dichotomy. San Lorenzo’s inhabitants were not elites, but it is also inaccurate to heap them all into the category of commoner (see also Gonlin 1994; LeCount 1999). 39

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Figure 4.1. Map of Yaxuná and the Proyecto de Interacción Política del Centro de Yucatán (PIPCY) survey

transect.

The second outstanding aspect of complexity concerns the interactions between leaders and subordinates. Several archaeologists (Brumfiel 1992; Pauketat 2000; A. Smith 2003) appreciate the notion that all people in the past could play active roles in political processes. To take another example from the Maya area, Lucero (2007) ­argues that data on temple construction from ­Yalbac, Belize, show that commoners had options as to which elite faction they chose to support, thus highlighting their contribution to governing dynamics. We do not imply that all actors are on equal footing but, rather, that political transformations must be seen as the result of a balance achieved between people with divergent interests and that this balance could not be struck without the willful participation of the less powerful (Lohse 2007:3). This balance is historical insofar as the sedimented outcomes of previous negotiations affect new political developments. In the same way that the body gains a historical memory in Bourdieu’s concept of the habitus, the body politic can be said to react to and react from the past. The notion of history foregrounds the importance of memory. A number of scholars have recently explored the concept of memory in prehistory (see, for example, chapters in Mills and Walker, eds. 2008; Stanton and Magnoni 2008, Van Dyke and Alcock 2003; Williams 2003). Mills and Walker (2008:7) note a movement in anthropology away from memory and toward remembering (and forgetting). This shift highlights the idea that memory is an active process in the constitution and reconstitution of social life (see also

Jones 2007:31). Connerton’s (1989) key example, with which he opens his book How Societies Remember, illustrates the role of remembering and forgetting in political transformations and foreshadows one of the arguments we will make for the site of Joya. After the events of 1789, the ­leaders of the French Revolution sought not only to execute a particular king, which happened to be Louis XVI, but to execute the king in such a way that would eliminate the entire institution of kingship. For a thousand years, kings were both individual people and placeholders of divine right, ruling by the grace of God (Kantorowicz 1957). Therefore, at coronation, their heads received not just a crown but anointment with holy oil from a bishop. The revolutionaries chose to behead Louis XVI because they knew that such an execution would kill him in a way that would also symbolically revoke the divine right of kingship. By removing the same head that was once anointed, the beheading not only kills the king as an individual but also undoes the political theology of kingship; it reverses the rite of coronation. Thus, the key rite that would establish a totally new institution of rulership also recalls the rites of the previous institution. This example shows not just the active role that remembering plays in political transformations but also that history constrains the present. Even those leaders attempting to invert past political systems must make their actions intelligible given the precedents and logic established in the past. Gillespie (2008c) makes this point in her analysis of the sequence of construction of Complex A at La Venta, where constructions by one group shaped 40

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the strategies available to other factions attempting to contest the authority of these earlier groups (see also Joyce 2008). These examples also force a reconsideration of forgetting, a topic to which we return below. In our case study we discuss data from a total coverage survey transect that began at the major Maya center of Yaxuná and ended at a point approximately 4 km to the east. In this essay, we focus on the site of Joya, the largest site on this transect in demographic terms. We argue that Joya, which appears to immediately postdate Tzacauil, represents a radical transformation of the kind of political organization present at Tzacauil. We hypothesize that this transformation should be understood as a reaction to the previous political formation at Tzacauil. Joya was a complex, heterogeneous community whose inhabitants participated in politics in diverse ways and as part of different ideologies than at Tzacauil. Joya proved to be more successful than Tzacauil in both longevity and attracting more settlers.

Cobá and Chichén Itzá (Freidel 1992; Shaw and Johnstone 2001). During the Preclassic, Yaxuná was one of the largest sites in central Yucatán. Centered on three large acropolis groups and an E-Group (an architectural complex whose layout closely resembles complexes known to function at other Maya sites as astronomical o ­ bservatories [Aveni et al. 2003]), Preclassic Yaxuná was a nucleated community that used raised limestone roads — ​called sacbes — ​to connect the monumental architecture of the site core (Stanton and Ardren 2005; Stanton and Freidel 2005). Joya is located approximately 2 km to the east of Yaxuná. Its settlement takes the shape of a crescent (Figures 4.1 and 4.2). We mapped 147 structures at Joya. The site appears to extend some distance to the north, beyond the edge of our mapping transect, implying that other structures not yet mapped also pertain to this site. Joya has no monumental temples, palaces, or other architectural features, but the site does have a focal point: a plaza measuring 58 m east–west by 32 m north–south, partially bound by masonry platforms on the north, east, and south sides and the terminus of a sacbe on the west side. At least four lines of evidence identify this plaza as the political and ceremonial focus of the community. First, this feature is the largest formally bound plaza at Joya. Second, the plaza resides directly in the geographical center of the Joya crescent. In fact, a geographic information system analysis identified Structure 29C, located on the north side of the plaza, as the site’s most centrally located structure. Third, the G ­ etis-Ord statistic identifies each of the structures that bound the plaza (29c on the north; 29Gr, 29a, and 29b on the south; and 27d and 27e on the east), as well as three structures off the edge of the plaza, as statistically significant hot spots within Joya in terms of architectural volume. In other words, the plaza represents the most salient cluster of large structures within the site. Only one other structure beyond the vicinity of the plaza is a statistically significant hot spot. Fourth, the plaza is the terminus of the site’s sacbe, indicating that the plaza was a destination or starting point for processions. Sacbes connect to the monumental cores of other sites in Yucatán, suggesting that ­locals recognized this plaza as the site’s civic center. In sum, the plaza is the heart of Joya in terms

Joya

Joya was first documented as part of the Proyecto de Interacción Política del Centro de Yucatán (PIPCY). PIPCY is the latest of several archaeology projects to focus on Yaxuná and its neighbors (Brainerd 1958; O’Neill 1933; Suhler et al. 1998; Villa Rojas 1934). Currently directed by Travis Stanton and Aline Magnoni, the project has mapped several sites and caves in the municipality of Yaxcabá, including Ikil, X’telhú, Rancho Alegre, X’togil, X-Panil, X-auil, Cacalchen, Tzacauil, Joya, Yaxuná, and Popolá. The project has also excavated at the latter two sites and is currently expanding its excavations (Stanton 2005; Stanton and Magnoni 2009; Stanton, Hutson, and Magoni 2008). All of these sites occupy a relatively flat karstic topography, with thin soils fed by 1,000 to 1,200 mm of precipitation, most of which falls between May and December. The wettest months of this rainy season are June, July, and August. Located to the south of Chichén Itzá, Yaxuná appears to have been the regional capital from the Preclassic to at least the end of the Early Classic (Stanton 2000; Suhler 1996). During the Late to Terminal Classic, Yaxuná appears to have been intermittently subordinate to other sites, p ­ ossibly 41

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Figure 4.2. Map of Joya.

of size, location, volume of affiliated architecture, and emic salience. The Joya plaza qualifies as a minor center (Bullard 1960), though its architecture is smaller than that of the exemplary minor center of Nohoch Ek (Coe and Coe 1956). Recent excavations at ­Nohoch Ek by Taschek and Ball (2003) sound a note of caution in identifying minor centers because Taschek and Ball did not find features — ​ ballcourt, stela, shrine, altar, or performance platform — ​that would suggest ceremonial or ritual associations for Nohoch Ek. Though Joya also lacks this particular suite of ceremonial indicators, its plaza was anchored to the end of a sacbe and its eastern edge backs onto a subterranean space replete with ceremonial features, as we discuss below. Two lines of evidence help provide chronology for this central plaza. First, surface collections and test pits recovered ceramic types commonly assigned to the Middle to Late Preclassic (Sierra Red, Joventud Red, Ucú Black, and Bakxoc Cream-to-Buff and Black) and types commonly assigned to the Late and Terminal Classic periods, such as Muna Slate and Encanto Striated. A small quantity of Puuc-style veneer stones that had collapsed from Structure 27e reinforces a Late and/ or Terminal Classic reoccupation, while the vast majority of stonework at Joya is nondiagnostic. This picture suggests that Joya’s central plaza was

occupied in the Preclassic and at the end of the Classic period. Joya Sacbe

The Joya sacbe measures between 4 and 7.5 m wide, with an average height of .3 m. Figure 4.3 shows a topographic map of a 300-m portion of the sacbe. The sacbe begins at an orientation of 277° and then changes to 270° after 120 m. This change occurs in the vicinity of Structure A6, where there is also an 8-m gap in the sacbe. The fact that the sacbe changes its bearing at the gap suggests that this gap is intentional. On the other hand, scavenging for stone for the construction of Structure A6 may have created the gap. This alternative, however, strikes us as unlikely: A6 is Joya’s largest structure by volume. If the gap in the sacbe resulted from scavenging, the quantity of stone removed — ​about 15 m3 — ​is negligible given the massive volume of A6 — ​1,200 m3. If the ­builders of A6 were truly in need of additional stone, they could have extracted a greater amount from the sacbe. Six hundred meters beyond A6, the direction of the sacbe changes from 270° to 263°, an orientation it holds until its end. At about 700 m west of its beginning point, there is a 73-m gap in the Joya sacbe. At the end of the gap there is a 36-m segment, then a 33-m gap, and then a 28-m segment. Beyond this segment there are no stones whatsoever for approximately 50 m. This 42

Memory and Power at Joya, Yucatán

Figure 4.3. Map of Joya sacbe and plaza.

gap roughly corresponds with the eastern edge of the site of Yaxuná. Once inside Yaxuná, patches of very light scatters of small (10-cm) stones appear on and off for approximately 150 m. To the west of this 150-m span, these stones cluster into a continuous segment for a span of about 120 m, marked in Figure 4.4. The amount of stone in this segment diminishes 80 m short of a large platform, 7F-35, although a poorly preserved edge of the sacbe extends to within 20 m of the platform. Structure 7F-35 is located 600 m from the Yaxuná site center (Stanton and Magnoni 2009). The data currently support multiple, though not mutually exclusive, explanations for these large gaps in the Joya sacbe. Scavenging might account for the gaps within Yaxuná. The 120-m segment of the sacbe pictured in Figure 4.4 occupies a small bubble of space with no adjacent architecture. To the east and west of this 120-m segment, where little or none of the sacbe is preserved, architecture exists in close proximity to where the sacbe would have extended. Parsimony suggests that the builders of these structures scavenged stone from the sacbe, thus explaining its disappearance in these spots. We propose that the sacbe originally reached Structure 7F-35 but was then partially dismantled later in time to provide material for new constructions. By surface area, 7F-35, which measures 67 × 37 m and over 2 m high, is the largest building yet mapped beyond the Yaxuná site core. This structure is surrounded by other large platforms (see Figure 4.4) found in the eastern transect of Yaxuná. Figures 4.1 and 4.4 show that other gaps in the Joya sacbe (e.g., those in the open area between Joya and Yaxuná) lack nearby architecture. Scav-

Figure 4.4. Map of settlement on the east edge of

Yaxuná.

enging therefore does not appear to account for these gaps; we would have expected scavengers to extract stone from segments within Joya and ­Yaxuná before going farther afield to scavenge. One alternative explanation is that these segments of the Joya sacbe may never have been completely finished. Others have suggested that sacbes were constructed by multiple labor groups, each working on a particular segment (Folan 1977:40; Shaw 2008:67). The largest gaps in the sacbe were between Yaxuná and Joya, where nobody lived. If labor groups from both Yaxuná and Joya were involved, could it be that few people felt compelled to work on the sacbe in areas beyond their community (cf. Hutson et al. 2012)? A second alternative is that some segments of the route were never meant to be completed as a sacbe. Instead, these segments may have been maintained as unbuilt footpaths. We stress that these hypotheses are not 43

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mutually exclusive; one may explain some gaps, while another may explain other gaps.

A6, the most voluminous structure at Joya. This finding matches a pattern observed by Yaeger (2000, 2003) at San Lorenzo: Social groups with the most costly architecture also played prominent political/ritual­roles. In the San Lorenzo case, this involved hosting feasts. Though we do not yet have data to identify feasting at Structure A6, the fact that the sacbe pauses and changes its orientation by 7° at Structure A6 suggests that the residents of A6 may have played a role in ceremonial processions on the sacbe. With the exception of Joya’s plaza group, where the sacbe begins, A6 is unique in its direct involvement in the sacbe. Despite the pattern in which the architectural groups with the most structures are also those with the most impressive buildings, the scale of architecture at Joya grades evenly down from Structure A6 to the site’s most modest buildings. Thus, a clear portrait of diversity emerges for Joya’s residential structures.

Settlement Diversity

Beyond the plaza, Joya contains a variety of buildings, consisting of 35 architectural groups and 13 isolated structures (an isolated structure was defined as being situated at least 30 m away from all other buildings). Twelve of the 13 isolated structures are low, apsidal, or circular foundation braces, usually less than 5 m in diameter. The one exception is a quadrangular platform measuring 13 × 11 m, with a height of about 1.5 m. With regard to the 35 architectural groups, 13 contain two structures, seven groups contain three structures, five groups contain four structures, five groups contain five structures, two groups contain six groups, two groups contain seven structures, and one group contains eight structures. These counts likely underestimate the total number of structures at Joya for three reasons: (1) small structures may have been destroyed by the modern, unpaved road that threads east–west through the site; (2) low platforms may have been concealed by sedimentation (Johnston 2004); and (3) perishable structures may have since decayed. With regard to the latter, three broad basal platforms (D28, A55, and 21G) have no detectable superstructures, but their large surface areas (approximately 590, 550, and 300 m2, respectively) indicate that they once supported them. Nineteen of the 35 groups contain basal platforms, though in about half of these groups one or more structures are located off the platform. The site’s two largest platforms (A6 and D35), by both surface area and volume, are part of groups with some of the highest structure counts. The third-largest structure by volume is 29C, on the north side of the central plaza. The largest structure by surface area — ​D35, located approximately 250 m to the north of the central plaza — ​measures 42 × 33 m, with a height ranging from .5 to 2 m due to changes in the elevation of the natural ground surface. Structure D35 supports remnants of five superstructures. The largest structure by volume — ​A6, located approximately 150 m to the west of the central plaza — ​measures 30 × 20 m, with an average height of 2 m. It does not strike us as coincidental that the Joya sacbe exhibits a brief gap and a 7° change in bearing directly in front of

Subterranean Features

Joya has two rejolladas and a cenote (Figure 4.2). A rejollada is a doline or karstic sinkhole with soil in the bottom. A cenote is a karstic sinkhole deep enough to reach the water table. In Yucatán, rejolladas may extend to over 100 m in diameter, with a depth of 20 m (Houck 2006). Rejollada 1 (R1) stands out because of its vicinity to Joya’s plaza, because it contains rockshelters and caves, and because of the multiple ways in which Joya’s residents modified it. R1 lies 5 m to the east of the backs of the two structures that form the eastern boundary of Joya’s plaza: 27d and 27e. R1 is roughly circular and has a diameter of approximately 70 m and a depth of 16 m. It contains three rockshelters, a pyramid, numerous masonry walls, rock carvings, scattered artifacts including a possible offering, and natural limestone features with evidence of human modification (Figure 4.5). The 33-m-long rockshelter on the west side of R1 shows the greatest amount of activity in the rejollada. Within the rejollada, and abutting the rockshelter, is a pyramid with a basal diameter of approximately 20 m (Figure 4.6). The structure rises to a height of 5 m (taller than any other structure at Joya) and peaks roughly 4 m below the rockshelter’s overhang. The rear of the pyramid terminates into a wall, which serves to seal 44

Memory and Power at Joya, Yucatán

Figure 4.5. Map of Rejollada 1, Joya.

approximately half of the front entrance to the rockshelter. This portion of the rockshelter was further blocked on the remaining three sides — ​ by a constructed wall to the south and the natural terminus of the rockshelter to the west and north — ​to form a completely sealed chamber. The southern wall has since been perforated, allowing access into the 15-×-4-m previously sealed chamber (Figure 4.7). The more open southern portion of the rockshelter also contains the remnants of two walls. Nevertheless, they are too fragmentary to determine whether they once created a sealed room. Along the outer edge of the rockshelter, north of the two fragmentary walls and south of the sealed chamber, are two motifs pecked into

bedrock. One is an eroded and currently unidentified design, while the second appears to be an ajaw glyph with a possible coefficient of the barand-dot numeral three (Figure 4.8), likely representing a calendrical date. Between the west and north rockshelters is a small niche containing several pottery sherds, one or two small speleothems, shell, and animal bone (Figure 4.9). Though these artifacts have not been analyzed, the pottery is prehispanic. This collection of items may have been intentionally placed in the niche in ancient times as part of an offering. The 16-m-long north rockshelter contains what was once a completely sealed chamber. The back wall of the rockshelter opens into a small, 45

Figure 4.6. Photo taken from inside Rejollada 1, Joya, looking west, showing the west rockshelter partially concealed by a pyramid.

Figure 4.7. Perforated stone wall in the west rockshelter, Rejollada 1, Joya.

Memory and Power at Joya, Yucatán

Figure 4.8. Glyph in Rejollada 1, Joya.

Figure 4.9. Niche with artifacts in the north rockshelter, Rejollada 1, Joya.

4-m-deep natural chamber, with the entrance blocked by a now-perforated, but largely intact, masonry wall. The open south edge of the rockshelter contains two small (approximately 4-×2-×-.3-m) platforms. Toward the east end of the rockshelter are three natural, active drip water formations. The central and eastern formations, which are shaped like an altar, show evidence of modification. Atop the central formation is a ­broken speleothem (Figure 4.10). As there is a lack of geological evidence to suggest that it fell from the ceiling and landed on the formation, it must have been purposely deposited in its current position by a person. The accumulation of calcium carbonate from active drip water on the speleothem, as it now lays, suggests that it has been in place for some time, although without detailed analysis, how long remains unknown. A collection of stones forming a short wall lies atop the eastern formation. Like the previously mentioned speleothem, drip water has deposited a layer of calcium carbonate on the wall, once again attesting to the antiquity of the feature (Figure 4.10).

The third and final rockshelter lies at the northeast side of the bottom of Rejollada 1. Its opening is less broad than those of the other two shelters, but it also displays evidence of usage. At the rear of the rockshelter is the entrance to a 3-m-wide, 16-m-deep cave. It, too, was sealed by a now partially dismantled stone wall. Rockshelters and rejolladas, along with caverns, cenotes, and springs, fall under the emic Maya category of features that penetrate the earth into the underworld and should thus be interpreted as sacred elements of the landscape (Brady 1997:603; Brady and Ashmore 1999:127; Paxton 2001:105; Rissolo 2003:134, 2005:354; Stone 1995:​74; Vogt 1969:387; Vogt and Stuart 2005:163). It appears that Rejollada 1 at Joya was no exception and, in fact, seems to have served as an important space for ceremonial activity at the site. As discussed, R1 contains three ­chambers that were completely sealed in antiquity. This follows a common trend observed in other caves by the Central Yucatán Archaeological Cave Project, a 47

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Figure 4.10. Wall with calcium carbonate cementation, north rockshelter, Rejollada 1, Joya.

subproject of PIPCY. Such areas were likely used for ceremonial purposes and were sealed due to termination or desecration, as local ­politico-ritual­ dynamics changed (Brady 1997:​609; Brady and Colas 2005; Brady and Helmke 2009). Such terminations as documented throughout the PIPCY study area may have accompanied the abandon­ ment of a site or perhaps represent the ­culminating act of a significant ritual (Brady and Colas 2005:​ 161–162). The presence of a p ­ yramidal structure within R1 also suggests a ceremonial use for the rejollada, as there is no evidence that the building supported any form of domestic dwelling. In R1, the presence of rock art and hieroglyphic writing, the transportation of a speleothem from an unknown location to the top of an altar-like natural formation, and a possible offering of pottery, bone, shell, and a speleothem also further highlight the ceremonial nature, and likely elite usage, of this sacred space on the landscape of Joya. The smaller and more shallow Rejollada 2 (R2 in Figure 4.2) lies 110 m northwest of Rejollada 1. Joya’s two rejolladas bracket the center of the site. This second rejollada contains no human structures but was quarried for sascab (a powdery, 48

weathered limestone used as temper for mortars and plaster [Littman 1958]). The Joya cenote (­labeled JC in Figure 4.2), a year-round water source with a 3-×-3-m opening, lies 70 m northwest of R2. Though it is only 20 m from A10, one of Joya’s larger architectural groups, no walls or other features limit the cenote’s accessibility to that group alone. Joya and Tzacauil

The site of Tzacauil, located 1.1 km east of Joya’s plaza, consists of an acropolis and seven platform groups to the west. The acropolis measures 110 × 105 m at its base and 80 × 70 m at its top, which reaches an elevation of 8.5 m above the natural ground surface. The acropolis supports eight buildings, the largest of which include Structure 1, a 6-m-high pyramid at the eastern edge of the acropolis, and Structures 3 and 6, a pair of buildings each measuring about 4 m high, located on the north and south edges of the acropolis, respectively. These three structures, and the acropolis that supports them, are a textbook example of a Triadic Group, a common architectural feature of the Late Preclassic period across the Maya

Memory and Power at Joya, Yucatán

lowlands (Hansen 1998). Triadic Groups have been interpreted as sacred spaces where leaders ceremonially reenacted the Maya myth of creation (Freidel et al. 1993:140). Ceramics from Tzacauil — ​Dzudzuquil group, Ucú Black, Guitara Incised, Joventud Red, and Sierra Red — ​ date exclusively to the Middle and Late Preclassic periods. We propose that Joya grew as Tzacauil faltered. Since both Tzacauil and Joya have a Late Preclassic occupation, our proposition requires a relative chronology that accommodates the idea that Joya succeeded Tzacauil. We use the sacbes to build this relative chronology (see Beck 1991). Given that the Tzacauil sacbe articulates with the acropolis, whose latest stage of occupation is the Late Preclassic, the sacbe cannot postdate the Late Preclassic. The Tzacauil sacbe runs parallel to the Joya sacbe, separated from it by only 60 m (see Figure 4.2). It lacks a formal end point, terminating in an open space 600 m to the west of Joya’s central plaza (Hutson et al. 2012). At several locations, people at Joya constructed buildings alongside the Tzacauil sacbe. Gaps in the Tzacauil sacbe often appear precisely at these locations (see Figure 4.2). This suggests that Joya’s builders scavenged material from the Tzacauil sacbe. If Joya’s occupants scavenged from the Tzacauil sacbe, the use and maintenance of the Tzacauil sacbe must have ceased. Kristan-Graham (2001:​352) suggests that, in the Maya area, the dismantling of sacbes ritually terminated the social group affiliated with those sacbes. We infer that the dismantling of Tzacauil’s sacbe reflects the decline of Tzacauil, which is to say that its leaders were no longer able to project authority beyond the settlement of Tzacauil, if at all. In sum, the Tzacauil sacbe was built in the Preclassic and was no longer in use when Joya grew. The Joya sacbe took its place as the dominant sacbe to the east of Yaxuná (Sacbe 1, connecting Yaxuná with Cobá, 100 km to the east, was not built until the Late Classic period [Shaw and Johnstone 2001]). We see the succession of these two sacbes as a reflection of the history of their respective sites: Joya eclipsed Tzacauil. Our chronological reconstruction holds that Tzacauil both peaked and declined within the same ceramic period. This is unremarkable, however, given that this period, the Late Preclassic, may have lasted

more than 500 years in northern Yucatán (Glover and Stanton 2010). Discussion

We believe that Joya eclipsed Tzacauil as the main settlement to the east of Yaxuná by using very dissimilar political strategies. Differences in ceremonial spaces suggest these divergent political strategies. Compared with Tzacauil, Joya maintained a different relationship to subterranean spaces. Tzacauil had two cenotes nearby, but its settlement did not encompass them. On the other hand, in a move that anticipates settlement practices that continue into contemporary times, the people of Joya anchored their residential settlement around a cenote. Furthermore, they placed their central plaza directly between two rejolladas. Rockshelters in the larger of the two rejolladas were used as ritual spaces. The Joya inhabitants likely equated the rejollada with a cave and therefore centered their community around this important natural conduit to the underworld (see Brady 1997). In contrast, the Tzacauil ­leaders staked a claim to supernatural legitimacy by building an artificial stone place (Triadic Group) symbolic of creation. Perhaps a more important difference between Joya and Tzacauil is that Joya lacked monumental architecture. The lack of monumental construction at Joya can be placed in a broader geographic context. In some parts of the Maya lowlands, such as the Mirador Basin, the end of the Preclassic period is marked by a political collapse and depopulation of sites. No future Maya sites would build anything as large as El Mirador’s Danta Complex. Yaxuná itself continued to be occupied into the Early Classic, but most of its monumental construction projects ceased at the end of the Preclassic (Suhler et al. 1998). The absence of monumental construction at Joya fits this broader trend rather well. The shift from a political strategy that used monumental construction to one that did not can be interpreted in multiple ways. Since we cannot give voice to all of these interpretations, we examine two families of interpretation. One holds that monumental construction consolidates power; the other holds that monumental construction exposes or even creates weaknesses. In the first family of interpretations, the process of building 49

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monuments — ​organizing laborers and producing surpluses to feed them — ​helps establish bureaucracies (Mendelssohn 1971). Once bureaucracies are established and the populace is accustomed to the extraction of surplus, authorities can shift away from big buildings and direct efforts toward other pursuits. In a slightly different vein, Trigger viewed monumental architecture as a form of conspicuous consumption:

in the future. A salient detail here is accessibility. Joya’s main performance space — ​the plaza  — ​was more accessible than Tzacauil’s. Joya’s plaza was open on the west side and has additional openings on the northeast and southeast corners. Access requires no climbing. In contrast, Tzacauil’s plaza sat atop an 8-m-high acropolis. The only way to the top was the western stairway, which gave access not directly to the plaza but to a pair of structures forming a threshold to the perforIf economy of effort is the basic principle govmance space. Furthermore, what took place on erning the production and distribution of top of the acropolis could not be seen from bethose goods which are necessary to sustain low. The restrictive monumentality of Tzacauil human life, the ability to expend energy, essuggests a gulf between the leaders who orgapecially in the form of other people’s labor, in nized the construction of the acropolis and those non-utilitarian ways is the most basic and uniwho provided the labor. As suggested elsewhere versally understood symbol of power [1990:​ (Hutson et al. 2012), the laborers may have built 125]. this acropolis willingly but experienced alienThus, throwing away energy on a pyramid estab- ation from it as an unintended consequence once lishes the power of the leader who can afford to it was complete (see Joyce 2008; Pauketat 2000). do so (see also Aranyosi 1999). In this family of At Joya, there were no massive labor projects to interpretation, monumental construction ceases exacerbate the gulf between social groups. More once the goal of consolidating bureaucracy or ce- importantly, it appears that the gulf between somenting the symbolic power of the rulers is com- cial groups was diminished by the absence of plete. This is why monumental construction often restrictions (and pretensions) in the main cereoccurs only in the early stages of ancient states. monial space of the community. Here, our analyThe other family of interpretations that pur- sis recalls that presented by García-Des Lauriers port to explain a shift away from ­monumental (this volume), in that performances in the Joya construction holds that monumental construc- plaza, much like those in Group F of Los Hortion is an unstable activity that may expose cones, would build communal ties. However, the weakness just as much as it consolidates power. situation is in fact quite different since Group F Here, “architecture presents the need to persuade at Los Horcones contains not only monumental rather than the successful persuasion” (Hod- architecture but an arrangement of space calcuder 1994:​538). This perspective treats l­aborers lated to recall the Moon Pyramid complex at Teoas knowledgeable subjects who recognize when tihuacán and a management of access carefully they are being exploited and can refuse to par- geared to control movement and perception of ticipate when exploitation becomes intolerable. the landscape. Furthermore, it is a historical as opposed to an One could argue instead that generous accesevolutionary perspective insofar as it does not sibility and lack of control over movement at Joya presume that certain levels of authority select concealed rather than diminished social distance. for specific political strategies. This perspective Nevertheless, we take a performative, experienattends to the specific forms that architecture tial approach to the creation of social relations takes, rather than reducing architecture to an that holds that identities are created from soequation in which energy expenditure equates cial interactions (Hutson 2010). This implies that universally to power. when actors of different statuses begin to particiWe do not have the data to choose between pate in ceremonies on a more equal footing, in a these two families of hypotheses. Nevertheless, built environment that does not allow for as many we suggest that the specific form of architecture at distinctions between in-groups and out-groups, Joya and Tzacauil should be considered alongside these interactions reconfigure those statuses and whatever new data sets may present themselves identities. 50

Memory and Power at Joya, Yucatán

The first family of hypotheses would suggest that the structures of authority at Joya and Tzacauil were identical but that the leaders at Joya no longer needed to build monuments. We argue instead that the greater accessibility of space at Joya suggests that the structure of authority at Joya does not represent the same structure of authority as at Tzacauil. In other words, the people of Joya consciously organized and legitimized their polity in stark contrast to Tzacauil. Joya represents a different regime of power, or, following Lohse (2012), a different political ecology. In a political ecology perspective, power is never, even in the most totalitarian societies, the exclusive preserve of one group but, rather, a network of relations in which everyone participates (Foucault 1977; Scott 1985, 1990). Nevertheless, these relations can be configured and channeled by apparatuses that serve to differentiate actors into starkly different subject positions (Thomas 2002:38). Monumental architecture is one of these apparatuses. Whereas people meet each other on more equal grounds at the Joya plaza, Tzacauil’s acropolis divides — ​regionalizes (Giddens 1984:116–130) — ​people into high and low, inside and outside. The acropolis mediated power relations in a way that accentuated social difference and highlighted who was elite and who was not. Some scholars may prefer folding the differences between Tzacauil and Joya into the dichotomy between exclusionary and corporate strategies of authority (Blanton et al. 1996). We resist this step because theories of structuration furnish a perspective on power in which all actors play roles. In other words, no polity, even the most oppressive (and Maya polities were fairly nonoppressive), can exclude subordinates from the constitution of authority. The plaza at Joya offered a refreshingly less burdensome kind of politics that came across as more open and less extractive. In these circumstances it is not difficult to imagine families from Tzacauil voting with their feet and moving to Joya (Clark and Blake 1994; Lucero 2007). This kind of mobility should not be seen as a form of resistance in the same vein as Yucatec Maya fleeing to unpacified areas in the colonial and historic periods (Farriss 1984:72–75). The move from Tzacauil would not have been a rejection or disengagement from power relations but, rather, a way of negotiating and balancing these relations

by playing one polity off another. At least some factors discussed by Inomata (2004) facilitated settlers’ ability to move from a place like Tzacauil to Joya. For one, the move involved a very short distance. Second, due to the lack of channelized fields or other intensive forms of agriculture, moving would not have involved a loss of investment in land. Third, a year-round water source was available at Joya, and land does not appear to have been scarce in our survey area. Surely Joya was no egalitarian paradise. Variations in domestic architecture and group size suggest a spectrum of statuses within the community. Furthermore, some actors had privileged access to ceremonies and the supernatural. Those who lived in A6 elbowed themselves onto the edge of the sacbe. The caves that some actors crafted from the rockshelters of Rejollada 1 were exclusive spaces that could accommodate only a handful of people. The fact that Joya’s leaders located their central plaza as close as they could to the rejollada suggests a controlling effort to link themselves to the symbolic power of this underworld terrain, thus legitimating authority (see Brady 1997; Halperin 2005). Joya’s leaders appear to have struck a successful balance, safeguarding and justifying their authority while at the same time minimizing the footprint of this authority. This success shows in demographic terms, in that the site grew to be five times as large as Tzacauil. Furthermore, Figure 4.2 shows that Joya was a close-knit community, with buildings located near to each other and community boundaries clearly marked by empty margins. Historical memory played a large role in Joya’s success. Prior political experience at Tzacauil became an important factor influencing and circumscribing the possibilities for political organization at Joya. What makes power relations at Joya compelling is the way they must have been shaped by knowledge of what previously occurred at Tzacauil. This bears out the Connerton quotation in the epigraph: “All beginnings contain an element of recollection” (1989:6). What act of recollection at Joya could possibly be analogous to the beheading of Louis XVI, which destabilized monarchy while at the same time recalling coronation, the key rite of monarchic stability? The clearest element of recollection at Joya is its sacbe. It may seem absurd that the people of Joya 51

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built a new sacbe running parallel the Tzacauil sacbe but only 60 m apart. Rather than building a second sacbe the people of Joya could have just reused the Tzacauil sacbe. But the sacbe is a social statement more than a thing simply to be used. Joya built its own sacbe in order to show that it, too, was a serious site, just like Tzacauil before it. It made itself intelligible by following the local precedent of the previous political center, even though it sought to distance itself from that center. Incidentally, the poorly understood case of parallel sacbes at Tzacauil and Joya is not unique. Parallel sacbes occur at Citilcum, just off the sacbe between Aké and Izamal (Kurjack 2003:12), and south of Calakmul in the direction of El Mirador (Folan et al. 2001).

struction of certain contexts” (2008:264). Canuto and Andrews’s point resonates with Connerton’s view that new endeavors require citations to the past, even when that past is the subject of criticism. In the current case, the upstart political establishment at Joya cited the past in a way that mimicked Tzacauil, its predecessor: They built a sacbe to the west. Rather than forgetting or erasing the area’s political history, Joya’s success derived from remembering it well enough to avoid the same problems. No doubt remembering is distorted and subject to sectional challenges (Halbwachs 1992:182; see also Gillespie 2008c). We argue that politics at Joya were construed to conceal sectional differences. The configuration of the main performance space, the central plaza, welcomed the participation of all members of the community. We have also noted that despite this strategy of community integration, the Joya community was far from egalitarian. Differences in status were visible in the restricted ceremonial space of Rejollada 1 and in the wide variation in domestic architectural investment. Undoubtedly, much further work remains to be done in and around Joya. Nevertheless, the data presented above fall in line with two insights that can advance our understanding of Maya political organization: recognition of the heterogeneity of ancient communities and the ways in which all members of the community participated to some degree in its sustenance or dissolution.

Conclusion

The case study in this essay permits a short commentary on remembering and forgetting. In the rich case studies presented by Harrison-Buck (this volume, Chapter 9), by Sullivan et al. (2008) on Río Azul, Guatemala, and Chan Chich, B ­ elize, and by Navarro Farr et al. (2008) on Waka’, Guatemala, the authors discuss desecratory termination rituals that serve to erase the memory of previous political/ritual establishments. In their commentary on some of these essays, Canuto and Andrews suggest that such rituals are not exactly “actions intended to obliterate particular contexts from memory”; rather, the intent may have been to “remind people of the events that led to the deAcknowledgments We thank the Consejo de Arqueología, Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, for granting us permission to undertake this fieldwork. We also thank the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of

Kentucky, the National Geographic/Waitt Institute for Discovery, the Cave Research Foundation, Brandeis University, and the Robert S. Peabody Museum for funding.

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5

The Phalli Stones of the Classic Maya Northern Lowlands Masculine Anxiety and Regional Identity Traci Ardren

He was no more, freed from being, entering into nowhere without even knowing it. Just as he’d feared from the start. — Philip Roth, Ever yman

Because masculinity is so deeply embedded in the dominant social values of most cultures around the world, it is often invisible and unquestioned. Yet masculinity controls and limits other social identities such as femininity or alternative masculinities by defining them as inferior. For this reason feminists have taken up the subject of the social construction of masculinity with a goal of understanding how shared constructions of the male gender can impinge so deeply upon the feminine (Richlin 1996; Sedgwick 1985; Silverman 1992; Thomas 1996). In earlier works on ancient Maya gender relations I have explored the concept of hegemonic masculinity, or the ruling script that subjugates all other identities in order to maintain the dominant power structures of the state and constrain the activities and identities of individual men and women, despite the fact that the ideals of hegemonic masculinity reflect only a limited portion of any individual’s lived experience (Ardren 2008, 2009; Ardren and Hixson 2006). It is clear that Classic Maya (200–900 ce) culture embraced a hegemonic masculinity that facilitated the tight

control over power and resources enjoyed by elite men and their families (Houston 2009; Joyce 2000a). Painted vessels, murals, and sculpture are some of the media through which this message of absolute masculine power was conveyed. An ideology of hegemonic masculinity can exist simultaneously with parallel ideologies of gender interdependence or complementarity, as Joyce (2000b, 2008a) and others have claimed for ancient Maya elite society, and likely provided an additional basis for the control of women’s production (Hendon 1997, 2002). The Reproduction of Hegemonic Masculinity

Scholars have questioned how hegemonic masculinity is reproduced and sustained given that the diversity of masculine experience suggests that multiple masculinities must exist (Thomas 1996; Vale de Almeida 1996). As Miguel Vale de Almeida (1996:159) explains, hegemonic masculinity, or the culturally praised form of ­masculine experience, while in constant tension with the multiplicity of real life, is not imposed on people 53

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by force but, rather, by co-optation. It is a “lived consensus” that does not fully obliterate alternatives and a “form of domination in which the dominated participate in their domination” (Vale de Almeida 1996:163). When that lived consensus is defined as the value of maleness, power and dominance become naturalized in male form and assume an ordinary logic that is very hard to escape. Power is naturalized and equated with a biological prerogative to rule. The bridge between the realities of lived existence — ​where disparities and imbalances of power and access are obvious — ​and the conception of a shared gender identity that grants inherent privilege to men is a fragile one that must be maintained regularly. Hegemonic masculinity has to be reproduced through daily acts, repeated materializations of notions of power, and references to the past — ​in other words, through the habitual rather than the extraordinary. Thus, for archaeologists exploring ancient peoples, hegemonic masculinity, as a dominant social value, is materialized in art and architecture but also in personal ornaments and the residue of daily male/male interactions where such values are transmitted. Calvin Thomas (1996) has explored how and why hegemonic masculinity is perpetuated by male writers and the anxiety inherent in the modern maintenance of masculinity that representational forms/acts such as writing are meant to address. Thomas claims that men accede to the dominant fiction and identify with normative masculinity by learning how to assuage anxiety, an anxiety produced by the “rigorous codification” of male bodies (1996:12). In the modern West, male bodies only appear under the auspices of symbolic structures of power, in venues such as competitive sports or warfare that guarantee and uphold hegemonic values and where bodies are “over-coded” as lethal weapons (Thomas 1996:​ 12, 17). Thomas argues any representational discourse (such as writing or art) that concerns the male body either adheres strictly to the dominant fiction or disturbs the order from outside — ​in either case such discourse about the body reinforces patriarchal power structures that align powerful male bodies with social control. Phallocentrism could be considered the pinnacle of bodily masculinity, where a single ele54

ment of the male body is hypercoded with an entire complex of meaning and significance. Such a rigorous codification of male experience allows for the depiction of only a narrow image of male experience — ​a powerful, youthful, virile masculinity. Citing the psychoanalytic work of Leo Bersani, Thomas examines the effect of phallo­ centrism on men and concludes that “phallocentrism is not primarily the denial of power to women (although it has led to that everywhere and at all times) but above all the denial of the value of powerlessness in both men and women” (Bersani 1987:217). Thus for Thomas the unyielding emphasis on the male body can be read as an attempt to relieve cultural anxiety: My argument is that males accede to the dominant fiction and identify with normative masculinity and its fictions of dominance by learning how to assuage this anxiety; the mechanisms of assuagement are ideologically embedded in cultural modes of representational containment that govern and restrict the visibility of male bodies and male bodily productions [1996:3]. Thomas argues that anxiety is at the heart of the overdetermined constructions of normative masculine identity found in Western culture. While Thomas is not writing about premodern cultures, I think that his perception that the overglorification of the male body is far from natural or inevi­ table but might in fact be an attempt to strictly limit the meaning of the male body in order to control it is relevant to understanding Classic Maya culture, where the male body dominates the artistic record. This study examines a regional tradition within the Maya lowlands of sculptural emphasis on large carved stone phalli. I will show that while consistent with Classic period conceptualizations of masculine power throughout the Maya lowlands, this regional tradition represents a specific emphasis on the display and performance of the idealized male. I conclude with suggestions about why the phallus was such a prevalent and disembodied subject in this region and what types of cultural anxiety such objects were meant to ­address.

The Phalli Stones of the Classic Maya Northern Lowlands

Anxieties and Male Bodies in the Maya Area

While the social construction of masculinity is often ignored by scholars because it appears to be the de facto or normative social identity, evidence of the social interpretation of male ­bodies has been impossible to ignore in the Northern Maya lowlands. The almost total absence of careful explanation of the ubiquitous presence of male body parts throughout the ancient cities of the north demonstrates this point that masculinity is so enmeshed within dominant culture as to appear invisible. How do 2-m-tall stone phalli escape explanation as social phenomena within the well-studied context of elite Maya culture? Beginning in the colonial period of the sixteenth century, Franciscan Bishop Diego de Landa and other Catholic Spanish chroniclers worried about the potential for what they believed to be dangerous sexuality in the male/male social activities of Maya men’s houses: It was the custom to have in each town a large building, whitewashed and open on all sides, where the young men gathered for their pastimes. They played ball, and a certain game with beans like dice, and many others. Here they nearly always slept, all together, until they were married. And since I have heard that in other parts of the Indies they were guilty of unnatural offenses in these houses, I have not learned of their doing this in this country, nor do I believe they did so [1978:52 {1566}].

Figure 5.1. Two-meter-tall stone phallus at Loltun Cave, Yucatán (photo by the author).

to avoid in the (immovable) drain spouts carved as phalli (Figure 5.2), the 2-m-high carved phalli at Puuc cave sites (Figure 5.1), and the occasional stone portrait of an individual with a greatly enlarged phallus. These disembodied data eventually made their way into popular media as evidence of the curi­osities of Maya art but have rarely been read as significant components in the construction and maintenance of dominant power structures. Western eyes have consistently shied away from serious consideration of the stone phalli of the north since the sixteenth century, largely due to Western biases or anxiety about viewing male bodies coupled with the degree to which masculinity remains unquestioned and understood as natural, inevitable, and permanent. Bodily masculinity is very visible in Classic Maya culture. In stark contrast to interpretations of the role of women in Western culture as the definitive embodied objects, in Classic Maya culture the male body was displayed and performed in a highly visible way to the almost total exclusion of the female body (Houston 2009; Joyce 2000a). The common feminist argument that in

Contemporary Western (masculine) eyes of the period were able to understand such arenas as venues for instruction in masculine gender roles and dominant male values but expressed anxiety about controlling male/male sexuality. The first nineteenth-century European explorers to reach the ancient Maya cities of Yucatán, Mexico, also saw only sexuality and perversity in the plentiful stone phalli that were scattered about the ruined ancient cities of the lowlands. Obviously uncomfortable with these monuments, the explorers removed them from view by piling them behind buildings or in areas far removed from visitors (Desmond 1988:81). Despite such puritanical efforts not to see the highly embodied masculinity of Classic Maya culture, it remained impossible 55

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the state. For example, the construction of, display of, and daily interaction with such sculptures may have acted as mechanisms of control and indoctrination. The need for the strict control of the male population was severe. If Classic period Maya men in any numbers questioned their “natural” ability to succeed in war, fundamental organizational structures of elite society could have eroded. This perspective is difficult to investigate in the archaeological record but intriguing in its ability to invert our assumptions about the naturalness of masculine symbols. Figure 5.2. Stone phallus set into the wall, Temple of the Phalli, Chichén Itzá, Yucatán (photo by the author).

The Stone Phalli of the Northern Maya Lowlands

As documented in a recent dissertation by Laura Amrhein (2001) and in earlier work by Andrews (1943), Pollock (1980), and others, there are some 140 or so stone phalli identified from various contexts throughout the Northern Maya lowlands of southern Mexico, with the vast majority from a zone surrounding the Puuc hills of the Yucatán Peninsula (Table 5.1). The pervasiveness of especially freestanding stone phalli in the region has been noted since the earliest European explorations of northern Maya cities (Desmond 1988). Few examples of freestanding phalli have been found in situ, although several structures, such as the House of the Phalli at the large urban center of Chichén Itzá, have permanent phallic adornments that were impossible for earlier and more modest visitors to remove (Figure 5.2). Large freestanding sculpture of the undressed male body is also known, such as “Yum Kep,” a figure from Sayil that has an artistically exaggerated penis, and Santo Pus from Pustunich (Andrews 1941), but the vast majority of examples are carved stone phalli found in unprovenienced locations at many northern lowland cities, such as the example photographed circa 1881 by explorers Augustus and Alice Le Plongeon at Uxmal (Figure 5.3; Desmond 1988:81). E. W. Andrews, IV (1943), was the first to comment upon the phallicism prevalent in northern Maya art, in a discussion of the art and archaeology of the southern state of Campeche, Mexico, that followed his original publication of the autoerotic monuments from the site of Telantunich (Ardren and Hixson 2006). He believed that these monuments shared a number of unique features

Western culture the question of the body tends to be displaced onto the feminine and the feminine body is the repository of all things bodily — ​emotional, reproductive, and fluid — ​is not sustained in an examination of Classic Maya art, where the male body is the vastly more common theme. One example of this phenomenon is the use of male bodies to literally embody the powers of the state and dominant culture in elite rituals such as royal accession. Portraits of rulers depict the virile ­bodies of young men draped with paraphernalia that codify royal privilege. Even certain queens portrayed themselves in male costume and paraphernalia when they ruled without a male partner, literally transforming their bodies into official (male) bodies of state. Male/male social activities were a very common artistic theme, and settings such as the ritualized ballgame or war party preparations, in which the power of the state was demonstrated and performed by those who enjoyed its benefits, illustrate to us how male elite were also complicit in narrow definitions of their identity. This extreme emphasis on the male body in Classic Maya art has been seen as an artistic equation of the masculine with the sovereign, but following Calvin Thomas, the unyielding emphasis on the male body can also be read as an attempt to relieve cultural anxiety. Put another way, the hundreds of stone phalli found in the Northern Maya lowlands might be the artistic expression of a profound cultural ambivalence or anxiety about masculine bodies and behaviors that was resolved through the depiction of a narrowly defined set of ideal images tied to the hegemonic powers of 56

Table 5.1. Register of

Site

Acanmul Actun Ch’on Cave Acumpich Almulchil Bilimkok Chacmultun Chichén Itzá Cobá Cozumel Cumpich Dzibilchaltun Dzibilnocac Edzna Ek Balam Fincas Las Palmas Hopelchen Huntichmul Ichmac Isla Cerritos Kabah Kanalku Kiuic Kom K’uxub Labna Loltun Nohcacab Nohoch Cep Nohpat Oxkintok Panaba Pol-Yuc Pustunich Rancho Nuevo Leon Rancho San Pedro San Diego Buenavista Santa Rosa Xtampak Sayil Sihunch’en Telantunich Tekax Temax Tulum Tzeme Uxmal X’burrontunich Xcalumkin Xcaret X’ketpa’ap Xkichmook Xkipche Xkobenhaltun X-kukican Xlabpak Lagarto Xunantunich Yaxhom Za-bac Ha Cave

Stone Phalli in the Northern Maya Lowlands. Portrait

Sculpture

Architecture Association

X

Structure 8 Cave Unknown Structure 3

X X X X X

X X X

X X X X

Structure 9 Temple of Paintings

X X X X X X X X X X X X

Group E courtyard Paintings building

Modern village Structure 4 Structure 4 Main complex Structure 4, Structure 9 Cave

X

X

X

X X X X X X X X X X

X X X

X X X X X

X

X X X

Courtyard Temples III-3, -4, -5 North Group stairs Private collection Structure 7 Modern village Unknown Modern village Unknown Structure 3B2, Group C

Private collection X X X X X

X

Shrines 39, 40, 41 X

Temple of Phalli, Temple of Magician Structure 1

X

Cave Courtyard Chultun Chultun

X X X X X X X

Cave Structure 4 X X

Sources: Amrhein 2001; Andrews 1939, 1941, 1943; Bernal 1969; Pollock 1980.

Structure 4 Near altar

Traci Ardren

Figure 5.3. Stone phallus and other carved stone photographed by Alice Le Plongeon near the Nunnery Quadrangle of Uxmal, ca. 1881 (the Lerdo Monument, George E. Stuart Collection, Image Folder P-5268, Southern Historical Collection, Louis Round Wilson Special Collections Library. Used with permission, ­University of North Carolina–Chapel Hill).

that were not found in “normal” Maya sculpture and thus represented the remains of a later, nonMaya culture (1943:82; emphasis added). Scholarship has largely lain to rest the model of a foreign occupation of the northern Maya zone f­ ollowing the Classic period, and comparative study shows that phallic imagery is present throughout all Classic Maya art, as an important indicator of masculine hegemony and elite ritual privilege

(Ardren 2009). Yet disembodied phalli do not appear as commonly in carved stone sculpture and monuments at Maya sites outside the Northern Maya lowlands, and the density of freestanding monuments in particular is certainly highest in the cities around the Puuc hills. Those examples of stone phalli that have been found in situ or in an approximation of original context are usually near monumental architec58

The Phalli Stones of the Classic Maya Northern Lowlands

Figure 5.4. Standing stone phallus in the murals of the Great Ballcourt, Chichén Itzá, Yucatán (drawing by Linda Schele. Used with permission, Linda Schele Drawing Collection).

ture, often in or near the courtyards of elite residential structures or temples. At Oxkintok a stone phalli sculpture was found on the North Group stairs, and similar sculptures were found in elite architectural groups at Huntichmul in the Group E courtyard, at Sayil in Group C, and at K’uxub in the main complex (Pollock 1980). The recent discovery of a painted stucco stone phalli sculpture at Kiuic in the Icim Plaza of the Yaxche Group adds yet another, and given the traces of blue and red stucco that survive, more graphic example to the corpus (Gallareta et al. 2006). Clearly these sculptures were meant for interactive ­viewing, although such experiences were undoubtedly controlled and limited, given that access to elite residential courtyards was highly restricted, often through a single passageway. Freestanding examples are from 1 to 2 m high and when upright might have been taller than the average viewer. Most of these phalli exceed the dimensions of the average northern lowland stela, the standing stone monuments carved with royal portraits and inscriptions that have long been acknowledged as one of the primary media of state propaganda. Stelae were animate objects within the ritualized universe of elite legitimization, with specific offer-

ings and behaviors associated with a life cycle that included birth, ensoulment, and care (Stuart 1996; see also Harrison-Buck, this volume, Chapter 9). Given this pattern it is likely that the standing stone phalli must have been imbued with significant soul force, and the opportunity to view one in close proximity could have been quite moving. To indulge a bit longer in embodied explorations, we must also consider the relationship of monument production to the lived bodily experiences of the (crafts)men who shaped the sculptures and subsequently viewed them, touched them, and transported them to a courtyard. As a woman I find it impossible to imagine the experience of spending days creating a 2-m-tall depiction of my genitalia, although I believe that would be difficult for most of us to imagine t­ oday. Yet this is exactly the uncomfortable imagination we must explore in order to decipher how the depiction of male anatomy could become so deeply normalized within the Maya culture of the Puuc hills. In the murals of Chichén Itzá we see the only known Maya depiction of one of the freestanding carved phalli stones being visited and experienced (Figure 5.4). In the North Temple of the 59

Traci Ardren

Rituals of Assuagement

Great Ballcourt, a series of elaborate murals cover the interior walls of the structure. Linda Schele and Peter Mathews (1998:254) interpret these as depictions of accession rituals associated with ballgame ceremonies, but much of the imagery is mythological and speaks to the underlying justifications of elite power at the city. On the north wall, in the upper left-hand corner a series of ­rituals are portrayed that seem to concern preparation of the body — ​the first of these shows a royal man performing a penile bloodletting ceremony in front of a 2- to 3-m-high phalli stone, which itself is decorated with the scars of bloodletting. Very few of the surviving stone sculptures exhibit the scars so often depicted in glyphic and painted images of the penis. These scars demonstrated participation in the masculine master metaphor of royal penile bloodletting (Ardren and Hixson 2006). Perhaps scars were represented by cloth or other perishable materials placed upon the stone phalli, an additive technique that would have mirrored the process by which scars or piercings of human flesh are added to the body during a significant ritual occasion. Another possible interpretation is that the carved stone phalli do not exclusively reference the master metaphor of bloodletting but, rather, encompass another nonsexual connotation of the phalli as life or water source. This is seen in a newly restored facade from Chichén Itzá, where fluid and vegetation grow from the penis of a seated lord, as well as in a Postclassic depiction of the rain god Chaac, where liquid flows freely from the penis and no bloodletting implements are depicted; and we should consider the possibility that the phalli stones are related to generative power and the very significant rain and water cult of Chaac (Taube 1993; Vail 1996). This interpretation has obvious ecological resonance within the seasonally arid environment of the Northern Maya lowlands, where agriculture is completely dependent upon fluctuating precipitation. If further similar examples were found, there might be sufficient evidence for a complementary metaphor of phalli as a materialization of the life-giving power of rain. Certainly the depictions of ritualized penile bloodletting and the phalli as origin of vegetation or fertility are linked through their mutual reference to the phalli as origin or source.

What the Chichén Itzá mural most clearly communicates is the position of the stone phallic sculpture within a performative space. Other men are present in the area where the autosacrifice is being performed, and although the mural does not make it obvious whether they are observing the act, the overall impression is of a set of ritual preparations that men conducted in the company of other men. Male/male social acts, especially in places that are visible to other men or to the public, are commonly loci for reflection upon or instruction in ideal male behavior (Gutmann and Viveros V. 2005). Whether in the ritualized violence of the ballgame or in penile auto­sacrifice, men in Classic Maya culture were required to perform their masculinity, perhaps even to accrue it through such rituals. Carolyn Dean (2001) demonstrates that Inca men were born into a state of gender ambiguity and through adult a­ ctivities of warfare and farming demonstrated their masculinity until old age and inactivity destabilized their identity once again. It is precisely the repeated performance of rituals, what Thomas refers to as mechanisms of assuagement, that mitigates the anxiety men feel about acceding to the dominant fiction of normative masculinity. ­Rituals of penile bloodletting, male/male companionship within the men’s houses, and the male/male competition of the ballgame allowed for the performance of masculinity among peers but also provided a forum in which cultural anxiety or ambivalence about male power could be strictly defined and contained. Dean (2001:146) argues that in Andean indigenous society at contact, masculinity did not exist outside its performance and that proper males acted masculine. Such a hyperemphasis on the performative nature of masculinity can also be read as an attempt to relieve cultural anxiety. In an earlier work I suggested that perhaps the less textually dependent elite culture of the northern Maya cities, seen by some as placing less emphasis on dynastic rule in favor of communal ritual, stressed that the right to rule was dependent upon willing self-sacrifice (Ardren and Hixson 2006). In turn, the graphic portrayal and materialization of self-sacrifice took on added importance in this region of the Maya world. The performance of subservience to the state and dominant conceptualizations of mas60

The Phalli Stones of the Classic Maya Northern Lowlands

culinity through the enactment of ritualized selfviolence­would have reinforced the power of such hegemonic values as well as the privileged status of those who were able to withstand such a performance. Archaeological evidence of defensive walls and iconographic depictions of violent wars of expansion throughout the region suggest that the Northern Maya lowlands were plagued by conflict during the Late and Terminal Classic (700–​1200 ce) periods (Ambrosino et al. 2003; Kowalski and Kristan-Graham 2007). Although the bodies of warriors slain in battle have not been recovered in great numbers, other evidence suggests that warfare may have metastasized late in ancient Maya history into territorial wars conducted by large numbers of men in military fashion. Given that evidence for a standing military is scarce in earlier Maya periods, when warfare seems to have been conducted by elites in order to capture their peers for ransom, the shift to territorial wars of expansion with large numbers of warriors is a severe one that would have necessitated strong social reinforcement. Both the need for male warriors and the resultant population crisis when large numbers of such individuals died in military combat seem likely causes for an anxiety about bodily masculinity. As Thomas (1996) ­argues, representational discourse about the body reinforces patriarchal power structures that align powerful male bodies with social control. The phalli stones were created during a period of both increasing violence and increasing environmental stress (which led to enhanced competition for territory [Ambrosino et al. 2003; Demarest et al. 2004]). Societal anxiety may have necessitated an enhanced expectation for men to perform roles traditionally expected of their gender — ​such as defender, farmer, and leader. An overdetermined construction of normative masculine identity may have been materialized in the rigorous codification of the erect male phallus in order to assuage anxiety through habitual rituals where such disembodied elements of male bodies were encountered on a regular, daily basis. Recently Helle Vandkilde (2006) has pointed out that while archaeology as a discipline has always considered war, we have paid relatively little attention to the experiences and realities of warriors. “Power, dominance and coercion are almost

inevitably connected to warfare and its principle actors, soldiers and warriors,” yet ­earlier models within archaeology often relied on a bloodless and idealized form of war, exemplified by the processual view of warfare as the result of ­social pressure and of weapons as symbols of social status (Vandkilde 2006:57). In studies of the Classic Maya, warfare is often invoked as a causal factor in the abandonment of southern lowland cities, but few scholars have examined the experiences of individual warriors or their shared social identity. As Sanimir Resic (2006:423) points out, in many complex cultures, both premodern and modern, to become a warrior is to become a man, and the processes by which a soldier’s identity is constructed are often deemed identical to the way masculine identity is formulated. Warrior values are often synonymous with manliness, especially the hegemonic masculinity or manliness that almost all cultures embrace to some degree. Resic (2006:424) notes that in many cultures there is an explicit link among genitals, manliness, aggressiveness, and courage. Whether in literature from the Vietnam War era or from Archaic Greece, there is often an enchantment of warriorhood based in the mutual performance of idealized values and attributes within a male/ male space of heightened cultural value. This enchantment draws young men into volunteering today and was also celebrated collectively in the military orders of the past. Michael Shanks and Michael Pearson (2001) have explored how the image of the ideal male traveled with soldiers in Archaic Greece. Standard helmets and other paraphernalia aided in the collective identity of warriorhood, and they (2001:​76) argue that identity was found in the unity of the group. Archaic Greek soldiers had communal experiences, rituals, and feasts at sanctuaries they built and occupied on the outskirts of the territories they defended. Shanks and Pearson call these experiences “performative activities of a ­soldier citizenry” in order to emphasize that war is a function of the body, that the body is the site of the political ethos of militarism, and that war was embedded in the lives of ancient Greek citizens rather than a social process that occurred due to other generalized social pressures (2001:83). Surely it is significant that the stone phalli of the Northern Maya ­lowlands date to the same period 61

Traci Ardren

in which warfare becomes more clearly endemic and violent within the region. Wars of territorial conquest are documented in the murals and texts of the Terminal Classic capital of Chichén Itzá, and while most of the phalli date to a period of perhaps 100 years prior to the rise of Chichén Itzá, the density of the population in the Puuc hills as well as the significant agricultural value of this region suggest that border conflicts or territorial claims may have increased during the Late Classic period as well. Perhaps the tall stone phalli that often adorn gathering places traveled with the soldiers who moved across the Late Classic landscape. War as a function of (mostly) male ­bodies or as a site of the political ethos of militarism would have been well served by imagery of the disembodied erect phallus, a symbol of idealized masculine aggressiveness and courage. The placement of these symbols on buildings and within elite plazas perhaps marked such areas as sites of male/male social activity where the individual man became one with a larger masculine group. Clearly Maya culture used symbols to express complex concepts and clusters of ideas — ​hiero-

glyphics are but one example of this phenomenon. Just as the geometric symbols of textiles in the mosaic stonework of Uxmal were used to signify the power of a redistributive state, in the northern lowlands texts were not as common a means of demonstrating power, and phalli stones may have been used as symbolic shorthand for the same claims to rule and authority communicated in dynastic lineage statements at other Maya cities outside this region (Grube 2002; Ringle and Bey 2001; Trevelyan and Forbes 2002). Certainly the phallus was not always shorthand for an ego, as it would be in the West, but, rather, a metaphor for negotiated power and authority cloaked in the male body. Using human body parts to express the fiction of dominance may have naturalized and normalized male elite privilege, but it also required constant maintenance through the materialization of elements used in rituals of assuagement. What the regional tradition of stone phalli in the Northern Maya lowlands represents is one mechanism in the constant maintenance of male power so necessary for masculine dominance and privilege to appear natural.

62

6

Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico Claudia García-Des Lauriers

The site of Los Horcones, located on Cerro Bernal in the Tonalá region of Chiapas (Figure 6.1), has until recently been known largely from the pioneering work of Carlos Navarrete (1976, 1986). In his publications of the sculpted monuments Navarrete suggests that Los Horcones was an important regional center and that the iconography and texts adorning many of the monuments he describes show strong stylistic ties to Teotihuacán. More recently the Proyecto Arqueológico Los Horcones, under my direction, has revealed that material markers of contacts with Teotihuacán extend beyond stylistic citations on monuments and include significant quantities of central Mexican obsidian from the Pachuca source, locally made ceramics with Teotihuacánstyle forms and decoration, and architectural references to Teotihuacán-style spatial organization (García-Des Lauriers 2005a, 2005b, 2007, 2008). While the specific nature of the contacts between these two sites will require more long-term study, in this chapter I focus on a discussion of the public expressions of identity at Los Horcones. The rather “international” material record points to the complexity and variety of ethnic identities that were given expression and performed at this site especially in smaller-scale public spaces, such as Group B, where intimate objects, like figurines, for instance, allude to a complex and heterarchical discourse of identity. However, in the largescale public spaces, such as Group F, the elites in

power at Los Horcones chose to emphatically cite Teotihuacán spatial organization, artistic style, and iconography as a means of creating a more encompassing corporate identity. The location of Los Horcones partly explains its diverse material record. Cerro Bernal is a small mountain range on the southern edge of the Pacific coastal plain (Figure 6.1). The site of Los Horcones itself is found on the northern flank of this small mountain range, a geographic position that would have given its inhabitants control of the terrestrial route into the Soconusco during the Early Classic period (ad 250–650 [­García-Des Lauriers 2007; McDonald 1983; Navarrete 1976, 1978, 1986]). Moreover, this location on the southern coast of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec is a geographically intermediate zone between central Mexico and the Maya region (Cowgill 2003). Based on evidence from Maya centers like Tikal, Copán, and Kaminaljuyu, we know that highland and lowland Mesoamerican groups were in regular contact even if the complexity of those contacts makes it difficult to interpret their ­exact nature in many cases (Bell et al. 2004; Braswell 2003; Fash and Fash 2000; Kidder et al. 1946; Stuart 2000). My studies, along with the pioneering work of Carlos Navarrete (1976, 1986), reveal that Los Horcones may have served as a “gateway community,” a community that mediated interactions between these two major political and economic 63

Claudia García-Des Lauriers

Figure 6.1. Map of Mesoamerica, with detail of the Tonalá region (drawing by the author).

The Archaeology of Identity at Los Horcones

core regions (García-Des Lauriers 2007; Hirth 1978). This role as a mediator between many groups and regions is attested to in the material record, which displays a complex pattern of remains that point to multifaceted relationships between the local Mixe-Zoquean population of Los Horcones and people and goods from other localities such as central Mexico, Veracruz, and the Maya highlands and lowlands (García-Des Lauriers 2007). The very international signature present at Los Horcones provides us with an interesting set of material circumstances within which to attempt a discussion of the process of identity formation and performance at this site.

The archaeological study of identities such as ­ethnicity is one of the most complex within modern archaeological discourse, and the following discussion is by no means a comprehensive view of the literature on ethnicity. For more extensive discussions, I refer the reader to Emberling (1997), Jones (1997), Diaz-Andreu et al. (2005), and ­Eriksen (1993), among others. Rather, I mean to largely contextualize the major themes relevant to the current state of research at Los Horcones. Earlier assessments reconstructed ethnic iden64

Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico

tities as concrete and fixed categories of cultural difference visible through material culture assemblages. Today we understand the a­ rchaeology of ethnicity to involve the recognition of a ­process of boundary formation whose saliency in the material record can be quite variable (Barth 1969; Emberling 1997; Eriksen 1993; Jones 1997; S. Smith 2003; Stark and Chance 2008). Moreover, the formation of ethnic boundaries is a discursive process in which active agents negotiate self-​identification­and outside ascription to define their own experiential realities as members of a larger community of social actors (Barth 1969; Bourdieu 2006; Emberling 1997; Eriksen 1993; Jones 1997; Lightfoot and Martinez 1995; Silliman 2001; Stark and Chance 2008). These processes of boundary formation structure and are structured by material culture and are thought to be most visible in cases of highly stratified ­societies where the creation of difference is also tied to relationships of power within that society (Barth 1969; Emberling 1997). The materiality of ethnicity can become highly pronounced and visible archaeologically when groups of people with differing cultural traditions come into contact with each other, sometimes revealing strong salient markers of difference. In other instances material culture points to hybrid or layered identities, yet in other cases there is little material variation to indicate strong ethnic boundaries even where textual evidence, for example, may indicate other­wise (­Burmeister 2000; Emberling 1997; Lightfoot and ­Martinez 1995; Rice 1998; Silliman 2001; Voss 2008a, 2008b). The complexity of studying ­ethnicity through the material record cannot be overstated, yet it is possible to undertake meaningful nuanced discussions of ethnicity within the archaeological record provided we take great care to carefully define the local contexts and extra­ local processes that may affect the visibility of ethnic identification in the archaeological record in any given case. Within archaeological discourse on ethnic identity, discussions of identity often fall into a dichotomy of private vs. public expressions of identity. A great deal of weight is often placed on material patterns found in domestic or private contexts in juxtaposition to public contexts as a

means of reconstructing meaningful and more accurate images of ethnic self-identification and social reproduction within a given community (see, for example, Burmeister 2000; Rattray 1987, 1989; Santley 2007; Spence 1990, 1992, 1996). More recent research by Voss (2008a), for example, suggests that these dichotomies can be interpretively constraining, and we should see these realms of archaeology — ​the public and private — ​as inextricably linked and not separate and discrete. In the case of Los Horcones, it is partly out of necessity that I focus on public spaces to the exclusion of domestic contexts. Research here is still quite preliminary, and currently only the monumental core of the site has been explored. Future research will work to not only add to our understanding of the monumental core of the site and its development over time but also explore domestic spaces in order to further understand the discourses of identity from multiple interlocking angles at this site. Despite these data challenges, the following discussion of identity at Los Horcones can still be enlightening. The relationships of power that partly informed the performance and enactment of identity at Los Horcones were those between this site and Teotihuacán. The public symbols, rituals, and architectural structures that were used to convey particular aspects of Teotihuacán identity by no means represent the sum total of cultural traditions and practices that were present at Los Horcones or at Teotihuacán but, rather, only those given material form and used to structure experience during public performances at Los Horcones. Amid the rather diverse assemblage of cultural practices and expressions of identity that were certainly present at any given time at Los Horcones, public rituals practiced at different scales such as those attested to at Group B and Group F served to create a common experience for the participants in these public performances (Bachand et al. 2003). This common experience was meant to build communal ties, in the case of Group F, replicating Teotihuacán symbols and spatial organization as the focus of an ascribed corporate identity for those in power at Los Horcones. And at Group B, a much more complex dialogue was performed through the caching of Offering 1. 65

Claudia García-Des Lauriers

Group F and Teotihuacán-Style Stelae

The symbolic functions of architecture and the capacity for built environments to shape the construction and negotiation of identity and power relations in any given community are today a common theme in archaeological studies (Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Rapoport 1990; Hutson et al., this volume). Large-scale public architectural spaces serve as structuring elements, often constructed to shape the experience of performances conducted in these areas as a means of presenting a corporate identity that unifies diverse communities, conveys power relations, shapes memories, and enhances the experiential realities of performances (Inomata 2006a, 2006b; Inomata and Coben 2006; Joyce 2004; Moore 1996; Stockett 2007; Hutson et al., this volume). At Los Horcones, the largest and perhaps the most formally planned of all of the architectural groups is Group F, located at the uppermost elevation of the site (Figure 6.2–6.5). This architectural space, I argue, was the location of important large-scale performances presumably sponsored by elite groups in power at this center. Perhaps most striking is that the basic organizing principles used to create this space allude to those seen in the public spaces of Teotihuacán, especially the Pyramid of the Moon plaza. Group F is composed of a number of carefully laid-out mounds surrounding a large ­central plaza (Figure 6.3). Standing at 10 m in height and commanding a view of the terrestrial trade route that led to the Soconusco and south coast of Guatemala, Mound F1 is the tallest structure at Los Horcones. Mound F1 commands an even greater presence sitting atop an elevated plaza, flanked by two smaller architectural groupings and a small ballcourt. A large sunken plaza defined by an elevated platform punctuated by two larger mounds contains a central altar platform. To the southwest is a sunken roadway that led to a possible steep stairway and a central mound at the top of this stair. The scale and elaboration invested in planning and building Group F suggest that the goal was to create a space that was “designed to be entered, approached, or viewed by large groups of people” — ​a site of public rituals (Moore 1996:92, 136; Trigger 1990). The space defined by the architectural features was structured to control

Figure 6.2. Proyecto Arqueológico Los Horcones (PALH) 2005–2006 map of Los Horcones, Chiapas (drafted by Hironori Fukuhara and Claudia GarcíaDes Lauriers).

movement and perception of the built and natural landscape as well as the sculptural monuments placed within it. For example, the parallel mounds that define the roadway leading into the main plaza of Group F accentuate the main northeast–southwest axis of this group. Moore (1996:​110), following the work of Higuchi (1983), notes that low parallel mounds provide a series of planes that visually enhance the perception of depth, emphasizing the distance between one end of an architectural group and the other — ​a characteristic of public architecture used for processions. One possible entry point into Group F may 66

Figure 6.3. PALH 2005–2006 detail of Groups F and G, Los Horcones, Chiapas (drafted by Hironori Fukuhara and Claudia García-Des Lauriers).

Figure 6.4. PALH 2005–2006 detail of Groups B and D, Los Horcones, Chiapas (drafted by Hironori Fukuhara and Claudia García-Des Lauriers).

Claudia García-Des Lauriers

Figure 6.5. PALH 2005–2006 detail of Groups A and C, Los Horcones, Chiapas (drafted by Hironori Fukuhara and Claudia García-Des Lauriers).

be located on the western parallel mound on the southwestern side of the roadway, in effect ordering people’s movement and directing them along the main axis of the architectural group toward the large plaza. An analysis of the scale of the public spaces at Los Horcones may prove a useful tool for understanding the ways in which these spaces could be used. Moore (1996) and Inomata (2006a) provide effective models for calculating the potential capacity of public spaces. These calculations, while serving as an index of the capacity of a space, do not necessarily correlate with total p ­ opulation estimates (Moore 1996) but, rather, as Inomata (2006a) suggests, are used for the heuristic purpose of understanding the scale and potential uses of a space. The amount of area allotted to each individual participant is variable and can influence or be influenced by the kinds of activities that occurred in the given location. Following Inomata (2006a) and Moore (1996), I use the figures .46 m2, 1 m2, and 3.6 m2 per person, which provide a range of possible densities for audience and participants derived from ethnographic and archaeological examples from indigenous groups in South America and the Maya area. The results are presented in Table 6.1. The calculations of spatial capacity for several

public plazas at Los Horcones reveal some interesting results. Plaza F1 is by far the largest space and could hold anywhere from 1,413 to 11,065 people depending on how densely packed the audience and participants were in the available space. The roadway on its own could accommodate from 926 to 7,250 persons, and if the primary ritual activities took place in the upper plaza, an audience of between 2,339 to 18,315 persons could observe from the plaza and roadway (Figure 6.3 and Table 6.1). Without a clear estimate of the resident population of Los Horcones as a whole, it is difficult to calculate what percentage of the total these estimates represent. However, I think that it is safe to say that the plaza area in Group F along with the roadway could have accommodated a significantly larger group of people, perhaps a considerable portion of the population of Los Horcones, making it the focal point of politico-religious public events for the site as a whole. In addition to the large open plaza, monumental architecture, and roadway of Group F, ­Stelae 3 and 4 were also placed in this architectural group. According to a map produced by Eduardo Martinez and descriptions by Carlos Navarrete (1986:4), Stelae 3 and 4 were located in the upper plaza of Group F in front of Mound F1. Navarrete (1986) merely states that these monuments were 68

Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico Table 6.1. Population Capacity for the

Largest Plazas at Los Horcones. Capacity

Location

Area (m ) 2

2

.46 m /person

1 m2/person

3.6 m2/person

Group A   Plaza A1

476.09

1,034

476

132

  Plaza A2

354.30

770

354

98

  Plaza A3

267.07

580

267

74

778.55

1,692

780

216

  Plaza F1 only

5,090.01

11,065

5,090

1,413

  Roadway

3,335.12

7,250

3,335

926

  Plaza and roadway

8,425.13

18,315

8,425

2,339

925

425

118

Group B   Plaza B1 Group F

Group G   Plaza G1

425.5

found associated with each other facing south but does not specify if they were side by side or one in front of the other (Figure 6.3). Richly ornamented in Teotihuacán-style iconography, the monuments are some of the most faithful representations of Teotihuacán imagery outside of the city itself, suggesting to Cowgill (2003) that their local production may have been overseen by artists from Teotihuacán, if they were not carved by Teotihuacános themselves. Moreover, like the structured space they adorned, these sculptures were composed to also structure movement and direct the viewer toward a carefully delineated reading of the symbols represented. The imagery and composition on these public sculptures were carefully chosen to create a seemingly unambiguous discourse among the built space, those staging the public event, and the participating audience. Los Horcones Stela 3 is carved in low relief on all sides with a combination of text and image using Teotihuacán conventions for visual representation (García-Des Lauriers 2005a, 2005b, 2007; Navarrete 1976, 1986). The sculptors of this monument took great pains to capture every detail that marked this figure as Tlaloc, the central Mexican storm deity (Figure 6.6). Tlaloc grasps in his hands a bolt of lightning and an hourglass-shaped

vessel reminiscent of effigy Tlaloc jars from Teotihuacán (Bracamontes Quintana 2002; Pasztory 1974). These attributes not only reinforce the identity of the rain and storm god but also direct the viewer to a specific reading of this textual and iconographic program. Tlaloc pours water from his effigy jar, which flows gently from the frontal plane of the monument to the cultivated earth glyphs on its right side (assuming that one is facing Tlaloc directly). Conversely, the lightning bolt brings clouds and rain to the left side of the stela. The compositional effect directs the eye of the viewer and the movement and reading of the monument in either a clockwise or a counter­ clockwise direction toward the inscriptions on the sides and back before meeting Tlaloc’s gaze again. Stela 4 from Los Horcones, like Stela 3, is a masterwork of Teotihuacán style and representational cannons (Figure 6.7). The artists appropriated the volume of the granite stone block in order to give mass to an otherwise flat, low-relief­style of carving, thrusting these figures into the viewer’s space and drawing them into a visual dialogue. In order to fully appreciate the eagle perched on the jaguar’s shoulders, the viewer must circumambulate the stela in a similar fashion as Stela 3. The composition serves to structure the viewer’s 69

Claudia García-Des Lauriers

Figure 6.6. Los Horcones, Stela 3 (photos by the author).

e­ xperience and reading of these sculptures but also to order their movement through the upper plaza of Group F where these two stelae were placed. Along with the scale of the architecture, the scale of the sculptures themselves provides some insight into how people would have related not

only to the imagery and compositions that decorated their surfaces but also to the volume of the monuments as bodies in space. Stela 3 is 4.73 m in total height; however, a portion of the monument would have been buried, holding it upright (Figure 6.6). The sculpted portion measures 3.3 m, signifying the minimal portion of the stela standing 70

Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico

Figure 6.7. Los Horcones, Stela 4 (adapted from Navarrete 1986:Figure 9. Used with permission, New World Archaeological Foundation).

above ground (Navarrete 1986:4). Stela 4 stands 2.86 m in total height, with the sculpted portion measuring 1.96 m (Figure 6.7; Navarrete 1986:​14). While Stela 4 is larger than life size, it is closer to a human scale than Stela 3, which towers well above the viewer. People privileged enough to ascend to the upper plaza and tread on the same ground into which the monuments were rooted may have met eye to eye with the j­aguar figure of Stela 4 and raised their eyes to engage the eagle’s gaze. Tlaloc, on the other hand, looks straight ahead, never meeting the gaze of the viewer, whose presence was dwarfed by this seemingly all-powerful deity. However, because of its height it is possible that Tlaloc’s gaze may have looked down on the ­thousands of onlookers gathered in the lower sunken plaza, creating a sense of omnipresence. In addition to these Teotihuacán-style stelae, the overall architectural layout of Group F also alludes to conventions of spatial organization visible at Teotihuacán (Figure 6.3). First of all, the intentional creation of a roadway leading into a large plaza recalls the manner in which the Street of the Dead empties into the Plaza of the Moon

at Teotihuacán. In the case of Los Horcones, the southern end of the roadway in Group F leads to a steep slope and then to a smaller mound. The roadway does not immediately communicate with another architectural group but seems to have been planned specifically for conducting processions into the main plaza. In addition, on either side of Mound F1 the builders of Group F added smaller architectural groups — ​perhaps an allusion to the complexes on either side of the Moon Pyramid. The question that remains is why the elite of Los Horcones chose specifically the Pyramid of the Moon complex as a particular reference point for the spatial organizing principles applied at Group F. Although further excavations in this complex are necessary to fully answer this question, recent excavations at the Pyramid of the Moon in Teotihuacán may provide some insight. The Moon Pyramid was one of the earliest monumental structures built at the great metropolis, and its history of renovation parallels the early growth of state power (Sugiyama and Cabrera Castro 2006, 2007). In addition, burials/offerings 71

Claudia García-Des Lauriers

filled with sacrificial victims, jade, shell, fauna, and obsidian located in the interior of the Moon Pyramid bring to mind the kinds of spectacles performed to commemorate renovations of this structure (Pereira and Chávez 2006; Spence and Pereira 2007; Sugiyama and López Luján 2006, 2007). Ritual sacrifices of the kind celebrated at the Moon Pyramid were manifestations of Teotihuacán state authority and militarism, ideas perhaps not lost on the architects of Los Horcones as they were contemplating the design of Group F. It is unlikely that anyone from Los Horcones would have witnessed these events directly, as many of the burials/offerings were deposited well before the major occupation of Los Horcones, but they may have learned of the symbolic importance of the Moon complex by visiting Teotihuacán or from detailed descriptions provided by people who knew the city well. Group F, while not an exact replica of the Moon Pyramid complex, is one of the closest known architectural citations of Teotihuacán spatial organization outside of central Mexico. The builders of Group F sought to evoke Teotihuacán identity through the spatial layout as well as through the iconography and style used to adorn Stelae 3 and 4. Moreover, the scale of the plaza and the monuments conveyed a sense of power and monumentality that overwhelmed the individual human scale but enhanced the presence of large groups. Perhaps the goal of those in power at Los Horcones was to evoke a common corporate identity that could unify the diverse population of this center on the Pacific coast of Chiapas during public spectacles that included a significant portion of the population of the site.

Figure 6.8. (a) Pozo B1 (photos by Michael Ohlsen, PALH 2006).

facilitated more intimate interpersonal contacts than Group F, especially if participants were not densely crowded. The excavation of Pozos B1 and B1, ext. 1, in 2006 revealed an offering that had been cached only a few meters in front of Mound B1 (Figure 6.8). Radiocarbon dates taken from carbon samples in direct association with the offering suggest that the ritual events surrounding the deposition of this offering took place between ad 525 and 600 (Table 6.2). Offering 1 consists of nearly 60 whole and fragmentary zoomorphic and anthropomorphic clay figurine heads, three spherical ceramic rattles, and two ritually broken vessels, representing one of those rare figurine groupings in Mesoamerican archaeology that can provide more detailed interpretations of the meanings encoded by these small-scale objects (Figure 6.9; Marcus 1996, 1998, 2009). The offering itself is an eclectic fusion of foreign and local influences that serve as a microcosm of the processes of trade and interaction taking place at Los Horcones during

Group B and Offering 1

In contrast to the large-scale space and monumental sculpture of Group F, Group B is a smaller space with two possibly identical mounds on a smaller elevated plaza (Figure 6.4). Following earlier calculations for Group F, the number of participants was limited by the nature of the rituals conducted in the space but also by the smaller size of the plaza between these two small mounds. Plaza B1 could have accommodated from 216 to 1,692 persons, significantly less than Group F but more than plazas in Groups A and G (Figures 6.3– 6.5). While still a reasonably sized public space, it 72

Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico

Figure 6.8. (b) Pozos B1 and B1, ext. 1 (photos by Michael Ohlsen, PALH 2006).

Table 6.2. Radiocarbon Dates for Los Horcones, Offering 1.

Sample No.

Provenience

C Age (yrs BP)

Calibrated Values (2σ [95%] range)

UCIAMS-31462

Pozo B1: Sample taken in direct association with Los Horcones, Offering 1

1520 ± 20

AD 530–600 (85%) AD 440–485 (14%)

UCIAMS-31460

Pozo B1: Carbon found in direct association with Los Horcones, Offering 1

1590 ± 15

AD 525–535

UCIAMS-31461

Pozo B1, ext. 1: Carbon found in direct ­association with Los Horcones, Offering 1

1505 ± 15

AD 540–600

14

Note: Calib 5.0.2 protocol using Intcal04 (Reimer et al. 2004). Calibrated values are rounded to the nearest five years. Percentage figures in parentheses are relative areas under probability distribution for multiple intercepts in the calibration data set.

the Early Classic, but on a smaller and more intimate scale than the grandiose public space and monuments in Group F. Before describing the myriad identities portrayed in the figurine heads, it is important to discuss the vessels included with these pendants. A flat-bottomed bowl with what Rattray (2001:​ 105) describes as a recurved rim was turned upside down with a three-handled cover nested on top of it (Figure 6.10). The bowl in and of itself does not immediately stand out as foreign; however, its pairing with a three-handled plate cover 73

suggests that the forms of these vessels were derived directly from Teotihuacán antecedents. Although this style of tapaplatos, or bowl lid, is not known for the Chiapas coast, at Teotihuacán this form — ​with only minor variations — ​was in use from Late Tlamimilolpa through Metepec times, or ad 250–650, and like candeleros, ceased to be produced after the decline of the great metropolis (Rattray 2001; George Cowgill, personal communication 2008). Another example of this threehandled­lid located in a foreign context is from a site near Tecoman, Colima, where it was found

Figure 6.9. Plan view of Los Horcones, Offering 1 (drawing by the author).

Figure 6.10. Bowl and lid, Los Horcones, Offering 1: (a) bowl; (b) lid; (c) bowl and lid; (d) bowl and lid showing intentional breakage and interior of vessel (photos by Matthew Des Lauriers).

Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico

Figure 6.11. “Portrait”-style figurines from Los Horcones, Offering 1: (a–b, d) locally produced variants with ear spools; (c) local variant in mask form; (e–h) local variants with avian buccal masks (photos by Claudia GarcíaDes Lauriers and Matthew Des Lauriers).

with a local version of a Teotihuacán-style composite censer (McBride 1969:87). It is important to note that while the three-handled cover from Tecoman is reminiscent of the general form, the proportion of the handles to the rest of the vessel body is quite different in Teotihuacán versions. The plate lid from Los Horcones shows a much more sophisticated understanding of the vessel form and proportions and is much closer to versions recovered at Teotihuacán itself, with the exception of the handles (Rattray 2001:Figure 139a). T ­ apaplatos produced at Teotihuacán generally have loop handles, while the one from Los Horcones has strap handles bespeaking its local production, which is corroborated by neutron activation analysis (George Cowgill, personal communication 2008; García-Des Lauriers 2007; Rattray 2001). Lids of this type are found in a variety of contexts at Teotihuacán. They have been recovered in apartment compounds (such as in Burial 66 at La Ventilla B), above and below intact floors and in burials in Zacuala Patios and Zacuala Palace, in Xolalpan Burial 119, in burials and offerings from Tetitla, at Oztoyahualco, and in association with temples and compounds along the Avenue of the Dead (Rattray 2001:183, 211, 245, 273; Séjourné 1959:130, Lamina 33). At Teotihuacán,

Laurette Séjourné (1966:Lamina 15) even documented pairings of these lids with bowls in the same fashion as seen in Los Horcones, ­Offering 1. Rattray (2001:273) suggests that these bowl and lids were often used in ceremonial contexts, and this is certainly the case for the Los Horcones example. The inside of the bowl has a darkened spot suggesting its use as a possible incensario, and carbon samples taken from the matrix inside of the bowl also indicate that it held burned contents (Figure 6.10). The associated figurines represent a diverse assemblage of identities, with some showing clear links to Teotihuacán-style mold-made figurines while others embody more local traditions of representation and forms. One group is reminiscent of a variant of the anachronistically named “portrait” figurines with ear spools from Teotihuacán (Figure 6.11). At Teotihuacán, these heads were made in molds, with some later used in the construction of warrior-style figurines. In Offering 1, several molded heads in this style were unearthed, while another group represents a variant of this form in which buccal masks are added to give the figures avian features (Figure 6.11e–h). Figurines wearing Teotihuacán-style platelet headdresses were also recovered as part of the offering (Figure 6.12). Platelet headdresses were made of 75

Claudia García-Des Lauriers

Figure 6.12. Figurines with platelet shell helmets, Los Horcones, Offering 1: (a–b) local variants; (c) locally ­ roduced mask with close affinities to Teotihuacán versions (photos by Claudia García-Des Lauriers and p ­Matthew Des Lauriers).

Figure 6.13. Teotihuacán-style figurines, Los Horcones, Offering 1: (a) Old Fire God mask; (b) eagle warrior; (c) side view of eagle warrior (photos by Claudia García-Des Lauriers and Matthew Des Lauriers).

cut shell tiles and formed an important part of Teotihuacán warrior attire (García-Des Lauriers 2000; Taube 1992). Two figurines probably represent local variants (Figure 6.12a–b), while one is strikingly similar to versions seen at Teotihuacán, suggesting that perhaps the mold used for this figurine may have been imported; however, the clay indicates that it was locally produced (Figure 6.12c). One of these heads had a small hole below the chin, suggesting that it was perhaps at one point attached to a torso in a similar fashion as articulated figurines seen at Teotihuacán and in Veracruz (Figure 6.12b; Scott 2001). Other forms that suggest links with Teotihuacán are an Old Fire God mask and an eagle warrior (Figure 6.13).

The most striking characteristic of the group of heads in this offering is the diversity and variety of identities portrayed (Figure 6.14). Along with those reminiscent of Teotihuacán forms, there are also others such as a group of masks similar to figurines found in Tehuantepec and described by Wallrath (1967:121, Figure 70g, i) as Mayoid moldmade (Figure 6.15). The majority of the heads are anthropomorphic, some with prominent facial markings and decorations in black slip (Figure 6.14h–i). Red slip is occasionally used to delineate the lips and add an element of naturalism and pathos to the expressions of the figures (Figure 6.14a). Animal forms include quetzal birds, jaguars, a turtle, and a bat, to name only a few 76

Figure 6.14. Anthropomorphic figurine pendants, Los Horcones, Offering 1 (photos by Claudia García-Des ­Lauriers and Matthew Des Lauriers).

Figure 6.15. Figurines similar to Tehuantepec Mayoid mold-made figurines, Los Horcones, Offering 1 (photos by Claudia García-Des Lauriers and Matthew Des Lauriers).

Claudia García-Des Lauriers

Figure 6.16. Zoomorphic figurines, Los Horcones, Offering 1: (a) turtle; (b) bat; (c–d) jaguars; (e–f ) quetzals; (g–h) tepescuintle or raccoons(?) (photos by Claudia García-Des Lauriers and Matthew Des Lauriers).

Figure 6.17. Ceramic rattles, Los Horcones, Offering 1 (photos by Claudia García-Des Lauriers and Matthew Des Lauriers).

(Figure 6.16). In addition, three spherical rattles were found among the heads, and their spatial relationship strongly suggests that they may have been strung together at the time the cache was placed below the floor of the plaza in Group B (Figure 6.17). Nearly all of the three-dimensional figurine heads and masks are perforated, suggesting that they, too, may have been suspended. Ceramic “pendants” are documented for the Maya site of

Lagartero by Susanna Ekholm (1985), and while the groups of characters she describes for the Lagartero sample are different, the general characteristics are similar. Nearly all of the Lagartero pendants were mold-made anthropomorphic or animal figures (Ekholm 1985:211), similar to those in the Los Horcones offering. Rosemary Joyce (2003, 2009) has also documented Formative period figurines from Playa de los Muertos, Honduras, that were perforated for suspension. The 78

Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico

specific functions of these ceramic “pendants” remain somewhat obscure. First, it is likely that many of these pendants have gone unrecognized as such by archaeologists, as Ekholm (1985) suggests, limiting our understanding of the contexts in which they were found. Sue Scott (2001:Plate 163e–f ) notes the presence of some figural pendants in the collection of figurines from Linné’s excavations but observes that these do not seem to be from Teotihuacán but, rather, from the Gulf Coast. Interestingly, they show some affinities with versions from Los Horcones, indicating that perhaps Gulf Coast figurine traditions are also represented in Offering 1. In the case of the Los Horcones offering, a relatively large group of pendants was brought together for this ritual cache placed in front of a small temple. Their careful deposition may have marked a small-scale public ritual commemorating the building of these structures. Joyce (2009:418) has noted that a key element to understanding peoples’ relations to and interactions with figurines involves an understanding of the scale of the objects in relation to the human body. Stelae 3 and 4 from Group F emphasized a larger-than-life scale; in contradistinction, the figurine pendants and rattles would have individually fit comfortably in the palm of the hand. The ceramic vessels would have required two hands, but again this is a much more interpersonal and individual level of contact. Moreover, as I mentioned, nearly all of the figurines were perforated for suspension as pendants, meaning that to appreciate them, people would have had to come in close, face-to-face contact with the wearer. The scale of the objects in this public performance encouraged a greater level of interpersonal dialogue when compared with Group F. Fragments of arms, legs, and torsos have been located both in surface collection lots and in the excavations, indicating that full anthropomorphic representations were present, yet Offering 1 was composed of only heads, masks, and masks with masks. The fragmentation of the body is not an unusual trope in Mesoamerican bodily representations, but the focus, in this case, on this collection of heads brought together in a single context is particularly interesting. Moreover, this fragmentation of the body may partly be a reflection of the complex notions of self in Mesoamer-

ica — ​a self that can itself be partible (Hendon, this volume). Specific references to the head as conceptually linked to notions of self, personhood, and identity are present among the Maya and other Mesoamerican groups (Houston and Stuart 1998; Houston et al. 2006; Joyce 1998; Hendon, this volume). Among the Aztec, the head is thought of as “the center of social relations,” a repository of status, identity, and the tonalli, one of the animate essences critical to notions of person­ hood (López Austin 1996:182–185). It is not surprising, then, that headdresses were often the loci for marking status and social identity and even displayed the name glyphs of individuals, as these framed the face as a marker of the individual within the larger parameters of being within a given society (­García-​Des Lauriers 2000; Houston and Stuart 1998; Joyce 1998; Kelley 1982; Millon 1973, 1988). The bringing together of these various heads, animal and human, in Offering 1 created an interesting visual dialogue between the various identities presented in this context, or as Lesure puts it, this grouping has great potential for “indicating the subject matter of conversations about social identity” (1997:229). In addition, Lesure et al. (this volume) suggest that the style or manner in which figurines are made also had specific meaning that may supersede the subject matter. I would argue that style and content or iconography work together to create greater nuance in the discourses of identity that material culture may generate. The animal forms, which include q ­ uetzal birds, jaguars, tepescuintles, bats, and turtles, may be a more general reference to the region, as some of these animals are largely local in terms of their habitats, as in the case of quetzal birds (Figure 6.16). The anthropomorphic figurines are a combination of references to social distinctions based on age, as in the case of the younger faces and the Huehueteotl mask, which shows the aged face of the Old Fire God, and perhaps to various ethnic identities and social statuses (Figures 6.13a and 6.17a). Other comparisons provided by this group include the more generic, so-called portrait masks associated with Teotihuacán figurine traditions and other figurines that seem to be more truly portrait-like, showing greater care in the depiction of specific facial features (Figures 6.11a–e and 6.17a). While accentuating references 79

Claudia García-Des Lauriers

to Teotihuacán in both the vessels and some figurines, their juxtaposition and combination also suggest that perhaps this is a microcosm of life in the commercial town of Los Horcones — ​a place at the crossroads of trade routes linking central Mexico, Veracruz, the Soconusco, and the Maya highlands and lowlands.

identity through the creation of shared experiences (Inomata and Coben 2006:22–25; Joyce and Hendon 2000). In contrast, the more intimate scale of Group B, while still a public space, was meant for a smaller group of attendants from the nearby area or local elite residential structures in Group A. It is, then, not surprising to find smaller, more intimate symbols such as ceramic vessels and little figurine heads as the material culture used in the enactment of these ritual performances. The diversity of identities visible in the assemblage of figurines is only appreciable at this intimate scale, and their grouping into a single context provides the opportunity for comparison with each other and between the audience and the representations. While references to Teotihuacán symbols are also present in this cache, these are juxtaposed with a more diverse set of characters, perhaps reflecting an image of a cosmopolitan populace at Los Horcones. The public proclamation of Teotihuacán identity seen in Group F served as a means of fixing behaviors in space, while the smaller scale of Group B suggests a more intimate engagement with complex references to the various identities performed in Los Horcones society (Joyce and Hendon 2000; Love 1999). Group F elevated Teotihuacán identity as the one that could unify the diverse population of Los Horcones by providing a stage for public rituals that were meant to create a corporate identity through shared experience. The symbols visible in Offering 1 cached in Group B also reference Teotihuacán identity — ​but here it is contrasted and combined with references to other identities, offering a visual discursive of the perhaps very real negotiations of identity that took place daily in the cosmopolitan center of Los Horcones. There is an interesting irony revealed in my discussion of identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas. On the one hand, while Group F was the largest architectural setting, where sizable groups of people gathered for spectacles put on by the ruling elite of Los Horcones, there may not have been space for individual expressions of identity, or at least these were subsumed by the celebration of a more all-encompassing corporate identity. By contrast, at Group B, a significantly smaller pub-

Conclusions

Following Joyce and Hendon, The creation of places through the placement of buildings on the landscape is a larger scale mode of inscription that can also be understood as a way societies seek to concretize and generalize certain identifications, creating more enduring histories for specific identities by marking them permanently on the landscape [2000:155]. In the case of Los Horcones, the builders of Group F created an architectural setting for highly visible performances that incorporated large segments of the population. The public rituals held in this space took on the veneer of spectacle, with many people being brought together in this much larger space among monumental sculpture inscribed with Teotihuacán symbols (Inomata and Coben 2006). The builders of Group F, in finding an architectural language within which to frame the experience of the participants, looked to Teotihuacán for inspiration. They created a roadway, probably used for processions, that attempts to replicate the experience of walking down the Way of the Dead. The specific model they replicated was the Moon Pyramid plaza, one of the most important and potent symbols of Teotihuacán state power. On the upper plaza of Group F, two stelae carved using visual symbols linked with Teotihuacán identity, such as the storm god Tlaloc and the eagle and jaguar, were carefully rendered using artistic canons characteristic of the central Mexican metropolis. The composition of these monuments, like the architectural setting in which they were placed, also structured movement, as viewers could only appreciate the iconographic programs by circumambulating the monuments. The scale of the public rituals performed in this architectural space, unlike other plazas at the site, served to create a community 80

Public Performance and Teotihuacán Identity at Los Horcones, Chiapas, Mexico

lic place where more intimate public rituals took place, there seems to have been space for a more heterodoxic discourse of identity. Here individuals of different ages, statuses, genders, and eth-

nicities interacted and performed a more diverse repertoire of layered identities, as indicated by Offering 1.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Eleanor Harrison-Buck for her invitation to be part of this volume, which is a wonder­ ful opportunity for a young scholar like me. I would also like to thank Barbara Stark, Patricia McAnany, and George Cowgill for their comments, which strengthened this chapter a great deal. The Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historía, National Science Founda-

tion, Foundation for the Advancement of Mesoamerican Studies, Inc., and University of California Institute for Mexico and the United States all made this research possible, and I am very grateful to all of them. Finally, I would like to dedicate this to my parents, Daniel and Maria de Lourdes García, for their unconditional ­support.

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7

Objects as Persons Integrating Maya Beliefs and Anthropological Theory Julia A. Hendon

Mesoamerican ideas about the self and personhood are complex and may seem foreign to those envisioned in modern cultural, philosophical, or psychological frameworks. Scholars have teased out these ideas through careful study of multiple lines of evidence, including archaeological, visual, epigraphic, and ethnographic data. In this chapter I wish to connect this research with anthropological theories of semiotics, relational and distributed personhood, and the agency of objects in order to shed new light on the meaning of objects within these societies, enriching our understanding not only of Mesoamerica but also of the larger issue of how people create identities and relations with and through things. The richness and variety of the information that has been used to study ancient M ­ esoamerican societies might tempt some to ask, Why bother drawing on anthropological theory at all? Why not let the Maya speak to us directly through their art and texts? But as the archaeologists, epigraphers, and historians who have labored over these texts, works of art, and material remains know, it is naive to assume an unambiguous transfer of information. Classic period Maya hieroglyphic texts reflect the preoccupations of royalty. Excavations of houses, tombs, and ballcourts give us glimpses of daily life and ritual practices. All our sources are mediated first by the social context in which they were produced and used, second by transformational processes and the depositional context from which they are recovered, and finally by the

analytical approaches used by modern ­scholars. Theoretical frameworks help us make sense of information gleaned from these sources. Frameworks do this in part by encouraging the development of questions and in part by constructing a scaffold that connects bits and pieces of data of various kinds into a more complete explanatory structure. The process is reciprocal. Even as data are illuminated by the light of theory, theory is enriched by its application to substantive bodies of data. I develop my argument by first reviewing the important aspects of Mesoamerican ideas about personhood and the self. I then discuss relevant anthropological theorizing, focusing on the ideas and concepts that I have found useful. I conclude the chapter by applying these ideas to the material worlds of the Maya, their neighbors, and their predecessors in Honduras. Personhood and the Self in Mesoamerica

Although it is always tricky to speak of a single Mesoamerican perspective, one can discern a concept of the self that is shared by many cultures within the region. This concept in turn helps define personhood in these societies in ways that extend this status beyond the individual human being. The self has multiple parts. The anthropological literature uses several terms to refer to these parts, including coessence and soul (see Gossen 1996a; Monaghan 1995; Vogt 1969; Watanabe 1992, for representative discussions). Although much of the research on the multiple self is eth82

Objects as Persons

nographic, Classic period Maya inscriptions and Late Postclassic or early colonial-period texts from the Nahuatl-speaking regions refer to the concept (Brotherston 1992; Grube and Nahm 1994; Houston and Stuart 1989). Coessences/ souls exist both within and outside of an individual. They are connected not just to that individual but also to other parts of the physical and spiritual world, creating relations among individuals, groups, humans, other living creatures, natural forces, and the dead. The fact that coessences, by their nature, exist separately from any particular individual makes these relations and connections possible. The existence of multiple coessences, at least some of which are separate (or can be separated) from the human body, means that the self is partible (Strathern 1988; see also Gell 1999), or capable of being distributed across time and space beyond the limits of the individual human body or life-span. It can be shared with other beings. Something of a person’s coessence can enter into material objects that people use or produce or engage with. Houston and Stuart (1998) argue that Classic period Maya monuments depicting ­royalty do not merely represent an idealized image of a ruler but were intended to become a separate embodiment of that ruler. They stress that it is the likeness (however idealized) between image and the ruler that makes possible the intentional transfer of an “extendable essence” or “vital charge conferring identity and animation” (1998:86). The sharing of coessences occurs more widely, however. Robert Laughlin’s study of Maya dreaming provides an instance of this that is grounded in daily life, not the political concerns of rulers: “It is believed that an individual’s possessions are representative of himself, have acquired his soul. Corn, too, shares its soul with the farmer, his family, and his farm tools” (Laughlin and ­Karasik 1988:9). Evon Vogt elaborates further on this point:

tains, inside caves, and beside waterholes; saints whose “homes” are inside the Catholic churches; musical instruments used in their ceremonies; all the various deities in the Zina­ canteco pantheon [1969:370–371]. Coessences thus connect entities that would seem at first glance to be incapable of connection because they belong to different categories of ­phenomena (animal, vegetable, human, deity) or states of existence (alive, dead, animate, inanimate). These entities, even the tools and other possessions, also share something else, their membership in the ordered existence framed by Mesoamerican ideas about time and space (Monaghan 1998b). They can all be said to have been born, to have an existence, and to come to an end or transform into something else. Objects, animals, and other nonhuman entities all participate in a cycle of existence comparable or analogous to the human life cycle. All are part of the spatiotemporal order that gives structure to the world according to Mesoamerican cosmology and philosophy. Important moments in the individual life cycle, such as birth and death, or in the individual cycle of existence, such as production or destruction, are given meaning through their ties to systems of measuring time and arranging space that are independent of any individual human being’s life or object’s existence. Such a spatiotemporal order is recorded on the monuments discussed above but is also remembered through the practices of “daykeepers” (shamans) trained in divination using the 260-day calendar (Tedlock 1992). Social relations are also integral to the transformation of an entity, whether human or not, into a person (Gillespie 2001, 2008a). Participation in appropriate actions and socially recognized relations creates persons (Monaghan 1998a; Watanabe 1992). The implications of what I have discussed so far for how we should think about objects (artifacts, material culture, art, etc.) should be clear. Objects can do more than acquire a trace of a person’s coessence. They have souls in their own right and enter into relations with other souls. As Vogt observes, “The most important interaction going on in the universe is not between persons nor between persons and material objects, but rather

The phenomenon of the soul is by no means restricted to the domain of human beings. Virtually everything that is important and valuable to Zinacantecos possesses a soul: domesticated plants . . . ; houses and household fires; wooden crosses erected on sacred moun83

Julia A. Hendon

between souls inside these persons and material objects” (1969:371). They have voice and agency in their own right, as can be seen in the section of the Popol vuh in which the wooden people are destroyed: “Their faces were crushed by things of wood and stone. Everything spoke: their water jars, their tortilla griddles, their plates, their cooking pots, their dogs, their grinding stones, each and every thing crushed their faces” (Tedlock 1996:72). Objects also have a soul, which may be shared with people just as people share their coessences with objects. In recounting a dream, a Zinacanteco man says, “Long ago, when I was learning to play the flute...I had a dream. I was summoned to the courthouse.” There he finds the senior men of the town “sitting in a row [with a] big basket...in the center of the table. There were flutes inside the basket.” The elders urge Xun Min to pick a flute:

these are contingent differences, not categorical ones. What is interesting to explore is the way that the particular, in this case Mesoamerican, ideas about human–object relations, personhood, and the self can be seen as local versions of the larger processes of objectification and materiality, processes that seem to be endemic to how people make sense of the world around them. The concept of the relational self stems from the premise that relationships play a central role in defining a person. The nature of the relationships and who participates in them emerge as crucial to understanding the creation and differentiation of persons within any particular social and historical context (see Handler 1994; Moore 1994). Alfred Gell (1998) has argued that a relational self develops through relationships not only with human beings but with objects that are treated like persons. Such objects attain the ­status of persons without necessarily being seen as human beings. These objects are person-like in part because they enter into relationships that extend the self beyond the individual biological organism. A relational self is a component of the socially constituted definition of persons, resulting in a kind of personhood that is distributed beyond the individual body or its life-span or its location in time and space. The actual physical organism, by which I mean the living, sentient human being’s body, does not have to be present to make relationships possible. What Gell calls “biographical events and memories of events, and a dispersed category of material objects, traces, and leavings” become part of how relationships are created, maintained, and valued (1998:222). A semiotic approach enhances our understanding of the relational self and distributed personhood. Webb Keane has argued that “if we treat words, things, and performances together as ­media of action, the mimetic function is only part of the story. Mimesis does not disappear, but is resituated as one component of a practical and semiotic complex” (1997:10). Keane’s complex, derived from the work of Charles Sanders Peirce, embraces practice and the material properties of the world in which practices occur as sources of meaning (see also Graeber 2001; Miller 2005). Peirce’s approach recognizes three major categories of signs: indexes, icons, and symbols (and a

There were brand new flutes inside the basket, but I didn’t choose them. The flute I picked out for myself was old and had been used already. Now I can play the flute.... It was its soul I received [Laughlin and Karasik 1988:85]. The existence of multiple, partible coessences and the importance placed on how entities link to the spatiotemporal order and on the social relations and actions that these entities are part of all indicate that being a person is not something that is unique to humans (Gillespie 2001; Hendon 2010; Monaghan 1998b). A Semiotic Theory of Personhood

At this point I turn to the theoretical literature that I argue offers the most promise for expanding archaeological interpretation and analysis of the material world of past societies. Before doing so, however, I wish to make clear that I do not consider Mesoamerican ideas about these topics as representative of some “type” of society or even of a type of consciousness, such as the premodern or traditional. To do so both romanticizes these societies and yet renders them somehow pathological (see Moore 1994) by placing them outside of a “norm” defined by a purported modern or Western mind-set. As societies with their own histories, they differ from those resulting from the histories encompassed by the term Western. But 84

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number of subcategories that I do not discuss here [see Preucel 2006 for a more complete review]). The terms icon, index, and symbol refer to the relationships between a sign and its significance, not just the signs themselves (Hanks 1996). Indexes permit causal inferences based on some specific character of the index that we can connect to something else. Icons suggest relations through a resemblance based on some set of shared properties. At its simplest, this is a mimetic relationship, but more complicated kinds of iconicity exist. The term symbol refers to conventionalized or arbitrary signs that must be decoded. According to Gell (1998), objects are part of indexical relations. Through their involvement in social action with people and other objects, they make manifest social relations. More broadly, objects may enter into relations as icons, indexes, or symbols because their physical properties, their potentially mimetic qualities, and their ability to endure over time and to move away from their point of origin make them susceptible to multiple interpretations. At the same time, the material properties of the objects and their context constrain the potential range of meanings (Hanks 1996; Keane 2005; Miller 1987; Preucel 2006). A semiotic approach to personhood must also take into account two more concepts, agency and the process of objectification. The ability of objects to function as icons, indexes, or symbols implies that they are more than an intermediary between human beings who are in a relationship with one another. Objects are not merely tools, devices, or means to an end. As social entities that enter into relationships, they have the capacity for agency (Hendon 2010; Walker 1999, 2008). They are nonhuman actors that help shape the relationships of which they are a part through their properties, their purpose, and their connections to social institutions, projects, or relations above and beyond the individual interactions in which they participate. Agency, from this perspective, is not about intentionality or a particular state of being, such as being human or even alive. Objects function as agents because their properties cause things to happen and induce people to relate to them in certain ways (Gell 1998; Keane 2005). People have intentions and may even be aware of them at times, but it is the outcome of what

they do, in some context and in relation to some other (human or not), that makes them agential (Rosenblatt 2004). Social agency is defined by its relational status. The concept of objectification encompasses the processes by which objects function as agents, are constituted as persons, and create meaning as indexes, icons, or symbols: “It is not just that objects can be agents; it is that practices and their relationships create the appearance of both subjects and objects through the dialectics of objectification” (Miller 2005:38). Miller argues that the material world with which people interact and within which they live plays a central role in this dialectic. The definition of subjects relates to the definition of persons, and both are socially constructed rather than existing a priori (Miller 1987). Nor is the status of an object restricted to actual material things. People may be objects, and objects may be subjects, depending on the relations and practices in which they are involved. The material world can be a “mechanism for social reproduction and ideological dominance” that goes unchallenged precisely because it is enacted through things (Miller 1998:3). Connecting Anthropological and Local Concepts

Objectification and the materiality in which it is embedded direct our attention to the ways that people engage with the world around them. This engagement furnishes the foundation for ­people’s understanding of themselves in relationship to others. Both objectification and materiality are thus crucial to a semiotic theory of personhood because they support the argument that agency, personhood, and subjectivity are the result of these relations and interactions. This perspective does not privilege relations between human beings over those with objects, animals, spirits, the dead, and other entities, however. Nor does it dismiss these relations as cases of mere anthropomorphism or the pathetic fallacy. In contrast, relations with nonhumans play a crucial role in the constitution of the self and the definition of persons. Gell (1992, 1998) has written of the enchantment of person-like objects. Enchanting objects, according to Gell, command attention by 85

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their cognitive stickiness, manifested in the way they appeal to the senses through their elaboration, style, and other features. Certain products of Maya elite culture, for example, fall readily into this category. A Maya stela represents a quintessentially enchanting object and one, moreover, that is intentionally so. As such, it enters into relations not only with the person who commissioned it or who is depicted on it but also with all those who interact with it as part of its manu­ facture and ritual role (Hendon 2010). Monumental architecture and sculpture from the Maya kingdom of Copán in western Honduras present a panoply of cognitively sticky images, spaces, forms, and designs. The many stelae placed in the main plaza of the civic-ceremonial center, the Hieroglyphic Staircase with its statues of seated Copán rulers, the ballcourt with its markers and buildings decorated with macaws, and Temple 22 on the Acropolis with its doorway carved into the mouth of a supernatural creature and its roof adorned with anthropomorphic corn plants, to name just a few of the most notable examples, have been extensively studied to decode their symbolism and history (see Baudez 1994). Sculptures such as these have a wider significance and a greater ability to be meaningful to the people they interact with than can be adequately appreciated through a reading of the specifics of their iconography. Their elaboration exemplifies how “decorative patterns...attach people to things, and to the social projects those things entail” (Gell 1998:74). The rulers who governed during the Late Classic period (ca. ad 650–900) wished to claim an unbroken succession from the figure they identified as the first ruler. The renovations of the Hieroglyphic Staircase by the fifteenth ruler and the installation of Altar Q by the sixteenth ruler, carved with an image of him receiving an object from the hands of the long-dead founding ancestor, serve as two examples of how kings tried to advance this project. This imagery and the associated construction function as indexes, relating actions taken in the present to past events and people. All of these monuments are person-like, not merely because they include images that are anthropomorphic icons or because they are intended to depict an actual person (a ruler). Even pointing to the transferal of some vital spirit from ruler to icon does not fully take into account all

the reasons why monumental art and architecture are not just person-like but are persons with coessences that enter into relations with other persons, including the human beings who build and interact with them. Structure 10L-16 provides one of the best illustrations of this at Copán. This tall pyramidal structure divides the summit of the Acropolis into two courtyards. It faces onto the West Court. Altar Q sits at its base. Excavations that penetrated into the Acropolis and Temple 16 revealed many earlier constructions, the oldest of which is a small platform covering an elaborate tomb that has been proposed as that of the first Copán ruler, also portrayed on Altar Q (Agurcia Fasquelle and Fash 2005). A previous version, nicknamed Rosalila by its excavator, was incorporated intact into the fill of the final phase. Rosalila was carefully interred with a great deal of ceremony: its rooms, moldings, and niches were carefully filled with clay and rocks, while its enormous modeled stucco panels (which retain their original polychrome paint) were covered with a thick layer of white stucco before they were buried [Agurcia Fasquelle 2004:​ 101–102]. The excavator goes on to compare the treatment of the Rosalila temple to the treatment of the dead by the Ch’orti Maya, who used white cloth as shrouds. Another prominent component of the material worlds of ancient societies in Honduras are small three-dimensional figures made out of clay. The Playa de los Muertos tradition, dating from the Middle Formative period (ca. 900–200 bc), consists of solid hand-modeled figures made in two sizes, the smaller of which were designed to be suspended from some kind of cord or thread. Many of the figures are women. Playa figurines have been excavated from sites in the Lower Ulua Valley, including the sites of Playa de los M ­ uertos and Puerto Escondido, and in the Cuyumapa Valley to the east. Many more have been absorbed into private collections, with the loss of most if not all provenience information. Based on the study of the excavated samples, variation in raw material between figurines found at different sites suggests that production was household based and dispersed. Excavated Playa figurines have been recovered from household trash deposits or 86

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special refuse deposits resulting from ritual feasting events as much as or more so than in burials (Joyce 2003, 2007, 2008b; Joyce et al. 2008; Joyce et al. 2009; see also Agurcia Fasquelle 1978). The Ulua tradition dates from the Late to Terminal Classic periods (ca. ad 500–1000). It contains a range of hollow figural artifacts made from molds, with some handwork as well. Commonly made objects in this tradition include figurines, whistles, pendants, and miniature masks. Female and male human figures are part of the tradition, as are animals. Ulua tradition figural artifacts were used by societies living in much of northern and central Honduras, including the Ulua, Cuyumapa, and Comayagua valleys as well as the Lake Yojoa region. People living in high-status­residences at Copán imported Ulua tradition figural artifacts but did not manufacture them (Hendon 2003b, 2009). Excavations in the Lower Ulua Valley have established that the production of figurines and other objects was dispersed among many settlements of various sizes. As with the earlier figurines, excavation of Ulua tradition figural artifacts has demonstrated that they occur more frequently in household and ritualized trash deposits than in burials (Hendon 2007; Hendon and Lopiparo 2004; Hendon et al. 2009; Joyce et al. 2009; Lopiparo 2003, 2004, 2007; ­Lopiparo and Hendon 2009). Figurines and musical instruments in a similar style were produced in the Naco Valley using a more centralized mode of production (Schortman and Urban 1994). Figurines, despite not being associated with named royalty (although they are found in royal residences [Bill 1997; Doonan 1996]), are another example of an externalized coessence — ​externalized, that is to say, from the perspective of human beings. Discussions of the concept of way in Classic period Maya society have tended to assume a one-to-one correspondence between an externalized soul and an individual. Furthermore, the focus has been on one kind of soul, which (usually) takes the form of an animal. Animal companion spirits have received much attention in the anthropological literature, including the sources cited earlier in this chapter, because of their importance to the people who believe in them. As these same sources make clear, however, the animal companion is only one kind of coessence. Objects have a soul as well, that is to say, an aspect

of their being that is incorporeal, can be shared with other beings, is agential, and contributes to their status as persons. Prechtel and Carlsen document “a belief amongst the people of Santiago Atitlan that weavings are not just woven but in fact born” (1988:​ 123). The movements of the woman’s body and the loom attached to it mimic those associated with giving birth and the beating of a heart. Childbirth and weaving are linked to the spatiotemporal order by analogy with the sun: “As is true with the weaving of cloth (and the birthing of humans), the rising of the sun allows for the world to be regenerated” (Prechtel and Carlsen 1988:126). A similar set of connections exists for the paper figures used in Otomi curing rituals (Dow 1982). Dow notes that “la característica más importante de los seres vivientes es su fuerza vital” [the most important characteristic of living beings is their vital force] (1982:​632), which the Otomi represent through the paper figures. I would suggest that we can extend the status of being a coessence and possessing a soul to Playa and Ulua tradition figurines, which also come into existence through human labor, creativity, and skill. They are frequently broken deliberately and deposited inside buildings or as part of ritual action, thus providing an end to that existence. As the fruit of processes of skilled production and ritual deposition, figurines participate in the cycle of existence that helps define personhood. As coessences and social persons (person-like objects), Playa and Ulua tradition figural artifacts are overtly iconic. Playa figurines ­depict standing or seated women who do not wear much clothing but have elaborately styled and cut hair. Their physical characteristics are also ­indexical of an appropriately socialized human body, with particular emphasis on gender and age. Ulua tradition figurines depict a wider a­ rray of people, animals, and hybrid creatures. This tradition also places more emphasis on costume, especially hats or headdresses, jewelry, and other trappings. Women may hold infants, bowls, or small creatures. Monkeys may wear necklaces and ear spools. Other figures may hold musical instruments or carry packs. The Ulua tradition therefore indexes a wider variety of appropriately socialized persons, not all of which are human beings. 87

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Concentrating only on enchanting objects, however, unnecessarily limits the study of person­ hood and the role of objects to a relatively small subset of the material world. Daniel Miller has noted how objects are able to “fade out of focus and remain peripheral to our vision and yet determinant of our behavior and identity” (2005:5). A semiotic theory of personhood needs to incorporate both Gell’s point about the ability of (some) objects to enchant and Miller’s emphasis on the tendency of many objects to efface themselves. The Maya view of personhood admits of relationships between people and flutes, hearthstones, griddles, farming implements, and other kinds of objects. Even the humblest of objects (Miller 1987), such as the mano and metate used to grind corn, possess souls according to the Maya ­studied by Vogt and Laughlin and those who wrote the Popol vuh. Or, to put this in the language of theory, they act as agents that contribute to the definition of a relational self through their interaction with the women using them (Hendon 2010). Excavations in Classic period Copán houses have revealed that humble or everyday objects may be found in mortuary and ritual contexts. The stones covering several burials in small ­rural farmsteads include metates (Gonlin 1993:353). Houses in the larger, more elaborate residential compounds near the center of the city often contained cached offerings. While small sculptures, exotic materials, or ritual objects such as censers were placed as offerings in some cases, other caches were made up of pottery vessels used to serve food, such as polychrome bowls or jars either locally manufactured (Copador Polychrome) or imported (Ulua Polychrome). Large storage jars (Casaca Striated), polishing stones, and manos also appear in some caches (Diamanti 2000:​Anexo A; Gerstle and Webster 1990:Apéndice 1; Hendon et al. 1990:Apéndice 1; Willey and Leventhal 1979; Willey et al. 1994). The use of these objects cannot be written off as a sign of poverty or lack of access to r­ esources. The rural farmsteads studied by G ­ onlin may be small, but their inhabitants owned some jade beads and small sculptures and used local and imported polychrome vessels. The more centrally located compounds were certainly ­wealthier and displayed many markers of Maya elite cul-

ture (see Hendon 2009 for a recent summary). From a M ­ esoamerican-​specific semiotic theory of person­hood, three interpretations suggest themselves. First, all these types of objects — ​grinding stones, storage jars, vessels for the presentation or consumption of food or drink — ​are indexes of the most fundamental ties binding the coresident social group together and of the most central practices that helped create those ties (Hendon 2003a). Second, the vessels are ­person-​like objects, not because of their appearance but because of the ways in which they interacted with the people who made and used them. Recalling Vogt’s comment about Zinacanteco beliefs that objects are endowed with souls in their own right, I suggest that an analogous argument may be made for the bowls and jars buried inside of houses. They can also be fitted into the spatiotemporal order: They were created through human labor, again analogous with the creation of new human beings (Monaghan 1998a), and were buried inside residential structures. Their resting place corresponds with how many people were buried in Classic period Copán society (Diamanti 1991; Hendon 1991). Third, they contributed to the ­person-​like status of the building itself. This process has been referred to by Maya scholars as a process of ensouling the structure (Mock, ed. 1998). Yet again we see the local embodiment of how objects become social persons in ways similar to those that turn human beings into persons. Most approaches to Mesoamerican ­coessences have made people (living human beings) the primary focus of analysis, describing beliefs about the ability of souls to exist independently of the human body-mind and the movement and sharing of externalized coessences. Both the Mesoamerican philosophical ideas about souls, destiny, and social relations and the anthropological theories of the relational self, distributed personhood, and objectification summarized here argue that human beings are not alone in possessing socially determined and validated identities, agency, or the capacity to enter into relationships. The willingness to ascribe agency or personhood to something other than an individual human being is not unique to the Maya or other groups in the region. Nor is it exclusively a symptom of a premodern mind or non-Western thought (LiPuma 1998; Miller 2005). 88

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The realization that these Mesoamerican views are an instance of the processes described briefly in this chapter sheds new light on objects in Mesoamerican societies. The convergence of the local with the theoretical framework expands what we can say about the role and meaning of objects and on the construction of personhood by

suggesting reasonable inferences that fill in some of the gaps caused by the realities of the kind of data that archaeologists must study. This benefits most the study of more humble objects that are not associated with texts and are not considered art.

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8

The Encompassment of Subordinate Lords in the Tarascan Kingdom Materiality, Identity, and Power David L. Haskell

The Tarascan kingdom dominated much of west-central Mexico during the Late Postclassic period (ad 1350–1520; see Figure 8.1). Interpretations of ethnohistoric sources posit that the Tarascan political system was highly organized and tightly controlled by the king (e.g., Beltrán 1986; Carrasco 1986; García Alcaraz 1976; Gorenstein and Pollard 1983; Martínez Baracs 2005; Pollard 1993; Warren 1985). The lords of the towns of the kingdom were highly loyal to the king. Even after the last indigenous king acquiesced to the Spaniards’ presence and claims of superiority in 1522, the nobility continued to serve their king, against the wishes of the Spanish colonists (Martínez Baracs 2005; Warren 1985). The king’s centralized power has been explained as a result of the state’s control over land, labor, and prestige markers (Beltrán 1986; Carrasco 1986; Pollard 1993, 2003a, 2003b). Additionally, Pollard (1994) proposes a process of ethnic consolidation and assimilation, in which nobles perceived themselves to be members of a homogeneous noble class, as another key to the king’s power. Relatively uniform elite material culture assemblages throughout much of Michoacán were important aspects of “Tarascanization” and lend archaeological support to this hypothesis (Pollard 1994, 2003c; Pollard and Cahue 1999). The model of resource control cannot explain the loyalty of the subordinate lords under the

early Spanish colonial administration. If lords were controlled by threats of material d ­ ivestment, they would have seized the opportunity to rebel against the king that was afforded by the political turmoil the Spanish presence instigated. The lords’ loyalty to their king interfered with the Spaniards’ ability to exploit the indigenous commoner class, which was a large factor in that king’s execution by Spanish authorities (KrippnerMartínez­2001; Scholes and Adams 1952; Warren 1985). Pollard’s (1994) study of ethnic assimilation potentially addresses this shortcoming. I suggest, however, that “ethnicity” is only one way to frame and investigate identity politics and that the relation between king and subordinate lords in the Tarascan kingdom was a more direct and personal process of identity transformation. I propose that the Tarascan king “encompassed” (following Dumont 1980; Sahlins 1985a, 1985b) subordinate lords, thereby subsuming their agency within his own personhood. Through direct material interaction, the lords’ agencies were constructed as something owed to the king’s prior and more primary agency. Below I formulate a material model of “intersubjective encompassment.” I then use this model to evaluate archaeological evidence from the site of Erongarícuaro, a secondary administrative center located in the Pátzcuaro Basin core of the Tarascan kingdom (see Figure 8.2). Specifically, I analyze how evi90

The Encompassment of Subordinate Lords in the Tarascan Kingdom

Figure 8.1. Approximate extent of the Tarascan kingdom ca. ad 1500 (adapted from Pollard 1993:Map 1.2).

dence for the production of lapidary objects and its contextual associations at Erongarícuaro reveal how the various agencies that went into that production would have effected the encompassment of the lords there. As I discuss below, however, relations of encompassment suffer inherent ambiguities, which the lords of Erongarícuaro likely sought to exploit. Furthermore, the model of intersubjective encompassment and the interpretive framework I develop have important implications for the practical application of agency and identity theory. First, agency is itself intersubjective. What exactly constitutes “agency” and to whom “agency” is attributed are determined as much by the interpreters of actions as the ­actors themselves. Second, archaeologists are just as much interpreters of those actions as were people in the past. Third, and finally, while the interpretations of different interpreters (including archaeologists) might be suitable to various scales and goals of analysis, identity-making or exercising power depended as much on the subjects and witnesses of those actions as on the actors themselves (i.e., they must be recognized as such, following Keane [1997:​3–27]). Therefore, in order to investigate relations of power and identity, archaeolo-

Figure 8.2. Lake Pátzcuaro and sites mentioned in

the text.

gists should analyze how actors and their actions were interpreted in the past. This chapter is an attempt to do just that. Intersubjective Encompassment and the Materiality of Social Interaction

The model of intersubjective encompassment developed here is grounded in a relational ontology of personhood in which persons and objects are defined by the relations that exist between and among them (see Harrison-Buck, Chapter 9; see 91

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also the importance of relationality among objects in Lesure et al., this volume). My own view of a relational ontology, as the basis of both the theoretical perspective adopted here and its practical application, is the outgrowth of my reading of the anthropological literature on “gift exchange” merged with Miller’s (1987, 2005) insights concerning objectification and Gell’s (1998) novel discussion of art objects. Within a relational ontology, personhood is intertwined with agency, objectification, and intersubjectivity. A person’s identity is constituted through time by the agencies of others. He or she exists as a sign of those agencies that have gone into his or her constitution (Battaglia 1990; Gell 1999; McKinnon 1991; Munn 1986; Strathern 1988). Conversely, a person is known by others through the effects he or she has upon others and the material world (Gell 1998; Munn 1986; Strathern 1988). By producing or involving the self with some object, the self becomes a subject both to the object and to other subjects who might encounter the object (Miller 1987, 2005). Therefore, through social interaction, people and things form potentially infinite chains or webs of social relations. Actions and the objects they involve are both the means through which those relations are constituted and signs of their existence (Battaglia 1990; Gell 1998:62; Strathern 1988). Social interaction, moreover, is inherently material (Gosden 1999:120–121). Objects are signs — ​ specifically indexes (see below) — ​of actions and the capacity for future realizations of those actions (although of course objects can manifest other significatory relations through iconic or symbolic means [see Hendon, this volume]). Objects also are instrumental in the realization of other acts and, so, are signs of those future potential acts. Furthermore, objects can endure through time and take on lives of their own (and even be attributed personhood, as in the chapters by Hendon and Harrison-Buck, this volume), signifying and “gathering” (Meskell 2005:4) together the agencies that have played a role in the production of their “biographies” (Gaitán Amman 2005; Kopytoff 1986; Weiner 1992). Objects become nodes that can signify and tie together the multiple social relations that have gone into their own production (Gell 1998:62, 1999; Miller 1987,

2005; Strathern 1988). Both material objects and human subjects are intersubjective phenomena (Miller 1987, 2005; Munn 1986:14–16; Richardson 1982). The interpretations and evaluations of others partly determine who a person is and what that person can accomplish (Keane 1997:17). By adopting a relational ontology of persons, it is possible to conceptualize how persons and agencies might be encompassed by others. The foundation of this model of identity and power is Dumont’s definition of hierarchy as “the encompassment of the contrary” (1980:240). In such a relation, one category subsumes within itself a category that represents its opposite, thus repre­ senting the totality. Dumont’s (1980:239–240) discussion of Adam and Eve is a helpful example. Adam and Eve are, in one sense, opposites. They represent the male and female gendered categories of humanity. Eve is part of Adam, however, because she is made from Adam’s rib. Adam therefore also represents the totality of humanity.1 Dumont’s definition of hierarchy and encompassment is inherently static, however.2 This is a significant problem when investigating social processes and transformations. Turner’s (1984) critique and reformulation of a processual model of encompassment are more useful. In Turner’s reformulation, the dominant term (e.g., “Adam”) comes to encompass the subordinate term (e.g., “Eve”) because it manages to transform the subordinate term into a replica of itself. Eve is, after all, a reproduction of Adam as a human being. The dominant term comes to represent the entire field, now composed of the dominant term and its own replica — ​that is, the entire field is now composed of the same category. The subordinate term remains, but it and its relation with the dominant term are subordinated by the relation between the dominant term and its replica (Turner 1984:​ 364–369). The hierarchy between the relations exists because the dominant term is the agent that transforms the subordinate term into a replica of itself. Turner’s reformulation is more precise in its logic than Dumont’s definition, if more complex. It is essential to emphasize that Turner preserves the ability of the subordinate term to be two things at once. This tension between the difference or sameness of the dominant term and the subordinate term is an essential aspect of the rela92

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Archaeological Interpretation: Primary Agency and Indexical Relations

tion of encompassment. Just how the subordinate term is perceived can be a matter of differential emphasis and contestation. I believe that a simplified and more generalizable model of encompassment can be developed by applying Gell’s (1998:17–21, 35–38, 44) definitions of primary and secondary agency. Gell defines “primary agents” as “entities endowed with the capacity to initiate actions/events through will or intention” (1998:​36, see also 44). Secondary agents are “entities not endowed with will or intention by themselves but essential to the formation, appearance, or manifestation of intentional actions” (Gell 1998:​36, see also 44). Therefore secondary agents are often the means by which some act is more proximally realized. On certain points it is necessary to depart from Gell’s framework, however. Gell writes as if primary agents are always human actors and secondary agents are always objects. The relegation of objects to secondary (i.e., inferior) agents has drawn some criticism (Gosden 2001; Robb 2004). My critique runs opposite from that of Gosden and Robb. I propose that persons can be transformed into “secondary agents,” at least in interpretations of those secondary agents’ actions. In other words, certain agents might be perceived to merely be the secondary agents that carry out the intentions of primary agents (as in Gell’s [1998:98] own example of ambassadors). If a relation between primary and secondary agents is to be an encompassing one according to Turner’s reformulation, the primary agent must have constituted the secondary agent’s capacity to act and must do so in a way that the intention­ality behind that act will be attributed to the primary agent. Actions often require certain material objects for their very realization or require objects in order to achieve their intended effect. Such objects function as what Gell calls “indexes,” following the philosopher Charles Peirce (on the use of Peirce’s philosophy in archaeological interpretation and material culture studies, see, e.g., Jones 2007:​12–19; Keane 1997:19; Lele 2006; Preucel 2006:​56–65; Preucel and Bauer 2001:89). Indexes are “natural signs” insofar as they exist in spatial or temporal contiguity with the signified (e.g., ­Sebeok 2001:​10–11, 84–96). Often the temporal contiguity is a relationship of causality.

For a relation of encompassment to exist, however, the constitutive agency of a primary agent must be perceived by other persons. The constitutive agency of the primary agent must also be perceived by these witnesses as an exclusive one: The secondary agent should ideally play no role in his or her own self-constitution, at least with regard to the ability to achieve the will of the primary agent. In order to ensure that the relation between primary and secondary agents is an exclusively constituted one, the encompassing primary agent should attempt to ensure that the material ­objects-​as-indexes involved in the realization of the act of the secondary agent will index, or “point to,” the primary agent. In other words, these objects, and their sociospatial location, should be recognizable by witnesses as manifestations of the agency of the primary agent. Inferences made from objects-as-indexes are bidirectional phenomena (Gell 1998:35–38; Jones 2007:​12–19; Keane 1997:15, 229–232). They are made by witnesses, but they are made with respect to the index itself, the existence and q ­ ualities of which are imputed to the index by agents. Agents “invest” (adapted from Gell 1998:68) an object with their own agency. By investing his or her own agency in an object, the investor hopes that the investment will pay off when witnesses recognize his or her agency in the index. Objects are continually coming into being and being transformed, of course, and therefore it is useful to employ a biographical approach (Gaitán Amman 2005; also Kopytoff 1986) when analyzing the indexical associations of objects. At the outset, however, it is necessary to discuss the nature of archaeological interpretation in practice and its relation to the analysis of an object’s biography. While specific events linked to specific objects might be unrecoverable through archaeological analysis (dependent as it is on patterning and statistical analysis), exactly which agent (or category of agent) is dominating a specific process such as production or exchange should be analyzable archaeologically (Barrett 2000:​64). Insofar as specific and idiosyncratic events might not be especially important to the construction of reliable inferences of 93

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the ­indexical relationships between objects and persons, because they would be overshadowed by witnesses’ recognition of the larger economic and agentic capacities at play, they are not necessarily important to the investigation of relations of encompassment. Each stage of an object’s biography implicates agents who invested their own agency in that object, and these stages can be investigated through statistical or laboratory methods, as demonstrated by a large amount of archaeological research.3 The source of the raw material as well as production locales can be investigated through compositional analyses, while production and its social context can be ascertained through distributional studies of both the objects in question and by-products of their production. The presence on the landscape of the latter also signaled to past populations that productive activities were taking place (following Ingold’s [1993] concept of the “task-scape”). Exchange can be investigated through distributional studies that incorporate other information concerning production locales and sources of raw materials. One stage in an object’s biography that has not been extensively theorized, however, is what ­Keane (1997:17, 26–27) calls “framing.” When deploying any object in social action, agents often frame the object by explaining where it came from or how they came to possess it. “Cosmological authentication,” as defined by Weiner (1992), is a particularly powerful form of framing that emphasizes the historical or cosmic import of the object while also arguing that the object rightly belongs to someone. In order to work, however, framing often requires other material objects that set the stage for the speaker’s words to be believed, and these other objects should be spatially and temporally associated with the objects implicated in projects of encompassment. It is unlikely, or even impossible, that the Tarascan king would have monopolized the investments made in the objects given to subordinate lords, thereby ensuring that no other agency could be inferred from these objects. Rather, other persons must have been involved in his ability to encompass others. In the face of crosscutting investments made by multiple agents, the inferences of witnesses would have been anything but assured. This would have diminished the

king’s ability to encompass subordinate lords — ​ his encompassing nature depended on witnesses inferring, from objects that bundled multiple investments, that the actions of subordinate lords were his actions. Additionally, how can archaeologists in the present be confident that the inferences that those witnesses made in the past can be inferred in the present? In order to escape this interpretive dilemma, I make two assumptions, both based on Keane’s (1997:​20, 22, 26) position that framing and the objects being framed are indissolubly linked to one another. The first is that framing the agencies behind any particular investment in an object would be more effective than any single material investment. I make this assumption with the benefit of an ethnohistoric record in which the pomp and majesty of the king or his agents were on full display and likely would have been quite convincing. The very production of such scenes would have been further evidence of the agency of the king. For instance, at a yearly festival the recitation of the history of the royal dynasty by priests discursively constructed the encompassing nature of the king (Haskell 2008a). I also assume, however, that there were limits to the effectiveness of framing the objects that were integral to the king’s efforts to encompass subordinate lords. Following Keane (1997:18–22), the potential for dissonance must be recognized between the rhetoric involved in framing an object and the lack of apparent material investments made by the person on whose behalf the object is being framed. Such dissonance, by “insisting too much” (Keane 1997:17), could have occasioned active reflection and the outright questioning of attempts to frame the relation between objects and agents. Therefore I assume that framing would not have been effective in the absence of some other, material, investment that witnesses could infer. In this section I have discussed how the concept of an object’s biography can be used as an integrative concept in order to infer the i­ nferences made by witnesses in the past concerning which agent(s) should be regarded as more responsible for the object’s existence and use toward some end in any particular action. Both the infer­ ences of those witnesses in the past and the inferences made by me are made with reference to 94

The Encompassment of Subordinate Lords in the Tarascan Kingdom

Figure 8.3. Modern town and survey units of the site of Erongarícuaro.

ita of 1523–1524 reveals that Erongarícuaro was directly subject to the king in Tzintzuntzan in the tributary hierarchy and that at least 20 settle­ ments were directly or indirectly subordinate to it (Warren 1963, 1985). This number included other administrative centers with resident lords. Given the importance of Erongarícuaro to the state administrative system, the site offers an opportunity to investigate interactions between subordinate lords and the Tarascan kings in the prehispanic era. The archaeological site of Erongarícuaro surrounds the modern town of Erongarícuaro (Figure 8.3). A total surface survey led by Helen Pollard (in which I participated) revealed the extent of the archaeological site to be 228 ha (Pollard 2005:​10).4 The northern sector of the site, including fields ER-01, ER-02, ER-03, ER-07, and ER08, contained high proportions of ceramic pipes (Pollard 2005:79), indicating elite and ritual activity (Pollard 1993:34–49; Stawski 2008). Excavations led by Pollard in 2001 in fields ER-01 and ER-07 and totaling 40 m2 revealed shallow cultural deposits limited to the Late Postclassic period (Pollard 2005). These excavations also yielded other indicators of elite activity, including finely crafted ceramic vessels likely used for feasting (Pollard 2005). In 2005 more excavations were undertaken, led by me and Pollard in fields ER-02, ER-03, ER‑01, and ER-08, totaling 80 m2. A hearth ­dating

the material world and discursive framing practices, which are by definition public and, if they are to have any great impact, implicate yet further material practices. In sorting out which agency should be inferred to be primary, however, the ­issue is not to attempt to resolve the contradictions and ambiguities inevitably created between the multiple investments or the agencies proclaimed by framing. As some archaeologists have noted, the “meaning” of any particular object is almost inevitably ambiguous or subject to change from one context to the next — ​that is part of their nature and moreover part of their power (e.g., Hodder 1986; Tilley 1991, 1999). However, I follow Preucel and Bauer (2001) in suggesting that the meaning (for my specific purposes, the indexical signification) of an object would not have been ambiguous in any particular context but would have been rendered unambiguous through action. Therefore the goal in utilizing the concept of object biography is to allow for the examination of how variation in meaning was dependent upon context, that is, the realization of certain practices and the participation of certain actors and witnesses. Erongarícuaro: An Archaeological Study of Encompassment

According to ethnohistoric sources, Erongarícuaro was an important place in central Michoacán at the time of Spanish contact. The Caravajal Vis95

David L. Haskell

to the end of the Late Postclassic/early colonial period was uncovered in ER-02 (Haskell 2008b:​ 52–53). A copper bell (a definitive indicator of elite activity [Pollard 1987, 1993]) and numerous pipe fragments were recovered in the upper levels of the ER-02 excavations and along with small spindle whorls for spinning cotton indicate elite activity in the Late Postclassic. Evidence of a light Epiclassic occupation was recovered beneath the Late Postclassic occupation in ER-02 (Haskell 2008b:53). Excavations in ER-03 recovered mostly mixed cultural deposits. Ceramic pipes were again recovered in the uppermost levels in this area. These excavations also revealed four burials that date to the Late Classic period (Haskell 2008b; Pollard and Haskell 2006). Highly decorated ceramic sherds (some indicative of tripod bowls), dating to the Early and Middle Postclassic periods, were recovered in this area as well (Haskell 2008b:56). The presence of elite/ritual objects on and surrounding the raised area between fields ER-03 and ER-02 (partially composed of field ER-05) indicates that this area was a temple platform in prehispanic times. Lapidary Production at Erongarícuaro

Most important to the present study is the fact that obsidian artifacts indicating obsidian lapidary production were recovered in the excavations in ER-02 and ER-03. Lapidary objects, particularly bezotes, were markers of noble s­ tatus and the insignia of the office of local lordship according to ethnohistoric sources (see Haskell 2008a:​234–235; Pollard 2003b). Lapidary objects such as bezotes and ear spools are also well represented in elite burials from Tzintzuntzan (Cabrera Castro 1987; Castro Leal 1986; Rubín de la Borbolla 1944) as well as administrative centers such as Huandacareo (Macías Goytia 1990) and Urichu (Pollard and Cahue 1999). The Relación de Michoacán (1956:203; here­ after abbreviated RM) states that lords received the insignia of office (including lapidary objects — ​ bezotes are always named first among the insignia) from the king’s priests, who acted on direct orders of the king. The lords as well as witnesses were reminded by priests that the ancestors of the king instituted offices of local leadership so that 96

they would have representatives in local contexts, thereby framing and cosmologically authenticating the office and the objects that signified it. In other words, the king was represented as playing an exclusive role in constituting the ability of the local lord to act as a secondary agent. The insignia of office themselves stood as the “distributed personhood” (Gell 1998) of the king — ​they existed in a general sense and were placed on the body of the lord as a result of the king’s agency. Consequently, if archaeological evidence surrounding these insignia of office indicates that they would have been inferred to be results of the king’s primary agency, it would support the representation of the encompassment of the lord by the king. The most convincing evidence for lapidary production from controlled contexts involves small ground pieces of obsidian (Figure 8.4), five in total, recovered in excavations in fields ER‑02 and ER-03 during 2005 (see also ­Rebnegger 2010 for a discussion of the evidence of lapidary production and its relation to other obsidian industries at Erongarícuaro). The pieces are all cylindrical in shape and ground around their circumference but not polished. Their ends are either fractured or pecked and ground. They resemble the end tips of reamers and drills described and illustrated by Otis Charlton (1993:Figure 5) in her study of obsidian lapidary production at the ­Aztec city-state of Otumba. The reamers were most likely used to drill holes in bezotes and ear spools. One piece from ER-02 is fractured at both ends and was likely in the process of being transformed into a small bead (see Otis Charlton 1993:​ Figure 10j). All are greenish gray in color, and so their raw material must have come from sources outside of the Tarascan kingdom (see below). Additionally, a small piece of red-black obsidian, ground thin and flat but not polished, was recovered in the ER-02 excavations. The archaeologically provenienced evidence is supported by pieces that a local resident of Erongarícuaro was kind enough to show the archaeologists working at the site in 2005. Among his pieces were bezotes that had failed at various stages of production (Figure 8.5). Together they represent virtually the entire production process for bezotes. All of these pieces were made of grayblack obsidian that likely came from either the Zináparo/Cerro Varal or the Ucareo/Zinapécu-

The Encompassment of Subordinate Lords in the Tarascan Kingdom

Figure 8.4. Three obsidian drill fragments recovered in the 2005 excavations (photo by Karin Rebnegger and Chris Valvano).

Figure 8.5. Obsidian bezote failures in the collection of a local informant.

aro source complex. The informant claimed that the pieces were found in fields ER-08 and ER-16. Finally, the overall profile of obsidian flakes and debitage in the ER-02 excavations accords well with the characterization of lapidary production sites as defined by Pollard (1993:43, Appendix 1) at Tzintzuntzan. Lapidary workshops at Tzintzuntzan were characterized by relatively high proportions of green, red-black, and clear

obsidian flakes, in contrast to blade production sites dominated by gray-black obsidian (Pollard 1993:​43, Appendix 1), which chemical characterization demonstrates came overwhelmingly from the Ucareo/Zinapécuaro source complex (Pollard and Vogel 1994). The wide range of colors at lapidary sites likely reflects a desire to produce decorative objects of various colors. At Erongarícuaro, the profile of the obsidian artifacts sorted 97

David L. Haskell

occasions when commoners gathered for communal ceremonies and/or the investiture of their lords, the material indicators of obsidian production were perhaps visible. The local community was possibly aware that their lords were engaged in lapidary production for their own consumption. In this way an indexical relationship between the lords and their own insignia of office could have been forged in the inferences of the local community.

Table 8.1. Counts and Percentages of the Total Sample of Obsidian Artifacts from Excavations in ER-01, ER-02, and ER-07.

Color of Obsidian

Count

Percent

12

.31

124

3.16

Dark gray

1,922

49.04

Gray

1,348

34.40

289

7.37

Almost clear

31

.79

Red-black

33

.84

Brownish clear

38

.97

103

2.63

14

.36

3,914

99.87

Black Very dark gray

Clear with dark gray

Dark greenish gray Dark olive green Total

Wider Contextual Associations of Lapidary Production at Erongarícuaro

Evidence concerning the biographies of the lapidary objects produced at Erongarícuaro, however, indicates that the king did take steps to invest his agency in those objects. First, the raw material used in such production at the site came predominantly from economic networks controlled by the state. Gorenstein and Pollard (1983) suggest that the king had a monopoly on long-distance merchants within his realm. A sample of 44 obsidian artifacts from levels of the ER-02 excavations dating to the Late Postclassic was sourced using x-ray fluorescence and neutron activation under the supervision of Dr. Michael Glascock (2006) of the Missouri University Research Reactor. The results of this analysis are given in Table 8.2. All of the 15 greenish obsidian artifacts were from sources outside, or at the farthest margins, of the Tarascan kingdom. Eleven out of 24 of the gray-black obsidian artifacts were from the Ucareo source, which research by Pollard and colleagues (Pollard 2003a; Pollard and Vogel 1994) suggests was controlled by the state. The remaining artifacts were from the closer Cerro Varal source, obsidian from which appears to have flowed through market-based networks (Pollard 2003a; also Rebnegger 2010). Finally, in the small sample of red-black mottled obsidian, four out of five pieces were from the Zinapécuaro source, which was controlled by the state. The small sample from the 2005 excavations is bolstered by a sample from the 2001 season that was analyzed using neutron activation in 2002 (Pollard 2005:68). The total sample was composed of 50 obsidian artifacts; twenty of those artifacts came from the ER-01 survey collection, and 10 artifacts came from the ER-16 survey collection. The results of the 2002 analysis of these artifacts

Note: Five artifacts were unclassified and are not included in the total counts and percentages in the table.

by color shows that while black to gray-black obsidian was clearly dominant at the site, greenish, red-black, and clear obsidian are well represented in the sample (Table 8.1). The dominance of black to gray-black obsidian is possibly due to the fact that the area appears to have been engaged in prismatic blade production (Rebnegger 2010). In other words, the inhabitants of the area were engaged in a range of craft specializations, each requiring different kinds of obsidian. The close proximity of this evidence for lapidary production to the hearth and copper bell excavated in ER-02 as well as the temple platform suggests that production was associated with the resident noble family of Erongarícuaro. This association might have been akin to “attached specialization” (Brumfiel and Earle 1987), in which producers are supported by patrons and their products are appropriated by those patrons. Alternatively, the close proximity could argue for an arrangement of “embedded specialization” (Ames 1995), in which members of the noble family make products to support the activities of the noble family. The probability that lapidary production at Erongarícuaro was either attached to or embedded within the noble family indicates that the products indexed the nobles of the site. At least on 98

The Encompassment of Subordinate Lords in the Tarascan Kingdom Table 8.2. Results of

Sourcing Analysis of 44 Obsidian Artifacts from the 2005 ER-02 Excavations.

La Primavera/ Huaxtla

Cerro de la Bola

Pénjamo

10 (66.67%)

3 (20.00%)

2 (13.33%)

Gray to black

0

0

0

11 (45.83%)

13 (54.17%)

24

Red-black

0

0

0

4 (80.00%)

1 (20.00%)

5

Color

Greenish

are given in Table 8.3, which demonstrates that a clear majority of the sample came from statecontrolled­ networks. The sourcing data indicate that to a large extent the obsidian used by obsidian workers at Erongarícuaro was provided to these producers by the highest levels of the state administrative system. The king must have known the uses to which the obsidian would have been put (see below), and because he had provided the raw material necessary for lapidary production and likely consented to its use, the king had an investment in, and a claim on, the finished products. Finally, there is evidence that priests framed the relationship between the king and local lords if not the actual lapidary objects that legitimated the lords’ position. The RM (1956:203) indicates that members of the priesthood were responsible for framing the insignia of office at the moment of their transferal to subordinate lords. There was an extensive and highly organized priesthood in the Tarascan kingdom, including an order of traveling priests (the curitiecha) who traveled throughout the kingdom relating the messages of the king (RM 1956:​181–182). Presumably they were the priests who officiated the investiture of subordinate lords. The RM (1956:​14) also states that once a year traveling priests were sent throughout the kingdom to tell the legendary history of the royal dynasty, during which the institution of local offices by the king’s ancestors was related in detail. Smoking tobacco from pipes was highly important at all religious occasions, and investiture ceremonies were religious as well as political affairs (RM 1956:​203). The chief priest carried a gourd on his back in which he kept tobacco for smoking, and the traveling priests also carried gourds on their backs (RM 1956:​181–182). All of the lords depicted in the illustration of the recitation of the legendary history by the chief priest are shown smoking pipes (RM 1956:11).

Ucareo/ Zinapécuaro

0 (0%)

Cerro Varal/ Zináparo

0 (0%)

Total

15

Table 8.3. Results from the Neutron Activation Analysis of 30 Obsidian Artifacts from the ER-01 and ER-16 Survey Collections.

Source

ER-01

ER-16

Total

Ucareo

10

7

17

Pénjamo-1

2

1

3

Cerro Zináparo

5

1

6

Pachuca-1

1

0

1

Jalisco unknown

2

0

2

Cerro de la Bola

0

1

1

20

10

30

Total

Pipe fragments recovered in archaeological excavations in the elite area of Erongarícuaro indicate that state agents, most likely the traveling priests, came to the site to officiate ceremonies such as those discussed above. The results of efforts to chemically source ceramic objects and tie the resultant data to the paste descriptions developed by Pollard at Tzintzuntzan and Urichu are somewhat preliminary, but at present it appears that one paste, Tecolote Orange, probably came from a southerly or southeastern location within the Pátzcuaro Basin (Hirshman 2008:303; Pollard 2003a; Pollard et al. 2005). Pollard (2003a) has suggested that pastes shown to be from the southeastern portion of the Lake Pátzcuaro ­Basin might have been utilized by state-sponsored craft specialists at either Pátzcuaro or more likely Ihuatzio, both of which were home to junior royal (uacúsecha) lines. The contrast between the percentages of Tecolote Orange fragments of pipes and ­Tecolote ­Orange sherds in the total ceramic corpus from the 2001 and 2005 excavations is striking. Among pipe fragments recovered in fields ER-02, ER-03, and ER-05, 18.5 percent (n = 10/54) fragments were Tecolote Orange. Tecolote Orange sherds 99

David L. Haskell

made up only .07 percent (n = 4/5,833) of the remaining sherd sample. The difference between the proportion of Tecolote Orange pipes and the proportion of Tecolote Orange sherds is statistically significant, with a P-value of 0. Furthermore, if mini-bowls were associated with ritual, as Pollard (1993:​203–204) suggests, and they are grouped with the pipes and removed from the remaining total sherd sample, the difference between the two proportions is even more marked (12/61 Tecolote Orange pipe fragments and minibowl sherds, compared with 2/5,826 remaining sherds). This evidence indicates that pipes in particular, but perhaps also mini-bowls, found their way to Erongarícuaro’s elite area through different processes than ceramic objects in ­general, which flowed through the market system (Haskell 2008b:272–287; Hirshman 2008; Pollard 2003a). The prominence of Tecolote Orange pipes and other ritual objects in the elite area of Erongarícuaro is likely due to the presence of priestly representatives of the king at communal rituals and observances. The priests should have framed the insignia by emphasizing the king’s role in producing and exchanging the insignia as well as the origin of the office of local leadership that they signified, just as they are framed in the RM. Through framing, the king would have laid claim to the lapidary objects produced at Erongarícuaro, emphasizing his own investment in their production (providing the raw material) as well as the fact that they were indexes of an office that, without the actions of his ancestors, would not have existed. The inability of the lords of Erongarícuaro to contest their own encompassment by the king does not necessarily mean that their sponsorship of lapidary production was pointless. The lords of Erongarícuaro could have sought an encompassing status of their own by using lapidary objects invested with their own agency to engage subordinate lords in investiture-type exchanges. At this point, however, such a scenario must remain speculative. Data from Urichu, the only lordly center subordinate to Erongarícuaro that has been investigated archaeologically, do not indicate a substantial degree of interaction between the two centers (Haskell 2008b).

The potential for relations of encompassment at the subroyal level raises inherent ambiguities within relations of encompassment, namely, the tension between difference and sameness foreshadowed above. If the lords of Erongarícuaro perceived that they were encompassing tertiary lords, they would need to emphasize their own difference from the king to witnesses in those tertiary centers. On the other hand, the (supposed) tertiary lords could emphasize the relation of encompassment that constituted the lords of Erongarícuaro as extensions of the king’s agency. The king could also prefer to perceive the arrangement in much the same way. The battle over which view should gain a foothold in the inferences of witnesses and participants alike should have been the subject of yet further social action, such as the sending of traveling priests to tertiary centers, subroyal marriage arrangements, and so on. Over time, as the entire range of action that determined how the relationships among the lords should have been perceived was subject to contingency and transformation, it would have transformed the relations between the lords themselves. Conclusion: Power and Identity as Encompassment in the Tarascan Kingdom

Evidence at Erongarícuaro indicates that lapidary objects were being produced at the site under the auspices of the lords who resided there. Analyses of the obsidian raw material used in their production reveal that the king did make material investments in those lapidary objects. Furthermore, nonlocally produced pipes and mini-bowls, so important to religious and ceremonial occasions, indicate that priests associated with the king traveled to Erongarícuaro and must have framed the objects implicated in the relationship between the local lord and the king. By both providing the raw material and sending priests to frame the lapidary objects produced at Erongarícuaro, the king invested them with his own agency and claimed to be the constitutive force behind the lord’s legitimate authority. More generally, the model of encompassment developed here is, I believe, an alternative to “identity politics” as it is usually conceived and investigated. First, it proposes a framework

100

The Encompassment of Subordinate Lords in the Tarascan Kingdom

for investigating similarity in the absence of any of the other commonly studied arenas of “identity” (e.g., ethnicity, gender, lineage membership). In this model of encompassment, similarity can arise sui generis out of materially constituted inter­action. Second, because the relation of encompassment can be produced sui generis, this entails that no preexisting model of what a kingly or subordinate identity should be predicated upon needed to have existed. What exactly “kingliness” was in the Tarascan kingdom was at least partially a novel identity created out of the relation of encompassment. The king was a king because he had constituted himself as a kind of “superagent” (Mosko 1992) able to be and act everywhere at once through his subordinates. Subordinate lords, on the other hand, were kingly not necessarily because they were of the same ethnic group or lineage but because the material signs of their authority signified the king’s role in the constitution of that authority. This contrasts with many archaeological studies of “identity” and especially its relation to power, in which identity-making relies on some preexisting referent that is “cited” (Butler 1993), even if the process of citation potentially transforms the meaning of the referent. To be sure, once initially produced the relation of encompassment was cited almost ad nauseam by the royal dynasty (as the RM indicates). Furthermore, the construction of an identity shared by the king and subordinate lords likely would have

been elaborated upon to include other forms of mimesis. I suspect that the “Tarascanization” of conquered territories was more fundamentally a process of merging the kingliness possessed by the subordinate lords by dint of being extensions of the king’s agency with a more iconic form of imitation in which lords came to look (and sound) like the king, reinforcing the association between them. My point is simply that a relation of encompassment creates its own identities, with no inherent need to cite anything outside of itself. Finally, the establishment of relations of encompassment and the identities they produce require some preexisting power or agency, as would-be encompassing agents must be able to invest objects, and ultimately subordinates, with their own agency. This would require the ability to control flows of materials, productive processes and technologies, finished goods, and yet other subjects who might play a role in framing those objects, to name just the processes discussed here. Relations of encompassment, in turn, produce other forms of power. They severely hampered the ability of subordinate lords to realize purely self-referential acts of authority and act in ways other than what members of their communities thought the king would have desired. Therefore the loyalty of the lords in the context of the Spaniards’ challenge to the king’s authority can be explained as the result of a larger structure of encompassment in which lords would have been nothing if not associated with the king.

Acknowledgments This chapter is a short version of a few of the arguments I make in my dissertation, and so I would like to thank the members of my doctoral committee and in particular Susan Gillespie and Helen Pollard. Thanks also go to Karin Rebnegger, Amy Hirshman, Aida Castilleja, and the men of Erongarícuaro, who greatly assisted the 2005 field season. I also thank the Foundation of Mesoamerican ­Studies, Inc., for institutional support (grant #05036) that funded the 2005 field season and the Wenner-Gren Foundation for institutional support (Dissertation Research Grant #7308) that funded radiocarbon and neutron activation analysis of obsidian samples. The 2001 field season at Erongarícuaro led by Helen Pollard and 2002 lab analyses were funded by the Heinz Founda-

tion and the Wenner-Gren Foundation. Finally, I thank the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia for granting permission to conduct research at Erongarícuaro. Notes 1. A broader discussion of Dumont’s definition of hierarchy and encompassment can be found in Haskell 2008b:108–110. 2. Dumont (1980:242–243) himself admits as much in contending that it is an alternative to a Hegelian dialectic, in which a novel synthesis is produced. 3. This could in many ways be conceptualized as the application of theories relating objects and person­ hood in “gift” exchange (e.g., Appadurai 1986;

101

David L. Haskell ­ regory 1982; Kopytoff 1986; Mauss 1954; Munn G 1986; Strathern 1988), as opposed to “commodity” exchange, to the whole spectrum of economic activities. This approach follows other archaeologists (e.g., Gaitán Amman 2005; Helms 1988; Thomas 1999) as well as countless anthropologists who have similarly studied how the previous associations of objects with persons or places of origin are integral

to understanding their meaning or value. Furthermore, the discussions of each “stage” in an object’s biography are abridged versions of lengthier discussions in Haskell 2008b:149–182. 4. In comparison, Tzintzuntzan and Urichu spanned 674 and 90 ha in the Late Postclassic (see Pollard 1993; Pollard and Cahue 1999).

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9

Rituals of Death and Disempowerment among the Maya Eleanor Harrison-Buck

Among the ancient Maya, ruling residential households as well as elite portraiture, personal adornment, and other kingly objects and i­ nsignia were more than just symbols of elite identity and power. Archaeological and epigraphic data suggest that these materials were viewed as extensions of the royal self and were, themselves, active participants in elite ritual (Gillespie 2001, 2008b; Houston et al. 2006; Stuart 1996). Based on his readings of ancient Maya hieroglyphic texts, Stuart (1996:​157) concludes that a divine, soul-like quality (what the contemporary Maya refer to as ch’ulel) was present in living kings and also ­present in their portraits depicted in stone, jade, and other media. In their description of the Maya ch’ulel, Houston and Stuart (1996:292) point to ethnographic research that clearly demonstrates that this “extrasomatic” self is fundamental to Maya thought (Foster 1944; Gossen 1994, 1996a, 1996b; Villa Rojas 1947; Vogt 1976). The Maya ch’ulel or inner life force is not a singular entity but, rather, made up of multiple, distributed parts or coeesences that “inhabit the blood and energize people and a variety of objects of ritual and everyday life” (Houston and Stuart 1996:292). Here, I examine these ideas about the self, personhood, and an animate coeesence through an analysis of patterned archaeological remains that consist of smashed and scattered objects in the context of defaced elite residential architecture. These remains are defined herein as “termination deposits.”1 As Hendon (this volume) observes,

ideas about the self, personhood, and the numinous are complex, and theoretical frameworks help us make sense of information gleaned from various sources, including archaeology, epigraphy, and ethnography. To make sense of these ideas in the context of Maya termination activity, I develop a theoretical framework that borrows elements of Gell’s semiotic theory of distributed personhood and also considers Bird-David’s (1999) theory of “relatednesss.” Below I present this theoretical framework and my analytical methodology for assessing these ideas in the archaeological record. Theoretical Framework

In this volume, Haskell (following Gell’s [1998] approach to indexicality) looks at objects as not just “symbols” of royal power but an “index of persons,” in this case the ruling elite of the Tarascan Empire. Similarly, Hendon (this volume) explores ideas about semiotics, relational and distributed personhood, and the agency of objects, in this case among the ancient Maya. Portraits as well as buildings and objects appear to have a similar sense of indexicality among the Maya, acquiring an inner life force through ritual engagement (Gillespie 2001, 2008b; Hendon 2010, this volume; Houston and Stuart 1989, 1996; H ­ ouston et  al. 2006; Stuart 1996). As animate persons, Maya imagery, architecture, and other material culture had a life cycle and underwent a ­process of birth and death through rituals of d ­ edication and

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Eleanor Harrison-Buck

termination that mirrored the life of its o ­ wners (Mock, ed. 1998; Stross 1998b; Vogt 1998). According to ethnographic accounts, the Maya coessence undergoes a dualistic process of change in both form and location (Stross 1998b:38). As Stuart observes, this involves a life cycle of transformation and renewal and the “transmutation of certain ‘personas’ over time and space” (1996:164). Based on the ethnographic and epigraphic data, we can ascertain that the Maya coessence includes multiple parts that are not necessarily bound to a particular person but can be connected to other parts of the physical and spiritual world (see discussion by Hendon, this volume). Both humans and other-than-human persons (sensu Hallowell 1960) have coessences, often more than one, and though they usually stay close to their owner, they appear to roam at times of death but also while a person sleeps or dreams (Houston and Stuart 1989:2; see also Vogt 1976:18). Vogt (1976:94–95) observes that a power­ful person in a contemporary Zinacantan Maya community can have as many as 13 parts to his or her soul. Houston and Stuart (1996:295) note that among contemporary Maya groups, powerful individuals are defined by a higher degree of heat in their blood, which corresponds to the strength of their ch’ulel. In the event of “soul loss” of one or more of its 13 parts, a person can become ill or even die (Vogt 1976:18–19). At the moment of death, great care is taken to provision this partible soul, and certain rites are performed (including spitting saltwater and cutting, burning, and breaking the dead person’s personal objects) to “loosen the soul from the house” and “prevent the soul from returning to see its possessions” (Vogt 1976:23). These acts of destruction of the deceased individual’s personal possessions are aimed at avoiding further soul loss and may be roughly analogous to ancient Maya termination activity. Perhaps an even closer parallel for the present study is the mal entierro ritual involving conflicts with an enemy practiced among the contemporary K’iche’ Maya in the Guatemalan highlands (Brown 2004). Also referred to as an “evil burial,” these rituals are aimed at causing death to one’s enemies and often are accompanied by tulac or malicious incantations (Brown 2004:52). The prescribed ritual involves smashing and burning artifacts and sometimes includes animal sacrifice

and/or the incorporation of human bone fragments from the back dirt of a freshly dug grave (Brown 2004:40): “By interring and smashing deposits, ritual practitioners bury and destroy the enemy, whereas by including pieces of clothing or hair of the intended victim, the ritual practitioner personalizes the rite and directs forces and deities to one particular individual” (Brown 2004:51). These rituals are carried out at mountain shrines in the highlands, places that are regarded as thresholds of powerful interaction between human and other-than-human agents. Despite the differences in location, the artifact assemblages and their contexts — ​reinterred offerings in pits with smashed and scattered surface deposits including human remains — ​bear a strong resemblance to ancient deposits characterized as conflict-related desecratory termination rituals. In sum, the rituals documented in the ethnographic record involving the dedication and termination of human and other-than-human coessences may be analogous to ancient Maya ritual practices. Enlarged stages of Maya residences often marked by an offertory cache appear aimed at ensouling the house, similar to contemporary house dedication ceremonies (Freidel et al. 1993:​ 241–246). Likewise, as discussed below, there is ample archaeological evidence for ritual termination involving the purposeful defacement and destruction of a ruler’s residence and personal objects. According to Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro, such desecratory termination rituals served to “symbolically destroy (or kill) the symbols of the ‘enemy’” (2008:236). Based on the ethnographic comparisons, I suggest that the defacement and destruction of a ruler’s house and personal belongings are not a symbolic “killing” but, rather, constitute soul loss aimed at harming, if not actually killing, the ruler. As death rituals, termination activities killed the soul parts in these living extensions of the king. Following this line of reasoning, I interpret desecratory termination ritual as roughly analogous to the mal entierro rituals observed by Brown (2004) and the “soul t­ rouble” described by Vogt (1976:62) for the contemporary Maya. In the examples presented below, these rituals appear aimed at terminating a ruler’s life force and, in effect, his power and identity as head of the dynastic lineage. Archaeological remains of termination deposits in Formative Maya con-

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texts suggest that such prescribed rituals involving conflict and “soul loss” may have deep roots in the prehispanic past (Brown and Garber 2003; Freidel et al. 1993; Hammond 1999; HarrisonBuck 2004; Mock, ed. 1998; Walker 1995). Gell (1998) offers a semiotic theory of distributed personhood that helps (Western thinkers) to conceptualize how inanimate remains become persons and serve as living extensions of “the multiple self ” (Hendon, this volume; see also Haskell, this volume). Some scholars s­ uggest that the Gellian approach runs the risk of “[treating] objects as if they were persons” and masks the “irreducible sense [that] objects just are people” (Holbraad 2009:434; see also Alberti and Marshall 2009). I recognize this potential pitfall with a semiotic approach but find the theoretical framework regarding distributed personhood useful for conceptualizing the fractal and composite nature of the Maya coessence (see also Strathern 1988). Bird-David’s theory of “relatedness” (and also Tim Ingold’s [2006] “meshwork”) offers a relational ontology that perhaps best approximates the fluid and relationally constituted nature of the Maya coessence and its potential relationships with human and other-than-human persons. Bird-David defines “relatedness” as a different way of knowing the world that emphasizes one’s relationship with it, which is perceived as “mutually responsive changes in things in-the-world and at the same time in themselves” (1999:S68– S69; see also Alberti and Bray 2009; Harvey 2006; Ingold 2006). This definition aligns well with what we know about the Maya coessence from the ethnographic and epigraphic record. Analytical Methodology

Using the theoretical framework presented above, I propose an analytical methodology for cross-examining­the social constructs and ritual practices that (re)produced the material signatures of Maya termination deposits in the archaeological record (sensu Ortner 2006). Material studies of Maya ritual practice in ethnoarchaeology suggest that objects entering archaeological contexts demarcate more than simply “sacred” or “profane” categories. As Brown (2004:34) notes, the types of materials as well as the deposit style and its location are socially meaningful choices and constitute prescribed ritual actions. Build-

ing on Brown’s ethnoarchaeological observations, I examine the different locations in which termination deposits are found, as well as the contents (associated artifacts) and contexts of the deposits, including any associated evidence of burning, building desecration, and defaced monuments. The analytical methodology presented here contributes to a broader shift in current studies of ritual where the focus is on the “relationships between divergent deposits and the practices that produced them, crosscutting sacred/profane categories” (Groleau 2009:399). While special artifacts are important to examine, the approach taken here emphasizes the depositional patterns and formational processes of termination deposits over time and space to reveal a shared “genealogy of practice” (Lucero 2008; Mills 2008; Pauketat and Alt 2005; Stahl 2008). I consider indexical relationships present in such deposits but avoid fetishizing the object (or agent, in this case) and, instead, attempt to strike a balance between agency and structure. I do this by focusing on the sum of its parts and the structural conditions present — ​that is, the contents as well as the location and context of each termination deposit. I then compare the broader distributional patterns of other similar deposits within and between sites. Below I present the results of my regional study of termination deposits found in elite residential contexts at numerous sites across a broad area of the Maya lowlands. All of these deposits date to the so-called collapse or Late-to-Terminal Classic transition (ca. ad 760–900). I further narrow my study by examining the patterns of termination activity found at sites in the following regions of the Maya lowlands — ​northern Belize/ Petén, central Belize/southern Petén, and the Pasion River Valley in southern Guatemala (Figure 9.1). While my focus is on sites with termination deposits, there are some sites in the regions discussed that do not show signs of termination activity and abandonment during this time but exhibit northern Yucatec architectural traits. In a final section of my chapter, I discuss the implications of these circumstances with regard to changes in warfare practices and political organization at the end of the Classic period, possibly as a result of growing northern Yucatec influence.

105

Figure 9.1. Map of the Maya area, showing sites discussed in the text. .

Rituals of Death and Disempowerment among the Maya

Archaeological Data

William Coe (1965) made an early distinction between “dedicatory” and “terminal” deposits in the archaeological record. Since then, terminal deposits, or what I refer to herein as termination rituals, have been further distinguished from midden or reverential deposits on the basis of several contextual criteria, outlined recently by Pagliaro and colleagues (2003:79–80): These include intensive burning; intentional structural damage; pot smashing and scattering; rapid deposition of material; dense concentrations of large sherds with sharp, angular breaks; and large quantities of “elite” artifacts. According to Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro, these acts of termination constitute a set of prescribed rules that are highly ­ritualized, “beyond just random destruction and looting and therefore should be classified as a special type of ritual” (2008:236). Other behavior identified in this category that often coincides with the destruction of portable objects and buildings is the defacement and mutilation of carved monuments (Harrison-Buck 2011; Mock 1998b:5). ­Unlike in most domestic trash deposits, a key feature of ritual termination deposits includes primary- or secondary-context human remains and may involve “purposeful disturbance and/or desecration of elite burials as well as the remains of ritually sacrificed elite inhabitants of a Maya community” (Pagliaro et al. 2003:80). Below, I describe archaeological evidence of termination activity associated with site abandonment at the end of the Classic period. I present these data in terms of their location and context, artifact contents, and associated evidence of burning, building destruction, defaced monuments, and walled fortifications. I conclude that these data are the causal remains of conflictrelated­events, rather than squatter’s rubbish or reverential deposits, and are best understood as the remains of prescribed death rituals involving the killing of Classic Maya rulers and their power­ ful coessences. Location and Context

In terms of context and location, termination deposits do not conform to the normal refuse disposal or abandonment practices for Maya households documented in both ethnographic and archaeological studies. In typical circum-

stances, refuse disposal at the time of abandonment results in low densities of fragmentary artifacts along the outer edges of house floors (Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro 2008:231). Household trash or midden deposits tend to be located around the outside of structures, while termination deposits represent thick “trash” heaps typically located within architectural boundaries (Pagliaro et al. 2003:79). In the examples discussed herein, most of these deposits are found in the confines of the primary elite residences, frequently appearing along the front terraces and inside the room(s) of the elite residence and within passageways and/or key access points leading into the elite compound. Mock (1998b:6) notes that often both dedicatory and desecratory termination deposits were purposefully placed at liminal interstices or key points of transition in architecture that show change, such as intersections (e.g., building and plaza centerlines) and openings (e.g., stairways, entrances, and alleyways). This was the case with the skull pit found at the Maya site of Colhá in northern Belize (­Figure 9.1), dated to the Terminal Classic based on radio­ carbon assays and associated ceramics (Barrett and Scherer 2005:107). This deposit contained 30 individuals (20 adults and 10 children), who were found decapitated and flayed, and their skulls were interred in a shallow pit adjacent to the stairway of an elite structure in the ceremonial center at Colhá (Massey 1989; Mock 1994, 1998a; Steele et al. 1980). Barrett and Scherer (2005:108– 110) discuss another terminal deposit from Colhá (Operation 2012) that was found just west of the skull pit, “centered on a stepped pyramid and platform on the western margin of the site’s main ceremonial plaza” (2005:​108). The deposit contained a minimum number of 25 individuals, who appear to have been ritually sacrificed. The investigators suggest that these sacrifice events accompanied widespread destruction and abandonment of the site core at the end of the Classic period. As at Colhá, a large-scale termination deposit with high concentrations of smashed ­ceramics and clusters of well-preserved, disarticulated human bone was found within a passageway, blocking access into an enclosed ruling elite residential complex at the site of Hershey in central Belize (Harrison-Buck and Cesario 2004; Figure

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9.1). Another termination deposit in this same plaza complex was exposed in a corridor between two building platforms on the summit of the main elite residence (Harrison-Buck et al. 2008; Murata et al. 2008). These deposits are positioned at key points of access within the elite residential compound and, as at Colhá, mark the abandonment of the site core (Harrison-Buck et al. 2007). Termination deposits also have been detected at Xunantunich, another site in central Belize located near the border of Guatemala (Figure 9.1). A layer of smashed whole ceramics, ­primarily serving wares, was found widely scattered across the interior floors in the upper rooms of the largest structure (A-11) in the ruling elite residential complex (MacKie 1985). More recent excavations in the lower rooms of Structure A-11 exposed similar deposits, although most of the ceramics represented large “utilitarian” storage jars for dried foods and liquids, with little to no evidence of “elite items” (fancy serving vessels, jade, shell, or other precious materials) within the deposit (­Yaeger 2010). Associated with the deposit in the eastern half of the lower room were the remains of a young adult individual, possibly a sacrificial victim (Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro 2008:240). Yaeger’s excavations of the lower rooms suggest that the vault stones were purposefully ­dismantled and the rooms were in-filled with limestone and marl, sealing the deposit of ceramics and human remains. Following the excavations of the upper rooms of Structure A-11, MacKie (1985) suggested that the collapse of the building and the smashed ceramics on the floor were probably the result of sudden collapse, possibly an earthquake. However, Yaeger (2010) has characterized the deposits as the remains of termination rituals and evidence that the royal residence was sacked, possibly as part of a conquest event, toward the end of the Classic period. Termination deposits are found lying on the floors of elite palace structures at other sites in central Belize, including the large center of Caracol (Figure 9.1). Diane Chase and Arlen Chase note that “various kinds of remains are found on the floors of Caracol’s [palace] buildings” (2003:181), including mace heads and bifacially worked points that may represent weapons. A multitude of cultural material, including broken

vessels (smashed in situ) and an unburied body of a child, was found on the floors of the palace residences (A. Chase and D. Chase 2004:348–349). There also is some evidence of burning that occurs as a layer over these cultural remains. Chase and Chase interpret the context and composition of these deposits as evidence of “rapid abandonment and, presumably, aggressive activity” and suggest that the elite core, rather than being reverentially terminated by the inhabitants, was sacked by enemies toward the end of the ninth century: “Carbon-14 dating of the burning indicates the possibility of a single event throughout most of Caracol’s epicenter at about ad 895” (2003:181; see also A. Chase and D. Chase 2004:349, Table 16.1). Contents of Termination Deposits

At the site of Blue Creek in northern Belize a series of termination deposits dating to the Terminal Classic were found strictly associated with the elite residential complexes (in the Western Group and the Core Area), rather than the public, nonresidential buildings (Guderjan et al. 2003:32, 40). The only exception to this was a large-scale terminal deposit found associated with Structure 3 in Plaza A of the Core Area (Guderjan 2004:​ 239; Guderjan et al. 2003:40), which has been interpreted as an eastern shrine (Clayton et al. 2005:​ 122; Guderjan 2004:238–239). Resembling termination deposits elsewhere, the artifact contents of these deposits consisted of portable goods, including pottery, chert, obsidian, and ground stone, as well as smaller finds, such as beads, figurines, stamps, whistles, spindle whorls, and projectile points (Guderjan et al. 2003:32). ­Guderjan (2004) interprets the deposit associated with Structure 3 as the remains of a termination ritual that accompanied the abandonment of the site core at Blue Creek. Alternatively, Clayton and others (2005) suggest that the surface remains associated with Structure 3 at Blue Creek represent a secondary deposit resulting from ritual feasting based on the artifact contents, namely, the quantity, types, and distribution of reconstructible serving vessels. Few refits were identified in the dense deposit of ceramics, which they suggest argues against a termination event where whole vessels were smashed and scattered. Elsewhere, scholars have interpreted similar

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evidence as the result of “a particular class of ritual feasting that occurred after conquest events and violent internal factional conflicts” (Stanton and Gallareta Negrón 2001:230; see also Bey 2003). One example may be found at the site of Altun Ha in northern Belize (Figure 9.1), where terminal deposits dating to the Terminal Classic period were recovered in and around the principal buildings of Group A. Termination deposits containing evidence of feasting and redeposited middens were found inside two of the vaulted rooms of Structure A-11 at Altun Ha. Additionally, a dense deposit of ash and charcoal contain­ing evidence of feasting was found covering the steps of another nearby structure (Str. A-8), blocking access into this building. Pendergast (1979) interpreted these deposits as the remains of squatters who reoccupied these buildings postabandonment. Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro (2008:239), on the other hand, suggest that these deposits at Altun Ha may be part of a termination event that involved feasting activity and marked the abandonment of the site (rather than a postabandonment reoccupation). They suggest that the redeposited trash may have served to “defile the inner sanctum of the temple” (2008:239). The evidence from Altun Ha and Blue Creek suggests that two separate but related activities were involved in the process of desecratory termination rituals. One involved so-called primary termination debris, often found in elite domestic contexts, which may be the personal possessions of the resident elite that were found in palace rooms and smashed in situ. A second type of termination activity, which may or may not be restricted to temple contexts, involved the transport and secondary deposition of trash, perhaps from conquest feasts that took place elsewhere at the site. At Altun Ha, additional debris was found deposited over top of the superstructure of Structure A-1, which included the scattered and disarticulated remains of four or five ­individuals (Pendergast 1979:94). The presence of human bone (with minimal remains of animal bone) is another key feature of termination deposits that distinguishes them from normal midden or trash deposits. As at Altun Ha, the bone deposits at the sites of Colhá and Hershey were very disarticu-

lated and fragmentary and represented only partial remains of multiple individuals (Barrett and Scherer 2005; Harrison-Buck et al. 2007). In both cases, the bone fragments are limited in number (a total of 2,418 fragments for Colhá; over 1,200 fragments for Hershey), small in size (mostly less than 5 cm in length), and seem to lack breakage patterns characteristic of fresh bone. Based on the presence of cut marks, Barrett and Scherer (2005) interpret the Colhá deposit, including the wellknown skull pit (Massey 1989), as evidence of human sacrifice and violence waged against the elite population at Colhá as part of a conquest event in the Terminal Classic. Similarly, my colleagues and I (Harrison-Buck et al. 2007) suggest that the Hershey bone deposits may be evidence of a violent conquest event dating to the Terminal Classic. However, we suggest that the bone deposits at Hershey (lacking fresh breakage patterns indicative of sacrifice) may, instead, represent elites who were originally entombed at the site and, in a skeletonized state, were exhumed and scattered in the passageway during an act of conquest. Human remains were associated with a largescale termination deposit that marked the abandonment of the site center of Cancuén in the Upper Pasion region of Guatemala. The remains of 31 assassinated and dismembered Maya nobles were found dumped in a sacred cistern at the entrance of the royal palace of Cancuén (Moran and Koumenalis 2005). The deposit contained thousands of human bones of men, women, and children of all ages, with many showing c­ ranial deformation and associated adornments of jade, marine shell, and perforated jaguar teeth indicative of high status. Proximate to the mass grave, the remains of the Cancuén king and queen were found in shallow burials, and more than a dozen other skeletons of executed highstatus­­individuals, some dismembered, also were found at a nearby site (Moran and Koumenalis 2005). Scattered spearheads were found in the area, and the skeletons show markings of spear and ax wounds. According to the investigators, Jose Suasnavar and Arthur Demarest (2011), the human remains reveal that the Cancuén kingdom was attacked, the city was destroyed, and the last ruler, Kan Maax, and the entire royal family of

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Cancuén were violently executed sometime at the beginning of the ninth century ad. Human remains also were found in a termination deposit that covered much of the royal palace at Aguateca, another large Classic Maya center in the Pasion region. Disarticulated skeletal remains identified in one of the rooms of the Palace Group (Str. M7-32) were found near a partially destroyed bench and perhaps represent an exhumed burial, similar to that at H ­ ershey. At Aguateca, human crania and other bones on the floor blocked access into the main chamber (Inomata 2003:56, Figure 4.10). In addition to human remains, these deposits included thick layers of smashed and scattered elite items that littered the interior floors and physically blocked the entrances to the rooms of the royal palace. Inomata suggests that the city was attacked by enemies but, unlike in Cancuén, the living royal family of Aguateca “probably evacuated its residence in the Palace Group and took refuge somewhere away from the center” before the main elite residence was desecrated and burned (2003:46; see also Inomata et al. 2002:323). Only the palace and ceremonial buildings associated with the last king of Aguateca were targets of destruction by the enemy attackers (Takeshi Inomata, personal communication April 2009). Tomb desecration, as well as the sacrifice of entire royal families, is not unknown for the Maya area (Mock 1994, 1998a; Schele and Freidel 1990). Supported by a wealth of ethnographic and ethnohistoric accounts that link conquest with the defacement of ancestral tombs, scholars have argued that disentombing elite ancestors served as an act of conquest that undermined the legitimization of a royal ancestral line (Ambrosino et al. 2003:​119–120; Freidel 1998:192–193; HarrisonBuck et al. 2007; Mock 1998a:118–119; Pagliaro et al. 2003:​80–81). Outside of the case studies provided herein, other Terminal Classic examples of tomb desecration and elite sacrifice corresponding with site abandonment have been identified at numerous other sites, including Yaxuná, Copán, and Tikal, to name only a few (Fash et al. 2004; Mock 1994, 1998a; Pagliaro et al. 2003; Suhler and Freidel 2003; Suhler et al. 2004). In most cases, scholars interpret termination deposits containing disarticulated human remains as evidence of violent conflict and warfare rather than a venerative activity.

Burning, Defaced Buildings and Monuments, and Fortifications

Table 9.1 shows where evidence of defaced monu­ ments, burning, and building destruction is found associated with termination deposits in elite residential compounds at sites across the Maya lowlands. Smaller Maya sites typically do not contain evidence of carved monuments in the form of l­ intels, panels, thrones, and stelae. Therefore, monuments that show signs of purposeful destruction are restricted to larger Classic Maya centers. Several excellent examples are found at Palenque, Dos Pilas, Piedras Negras, Tikal, and Copán (see Table 9.1). In almost all cases, these defaced monuments reference elite personages, namely, the last royal king to rule the site prior to abandonment at the end of the Classic period (­Harrison-​Buck 2011). At Piedras Negras, for instance, a royal throne (Throne 1) associated with the last ruler (Ruler 7) was found smashed and scattered across the palace gallery J-6 throne room in the main acropolis, and carved panels on the facades of buildings depicting this ruler were purposefully defaced (Golden 2003:43; Martin and Grube 2008:153). The site destruction that led to the final abandonment of the site has been attributed to elite warfare involving a long-standing­ conflict between Piedras Negras and Yaxchilán at the end of the Classic period (Golden 2003; Houston et al. 1998). However, this interpretation is questionable because Yaxchilán also shows evidence of violent termation in the form of defaced monuments, and it appears to have shared a similar fate, collapsing in ca. ad 810, around the same time as Piedras Negras (Martin and Grube 2008:137). Dos Pilas is another site located in the Pasion region where the destruction of monuments associated with the last known ruler (Ruler 4) marks the termination of the site core at the end of the Classic period, ca. ad 760–830 (Demarest et al. 1997:​230). Demarest and colleagues (2003:128– 132) describe the desecration of the throne and the toppling of an associated banner stone ­inside the throne room (Str. N5-3A), situated adjacent to the palace structure N5-3 at Dos Pilas. Three whole vessels were found on the floor of the throne room, along with three unbroken obsidian blades near the banner stone, and the throne slab had been flipped over and broken into over a 110

Rituals of Death and Disempowerment among the Maya Table 9.1. Characteristics of Termination Deposits from Lowland Maya Sites.

Archaeological Site

Smashed Ceramics

Fortifications

Human Remains

Building Destruction

Evidence of Burning

Defaced Monuments

Aguateca

X

X

X

X

X

X?

Altar de Sacrificios

X

X

X

X

X

Altun Ha

X

X

X

X

Blue Creek

X

X

X

X

Cancuén

X

X

?

?

X

Caracol

X

X

?

X

?

Chan Chich

X

X

X?

X?

Colhá

X

X

X

X

Copán

X

X

X

X

Dos Hombres

X

X

X

X

Dos Pilas

X

X

X

X

X

El Perú-Waka

X

X

X

X

X

Hershey

X

X

X

X

Ixtonton

X

X

X

X

X?

Nakum

X

X

X

X

?

Naranjo

?

?

X

?

X

Palenque

X

X

X

X

X

Piedras Negras

X

X

X

X

X

Rio Azul

X

X

X

X

?

Tikal

X

X?

X

X

Xunantunich

X

X?

X

X

X

?

Yaxchilán

?

?

X

?

X

Yaxuná

X

X

X

X

X

X

X?

X

dozen fragments (Demarest et al. 2003:129, Figure 5.7). The investigators interpret the monument destruction and associated ceramic and obsidian deposits as evidence of termination rituals associated with conflict-related events. They conclude: “The throne and banners of a ruler were the preeminent symbols of sovereignty and would be the first targets of destruction and defacement” (2003:130). Extensive burning and building destruction are a common feature of desecratory termination events and serve to further distinguish these remains from midden deposits (see Table 9.1). Both Dos Pilas and Aguateca exhibit termination deposits with associated evidence of burning and purposeful building destruction

X

X

(Demarest et al. 1997; Inomata 1997). Investigators of these sites suggest that the burning may represent the remains of perishable superstructures that were torched as part of a violent conquest event. Other Maya sites that show evidence of building destruction and burning include Hershey, Dos Hombres, Copán, and Caracol, where termination deposits in elite residential contexts show signs of extensive burning of wood and plaster (see Table 9.1; Chase and Chase 2003; H ­ arrison-​ Buck et al. 2008; Houk 2000; Houston et al. 1998:​ 47; Martin and Grube 2008:153). Scholars often interpret such evidence as indicative of the sacking of a site center, and notably, “in surviving PreColumbian codices, conquest is often denoted as 111

Eleanor Harrison-Buck

a burning temple platform” (Webb and Hirth 2003:41). Hastily constructed defensive palisade fortifications also have been found at a number of sites with termination deposits discussed herein, including Aguateca and Dos Pilas (Demarest et al. 1997; Inomata 1997). These low stone-footing walls consist of recycled stones torn from existing structures that were mounted with p ­ erishable fencing. A similar fortification system was also recently found at Cancuén, where partially finished palisade walls surrounded the abandoned palace and house constructions (Moran and ­Koumenalis 2005; O’Mansky and Demarest 2007:​29). Although Webster characterizes defensive fortifications as “archaeologically quite visible” (1976:​361), he recognizes that few Classic period examples have been identified, particularly in the Southern Maya lowlands when compared with the north (see Webster 1978). The low-​footing­walls found in the southern lowlands are likely to be obscured by overburden, and more examples may exist that go unnoticed due to their location. Large quantities of collapse ­debris typically surround monumental construction in the Southern Maya lowlands, and often these areas of “vacant terrain” go unexcavated. At Hershey, for instance, two low walls of recycled stone were partially exposed in excavations around the southern entrance of the passageway leading into the elite residential compound, where termination deposits were found (Harrison-Buck and Cesario 2004; Robinette 2008). It is possible that these low-​footing­walls are the remains of hastily constructed, fortification palisades aimed at protecting the main elite residence from outside enemies (Harrison-Buck et al. 2008:69–70; Robinette 2008:​192). Similarly, low walls are found enclosing parts of the elite precinct at Xunantunich (Jamison 2010:​130–131; Jamison and Wolff 1994). It is possible that these walls supported wooden palisades, although the site’s position on a high ridge also offers a natural “defensible topography” (Taschek and Ball 2004:​197). As yet, no evidence of permanent fortifications has been identified archaeologically at Colhá. However, Barrett and Scherer note: Regardless of the presence of such defensive systems at Colhá, the movement of people to within the confines of restricted access plazas

argues for a realized sense of urgency similar to that observed at Dos Pilas, culminating in a similar outcome. Based on this material evidence, it would appear that Colhá’s resident population perceived an atmosphere of hostility and prepared the best they could for their defense [2005:107]. Defensive fortifications associated with site abandonment often are interpreted by scholars as a “last-ditch effort” at protecting the main elite compounds prior to invasion and subsequent abandonment (Demarest et al. 1997:230; Freidel 2007:​347). Based on the archaeological data presented above, I argue that ancient Maya termination activity (at least the examples presented here) does not represent the haphazard remains of a sloven or decadent culture, such as squatters, as some have suggested (see Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro 2008 for further discussion). The examples presented here illustrate strong patterns in the archaeological data that point to a set of highly ritualized and prescribed rules for termination activities. I interpret these deposits as desecratory termination rituals, aimed at terminating the elite body and its distributed soul as a result of conflict, rather than a venerative or ­reverential activity (see Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro 2008 for further discussion of this distinction). These desecratory termination rituals mark the final abandonment of the elite core at most of the sites examined here. Additionally, these deposits are largely undisturbed and indicate that in most cases these elite contexts were never reoccupied following their Classic period demise. Northern Yucatec Influence in the Maya Lowlands: Changing Political Organization and Warfare Practices

Termination events associated with site abandonment may be linked to a political reorientation that occurred at the end of the Classic period — ​ a time when many Maya sites show evidence of growing northern interaction, specifically in connection with the Yucatec center of Chichén Itzá. My chapter focuses primarily on sites with termination deposits in three areas of the Maya lowlands — ​northern Belize/Petén, central Belize/southern Petén, and the Rio Usumacinta/ 112

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Pasion Drainage in southern Guatemala. However, there are some sites in these three regions that do not show signs of termination during this time but do exhibit northern Yucatec–style architectural traits (Figure 9.1). For instance, distinctive northern-style circular architecture has been identified at a number of sites in northern Belize, including Nohmul (Chase and Chase 1982; Hammond 1985), as well as several sites in the Roaring Creek and Sibun River valleys in central Belize (Harrison-Buck and McAnany 2006; Helmke 2006) and the site of Seibal in the Pasion River Valley (Smith 1982). Comparative study suggests that these structures resemble smaller versions of the round Caracol shrine at Chichén Itza in the northern Yucatán, namely, its two earliest building phases, which temporally overlaps with the termination deposits, dating between ad 780 and 900 (Harrison-Buck 2007). Round structures are frequently interpreted as “a non-Classic Maya architectural form introduced at Chichén Itzá” (Kowalski et al. 1994:281), and when found elsewhere in the lowlands this distinct architecture type suggests a strong interaction with this northern Maya center. At Chichén Itzá, the iconography shows a greater emphasis on warfare during the Terminal Classic period (for a recent synthesis, see Martinez de Luna 2005; Miller 2007). The iconography illustrates a shift in the political landscape of Yucatán, with heightened emphasis on militarism as many of the elite dynasties in the south collapsed during the ninth century. A number of scholars suggest that certain mural scenes at Chichén Itzá depict “military campaigns undertaken by the chiefs of Chichén Itzá in geographical regions outside of the local area” (Wren and Schmidt 1991:​ 209; see also Bolles 1977; Coggins and Shane 1984; Jones 1995; Miller 1977; Ringle 2009). Miller (1977:​ 217–218) and Kelley (1984) suggest that ­murals in the Upper Temple of the Jaguars at Chichén Itzá represent the conquest and subjugation of a Maya settlement in the southern tropical lowlands, namely, the Petén (Wren and Schmidt 1991:209). Ringle (2009:​21–27), on the other hand, leans more toward the Mixteca-Puebla-Tlaxcala region, rather than the Southern Maya lowlands. Lincoln (1994:​165) and Robertson (1994:​205) have interpreted the murals as a broader patterned expression of ritualized warfare, sacrifice, and dom-

ination on the part of Chichén Itzá, rather than a portrait of historical specificity. Whatever the case, iconographic data combined with the archaeological evidence of ­conflict-​related termination at numerous Maya sites suggest that the Late-to-Terminal Classic transition was a period plagued by warfare, with military pursuits “metastasizing” into territorial wars (Ambrosino et al. 2003; Ardren, this v­ olume; Freidel 2007; Ringle et al. 1998:195–196, 213–214). Many scholars have argued that the strategies of warfare show marked change by the Terminal Classic, perhaps spearheaded by the P ­ utun-​ Chontal­Maya, who then joined forces with Chichén Itzá to form a dominant economic and political force in the north (Adams 1973; Ardren, this volume; D. Chase and A. Chase 2004:20– 21; Demarest et al. 1997; Harrison-Buck 2011; Krochock 1988; Miller 2007; O’Mansky and Demarest 2007; Rice 2007:​149; Thompson 1970:10– 22; Webster 2002:​202–204; Wren and Schmidt 1991). While still a primarily “aristocratic” endeavor (Rice 2007:​153), this new type of warfare was not strictly aimed at capturing kings for ransom. Rather, it appears to have been directed toward securing resources, trade routes, and territorial boundaries and had a greater subsequent impact on the rival center. In the traditional Classic period wars, the integrity of an existing capital city was usually maintained, and a subsequent ruler or k’ul ahaw was installed following the conflict. In this new form of military conflict, warfare almost invariably led to the abandonment of the elite site core and the termination of its attendant royal family. According to Grube and Krochock, the epigraphic data also record a marked change in the subject of warfare at the end of the Classic period: The last recorded evidence of a war in the Southern Maya Lowlands is a decapitation event narrated on Caracol Altar 12 from ca. ad 817, and although warfare continues to be a major iconographic theme, the scribes of the Terminal Classic [no longer] consider battles or captivities appropriate topics [2007:241]. Mural data from Chichén Itzá show a similar emphasis on warfare as an iconographic theme, more so than their limited epigraphic texts, which extend from ad 830 to 890 (Grube and Krochock

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2007:​214, 229). Terminal Classic murals at Chichén Itzá vividly illustrate a shift in terms of the political landscape of Yucatán, with depictions of sieges involving a great many participants. This heightened emphasis on militarism in the iconography occurred as many of the elite dynasties in the south collapsed. Generally speaking, the archaeological and epi­graphic data in most parts of the southern lowlands suggest that traditional Maya aristocratic political ideology ceased by ad 830 (Culbert 1973:​17). At regional centers where elite occupation extends throughout the ninth and early tenth centuries, such as Seibal, Altar de Sacrificios, and sites in central and northern Belize (Nohmul, Blue Creek, Pook’s Hill, and the Sibun Valley), investigators also report the introduction of “foreign” traits linked to northern Yucatán (Adams 1973; Chase and Chase 1982; ­Harrison-​ Buck 2009, 2011; Helmke 2006; Sabloff and Willey 1967). This time period represents the peak fluorescence of the northern power of Chichén Itzá (see Kowalski and Kristan-Graham 2007). Northern-​affiliated­traits found at southern lowland sites include Yucatec-style architecture (circular buildings, radial temples, and patio-quad structures), new ceramic types (fine paste wares or imitations), and iconographic styles typically found at Chichén Itzá and other northern lowland sites (Atlantean figures, non-Classic costuming, feathered serpents, prowling jaguars, and phallic sculptures). Ringle and his colleagues (1998; Ringle 2004) suggest that these northern traits may be part of a new form of politico-​religious­organization that involved elite ­accession rites centered on the worship of the feathered serpent god, Quetzalcoatl, which spread throughout a broad area of the Maya lowlands during this time. According to Ringle and others (1998:​209–210, 213– 214), long-distance warrior-merchants stemming from shrine centers in northern Yucatán, as at Chichén Itzá, introduced this new political ideology alongside new forms of warfare that eventually replaced the traditional Classic Maya k’ul ahaw political ideology. The new traits appear restricted to a set of ritual objects, special-​purpose­ pottery, ceremonial architecture, and specific iconographic motifs. Small-scale northern migrations perhaps in the form of trading diasporas are a possible explanation for the introduction of

northern traits (Harrison-Buck et al. 2012). However, a lack of significant changes in basic household ceramic assemblages in the Terminal Classic argues against large-scale northern migration and wholesale population replacement at any of the southern lowland sites (Foias and Bishop 1997; Ringle et al. 1998:​215–216). In rare instances, some southern lowland Maya rulers may have retained a degree of political control over the diverse, remnant populations in this region, if only for a short period of time (O’Mansky and Demarest 2007:29). Concluding Thoughts

This study examines a widespread pattern in the archaeological record consisting of termination deposits accompanied by site abandonment, which included extensive burning, building and monument destruction, and hastily constructed defensive walls, as well as sacrificed and disentombed human remains. As Chase and Chase note, “Archaeological data are more often than not open to multiple interpretations with careful analysis of context providing the only potential resolution of meaning” (2003:181). Clayton and colleagues (2005:121) add that even if d ­ eposits appear contextually similar, it is also critical to thoroughly quantify and compare the contents of termination deposits to determine a particular “type” of ritual practice found across the Lowland Maya culture area. This level of systematic testing is challenging in a regional study such as this, where data were compiled from different archaeological projects and were collected in a variety of different ways, with some more thoroughly documented than others. For this study, I have attempted to select well-documented examples of termination deposits that share patterns in location, context, and content and appear to represent one “type” of prescribed ritual practice involving desecratory termination (see Table 9.1). The archaeological and ethnographic evidence presented above suggests that termination deposits were the causal remains of endemic, enemywaged warfare at the end of the Classic period and may be best understood as “death rituals” (Stross 1998b). Accompanied by site abandonment, these deposits point to dramatic changes in warfare practices and a major restructuring of the political organization, with northern aristo-

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cratic power all but eclipsing the southern dynastic order. Termination activity appears to mark an important and powerful threshold of interaction not only between humans but also between humans and other-than-human persons in-the-world (sensu Brown and Emery 2008:300). Although shared elements of this relational ontology may be found outside the Maya area, the prescribed ritual practices and (inter)actions vary among actors (Bird-David 1999; Ingold 2006; Knappett and Malafouris 2008; Sillar 2009; Strathern 1988). The complexity and variation of this ontological status are revealed through an analytical methodology where the focus is on formational processes rather than just the special “ritual” objects (Groleau 2009). Crosscutting sacred/profane categories, termination activity is examined here in terms of its broader depositional patterns — ​its location, contents, and context. Together, these data suggest that the destruction and defacement of elite residential contexts were systematic, not haphazard. As Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro note, these were prescribed rituals “carefully executed so that the loser’s ties to ancestral power and legitimization was dismantled by killing their living temples and houses” (2008:237; see also Brown and Garber 2003; Freidel et al. 1993; Pagliaro et al. 2003). As noted above, few of these elite contexts were ever reinhabited following the Classic period abandonment, and rarely, if ever, do these deposits show signs of being cleaned or swept; the buildings remained in a state of disrepair. While many of the deposits examined herein contained elite objects of value that were still usable, most deposits show no signs of being mined for abandoned goods (e.g., Inomata et al. 2002:323). That these termination deposits were never subse-

quently disturbed in the years following abandonment suggests that other-than-human forces prohibited the reoccupation and/or s­ cavenging of these contexts. Ethnohistoric accounts suggest that this was the case in Oaxaca, where after conquest and abandonment some sites were viewed as spiritually powerful (Webb and Hirth 2003:​41). For the Maya, it appears that disturbing these contexts may have been taboo or held similar negative connotations, which points to an ongoing interaction between human and otherthan-human agents that continued long after the actual warring event and site abandonment. This reinforces the notion that the Maya ch’ulel was not a monolithic force with a simple birth–death life cycle but, rather, was partible and transformative and “related” with other human and nonhuman persons in ongoing networks of interaction. Ethnographic accounts attest to the complexity of this Maya relational ontology, whereby the soul “typically with several parts” engaged ­singly or in combination with other human and nonhuman agents (Gossen 1996b:533; see also Monaghan 1995; Vogt 1976, 1998; Watanabe 1992). Elements of this partible and relationally constituted self resemble phenomena documented by Gell (1998) in his semiotic theory of distributed personhood, Bird-David’s (1999) theory of related­ness, and ­Ingold’s (2006) “meshwork.” I conclude that ancient termination deposits were more than the symbolic expressions of a disempowered elite; they were aimed at killing the dynastic rulers whose body and soul parts lived in these residences and owned these objects. In looking at termination deposits as soul parts and thresholds of interaction, we can begin to address the more complicated question of what this ritual practice does, not simply what it means for the Maya.

Note 1. I use termination and terminal interchangeably to describe these deposits. Both terms are appropriate descriptors for the case studies presented herein, as these deposits mark the final abandonment of the site centers. Given their patterned and prescribed

nature, these deposits often are characterized by scholars as “rituals” and, more specifically, “desecratory termination rituals” if they are the result of conflict-related events (see discussion in Stanton, Brown, and Pagliaro 2008:234–238).

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Conjuring Meaning from Archaeological Remains Patricia A. McAnany

“‘I am going to teach you right here the first step to power,’ he said as if he were dictating a letter to me. ‘I am going to teach you how to set up dreaming’” (Castenada 1972:126). And so the narrative about a Yaqui ritual specialist that so captivated a generation during the 1970s began with instruction on the relation between power and dreaming — ​an unlikely linkage in Western logic. The project of social theory embraced in the chapters of this book is also about unlikely linkages — ​about the cross-threading of practices or structural principles previously unimagined. Within anthropology, this project is further complicated by engagement with structures of meaning that exist outside of our own locally constituted knowledge. The additional interpretive challenges of studying temporally distant practices through the evidentiary base of archaeological remains are legendary and the stuff of a cottage industry focused on archaeological epistemology. The chapters of this book are not concerned with epistemology but, rather, with ontological issues regarding how things come to have certain meanings. Following the tradition of social theory, this pursuit as invoked here leads to unlikely linkages, assertions, and critical questioning, all of which are crucial to the maturation of a study of the past. In a very literal fashion, contributors conjure new meanings for and from archaeological remains. For instance, Matthew Looper considers dance in Mesoamerica but questions the interpretive lens of the European theatrical

tradition. Richard Lesure and colleagues assert that the term iconic style conflates two very different practices of crafting: one that focuses on representational iconicity and another that freely mixes stylistic riffs. Scott Hutson and colleagues challenge the assumption of increasingly centralized power relations in the Northern Maya lowlands during the first century bce, citing a local settlement shift toward less exclusionary architecture and sacbe construction (and dismantling). Employing critical feminist theory, Traci A ­ rdren suggests that phallic representations (often monumental in scale), found also in the Northern Maya lowlands but during Late–Terminal Classic times, may not be exalting the masculine member but, rather, are indicators of m ­ asculinist ­anxiety in reference to the gendered performance of males, which at this time and place is thought to have emphasized autosacrifice and martial skills. Claudia García-Des ­Lauriers presents evidence that complicates traditional archaeological site labels — ​such as “Teotihuacán enclave” — ​and evokes richly heterodoxic identities at an Early Classic place called Los Horcones on the Pacific coast of Chiapas, Mexico. In line with “thing theorists” Alfred Gell (1998), Bruno Latour (2005), and others, Maya things of old are asserted to have had agency and to have been perceived as social persons — ​with souls  — ​in the chapter by Julia Hendon. David Haskell deploys the established concept of encompassment to address the quandary of why subordinate Tarascan lords — ​in the 116

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face of sixteenth-century Spanish consolidation of political power — ​stayed loyal to the paramount Tarascan ruler. Finally, Eleanor ­Harrison-Buck suggests that termination ­deposits at Late–​ Terminal­Classic Maya sites should be read as conceptual metaphors of death and military conquest rather than “squatters’ debris” or the reverential termination of a powerfully charged locale. Each chapter, to some extent, challenges received wisdom regarding the meaning of archaeological materials and proposes a new understanding based upon approaches — ​such as agency (human and nonhuman), semiotics, metaphor, and heterodoxy — ​that are current within Western social theory. While explicit social theory is far preferable to masked theory (traditional within archaeological discourse), the fit between theory and ways of being, perceiving, or crafting in the past is extremely difficult to assess and should be examined recursively and perceived as a perpetual work in progress. There really is no end to the work of conjuring meaning; there could be an excellent fit between theory and material evidence even if a chosen theoretical frame actually is not relevant to the past. This epistemological difficulty in reference to interpreting the past — ​related but not identical to the old adage that correlation is not equal to causation — ​ reveals itself throughout the contributions to this volume, most notably in opposing views regarding the relevance of semiotics to an understanding of the Mesoamerican past. While Hendon and Haskell both find value in theorizing the “sign,” Looper contends that the semiotic approach to theater strips Mesoamerican performance of its strategic qualities. The result — ​an understanding based upon what we might call theater of the indexical — ​tends to undervalue the transactional qualities of Mesoamerican dance. Dancing rulers were not simply indexing gods, spirits, and ancestors; they were actively channeling and representing them. In effect, an abstraction can violate the substance and intent of what actually transpired. The same transactional qualities likely refer to termination deposits of broken pottery vessels, human bone, and other valuable objects (­Harrison-​Buck, this volume, Chapter 9) that arguably were intended to instantiate violent interaction rather than indexing it metaphorically. Beyond issues of theoretical framing, the top-

ical foci of these chapters dwell on power and identity, and there is much that is useful in the fresh approaches taken. In an attempt to conjure meanings relevant to power relations and identity formations from archaeological remains, contributors — ​by and large — ​adopt a practice/performance approach to the past. We might think of these contributions as dividing into two kinds: chapters that focus on the performance of power relations and those that dwell on the crafting of identity. I comment here on ways in which the chapters of this book further our knowledge of these two topics. All contributors share an understanding of power as relational and not embodied. While I do not completely agree with this approach, it has the benefit of shifting our analytical frame from a dichotomy between “top-down” and “bottomup” approaches to an examination of the intricate webs of domination, subordination, and inequality that once existed. This approach to relations of power helps to ameliorate the distinctly Western, interest- and agency-based perspective that Geertz (1973:​202) characterized long ago as far too muscular. Within archaeology and particularly Mesoamerican studies, it is safe to say that the topic of power has been underproblematized and is sorely in need of critical reflection and fresh approaches. In this regard, it is a welcome change to see several contributors grapple critically with the relational meaning of power in social, economic, and religious contexts. The chapter by Matthew Looper contains a timely problematization of Western intellectual notions of theater, performance, and ideology. Precolumbian indigenous “dance,” as an animating act that rendered sacred forces present, turns out to be a fundamentally different performance from that based upon Shakespeare or Sophocles. The venerable Eric Wolf takes a few knocks as Looper argues — ​quite convincingly  — ​ that the Marxist perspective of theater as “false consciousness” fails to capture the concept of performance ideology as a literal connection with sacred forces. Granted, the ability to effect this connection was perceived to be heightened in those whose lived practice included the burden of authority, but this deeply religious context is hardly the burlesque suggested by the popular term ­theater-​state. Thus, although royal male

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dance — ​in many respects — ​was a performance of power, both terms performance and power cannot be understood without contextualization. In this spirit of inquiry, a deeper understanding of the phalli stones of Yucatán is intoned in Traci ­Ardren’s analysis of the “script” of masculinity. As noted by Houston et al. (2006) and others, “the male gaze” as well as masculinist desires and figured worlds form THE perspective of royal Maya iconography. As such, one cannot engage with this material without interrogating the notion of masculinist hegemonies. The hypercoding of masculine biology is particularly intriguing in light of an emphasis within Mesoamerica on the performative basis of gendered identity, of gender as constituted by what one does and wears rather than one’s biology. Ardren contextualizes the phallic stones within a Terminal Classic Maya world; no doubt the fact that the construal of masculinist authority was shifting at this time to an emphasis on regional initiation rituals involving penile bloodletting preparatory to admission into warrior sodalities (Ringle 2004) is relevant to understanding the presence of phalli stones. There are also parallels between the chapters by Traci Ardren and Eleanor Harrison-Buck, in that both interpret their evidence in terms of increased martial violence — ​of powerful forces of aggression that sought to wrest control of previously autonomous social collectives during the Lowland Maya Terminal Classic period. For Harrison-Buck, place and the memory of bones proved irresistible as sites of contestation; she suggests that they are the things through which identity and vanquished identity are narrated. The practice of stratigraphy-making (McAnany and Hodder 2009) includes the memory and retrieval of things and deceased ones that had been hidden away, and evidence of their exhumation evokes the deep memory of place as a kind of armature of history-making. Here again, we see the power of things — ​particularly dedicating and terminating offerings — ​to inscribe and instantiate the dialogic relationship between people and place. Interestingly, Harrison-Buck mentions Caracol Altar 12 (dated to 817 ce) as the last hieroglyphically recorded martial event in the lowlands. If a martial masculinity was as hegemonic during the Terminal Classic as Ardren suggests, then it is intriguing and informative that scribes

did not record victories hieroglyphically in sacred writing. Hutson and colleagues examine power relations among a suite of Preclassic and Early Classic places in northern Yucatán primarily through the lens of construction and deconstruction activities. The sequenced building and partial dismantling of two parallel sacbes provide grist for the notion that a shift of allegiance and settlement location from the site of Tzacauil to that of Joya occurred sometime during the Late Preclassic period. This contribution, more than any other, trains a spotlight upon a paradox within Mesoamerican archaeology: the embrace of deeply emplaced histories that index ancestral presence, on the one hand, and a recursive pattern of settlement expansion and contraction that suggests pragmatic relocation of households, on the other. Hutson and colleagues suggest that people of all types and statuses possessed the power to augment or diminish the vitality of a place and contributed to its sustenance or dissolution. The same link between performing power and the sustenance or dissolution of a powerful place is central to David Haskell’s analysis of Late Postclassic Tarascan kingdoms. Employing an approach of relational ontology, Haskell proposes that the paramount Tarascan ruler encompassed the agency of subsidiary lords within the personhood of the paramount. A similar process — ​suggested by hieroglyphic texts of “witnessing” events — ​likely took place among Classic Maya sites. Evidence presented from a surface survey of the Tarascan site of Erongarícuaro is suggestively, but far from definitively, supportive of the process of encompassment. In the final chapter to focus on the performance of power, Claudia García-Des Lauriers shows a concern also with the crafting of identity at Early Classic Los Horcones, where processional architecture and three-temple complexes of the monumental core are punctuated by s­ telae rife with Teotihuacán iconography. Situated on the Pacific coast of Chiapas and far from the political capital of Teotihuacán, the architectonics of Group F1 at Los Horcones nonetheless replicate and index that of Teotihuacán within a performance oeuvre that emphasized processionals. Although Los Horcones traditionally has been interpreted as a gateway community, García-Des 118

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Lauriers does not directly address the relations of power that might have existed between this place and that which it emulated. She prefers instead to contrast the orthodoxy of the monumental core with the heterodoxy of an offertory context of 60 ceramic figurine/pendant heads within smallerscale architecture that indicate an “eclectic f­ usion of foreign and local influences.” Suggestive of alternative identities, the fact that only heads were included seems to magnify the significance of this context. López Austin (1980), a scholar of embodiment who preceded the popularization of this topic, wrote of the potency of the head to stand for an entire person. The intimacy and alternativity of this offering of figurine heads stand in powerful contrast to the more totalizing sensation of monumental architecture at the core of Los Horcones. Crafting, identity, and memory provide the underpinnings for the chapter by Lesure and colleagues, who focus on inherited practices of ceramic fabrication and how they changed (or didn’t) over the course of a millennium. Arguably, archaeologists have neglected the study of stasis. For instance, within the Maya lowlands, inherited “recipes” for water and storage jars often were recursively fabricated for 500 years with little to no alteration (and with little to no commentary by archaeologists). If change is seen as a failure of social reproduction, then stasis or the structural stability that Lesure and colleagues discern for censer fabrication is an important characteristic of material remains. The figured worlds (as per Holland et al. 1998) glimpsed through the remains of ceramic figurines presented by Lesure and colleagues seem to reference intriguing societal differences, which are interpreted by the contributors as expressing not intrinsic differences (possibly a veiled reference to ethnicity?) but contingent variation in ways of crafting. This discussion highlights the extent to which (and in a manner similar to the study of power relations) archaeological studies of the meaning of crafting have languished. This state of affairs may be due to the dead end that has been reached by craft specialization studies (Clark 2007). Our archaeological understanding of crafting and artisan-

ship is sorely in need of more studies that follow a practice-based approach (see McAnany 2010 for expanded discussion). In many respects, identity is a topic that metamorphosed from earlier, pioneering work on gender and ethnicity. It is much in evidence throughout the chapters of this book, as contributors interpret archaeological contexts that appear to instantiate personhood and the contours of some kind of identity, whether self-conscious or reflexive. In the chapter by Julia Hendon, this relational notion of personhood is extended to objects. As Henare and others (2007) of the Cambridge school have argued, things have not only the potential to instantiate agency but also the power to move us and to generate meanings that change us. In this regard, we see the field of anthropology shifting — ​in an ontological sense — ​ toward a distinctly indigenous Mesoamerican perspective on things as actively energized agents in daily practice. I believe that this approach — ​ advocated here by Hendon — ​is a positive shift because it moves the field away from that distinctly American take on agency as a kind of hyperindividualism (see Gero 2000 for pertinent archaeological critique). At the same time — ​and as Daniel Miller (2005) has discussed — ​objects (things) can perform as conduits of ideological dominance. Large, immobile objects, such as stelae, have the power to project “monumental time,” to use the words of Ricoeur (1985:​106). It is clear from Mesoamerican ethnographic and ethnohistorical accounts that things — ​such as houses, heirlooms, and pottery vessels — ​were perceived as activated or ensouled by humans who accepted the responsibility to nurture the animus of such objects. To my mind, this relationship is not equivalent to the notion that objects are social persons, although the relational web between humans and object was (is) intensely social. And so the task of conjuring meaning continues. These chapters, as a whole, bode well for the future of theoretically articulated research in Mesoamerica and for the resonance and relevance of the topics of power and identity to the material remains of ancestral peoples who lived in a place we now call Mesoamerica.

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Change, Scale, and Goals in the Study of Power and Identity in Mesoamerica Barbara L. Stark

I concentrate not so much on each chapter for this commentary as on two questions: (1) What are some of the principles these case studies share? and (2) How do these principles help us toward broader goals in Mesoamerican studies? For the first query regarding shared principles among the chapters, I identify three: the importance of the moral economy, practice and agent approaches, and commoner life as a locus of actions. Occasionally I mention other papers from the symposium from which this volume emerged. Shared Principles in the Chapters

Analyses of moral economies consider the ­values surrounding objects and practices that have socially restricted circulation and use (especially in rituals) as well as their requisite resources and economic implications (e.g., Wells and Davis-Salazar­ 2007; Wells and McAnany 2008). This focus complements studies of more alienable market commodities (e.g., Garraty and Stark 2010). Societies often operated with simultaneous systems of meaning for objects and modes of exchange. David Haskell (Chapter 8) remarks on obsidian from different sources that reached a Tarascan settlement through contrastive institutions and with different social uses. For the Aztecs, we have information about sumptuary restrictions that are a sure sign of the tension between systems of conveyance and social values. For example, Umberger (2008) addresses the tension between these economic dimensions and state-level sym-

bolic statements. She argues that Aztec access to certain items was treated as dependent on character and preparation (the last dependent on class). Thus, we can examine issues of access and performance at multiple levels, including at the level of the polity or down to a settlement, and in the context of different social institutions or classes. As exemplified in this volume, such items and practices were subject to active manipulation and redefinition — ​a moving target. Not only artifacts but also the dead and places represent a constellation of values or partake of people’s identities. Eleanor Harrison-Buck (Chapter 9) provides an excellent example by analyzing termination rituals involving certain forms of feasting and desecration of places and buried ancestors by antagonistic forces. We can look forward to such research stimulating more studies of “inception rituals” in which dedicatory caches and architectural construction may accompany the foundations of new settlements or parts of settlements (e.g., see Smith 2008:71–89 for the requisites of town formation in Aztec times). Inception and termination rituals are particularly relevant for times with considerable population relocations (Manzanilla 2005) and for the varied effects of imperial expansion and incorporation for subject groups (Stark and Chance 2008, 2012). We can ask whether, for example, dedicatory rituals show the movement of significant objects and human remains to be installed in new locations (e.g., Hutson et al. 2004:83; Magnoni 2008

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concerning removal). A different facet of settlement change is provided by Scott Hutson and colleagues (Chapter 4), who observe a historically oriented regard for a neighboring abandoned settlement and causeway as well as a declaration of historical difference by the construction of a new, parallel causeway. Thus, both movable and relatively immovable aspects of material culture can be part of the moral economy. Practice and agent approaches permeate the volume. Many essays focus on diverse social segments and their goals and actions, thus combating unwarranted assumptions that place too much of the engineering and experience of cultural life at the doorstep of central authorities or institutions. For example, Matthew Looper (Chapter 2) critically challenges the assumption that dance routinely involved state ideology as a didactic message. Instead, he underscores its links to personal experience and diverse social participation in offerings or sacred communion. In a different context, Julia Hendon (Chapter 7) stresses the personhood qualities of figurines and sculpture, arguing that, for the Maya, cultural attribution of agency extended more widely than is customarily thought. Such a perspective anticipates the vigor with which people, ancestors, and architecture were destroyed in the Maya termination rituals mentioned in Harrison-Buck’s chapter. Likewise Traci Ardren’s (Chapter 5) contextualization of the meaning of phallic carved monuments points to the preoccupations of ruling elites; shedding blood in ceremonies and war created strong expectations for male performance in a time of particular political instability in the Late to Terminal Classic periods in the Northern Maya lowlands. David Haskell (Chapter 8) exploits the symbolic connections of objects with rulers to consider how subordinate elites were co-opted (“encompassed” in his exposition), providing a more interactionist perspective than do looser concepts of ethnic or class-linked co-optation. He draws on ethnohistoric data to posit the use of pipes and ear spools when a representative of the ruler arrived at a locality. Yet to be accommodated, however, is the potential for some of the Tarascan symbolic objects (including ones produced by local elites or under their supervision) to have figured as tribute or how local uses of

items like pipes may have led to their deposition, not just use in rituals involving royal delegates. Agent-oriented perspectives require careful assessment of the details of contexts and associations, as seen in the contributions in this volume. Like other archaeological efforts to understand patterning at intrasite scales, eventually they require integration with a wider range of institutions and frames of analysis, including the political economy. Methods of linking to wider frameworks will necessarily be diverse. Claudia García-Des ­Lauriers (Chapter 6) provides an example using stylistic analyses that can sharpen our decisions about what outside societies serve as reference points — ​thus establishing the directions and possible content of local decisions and negotiations. The contexts at Los Horcones involve differentiation in locations — ​one in which Teotihuacán-like architecture and carvings are emphasized and another in which Teotihuacán-related items appear among portable objects in a cache with a mix of styles, including many local ones. To consider the implications of styles and manipulations of identities, we need options as sophisticated as the information past people may have drawn upon in their social lives. The third shared perspective concerns commoner life as a locus of actions, a subject more prominent in the symposium than in the final ­array of chapters. Looper (Chapter 2), through his commentary on communal dance participation in rituals, draws attention to the range of kinds of persons involved but also shows our continued dependence on imagery and documents that are oriented toward the nobility and rulers. GarcíaDes Lauriers’s (Chapter 6) analysis draws our attention to multiple social segments: She notes a diversity of figurine styles between two locations of ritual practices at Los Horcones (and likely a diversity of participants). So, too, Hendon (Chapter 7), through consideration of figurines that were widely used in household contexts, keeps a broad segment of the population targeted in her argument about agency attributed to material items. Richard Lesure and coauthors (Chapter 3) draw upon household contexts in their dissection of long-term artifact attribute changes. Despite these elements of the volume, the role of commoners in society, especially their possible 121

Barbara L. Stark

roles in altering social or cultural institutions, continues to be an Achilles heel for archaeology and ethnohistory, for which this volume is no exception. Particularly when we confront dramatic reorientations of power and new configurations of important settlements and population, such as Haskell (Chapter 8) and Harrison-Buck (Chapter 9) address, we should remain uneasy about how best to anticipate and study the actions of the bulk of the population. Broader Goals in Mesoamerican Research

My second question concerns how the shared perspectives addressed in the volume help us toward even broader goals in Mesoamerican research. We have many broader goals, and I do not pretend to represent this in a comprehensive way. I stress integration of variability into comparative perspectives either to address recurrent patterns (that is, a broader scale of generalization) or to understand change. How stable is a moral economy? How does the moral economy relate to the international aspects of statecraft and trade? Do some changes lead to the engagement of commoners in consumption and production that promotes expansion in Mesoamerican trade networks or to changes in the prosperity and inter­ regional roles of some regions? Joyce Marcus’s (1989) arguments for cycling in the scales of Maya political integration involve recurrent political structures linked by underlying organizational features, somewhat akin to Gearing’s (1958) views of Cherokee structural “poses” that operated on a smaller time and spatial scale or to Leach’s (1977) views on ethnic and economic cycles in highland Burma at a regional scale. Examination of cycling is vital, but only one expression of change — ​change at a specific structural scale, for a society — ​yet repetition in a longer time interval and a wider regional scale for many societies. In the history of archaeology, the neoevolutionists addressed apparently nonreversible trajectories of change when they tackled “origins,” such as the beginnings of food production or circumstances surrounding the appearance of states. But they switched gears when they confronted the archaeological and historical record after state formation, treating those developments as characterized by cycles of political expansion (conquest) and retrenchment or collapse (e.g.,

Service 1975:301, 313–314; Steward 1963:196–198, 204). If we shift the focus from the political sphere of Marcus and the neo-evolutionists, we can ask what aspects of social life have inherent cycles and which lead to nonreversible changes. This question is not new in anthropology, as an early cyclic example is Alfred Kroeber’s (1919) analysis of measured dimensions of women’s clothing. We can contextualize Kroeber’s information as relating to a commercial economy with active promotion of sales in a period with increasing social mobility and competition. Pierre ­Bourdieu (1986) treated competitive social distinctions (especially cultural “capital”) in modern France as dynamic because employment niches could become filled, squeezing and ultimately devaluing qualified applicants, who then turn to other niches — ​a system in which the positioning of successive generations shifts in response to the working out of strategies by individuals. Nevertheless, the overall system of economic differences and cultural capital continues to function. At one scale, changes are irreversible, but at a larger scale a process of rearrangement replicates principles in the overall social environment. In contrast, biological evolution addresses predominantly irreversible changes at several scales, but with continuing underlying processes, a perspective adapted by some archaeologists for cultural content (e.g., recent overview in Alvard 2003). In Mesoamerica I have suggested that technology and material access can escape s­ umptuary or class controls, leading to lasting economic changes as more individuals are able to benefit from the technology or resources; my example was cotton and cotton textiles. Cotton likely was particularly difficult to restrict because agricultural production and high labor demands for ­fiber processing and weaving tended to disperse production in domestic contexts (Stark 2000; Stark et al. 1998). If the argument is correct, these changes were not reversed in prehispanic Mesoamerica, and stylistic elaboration of textiles and other aspects of dress largely replaced restricted access to cotton in the lowlands. In an Old World setting, Sherratt (2004) argues that, because of local social values, interregional variability characterized the roles of technological changes spreading from the Near East into western Eurasia, but that cumulative change was

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Change, Scale, and Goals in the Study of Power and Identity in Mesoamerica

precipitated in the production and circulation of items as well. Two preoccupations today, climate change and human ecological impacts, are candidates for a variety of nonreversible changes. What range of social changes in Mesoamerica had such irreversible qualities at a broad scale? Social and economic changes point to an important next step for studies of identity and power when examined in a variety of specific times and places. Many of the chapters addressing archaeology operate at one end of a methodological spectrum focused on households, buildings, and settlements. We need these local scales because they show us specific trajectories and the historical context in which local people lived. Diachronic studies can detect a degree of innovation or rejection of past configurations, such as Hutson and colleagues (Chapter 4) and ­Harrison-Buck (Chapter 9) provide, but especially Lesure and colleagues (Chapter 3) for Tlaxcala. For Tlaxcala they focus on long-term stability and change in four categories of material culture and how to study them more systematically. The difficulty of explaining as opposed to describing change points to the importance of additional scales of comparison and suites of information. For example, population stability, growth, or decline at the settlement examined plus the regional context of other places and their political and economic programs could contribute substantially to social or economic competition and to the stability or fluidity of material culture.

I have underscored multiple scales of analysis to contextualize and view change and account for it. Perhaps the most pervasive methodological dilemma in archaeological research design is that of learning a lot about a little piece of the elephant or a little bit about a lot of the elephant — ​exemplified in the scale change from household excavations (well represented among these chapters) to regional survey (not represented). With adequate temporal controls, shorter and longer time scales can be addressed. For this set of studies, one challenge is linking up with the rest of the scales and a variety of comparative issues. Many of the totalizing models of decades past, such as C ­ arneiro’s (1970) concerning the role of circumscribed population growth in the origin of the state, have so foundered on evidence that we have to create a new middle ground of reliable generalizations about patterns and of explanations of change — ​ generalizations that pay attention to the different scales in which we view societies and people and to which those same people had to attend. For me, many aspects of identity and power converge in comparative questions about what is relatively stable in Mesoamerican culture and society and what undergoes directional change and why. Households and small communities are both key consumption and production points for ancient societies. So they are “players,” but in a complex scalar web.

Acknowledgments I thank Eleanor Harrison-Buck for the invitation to comment on the symposium she organized, “Identity, Place, and Power in Archaeological Theory: Case ­Studies from Mesoamerica,” at the 107th Annual Meet-

ing of the American Anthropological Association, and also its contributors and those in this volume for the stimulus of their research.

123

Contributors

Traci Ardren Department of Anthropology University of Miami

Scott Johnson Department of Anthropology Tulane University

David M. Carballo Department of Archaeology Boston University

Richard G. Lesure Department of Anthropology University of California, Los Angeles

Jennifer Carballo Department of Anthropology University of Michigan

Matthew G. Looper Department of Art and Art History California State University, Chico

Claudia García-Des Lauriers Cotsen Institute of Archaeology University of California, Los Angeles

Aline Magnoni Department of Anthropology Tulane University

Eleanor Harrison-Buck Department of Anthropology University of New Hampshire

Patricia A. McAnany Department of Anthropology University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill

David L. Haskell Department of Anthropology Ohio State University

Donald A. Slater Department of Anthropology Brandeis University

Julia A. Hendon Department of Sociology and Anthropology Gettysburg College

Travis W. Stanton Departamento de Antropología Universidad de las Américas, Puebla

Scott R. Hutson Department of Anthropology University of Kentucky

Barbara L. Stark School of Human Evolution and Social Change Arizona State University

125

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References Cited in Middle America, edited by T. Inomata and R. W. Webb, pp. 29–42. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Webster, D. L. 1976 Defensive Earthworks at Becan, Campeche, Mexico: Implications for Maya Warfare. Middle American Research Institute Publication 41. Tulane University, New Orleans. 1978 Three Walled Sites of the Northern Maya Lowlands. Journal of Field Archaeology 5:375– 390. 2002 The Fall of the Ancient Maya: Solving the ­Mystery of the Maya Collapse. Thames and Hudson, London. Weiner, A. B. 1992 Inalienable Possessions. University of California Press, Berkeley. Wells, E. C., and K. L. Davis-Salazar (editors) 2007 Mesoamerican Ritual Economy: Archaeological and Ethnological Perspectives. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Wells, E. C., and P. A. McAnany (editors) 2008 Dimensions of Ritual Economy. JAI, Bingley, England. Willey, G. W., and R. M. Leventhal 1979 Settlement at Copán. In Maya Archaeology and Ethnohistory, edited by N. Hammond and G. W. Willey, pp. 75–102. University of Texas Press, Austin. Willey, G. W., R. M. Leventhal, A. A. Demarest, and W. L. Fash 1994 Ceramics and Artifacts from Excavations in the Copan Residential Zone. Harvard University Press, Cambridge. Williams, H. 1988 Concepts of Ideology. Wheatsheaf, Brighton. 2003 Archaeologies of Remembrance: Death and Memory in Past Societies. Kluwer Academic, New York. Wobst, H. M. 1977 Stylistic Behavior and Information Exchange. In Anthropological Papers of the Museum of Anthropology, edited by C. E. Cleland,

pp. 317–​342. University of Michigan, Ann ­ rbor. A Wolf, E. R. 1999 Envisioning Power: Ideologies of Dominance and Crisis. University of California Press, Berkeley. Wren, L. H., and P. D. Schmidt 1991 Elite Interaction During the Terminal Classic Period: New Evidence from Chichen Itza. In Classic Maya Political History: Hieroglyphic and Archaeological Evidence, edited by T. P. Culbert, pp. 199–225. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Yaeger, J. 2000 The Social Construction of Communities in the Classic Maya Countryside: Strategies of Affiliation in Western Belize. In The Archaeology of Communities: A New World Perspective, edited by M. A. Canuto and J. Yaeger, pp. 123–141. Routledge, London. 2003 Small Settlements in the Upper Belize River Valley: Local Complexity, Household Strategies of Affiliation, and Changing Organization. In Perspectives on Ancient Maya Rural Complexity, edited by G. Ioannone and S. V. Connel, pp. 43–58. Cotsen Institute, University of California, Los Angeles. 2010 Shifting Political Dynamics as Seen from the Xunantunich Palace. In Classic Maya Provincial Politics: Xunantunich and Its Hinterlands, edited by L. LeCount and J. Yaeger, pp. 145– 160. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Yoffee, N., and A. Sherratt 1993 Introduction: The Sources of Archaeological Inquiry. In Archaeological Theory: Who Sets the Agenda? edited by N. Yoffee and A. Sherratt, pp. 1–9. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Zeitlin, I. M. 2001 Ideology and the Development of Sociological Theory. Prentice-Hall, Upper Saddle River, New Jersey.

156

Index

Numbers in italics refer to figures. abandonment, and termination deposits at Maya sites, 109, 110, 112, 115n1 agency: intersubjective encompassment and material­ ity of social interaction in Tarascan kingdom, 91–​ 95; and semiotic theory of personhood, 85; and webs of significance, xi–xii Aguateca (Maya site), 110, 111, 112 Agurcia Fasquelle, R., 86 Alberti, B., 3 Alt, S. M., 21 Altar de Sacrificios (site), 114 Altun Ha (site), 109 American Anthropological Association (AAA), xi Ames, K., 98 Amomoloc (site), 25, 27, 29 Amrhein, Laura, 56 Andrews, A. P., 52 Andrews, E. W., IV, 56, 58 animals. See opossum; zoomorphism anthropomorphism: and iconographic variability in material culture of Tlaxcala, 31; and “portrait” figurines from Los Horcones, 75–76, 77, 78 anxiety, and representation of masculinity in Northern Maya lowlands, 54–56, 61 Apizaco Formative Project, 24 archaeology: of identity at Los Horcones, 64–65; and overview of analyses of power and identity, 1–6, 116–19; and study of encompassment at Erongar­ ícuaro in Tarascan kingdom, 93–101. See also ceramics; chronology; material culture; termination deposits; specific topics architecture. See monumental architecture; plazas; sacbes; stelae; subterranean features Ardren, Traci, 4, 116, 118, 121 Aristotle, 9, 13, 15, 16 assuagement, rituals of in Classic Maya culture, 60–62 Aztec, roles of dance, power, and ideology in society of, 8–20. See also Los Horcones; Mesoamerica; Teotihuacán; Tlaxcala Bacon, Francis, 15–16 B’alaj Chan K’awiil (Maya ruler), 14 Ball, J. W., 42 Barrett, J. C., 107, 109, 112

Bauer, A. A., 95 Bersani, Leo, 54 bezotes, and lapidary production at Erongarícuaro, 96–100 Bird-David, N. , 5, 6, 103, 105, 115 bloodletting, and rituals in Northern Maya lowlands, 60 Blue Creek (site), 108, 109 body, fragmentation of as trope in Mesoamerican representations of, 79. See also gender Bonampak murals, 12, 14, 17, 18 Borejsza, Aleksander, 24 boundary formation, and archaeology of ethnicity, 65 Bourdieu, Pierre, 40, 122 Bray, T. L., 3 Brecht, Bertolt, 16 Brown, L., 5, 104, 105 Brown, M. K., 107, 109, 115 Brumfiel, E. M., 98 Burkhart, Louise M., 9, 14 burning, and termination deposits at Maya sites, 110–12 Butler, Judith, 15 Campbell, R. Joe, 20n7 Cancuén (site), 109–10, 112 Canuto, M. A., 52 Caracol (site), 108, 111 Caravajal Visita (1523–1524), 95 Carballo, David M., 3–4, 24, 29, 31, 33 Carballo, Jennifer, 3–4 Carlsen, R. S., 87 Carneiro, R. L., 123 Castenada, C., 116 cenotes, and subterranean features of Maya sites, 44, 47, 48, 49 censers: and household iconic traditions in Tlaxcala, 21–38; and Teotihuacán-style ceramics from Los Horcones, 75 Central Yucatán Archaeological Cave Project, 47–48 ceramics: and household iconic traditions in Tlaxcala, 21–38; and Teotihuacán-style bowl lids from Los Horcones, 73, 74, 75. See also censers; ­figurines; masks 157

Index Cerro Bernal (mountain range), 63 Chaac (rain god), 60 Charlton, Otis, 96 Chase, Diane Z. & Arlen F., 108, 114 Chichén Itzá, 56, 59–60, 62, 112–14 chronology, and analysis of material culture in Tlaxcala, 24–26 ch’ulel (inner life force), 103, 104, 115 city-states, and concepts of “theater states” and “­political theater,” 9 Clayton, S. C., 108, 114 Coe, William R., 107 coessence: and concepts of personhood and self in Mesoamerica, 82–84, 88; dualistic process of change and Maya concept of, 104 Colhá (site), 107, 108, 109 communication, dance and theatrical concepts of, 11–15 complexity. See sociopolitical complexity Conkey, Margaret W., xi, xii, 1, 21 Connerton, P., 39, 40, 51, 52 Copán (site), 86, 87, 88, 110, 111 cosmology: coessences in Mesoamerican, 83; and function of dance in Aztec and Maya society, 12– 13, 18 Cowgill, G. L., 69 Cuatlapanga (figurine type), 26 Culler, J., xii Czitrom, C. B. de, 29 dance, performance of and relations of power and ideology in Mesoamerica, 8–20 Dean, Carolyn, 60 death, and Maya rituals of disempowerment, 103–15 defensive fortifications, at Maya sites, 112. See also warfare Demarest, Arthur A., 19, 109, 110–11 Diaz-Andreu, M., 64 dissonance, and framing of objects, 94 Dobres, M. –A., 21 Dos Hombres (site), 111 Dos Pilas (site), 14, 110–11, 112 Dow, J., 87 dreaming, coessences in study of Maya, 83 Dumont, L., 5, 92, 101n1–2 Durán, Diego, 8, 19 Earle, T. K., 98 effigy censers, 29–30 Ehco (figurine type), 26 Ekholm, Susanna M., 78, 79 elites: aesthetic experience of in Classic Maya dance performance, 13–14; and encompassment of subordinate lords in Tarascan kingdom, 90–101;

power at Los Horcones and links to Teotihuacán, 63; and tomb desecration at Maya sites, 110 Emberling, G., 64 encompassment, archaeological study of at Tarascan site of Erongarícuaro, 95–101 Enlightenment, and theatrical metaphors for ideology, 16 Eriksen, T. H., 64 Erongarícuaro (site), 90–93, 95–101 essentialism, 3 ethnicity: and archaeological studies of identity, 64– 65; and identity politics in Tarascan kingdom, 90 ethnography, relationship between power and identity in studies of, 3 feminism: and anthropological analyses of power relations, 2; and social construction of masculinity, 53; and theoretical pluralism, xi figurines: as example of externalized coessence, 87; and household iconic traditions in Tlaxcala, 21– 38; and Playa de los Muertos tradition, 86–87; and Teotihuacán identity at Los Horcones, 72–80 Flannery, K. V., 34 fortification systems, and Maya sites, 112. See also warfare Foucault, M., 2 framing, of objects and concept of encompassment, 94 Freedberg, David, 4, 22 French Revolution, 40 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 9–10 Gallareta Negrón, T., 109 García Cook, Á, 24, 29 García-Des Lauriers, Claudia, 4–5, 50, 63, 116, 118–19, 121 gateway community, Los Horcones as, 63–64 Gearing, F., 122 Geertz, Clifford, 16–17, 117 Gell, Alfred A., 3, 4, 5, 21, 22–23, 84, 85, 86, 88, 92, 93, 103, 115, 116 gender: dance as scripted act and theory of performativity of, 15; and ideologies of dance in Maya society, 17; phalli stones and masculine anxiety in Classic Maya culture, 53–62 Giddens, A., 2–3 Gillespie, S. D., 40–41 Glascock, Michael D., 98 Gonlin, N., 88 Gorenstein, S. S., 98 Gosden, C., 93 Gosselain, O., 7n1 Greece, warfare and male image in Archaic, 61 Groleau, A. B., 105 158

Index Grube, N., 113 Guderjan, T. H., 108 habitus, Bourdieu’s concept of, 40 hallucinogens, and dance performance in Mesoamerica, 18, 19 Harris, J. W., 9, 12 Harris, Max, 9 Harrison-Buck, Eleanor, 5–6, 52, 109, 117, 118, 120, 121, 122, 123 Haskell, David L., 5, 95–96, 101n1, 102n3 , 103, 116–17, 118, 120, 121, 122 hegemonic masculinity, in Classic Maya culture, 53–56 Henare, A. J. M., 119 Hendon, Julia A., 5, 80, 103, 116, 117, 119, 121 Hershey (site), 107–8, 109, 110, 111, 112 heterogeneity, and identity in Maya communities, 39, 52 hierarchy, encompassment and Dumont’s definition of, 92 Hieroglyphic Staircase (Copán), 86 Higuchi, T., 66 Hirth, K. G., 112 Hodder, Ian, 2, 50 Holbraad, M., 105 household iconic traditions, and changing social practices in Tlaxcala, 21–38 Houston, S. D., 83, 103, 104, 118 human remains, and termination deposits at Maya sites, 109 Hutson, Scott R., 4, 116, 118, 121, 123 iconography: household traditions of and changing social practices in Tlaxcala, 21–38; and ­Teotihuacán-style monuments in Los Horcones, 69, 72 identity: and encompassment of subordinate lords in Tarascan kingdom, 90–101; goals for study of in Mesoamerica, 120–23; household iconic traditions and changing social practices in Tlaxcala, 21–38; memory and power in political history of Joya, 39–52; and objects as persons in Maya culture, 82–89; public performance and influence of Teotihuacán at Los Horcones, 63–81; and theoretical focus of case studies, xi–xii, 116–19; overview of theory and practice in archaeological analyses of, 1–6; phalli stones of Classic Maya culture and regional, 53–62 “Identity, Place, and Power in Archaeological Theory: Case Studies from Mesoamerica” (symposium 2008), xi ideology: dance performance and power relations in Mesoamerica, 8–20; of hegemonic masculinity in Classic Maya culture, 53

Inca, 60 indexes: agency and encompassment in Tarascan kingdom, 93–95; and semiotic theory of personhood, 85 Ingold, Tim, 3, 94, 105, 115 Inomata, T., 13, 51, 68, 110 “intersubjective encompassment,” 90 Irizarry, Albert, 20n3 Johnson, Scott, 4 Jones, S., 64 Joya (site), memory and power in political history of, 39–52 Joyce, Rosemary A., 22, 33, 78, 79, 80 Karasik, C., 84 Keane, Webb, 84–85, 94 knowledge production, and social-theoretical approach to archaeological case studies, xii, 6 Kowalski, J. K., 113 Kristan-Graham, C., 49 Krochock, R. J., 113 Kroeber, Alfred L., 122 Lagartero (site), 78 La Laguna (regional center), 25, 29, 31, 32, 33, 38 Landa, Diego de, 8, 55 lapidary production, at Erongarícuaro, 96–100 Latour, Bruno, 3, 116 Laughlin, Robert M., 83, 84 Leach, E. R., 122 León-Portilla, Miguel, 12–13, 15 Le Plongeon, Augustus & Alice, 56, 58 Lesure, Richard G., 3–4, 6, 22, 24, 79, 116, 119, 123 Lincoln, C. E., 113 Lohse, J. C., 51 Looper, Matthew G., 3, 116, 117–18, 121 López Austin, Alfredo, 11, 12, 17, 20n8, 119 Los Horcones (site), 63–81 Lucero, L .J., 40, 105 MacKie, E. W., 108 Magnoni, Aline, 4, 41 mal entierro ritual, 104 Marcus, Joyce, 34, 122 Martinez, Eduardo, 68 Marx, Karl, 2, 16 Marxism, and concepts of ideology, 16, 19, 20n1, 20n8 masculinity, and phalli stones in Classic Maya culture, 53–62. See also gender masks: and household iconic traditions in Tlaxcala, 21–38; and Teotihuacán-style ceramics from Los Horcones, 76 material culture, and household iconic traditions in

159

Index central Tlaxcala, 21–38. See also ceramics; lapidary production; variability materiality: and archaeology of ethnicity, 65; and encompassment of subordinate lords in Tarascan kingdom, 90–101; objectification and semiotic theory of personhood, 85; as part of larger process in material record, 3 Mathews, Peter, 60 Maya: and contact between highland and lowland groups in Mesoamerica, 63; dance, power, and ideology in society of, 8–20; and diversity of identity in communities, 39; and objects as persons, 82–89; and phalli stones of Classic period in northern lowlands, 53–62; and rituals of death and disempowerment, 103–15. See also Chichén Itzá; Joya; Mesoamerica McAnany, Patricia A., 6 memory, and issues of power and identity in political history of Joya, 39–52 Merino Carrión, B. L., 24, 29 Meskell, L., xi, 4 Mesitas (site), 25 Mesoamerica: and contact between highland and lowland groups, 63; and cultural significance of dance performance, 8–20; goals for study of power and identity in, 120–23; overview of case studies, 3–6; personhood and self in, 82–84. See also ­Aztec; Maya Miller, Daniel, 2, 85, 88, 92, 119 Mills, B. J., 40 mimesis, Aristotelian concept of, 9, 16 mobility, and power relations, 51 Mock, S. B., 107 Molina, F. A. de, 12 monumental architecture: and political history of Joya, 49–50, 51; and Teotihuacán-style structures in Los Horcones, 69; termination deposits at Maya sites and burning of, 110–12. See also plazas; sacbes Moon Pyramid (Teotihuacán), 71–72, 80 Moore, J. D., 66, 68 motifs, and iconic traditions of pottery decoration in Tlaxcala, 34–37 Nahuatl, and terminology for dance, 12 Navarrete, Carlos A., 63, 68–69 Navarro Farr, O. C., 52 negara (city-states), in Bali, 9 Nelson, S. M., 1 Nohmul (site), 113 Nohoch Ek (site), 42 Oaxaca, and ethnohistoric accounts of abandonment, 115 objects: and materiality of social interaction in ­Tarascan kingdom, 92; as persons in Maya belief

system, 82–89; and subject in Maya dance performance, 13 obsidian, and lapidary production at ­Erongarícuaro, 96 Old God of Fire: and iconic traditions from Tlaxcala, 29, 31–33, 38; and Teotihuacán-style ceramics from Los Horcones, 76, 79 opossum, and zoomorphism in material culture from Tlaxcala, 29, 31–33, 38 Ortner, S. B., 6 Otomi, and curing rituals, 87 Otumba (Aztec city-state), 96 Pagliaro, J. B., 104, 107, 109, 115 Palenque (site), 110 Parsons, C., 20n3 Pauketat, T. R., 21 Pearson, Michael, 61 “pendants,” and Teotihuacán-style ceramics from Los Horcones, 78–79 Pendergast, D. M., 109 performance: and ideology of dance in ­Mesoamerica, 17–20; of masculinity in Classic Maya culture, 60; public spaces and Teotihuacán identity at Los Horcones, 63–81 personhood: of objects in Maya belief system, 82–89; relational ontology of in Tarascan kingdom, 92; semiotic theory of, 84–85, 88, 105, 115 phalli stones, and issues of power, identity, and masculine anxiety in Classic Maya culture, 53–62 phallocentrism, and ideology of masculinity in Classic Maya culture, 54 Phelan, Peggy, 20n2 Piedras Negras (site), 110 Pierce, Charles Sanders, 84–85, 93 Plato, 15, 16 Playa de los Muertos (site), 78, 86–87 plazas: and architectural features of Joya, 41–42, 43, 50, 51; and Teotihuacán-style public spaces at Los Horcones, 66, 68, 69, 71, 72, 80 politics: changing organization of and warfare practices in Classic Maya period, 112–14; and context of dance performances, 8; memory and power in history of at Joya, 39–52. See also sociopolitical complexity Pollard, Helen P., 90, 95–96, 98, 99, 100 Pollock, H. E., 56 Popul vuh, 84, 88 power: dance performance and ideology in Mesoamerica, 8–20; and encompassment of subordinate lords in Tarascan kingdom, 90–101; goals in study of in Mesoamerica, 120–23; household iconic traditions and changing social practices in Tlaxcala, 21–38; and memory in political history of Joya, 39–52; and objects as persons in Maya beliefs,

160

Index 82–89; overview of theory and practice in archaeological analyses of, 1–6; phallic stones of Classic Maya culture and issues of gender and regional identity, 53–62; public performance and Teotihuacán identity at Los Horcones, 63–81; ­rituals of death and disempowerment among Maya, 103–15; and theoretical focus of case studies, xi–xii, 116–19 Prechtel, M., 87 Preucel, R. W., 95 private vs. public, and archaeological discourse on ethnic identity, 65. See also public spaces Proyecto Arqueológico La Laguna, 24 Proyecto Arqueológico Los Horcones, 63 Proyecto de Interacción Politica del Centro de ­Yucatán (PIPCY), 40, 41, 48 public spaces, performances and Teotihuacán ­identity at Los Horcones, 63–81. See also plazas; private vs. public pulque. See hallucinogens Rapoport, A., 7n1 rattles, and Teotihuacán-style ceramics from Los Horcones, 78, 79 Rattray, E. C., 73 Rayner, A., 20n2 rejollada, and subterranean features of Maya sites, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 51 Relación de Michoacán (RM), 96, 99 religion: and focus of dance performance, 8; and representations of deities in Aztec dance, 10–11. See also Chaac; cosmology; Old God of Fire; ritual; Storm God; Tlaloc representation: dance and theories of theatrical, 9–11; of masculinity in Northern Maya lowlands, 55–56, 61 Resic, Sanimir, 61 Reyna Robles, 26 Ricoeur, P., 119 Ringle, W. M., 113, 114 ritual: of assuagement in Classic Maya culture, 60–62; and dance performance in Mesoamerica, 8–20; of death and disempowerment among Maya, 103–15; public space and Teotihuacán identity at Los Horcones, 80 Robb, J. E., 21 Robertson, M. G., 113 rockshelters, and subterranean features of Maya sites, 44–48, 49 Roth, Philip, 53 sacbes, and architectural features of Joya, 41, 42–44, 49, 51–52 sacrifice, and representations of deities in dance, 10–11 Sahagún, Bernardino de, 8, 10

San Lorenzo (site), 39, 44 Schechner, Richard, 20n2 Schele, Linda, 60 Scherer, A. K., 107, 109, 112 Schiffer, M. B., xi, xii Scott, Sue, 79 Seibal (site), 113, 114 Séjourné, Laurette, 75 self, and objects as persons in Maya belief system, 82–89 semiotics: as approach to performance of Mesoamerican dance, 15; and theory of personhood, 84–85, 88, 105, 115 Serra Puche, M. C., 26 settlement diversity, of Joya site, 44 Shanks, Michael B., 61 Sherratt, A., 122–23 Slater, Donald, 4 Smith, Michael E., 21, 7n1 social interpretation: of household iconic traditions and changing practices in Tlaxcala, 21–38; of intersubjective encompassment and materiality in Tarascan kingdom, 91–93; of male bodies in Northern Maya lowlands, 55–56 social-theoretical approach, to archaeological case studies. xii, 1–2, 6, 116, 117 sociopolitical complexity, and household iconic traditions in Tlaxcala, 24, 38 songs, and Aztec dance performance, 15 soul: and Maya concept of “soul loss,” 104, 105; and objects as persons in Maya belief system, 84 spatial organization, and Teotihuacán-style stelae in Los Horcones, 71, 72 speech-act theory, and dance performance in Mesoamerica, 18 stage, context of in Maya and Aztec dance performances, 14 Stanton, Travis W., 4, 41, 104, 107, 109, 115 Stark, Barbara L., 3, 6 stelae, Teotihuacán-style at Los Horcones, 66–72, 80 Storm God, and iconic traditions in Tlaxcala, 31–33, 38. See also Tlaloc Stuart, David, 20n4, 83, 103 style: and iconographic elements in material culture, 23; and subject matter of pottery decoration from Tlaxcala, 33–34, 37 Suasnavar, Jose, 109 subject, and object in Maya dance performance, 13 subterranean features, of Joya site, 44–48 Sullivan, L. A., 52 Sweely, T. L., 2 symbol, and semiotic theory of personhood, 85 Tarascan kingdom, and encompassment of subordinate lords, 90–101 161

Index Taschek, J. T., 42 Taylor, Diana, 9 teatro/theater, and descriptions of dance performances, 9 Tedlock, D., 84 Tehuantepec (site), 76, 77 Teotihuacán: influence on iconic traditions at Tlaxcala, 38; public performance and issues of identity at Los Horcones, 63–81 termination deposits, and rituals of death and disempowerment among Maya, 103–15 Tetel (site), 25, 27, 32 text: and concept of script in Aztec and Maya dance, 14–15; embodiment of in dance performance, 10 theater, and Mesoamerican dance performances, 8–17 theoretical pluralism, xi, 2 Thomas, Calvin, 54, 56, 60, 61 Thomas, J., xi Tikal (site), 110 Tilley, C., 2 Tlaloc (storm deity), 69, 71, 80 Tlapacoya (site), 26 Tlaxcala (site), changing social practices and household iconic traditions in, 21–38 tomb desecration, at Maya sites, 110 Triadic Group, and architectural features of Maya sites, 48–49 Trigger, B. G., 50 Turner, T. S., 5, 92, 93 Tzacauil (site), 39–52 Tzintzuntzan (site), 97 Ulua tradition, and figural artifacts, 87 Umberger, E., 120

Vaillant, G. C., 26, 29 Vale de Almeida, Miguel, 53–54 Vandkilde, Helle, 61 variability: and household iconic traditions in Tlaxcala, 31–33, 38; identification and assessment of in material culture, 23 Vogt, Evon Z., 83–84, 88, 104 Voigt, M. M., 33 Voss, B. L., 65 Walker, W. H., xi, 40 Wallrath, M., 76 warfare: and Classic period in Northern Maya lowlands, 61–62; and termination events at Maya sites, 112–14 weaving, and concept of coessence, 87 Webb, R. W., 112 “webs of significance,” xi–xii Webster, D. L., 112 Wobst, H. M., 7n1 Wolf, Eric R., 16, 117 Xunantunich (site), 39, 108, 112 Yaeger, J., 39, 44, 108 Yalbac (site), 40 Yaxchilán (site), 110 Yaxuná (site), 39–52, 110 zoomorphism: and iconic traditions in Tlaxcala, 28, 29, 31–33; and Teotihuacán-style ceramics from Los Horcones, 76, 78, 79

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Foundations of Archaeological Inquiry James M. Skibo, series editor Ancient Complexities: New Perspectives in Precolumbian North America Susan M. Alt, editor Living with Pottery: Ethnoarchaeology Among the Gamo of Southwest Ethiopia John W. Arthur Complex Systems and Archaeology: Empirical and Theoretical Applications R. Alexander Bentley and Herbert D. G. Maschner, editors The Archaeology of Meaningful Places Brenda J. Bowser and María Nieves Zedeño, editors Invisible Citizens: Captives and Their Consequences Catherine M. Cameron, editor Material Meanings: Critical Approaches to the Interpretation of Material Culture Elizabeth S. Chilton, editor Simulating Change: Archaeology into the Twenty-First Century Andre Costopoulos and Mark Lake, editors Pottery Ethnoarchaeology in the Central Maya Highlands Michael Deal Archaeological Perspectives on Political Economies Gary M. Feinman and Linda M. Nicholas, editors Archaeology Beyond Dialogue Ian Hodder The Archaeology of Settlement Abandonment in Middle America Takeshi Inomata and Ronald W. Webb, editors Evolutionary Archaeology: Theory and Application Michael J. O’Brien, editor Style, Function, Transmission: Evolutionary Archaeological Perspectives Michael J. O’Brien and R. Lee Lyman, editors Race and the Archaeology of Identity Charles E. Orser, Jr., editor Ancient Human Migrations: A Multidisciplinary Approach Peter N. Peregrine, Ilia Peiros, and Marcus Feldman, editors Unit Issues in Archaeology: Measuring Time, Space, and Material Ann F. Ramenofsky and Anastasia Steffen, editors Behavioral Archaeology: First Principles Michael Brian Schiffer Social Theory in Archaeology Michael Brian Schiffer, editor Studying Technological Change Michael Brian Schiffer

Craft Production in Complex Societies: Multicraft and Producer Perspectives Izumi Shimada, editor Pottery and People: A Dynamic Interaction James M. Skibo and Gary M. Feinman, editors Expanding Archaeology James M. Skibo, William H. Walker, and Axel E. Nielsen, editors Archaeological Concepts for the Study of the Cultural Past Alan P. Sullivan, III, editor Essential Tensions in Archaeological Method and Theory Todd L. VanPool and Christine S. VanPool, editors