Places of Memory: Spatialised Practices of Remembrance from Prehistory to Today [1 ed.] 9781789696141, 9781789696134

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Places of Memory Spatialised practices of remembrance from prehistory to today

edited by

Christian Horn, Gustav Wollentz, Gianpiero Di Maida, and Annette Haug

Places of Memory Spatialised practices of remembrance from prehistory to today edited by

Christian Horn, Gustav Wollentz, Gianpiero Di Maida, and Annette Haug

Archaeopress Archaeology

Archaeopress Publishing Ltd Summertown Pavilion 18-24 Middle Way Summertown Oxford OX2 7LG www.archaeopress.com

ISBN 978-1-78969-613-4 ISBN 978-1-78969-614-1 (e-Pdf)

© Archaeopress and the individual authors 2020 Cover: Photo of a rock art site in Finntorp (Tanum 90), Sweden, taken by Åke Fredsjö in 1945

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owners. This book is available direct from Archaeopress or from our website www.archaeopress.com

Contents Preface������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ ii Introduction���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������1 Christian Horn, Gustav Wollentz, Gianpiero Di Maida and Annette Haug 1. Commemoration and Change: Remembering What May Not Have Happened����������������������������������������������������8 Richard Bradley 2. The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE��������������������18 James Whitley 3. Aeneas, Romulus, and the Memory Site of the Forum Augustum in Rome���������������������������������������������������������36 Matthias J. Bensch 4. The Spoils of Eternity: Spolia as Collective Memory in the Basilica of St. Peter during the 4th century AD���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������46 Christina Videbech 5. Were TRB Depositions Boundary Markers in the Neolithic Landscape?��������������������������������������������������������������61 Michael Müller 6. Memories Created, Memories Altered: The Case of Kakucs-Turján Household and Pottery�������������������������71 Robert Staniuk 7. ‘These Battered Hills’: Landscape and Memory at Verdun (France)���������������������������������������������������������������������82 Paola Filippucci 8. Set in Stone? Transformation and Memory in Scandinavian Rock Art���������������������������������������������������������������97 Christian Horn and Rich Potter 9. Art and Practices of Memory, Space and Landscapes in the Roman World������������������������������������������������������108 Anne Gangloff 10. Restoring a Memory: The Case of Kowary Barrow (Lesser Poland, Poland)���������������������������������������������������118 Anna Gawlik and Marcin Czarnowicz 11. Art, Social Memory and Relational Ontology in the Kimberley, North West Australia�������������������������������129 Martin Porr 12. Recursivity in Kimberley Rock Art Production, Western Australia������������������������������������������������������������������137 Ana Paula Motta, Martin Porr, and Peter Veth 13. An Archaeology of Reclaiming Memories – Possibilities and Pitfalls ��������������������������������������������������������������150 Gustav Wollentz

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Preface This volume is the materialized memory of a session called ‘‘Tonight will be a memory too…’ – Memory and landscapes’ that was held at the International Open Workshop: Socio-Environmental Dynamics over the Last 15,000 Years: The Creation of Landscapes V at the Christian-Albrechts-Universität zu Kiel, Germany (20th-24th March 2017). It was organized in the framework of the Graduate School ‘Human development in Landscapes’ in which all organizers had different positions. The volume you hold in your hands presents a diversity of perspectives upon landscapes and memories. Rather than offering a uniform picture, our aim is to open up interesting areas of discussion and exchange of perspectives, which are transcending traditional disciplinary boundaries. All the editors have widely separated research fields in terms of material and chronology. However, we were amazed how fruitful a discussion of memory and landscapes was crossing these boundaries. Thus, we received many different perspectives on memories and landscapes in the session. This was such an inspiring experience that we decided to publish the contributions. Furthermore, the present volume also incorporates contributions by speakers of an earlier workshop held in Kiel in September 2015 which was organized by two of the editors (Gianpiero Di Maida and Gustav Wollentz). That Workshop (‘Acting the Landscape. The creation and use of a non-empirical space through memory, religion and power-oriented activities’) was aimed at studying the osmotic relationship between on one side the human communities and the individuals that constitute them, and on the other special places in the landscape showing thus the strong connection between the underlying concepts of the two symposia. Hence, we made the decision to host also those contributes in this volume. This operation has certainly caused a further broadening of the perspective for the publication, but – in line with the underlying spirit of the whole operation – we are sure that this will represent a refreshing and much welcomed approach.

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Introduction Christian Horn

University of Gothenburg

Gustav Wollentz

Nordic Centre of Heritage Learning and Creativity

Gianpiero Di Maida Neanderthal Museum

Annette Haug Christian-Albrechts-University Kiel

The idea to approach landscape and memory practices from a multi-disciplinary and diachronic perspective was born out of a collaboration between the editors working on archaeological conceptualizations of landscapes especially in relation to memory. Horn and Wollentz1 collaborated on an article that itself was a comment on current ‘symmetrical’ approaches in the course of the new material turn that attributes to material culture and landscapes the same primary agency that human beings exhibit. It was argued that it is worth keeping the notion that the agency of material culture and landscapes originates in human engagement with these entities and is, therefore, always a ‘secondary agency’.2 It was also argued that landscapes are not a total social construction, that they exist independently of human cognition and that they shape the ways they can be experienced by humans. Here, the article touched on the relationship between landscapes and memories. Landscapes are said to be multi-temporal,3 in which no opposition between time and space exists.4 For such a phenomenon the Russian literature professor Mikhail Bakhtin, building upon the theory of relativity by Albert Einstein, coined the term chronotope which accounts for the ‘inseparability of space and time (time as the fourth dimension of space)’.5 Thus, a multi-temporal approach to landscapes and memories lies at the center of this volume, which emphasizes diachronic and multi-disciplinary perspectives. In this introduction, we will briefly present some of the most influential theories on memory in order to situate and provide a basis for the contributions. Thereafter, we will present some concluding thoughts based on the contents of this volume. Horn and Wollentz 2019. Gell 1998. 3  Ingold 2000. 4  Bender 2006. 5  Bakhtin 1981.

Social and spatial memory Memory exists on two levels. One is individual or personalized memory and the other is memory of social collectives or collective memory.6 Breaking it down to the smallest constituent part, every action upon a landscape is an individual action. However, the normal frame of reference for research on (pre-)historic memories addresses collective memory. The term ‘collective memory’ was popularized in an influential study by Maurice Halbwachs.7 For Halbwachs, memory that extends beyond an individual’s lifetime, i.e. memories of the past, are always collectively constructed, although he recognized that individuals constitute groups and that different viewpoints on that past may exist.8 In this, memory is more than just chronology, it is the (re-)construction of past practices, motions, and emotions, i.e. the fabric of social interaction. Another major contribution in his studies, and of particular concern within this volume, is that he recognized the significance of space in locating and giving memories directions.9 It is argued that each and every memory does not only need to be located within a social framework, but also a spatial framework. Halbwachs maintains that it is especially the so-called ‘enduring’ aspects of space that makes it crucial for locating memories. He does this by claiming that impressions rush rush by fast, while the surrounding space remains intact and preserves the past, so that it can be recaptured through our memories.10 However, Halbwachs’ studies fall somewhat short in explaining the fragility and transformation of memories, as well as how memories are transferred between generations, Frank 2018. Halbwachs 1992; see also Russell 2006. 8  Halbwachs 1992. 9  Halbwachs 1980. 10  Halbwachs 1980: 139-140.

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Christian Horn, Gustav Wollentz, Gianpiero Di Maida and Annette Haug i.e. the communicative aspects of remembrance.11 Focus is regularly placed upon the maintenance of memories through social institutions which form the basis for group memories as well as through the endurance of spatial features, while the more dynamic aspects of memories are rather understood as a gradual and inevitable process inherent in the attempt at recapturing memories while simultaneously altering them in the process. In this approach variation between memories and contrasting memories within groups were not given precedence, a topic which many future scholars on memory, such as Jan Assmann and Paul Connerton, have expanded upon. Furthermore, the profound significance of space for locating and giving memories a direction, came to be expanded upon by the French historian Pierre Nora, born in 1931 and most known for his concept of ‘sites of memory’, or lieux de memoire, which he has developed over the last decades.

memory that imparts a cultural identity on a group of people. This cultural memory can be externalized in material symbols. However, things such as landscapes do not have a memory of their own and memories are not preserved for eternity after the symbols were originally infused with them. The lieux de memoire need to be re-embodied according to Assmann, which requires institutions preserving the memory and allowing the re-embodiment, for example in ritual, etc.15 Since all this depends on human agency it also incorporates the inherent possibilities of transitions, transformations, fallibility, misunderstanding, power struggles, etc. In contemporary contexts, the most obvious form of cultural memory is the one which serves to legitimize and naturalize the nation as an imagined community, making the present-day nation the natural culmination through a chronological development from then to now.16 However, it is important to emphasize that cultural memory can pertain to many different forms of identities, including more local ones. Cultural memories serve to build identities of belonging, for example connected to religion, ethnicity or class/rank. They are often hierarchical and exclusive. The communicative memory is on the contrary fluid and may challenge the cultural memory. It is oral and embodied through everyday habits and interactions. It is informal and devoid of monumental traces. These forms of memories also engage with different temporalities. Cultural memory deals with an absolute (and chronological) past, often mythological (i.e. the myth of the nation). Communicative memory, on the other hand, can only be kept intact for approximately three generations. Assmann’s studies have been widely influential in archaeology and anthropology. However, they are not free from critics: Assmann’ approach has been accused of lacking an understanding of how materiality and memory functions in indigenous contexts pertaining to problematic evolutionary ideas concerning cultural development (Porr, this volume).

Sites of memory Pierre Nora12 took a very proactive stance with this concept because he feared that memory would fade into history in post-war France. To prevent or slow down this occurrence, Nora wanted to create and maintain sites of memory in the landscape. He saw a division between ‘memory’ (as in oral histories and traditions) and ‘history’ (as in the official canonized national history). Often these sites were battlefields perhaps because they represent an especially difficult heritage.13 From such places of memory an individual can create meaning from the past. While this may be useful to archaeological and critical heritage studies, Nora’s definition is very broad and his clear division between memory and history has been criticised. This criticism led to narrower definitions and more layered views.14 Indeed, as Anne Gangloff ’s chapter within this volume stresses, Nora has distanced himself from many of the varied applications of ‘sites of memory’ among scholars influenced by his work, often connected to a too rigid understanding of the concept (Gangloff, this volume).

Incorporating and inscribing practices One of the most influential scholars on memory within the last decades has been the British social anthropologist Paul Connerton.17 This influence can be traced to three main reasons. Firstly, Connerton pays attention to the embodied aspects of remembrance, through what he coins ‘incorporating practices’.18 Secondly, Connerton has studied how the so-called spatial framework, introduced by Halbwachs, does not only help us remember, but also, as in cases of rapid development and re-organization of the urban space within modernity, causes us to more swiftly

Inner, social and cultural memory Jan Assmann sees the human self, following Thomas Luckmann, as ‘diachronic identity’. He relates time, identity, and memory. It could be said that memory compounds time to allow the formation of an identity. All three aspects are split into three levels: inner (individual), social (communicative), and cultural. Cultural memory and Halbwachs’ collective memory are linked in that cultural memory is a form of collective See also Assmann 2008; 2011; Connerton 1989: 36-39. Nora 1996. 13  Nora 1989; 1996. 14  See for example Assmann 2008; Winter 2008.

Assmann 2008. See also Anderson 2006; Balibar 2002. 17  Connerton 1989; 2009; 2011. 18  Connerton 1989.

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Introduction

Content of the volume

forget.19 Therefore, the physical landscape influences our memories in profound and unexpected ways. This way of framing memory helps us to move away from approaches which regard the landscape simply as a visual ideology or a social construction. Thirdly, Connerton does not make an a priori value judgement in regard to remembrance being inherently positive and forgetting being inherently negative. He acknowledges that the process of forgetting is both inevitable as well as prerequisite when shaping a sense of self and for finding a direction for the self when moving forward.20

These theoretical excursions into some of the most influential researchers on memory demonstrate that memories and landscapes are in a multi-layered relationship which is dependent on the cultural context but holds transcending aspects. Thus, the relationships between memories and landscapes can be studied within the framework of different categories. Monuments, media, and material culture within landscapes are used in an attempt to preserve and access memories of events. Incorporating and inscribing practices, including periodical gathering at memorials, are memory practices carried out by the communities. These are often laced with effects such as identity formation and power plays. Such effects may well be intended, and the use of memories can be quite deliberate. Such use may include not barely evoking memories but shaping and changing them. The book is organized roughly in accordance to these three categories. Within these sections, the chronological theme is largely kept, but some exceptions are made for contributions that work across several phases. Before passing to some concluding remarks, we will provide a short overview of the contents of the papers of the volume.

Connerton21 is locating two forms of social practices in order to understand how memory is amassed, namely incorporating and inscribing ones. Incorporating practices are messages imparted by bodily activity. These constitute habits which are embodied and routinized, often ritualized. Therefore, a study of the transmission and alteration of memories demands a recognition of the embodied and performative dimensions of memory. Inscribing practices on the other hand, constitute the acts of trying to preserve, trap and store information through physical means. A vast amount of material that archaeologists work with are results of inscribing practices, be they megalithic passage graves or war memorials in Verdun. However, the practice and process of attempting to preserve memories by physical means does not mean that memories themselves are being physically inscribed.

Monuments, media, and material culture The landscape as a multi-temporal entity facilitating different relationships to memory or rather memories and monuments, is discussed by Richard Bradley on the example of the hill of Tara on the east coast of Ireland traditionally believed to be the site of inauguration of the kings of Ireland. He shows how still visible ancient monuments including Neolithic barrows (3300-3200 BC) were repurposed throughout time, but that this does not mean that their history or original historical significance was understood. He argues that the connection that was made to such places was a creative act perhaps establishing memories to events that never happened.

These two concepts are not to be regarded as mutually exclusive. Indeed, practices can include elements which are simultaneously incorporating and inscribing. One illustrative example would be the act of writing a document. Holding the pencil and moving it with the hand is an incorporating practice, i.e. being a routinized and subconscious memorial practice. However, the outcome is an inscribing practice, i.e. an attempt to preserve memories by physical means. If we relate these concepts to Jan Assmann’s22 distinction between three forms of memories, both incorporating and inscribing practices are contributing to individual, communicative and cultural memory. Nevertheless, inscribing practices are to a higher degree adding to the cultural memory, for example when a linear history is presented at a national museum23 or when a text book is produced for school children.24 Incorporating practices have a larger degree of flexibility and freedom which make them more suitable in challenging the cultural memory, for example through acts of demonstrations.

By comparing two different regions in Archaic Aegean (800-450 BC), namely the Argolid and Eastern Crete, James Whitley argues that that there is no single Greek past. Instead Greek pasts always have to be seen as multiple, contested and full of variation. In the Argolid, multiple pasts were referenced and sometimes celebrated, manifesting itself in different media such as rich oral traditions of epic poetry and on iconography. Here, the past was constantly re-imagined and reclaimed. In Eastern Crete, on the other hand, there is no evidence of epic poetry, instead the past was maintained through material and ritual conservatism. This in turn serves as a critique of the term ‘ancestral’ as an explanatory model of referencing the past because it reduces complexity – instead pasts always have to be seen as multiple. In this spirit, his use of the term past

Connerton 2009. Connerton 2008; 2011: 51-82. Connerton 1989. 22  Assmann 2008. 23  Aronsson and Elgenius 2011. 24  See Šebek 2010. 19  20  21 

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instead of memory transcends any sharp distinction between memory and history.

During the Nordic Bronze Age (1800/1700-550 BC), mainly in Sweden, the transformation of memories may be observed using older rock art images. That is argued by Christian Horn and Rich Potter who employ new and traditional documentations of rock art in Scandinavia to demonstrate several processes through which images were altered creating new scenes and motifs. They argue that rock art and the connected memories were changeable and that such change was informed by lived practices. However, this process was potentially streamlined by the cultural memory that was conveyed by the scenes and motifs already on the rocks.

Matthias J. Bensch’s paper deals with memory and power in the early imperial times (27 BC – 200 AD), in Rome. By tracking down the re-use of two ancestral figures, and their role in the foundation of the city, we are led to discover their function within the complex of the Forum Augustum and how this space finally became the merging-point of four types of the Erinnerungskulturen in the representation and display of the Augustean version of the history of Rome. Another form of using material culture to facilitate collective memory is discussed by Christina Videbech. She investigates how reused materials, so called spolia, were used to make the Basilica of St. Peter in Rome a vessel of collective memory and Roman identity during the 4th century AD. She argues that this allowed Christianity to present itself as a continuation of the Roman past, and not as a break, legitimizing the new religion in a time when new things were viewed with suspicion.

Based on Halbwachs’ notion that memories have to be anchored Anne Gangloff reflects on the link between landscape and memory in the Roman world (100 BC – 200 AD). Using literary sources, she demonstrates that this link was obvious to ancient Romans. Gangloff develops a critical reading of Pierre Nora and argues against the rigidity of the concept. This, and a discussion of others like Jan Assmann and Susan Alcock, sets up her theoretical framework to consider memories and landscapes in Roman paintings as mementos of memory spaces. She ends by formulating one of the main challenges for the study of the theme memory and landscapes in the Roman world, which is the question, whether or not it is possible to move beyond the conception of a ‘topical’ landscape.

Memory practices In a study of depositional practices of stone objects from the Funnel Beaker Complex (4100–2800 cal BC), Michael Müller argues that some of them may be ritually relinquished objects marking the borders of social space. The very acts of depositing these objects may have stayed present in the collective memory, constituting part of the frame forming group identities. This may be an example how ritual activities such as depositing a hoard can inaugurate memorial spaces.

Anna Gawlik and Marcin Czarnowicz demonstrate how archaeology can recover memories. Their contribution details the excavation of a Bronze Age barrow in the village of Kowary, Poland. The accounts of an eyewitness in the village suggests that this barrow was used for burials during WWI. However, the excavation revealed that instead of WWI soldiers, the Bronze Age barrow had been used for burials during the 17th century, most likely for victims of an epidemic or a plague. The case thus provides a discussion of archaeology as a discipline which can bring new memories to light, as well as on oral history and the interplay between remembering and forgetting.

That everyday activities, like pottery making and house building, can be memory practices is demonstrated by Robert Staniuk. He is applying Jan Assmann’s concepts of ‘memory of things’ and ‘communicative memory’, when examining the household pottery of the Middle Bronze Age (c. 2000-1450 BC) site ‘Kakucs-Turján Mögött’, a fortified Vatya culture settlement located in present-day Hungary. Staniuk uses memory studies as a way to overcome archaeologically developed temporal boundaries, through investigating how the embeddedness of memory practices in daily life allows long-term transmissions.

Martin Porr brings us to Australia and into the remote Kimberly region: he uses the long-researched concept and specific characteristic of the Australian aboriginal culture – ‘The Dreaming’ – to investigate the relation between memory, rock art and enactment of the landscape in that part of the continent. The author, then, compares Assmann’s general ideas about social memory with the specific Kimberly’s case, and, by doing so, he successfully manages to shed light on, and to correct some of the general assumptions within Assmann’s theory.

Looking at memory practices at the WWI (1914-1918) Verdun battlefield, Paola Filippucci argues that the landscape of the battle acts upon the memory of successive generations, making those who died in the battle imaginatively and affectively available for care. In turn, this challenges the notion that the battle has, with time and the passing of generations, resided into a distant and abstract ‘history’. 4

Introduction

The paper by Ana Paula Motta, Peter Veth and Martin Porr focuses on the same region and rock art record. More specifically, their contribution deals with one aspect that plays an enormous role in the deciphering of memory practices in the landscapes within (ethno-) archaeological contexts: the recursivity. Thanks to an in-depth and wonderfully documented analysis of the most relevant cases, the authors allow us to gain a unique insight on the crucial aspect of when recursivity is present and when it is absent in the given record, and what are the possible conclusions that we can infer from such data.

memorialize the history of British nationalism in different ways and use that as arguments either for or against the EU, in which also the prehistoric past of Britain is being actively employed.26 There are no memorials yet commemorating a potential Brexit or its last-minute defeat. However, material culture and media, such as millions of placards, posters, stickers, etc. has been produced and already placed on or carried through the landscape, and photographs have been taken for coming generations to study. Furthermore, the influence of the far-right into archaeological practice, feeding specific narratives of the past, is not limited to the UK.27 This calls for archaeologists and heritage professionals to be attentive and sensitive to how information is spread and potentially misused.

Gustav Wollentz provides a theoretical excursion, in which he outlines possibilities and pitfalls within an archaeology of reclaiming memories. The suggested possibilities are that it may challenge temporal borders, constitute a more ethical archaeology and lend greater value to archaeological sites as heritage. The suggested pitfalls are an a priori valuation of ‘authentic’ memories as superior to what is deemed to constitute ‘altered’ memories, an assumption of forgetting as inherently negative and remembering as inherently positive, and a neglect of the forward-oriented dimensions of memories.

For example, many authors were able to demonstrate that memories could be changed, tweaked, and used for different purposes (see Bensch, Horn, Motta et al.). The memory of wars is shaped by the antecedents depending on whether they identify with the group that lost or the group that won the conflict (see Wollentz, Filippucci). Even different groups on the same side of a conflict remember differently depending on their cultural context and the way the conflict arose and developed.28 The German ‘Erinnerungskultur’ (engl. commemorative culture) of the Second World War and the Shoa emerged from a culture of forgetting what happened, arguably caused by the totality of the loss, authoritarianism, and the severity of the crimes against humanity. The same aspects may have caused the attempts of later generations to purge themselves by portraying these things as long gone history or a past that had no bearing on the present.29 Indeed, heritage becomes a political arena in post-war contexts, in which temporal proximity or distance can be actively invoked in order to either emphasize continuity or a break with the past.30 In many sensitive cases, the atrocities of a war may be actively silenced in top-down attempts of forgetting. This occurred in the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), through the so-called ‘Pact of Forgetting’ or ‘Pact of Silence’.31 However, such enforced attempts of forgetting seldom succeed but may instead lead to alternative ways of remembering. Nevertheless, Alfredo Gonzaléz-Ruibal32 has provided an interesting account on Equatorial Guinea in which he argues that a ‘production of oblivion’ has created a ‘land of amnesia’. He calls the result ‘anti-heritage’. The past, and practices associated to it, may not only be forgotten, but also fabricated or invented,33 which may

Conclusion With this volume we hope we have been able to demonstrate that landscapes have an important role in the wider social process of preserving, altering, and potentially falsifying memories. The thematic and chronological variety demonstrates that the relationship of memories and landscapes can be studied diachronically. The diachronic perspective of this volume highlights that memorials, memory practices, and the use of memories are in complex and multivocal relationships that transcend times. The way in which these relationships and memories are shaped is highly time and context specific. Here, archaeology and heritage studies are topical for modern and current affairs. Memories can be individually chosen as important to remember, as well as collectively enforced from the topdown. Selective features of the past, whether material or not, can help legitimize new social institutions (see Videbech). Thus, it is important to keep in mind that cultural/collective memories are seldom innocent or self-evident, but often connected to specific power relations. The recent resurgence of populism is based on such selective memory of a glorified past.25 That this does not only influences ideologies and collective identities but manifests in policy can be seen in the 2016 Brexit referendum and the subsequent developments that this caused. Parties to either side of the divide 25 

Gardner and Harrison 2017; Bonnachi et al. 2018; Brophy 2018. See Niklasson and Hølleland 2018 for examples from Scandinavia. 28  Brandt et al. 2003. 29  Adorno 1996; Benz 1991; Klenke and Tholen 1988. 30  Macdonald 2009; Wollentz 2017. 31  Viejo-Rose 2011. 32  Gonzaléz-Ruibal 2016. 33  Hobsbawm and Ranger 1983. 26  27 

Bonikowski 2016; Torres 2016.

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Christian Horn, Gustav Wollentz, Gianpiero Di Maida and Annette Haug lead to memories of things that never happened (see Bradley, Whitley).

We do not contend that this volume has all the answers to the complex issues modern society faces. However, the long-term perspective adds an indirect critical voice that helps us understand the embeddedness of memories, their malleability, and how space can be used and contested to empower memories. The diachronic approach of this volume shows that the issues, functions, and interpretations are usually similar but different, which means that a diachronic perspective as provided here can cross-fertilize studies about collective/individual memory, lieux de memoir, identity construction, the transmission of myths, forgetting, and misremembering. Remembering can be a passive and subconscious process, as well as an active and deliberate one. Sometimes archaeology and heritage studies make a direct contribution and act directly as a corrective in testing whether personal recollections are accurate or not (see Gawlik and Czarnowicz), outline ways forward in how to deal with contested or subaltern memories (see Wollentz),36 or criticize the academic conceptions of memories and memorials (see Gangloff). While this is exciting and should be developed in the future, it is also important to remember that the past does not justify present action. Policy is not justified purely on the basis that ‘people in the past did it’.

There are two temporal aspects linked to memories, memorials, and the use of both. Remembering things that have not happened fills a void that is left by forgetting that which occurred (see Bradley, Fillipucci, Wollentz, Gangloff, Gawlik and Czarnowicz, Videbech). Many memories are of temporally bounded relevance. For people born two centuries ago, the memory of the battle of Waterloo probably still loomed large in the collective and individual memory with father and grandfathers taking part in the fighting. Today, the battle for Waterloo is probably most famously ‘relocated’ to a Swedish pop band during the 1970s, and even that memory is fading. However, from an archaeological perspective it is also possible to observe how the long-term incorporation and strengthening of such memories and memory practices (see Bradley, Staniuk, Horn) gave rise to particular social trajectories and identities. Today the mass belief in a variety of conspiracy theories, for example memorializing the John F. Kennedy assassination as a government plot, may shape the self-identity of entire segments of populations.34 This may also be done in an official capacity by sacrificing stone objects (see Müller) or by constructing a museum dedicated to the 9/11 attacks directly on the footprint of the destroyed World Trade Centre twin towers in New York. Landscapes and materialized spaces are the realm in and through which memories are remembered and renegotiated. Through popular culture or storytelling, place-bound memories may be tied to people that never existed and events that never happened. For example, the small town of Ystad in southern Sweden has had an influx of tourists in the wake of the success of the detective Kurt Wallander novels, written by Henning Mankell. Despite the fact that Wallander never existed, tours have been organized which visit the home of Wallander and other important places as revealed through the books.35 A similar occurrence is happening in Montmartre, Paris, after the success of the 2001 movie Amelie from Montmartre.

We hope that this volume will provide some thoughtprovoking and innovative perspectives on memory, material culture and landscapes. Perhaps these case studies and theoretical excursions can even plant the seeds of new ‘memories’ worth further research. After all, there is no lack of memories out there, and new ones are born, materialized, remembered, forgotten, and mis-remembered every single day. References Adorno, T.W. 1996. Eingriffe: Neun kritische Modelle. Suhrkamp, Frankfurt am Main. Anderson, B. 2006. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Revised Edition. London, Verso. [First edition published in 1983] Aronsson, P. and Elgenius, G. eds. 2011. Building National Museums in Europe 1750–2010: Conference Proceedings from EuNaMus, European National Museums: Identity Politics, the Uses of the Past and the European Citizen, Bologna 28–30 April, 2011. EuNaMu Report No. 1 (WP2). Linköping, Linköping University Electronic Press. https://www.diva-portal.org/smash/get/ diva2:450373/FULLTEXT01.pdf Assmann, J. 2008. Communicative and cultural memory. Cultural memory studies. An international and interdisciplinary handbook, edited by A. Erll, A. Nünning, S.B. Young. Berlin and New York, Walter de Gruyter: 109–118.

There are also uncounted places of memory in the landscape. This makes landscapes potential arenas where power structures materialize themselves and can be studied. However, it is important to recognize smaller scale memories, memorials, and memory practices. For each memorial of the scale of Waterloo or Brandenburg Gate, there are thousands of small statues of local dignitaries. For each annual gathering at Ground Zero in New York, there are thousands of cemeteries with local customs where loved ones are mourned. 34  35 

Oliver and Wood 2014. Holtorf and Faitclough 2013.

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Gonzaléz-Ruibal 2018.

Introduction

Assmann, J. 2011. Cultural memory and early civilization: writing, remembrance, and political imagination. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Bakhtin, M.M. 1981. The dialogic imagination: Four essays by M.M. Bakhtin. Austin, University of Texas Press. Balibar, É. 2002. Nationsformen: Historia och ideology. Ras, Nation, Klass, edited by B. Étiene and W. Immanuel. Uddevalla, Boförlaget Daidalos AB. Bender, B. 2006. Place and Landscape. Handbook of material culture, edited by C. Tilley, W. Keane, S. Küchler, M. Rowlands, P. Spyer. London, Sage: 303– 314. Benz, W. 1991. Der schwierige Status der jüdischen Minderheit in Deutschland nach 1945. Zwischen Antisemitismus und Philosemitismus. Juden in der Bundesrepublik, edited by W. Benz. Berlin, Metropol: 9–23. Bonacchi, C., Altaweel, M., and Krzyzanska, M. 2018. The heritage of Brexit: Roles of the past in the construction of political identities through social media. Journal of Social Archaeology 18 (2): 174–192. https://doi.org/10.1177/1469605318759713 Brandt, S. Cornelissen, C., Klinkhammer, L. and Schwentker, W. 2003. Erinnerungskulturen: Deutschland, Italien und Japan seit 1945. Frankfurt am Main, Fischer. Brophy, K. 2018. The Brexit hypothesis and prehistory. Antiquity, 92 (366): 1650-1658. doi:10.15184/ aqy.2018.160 Connerton, P. 1989. How societies remember. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Connerton, P. 2009. How modernity forgets. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Connerton, P. 2011. The spirit of mourning: history, memory and the body. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Frank, R.M. 2018. Collective Social Memory as Manifest in Skyscape Narratives. Journal of Skyscape Archaeology 4.1: 124–128. Gardner, A. and Harrison, R. 2017. Brexit, Archaeology and Heritage: Reflections and Agendas. Papers from the Institute of Archaeology, 27(1). DOI: http://doi. org/10.5334/pia-544 Gell, A. 1998. Art and agency: An anthropological theory. Oxford, Clarendon Press. González-Ruibal, A. 2016. Land of Amnesia: Power, Predation, and Heritage in Central Africa. Excavating Memory: Sites of Remembering and Forgetting, edited by M. T. Starzmann and J. R. Roby. Gainesville, University Press of Florida: 131-152. Halbwachs, M. 1980. The Collective Memory. Harper and Row. [First edition published in 1950] Halbwachs, M. 1992. On collective memory. The heritage of sociology. Chicago, University of Chicago Press.

Hobsbawm, E. and Ranger, T. eds. 1983. The invention of tradition. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Holtorf, C. and Fairclough, G. 2013. The New Heritage and re-shapings of the past. Reclaiming Archaeology: Beyond the Tropes of Modernity, edited by A. GonzálezRuibal. P.. 197–210. Abingdon and New York, Routledge. Horn, C. and Wollentz, G. 2019. Who is in charge here? Material culture, landscapes, and symmetry. Past landscapes. The dynamics of interaction between society, landscape, and culture, edited by A. Haug, L. Käppel and J. Müller. Leiden, Sidestone Press: 107–129. Ingold, T. 2000. The perception of the environment: Essays on livelihood, dwelling and skill. New York, Routledge. Klenke, C.-V. and Tholen, G.C. 1988. Trauma, Historisierung und eingebildete Identität.  Die Neue deutsche Ideologie. Einsprüche gegen die Entsorgung der Vergangenheit, edited by W. Eschenhagen. Darmstadt, Luchterhand: 59–77. Macdonald, S. 2009. Difficult Heritage: Negotiating the Nazi Past in Nuremberg and Beyond. Abingdon, Routledge. Niklasson, E. and Hølleland, H. 2018. The Scandinavian far-right and the new politicisation of heritage. Journal of Social Archaeology 18 (2): 121–148. https:// doi.org/10.1177/1469605318757340 Nora, P. 1989. Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire. Representations 26: 7–24. Nora, P. 1996. Realms of memory: Rethinking the French past. European perspectives. New York and Chichester, Columbia University Press. Oliver, J.E. and Wood, T.J. 2014. Conspiracy Theories and the Paranoid Style(s) of Mass Opinion. American Journal of Political Science 58.4: 952–966. Russell, N. 2006. Collective Memory before and after Halbwachs. The French Review 79.4: 792–804. Šebek, N. 2010. How Turkish is your Coffee. The SEE Joint History Project. The Museum as Forum and Actor. Edited by F. Svanberg. Stockholm, The Museum of National Antiquities: 115-124. Viejo-Rose, D. 2011. Reconstructing Spain: cultural heritage and memory after Civil War. Brighton, Sussex Academic. Winter, J. 2008. Sites of Memory and the Shadow of War. Cultural memory studies. An international and interdisciplinary handbook, edited by A. Erll, A. Nünning, S.B. Young. Berlin and New York, Walter de Gruyter: 61–74. Wollentz, G. 2017. Prehistoric violence as difficult heritage: Sandby Borg - a place of avoidance and belonging. Current Swedish Archaeology 25: 199-226.

7

Commemoration and Change: Remembering What May Not Have Happened Richard Bradley

University of Reading [email protected]

Dinnshenchas: memory and oral literature This paper begins with what must have been one of the first field surveys: the early medieval poem ‘Tara noblest of hills’.1 It belonged to the distinctive genre known as dinnshenchas which described the traditions associated with Irish place names. This account referred to a series of ancient monuments and explained their relationship to one another on the ground. It was so precise that a 19th-century scholar was able to identify the various structures on the Hill of Tara, 30km from the east coast of Ireland (Figure 1).2 But that does not explain the character of the original exercise. Like archaeologists today, its authors interpreted what they saw in relation to a distant past. It raises some important questions. How old were those monuments when they were described? Did any of them remain in use? Were the accounts preserved in the dinnshenchas an accurate reflection of the original character of these structures? And why was it important to remember it? The last question is the easiest to answer. Tara had long been considered as the seat of kings – a place which was used for public assemblies and the inauguration of rulers. For a while it was controlled by the southern Uí Néill, but by the 11th century AD their influence was in decline.3 By emphasising the significance of the hill the court poet could advance their claims to a distinguished history. When the dinnshenchas was composed the hilltop might have been largely deserted. Although some new earthworks could have been constructed, Tara featured a series of ancient monuments, as it does today. By contrast, elite residences and Christian churches were established in the surrounding countryside.4 The dinnshenchas interpreted the remains on the Hill of Tara in relation to the historical narratives preserved in the Ulster Cycle and similar texts.5 Taken together, they provided an origin myth for Irish society. The best Bhreathnach 1993. Petrie 1839. 3  Bhreathnach 1993; 1999. 4  O’Sullivan and Kinsella 2013. 5  Mallory 2016. 1 

known element is the Táin or the Cattle Raid of Cooley. The actual age of these tales has been disputed, and different authorities have suggested that they refer to any time between the pre-Roman Iron Age and the Viking period. By associating the Hill of Tara with the Uí Néill political agenda, the dinnshenchas emphasised the antiquity of the surviving monuments. Excavation has shown that some of them do date from the Iron Age, with an emphasis on the period between 100 BC and AD 350. Others were even older and were reused at that time. The structural sequence at Tara remains uncertain, but at Uisneach an important monument has been dated to an early medieval phase, and there is more evidence from Teltown, Raffin and the Hill of Ward. Of course, Tara might have been used for inaugurations and assemblies as the texts suggest, but those activities could have taken place at ancient earthworks as well as new constructions. The earliest literary sources present another problem, and this is illustrated by two books which discuss the same material. The first is Archaeology and Celtic Myth6 and the other is Mallory’s study In Search of the Irish Dreamtime7. At first sight they arrive at different conclusions, but the contrasts between them identify some points of interest. One of Waddell’s concerns is the ancient cosmos. He considers the notion of an underworld and the movements of the sun. In addition to the Irish texts he draws on the iconography of Celtic Art and the reuse of megalithic tombs. He places a special emphasis on the study of votive deposits, especially the Roman Iron Age valuables from the Neolithic monument at Newgrange which traditional sources claimed as a dwelling of the gods. By contrast, Mallory focuses on the details of the buildings, fortifications and artefacts described in the Ulster Cycle. They were very different from those of the Iron Age but some of them resemble features of the Viking Age. One reason why they had been dated to an earlier phase is that the texts quoted from Roman sources and the Bible, but they would have been familiar when the stories were written down. In fact the

2 

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 8–17

6  7 

Waddell 2014. Mallory 2016.

Commemoration and Change: Remembering What May Not Have Happened

Figure 1. George Petrie’s survey of the Hill of Tara drawing on the evidence of the dinnshenchas. Source: Petrie 1839

9

Richard Bradley strongest link with an ancient past was the siting of the royal centres mentioned in these accounts. Excavation provides direct evidence that they were established during the pre-Roman and Roman Iron Ages. Tara is just one example of a wider phenomenon in Ireland.

The dinnshenchas illustrates many of these elements. It focused on a series of distinctive features at Tara.10 There were earthwork enclosures which could still be recognised, and there were the remains of other structures built out of flagstones; they were interpreted as graves. Mounds also featured in the accounts. All these elements were visible but of unknown age. More striking were unmarked places which were recorded as the sites of activities that left no trace behind; it is revealing that they were comparatively rare. Such locations played a part in the Ulster Cycle, but their history was no longer understood.

How can these accounts be reconciled with one another? They describe very different features. For Waddell, it was long standing beliefs about the supernatural and the cosmos that were most resilient. Mallory shows that the texts include elements from the familiar world no matter how concerned the authors were to set their accounts in the past. Similar contrasts have been identified in other studies of epic literature. Mallory’s approach recalls discussions of Homer which suggest that his poems refer to features of Iron Age Greece as well as their ostensible setting in the Mycenaean period.8 By contrast, Waddell’s method is similar to that of Andrén9 who finds echoes of Bronze Age belief in accounts of Old Norse religion. Does this mean that certain elements maintained their importance for a longer time than others?

The dinnshenchas also referred to natural features and processes that were difficult to explain. In the case of Tara they were a rock outcrop, springs, streams and a marsh. They could possess a special significance because metalwork was deposited in similar locations. The same applies to wells like the legendary source of the Boyne. Other examples include caves that communicated with an Otherworld, and ruined megalithic tombs.11 Certain structures may have been organised according to celestial alignments. That certainly applied to an ancient monument like Newgrange,12 but it was also true of the pre-Roman Iron Age enclosure at Lissmullin on the edge of the Tara complex.13

When the texts were committed to writing they described events in the past that endorsed political manoeuvres in the present. While certain concepts might have retained their importance for centuries, these accounts included elements that would have been understood because they were consistent with the experience of an early medieval audience. It is clear that the royal centres of the Ulster Cycle did play a role in the Iron Age, but their character was different from the descriptions of them in the written sources. This was not because people intended to falsify the past. The truth is that many of its elements were beyond recall. The first attempts to write a history of Ireland provided a mythical charter for the kings of Tara and drew on what evidence was still available. It did include ancient monuments, but the details of these places must have been lost.

None of these relationships involved the workings of memory, for too much information had been lost over the course of time. A more appropriate term is commemoration which can be characterised as human activity undertaken in response to a past. This might involve an act of interpretation, but its historical accuracy was not the critical factor. Instead it has to be understood in its social context. To return to the dinnshenchas, the earliest accounts of Tara drew on what could be seen there, but they were intended to endorse the claims of the southern Uí Néill. Oral literature has an important contribution to make in considering the past in the past. Can this subject be considered where written sources are absent? The second part of this paper is restricted to archaeological evidence.

The work of Mallory and Waddell suggests that some things were forgotten more readily than others. The details of settlements and artefacts were the most vulnerable elements and the first to be revised as the stories were performed. These features had to be updated so that they could be understood by the audience, and in Ireland this process reached its conclusion during the early medieval period. On the other hand, certain places were still respected although little was known of how they had been used. The remains of ancient monuments could be identified on the ground, as they were at Tara.

Monuments around the source of the Kennet The Kennet is the principal tributary of the River Thames and is notable for the abundance of prehistoric monuments around its source. It rises close to Avebury, 75km from the coast of southern England, where the water emerges seasonally from the chalk. The one spring that rarely dries up is in the shadow of Silbury Hill, the Bhreathnach 1993. Waddell 2014. 12  O’Kelly 1982. 13  O’Connell 2013. 10 

8  9 

11 

Sherratt and Bennet eds. 2017. Andrén 2014.

10

Commemoration and Change: Remembering What May Not Have Happened

Figure 2. The Swallowhead Spring which was one of the principal sources of the Kennet

The earlier phases

largest prehistoric mound in Europe (Figure 2). There were other structures nearby, whose history spanned four millennia. They include a well-known chambered tomb (West Kennet long barrow), a series of palisaded enclosures and an important Late Neolithic settlement. During later periods the same area contained what may have been an Iron Age shrine, a Roman town and a Late Saxon fortification. How were their histories related to one another?

The oldest monument in this group preserves the longest sequence and the history of that site can be related to most of the developments in the surrounding area. The West Kennet long barrow (Figure 3) is a chambered tomb set in one end of a trapezoidal mound. One chamber was excavated during the 19th century, but four others remained intact until they were investigated in the 1950s.15 Originally they contained at least 36 individuals whose bodies had been placed there over about 50 years. The primary deposits date to the 37th century BC.16

To keep the argument within bounds, this account considers these monuments in two groups. The first extends from the Middle Neolithic to the Chalcolithic period, and the second between the Iron Age and the Anglo-Saxon phase. It is restricted to the structures around the Swallowhead Spring, but they form only part of a larger complex which includes the henge monument and stone circle at Avebury. There are two reasons why they do not feature here. The first is that Wheatley14 has already taken a comparable approach to their archaeology, and this paper draws on his ideas. A second issue is that they are not precisely dated. That does not apply to the monuments around Silbury Hill. There are radiocarbon dates from nearly all their components. The Roman phase is accurately dated by diagnostic artefacts and coins. 14 

Certain details of the earthwork are particularly relevant to this account. Like similar structures it faced the position of the morning sun, but in this case its long axis was also directed down the valley of the River Kennet as it flowed towards its confluence with the Thames 60km to the east. The alignment of the monument must have been important as the mound seems to have been lengthened during a secondary phase. The connection between the monument and 15 

Wheatley 2015.

16 

11

Piggott 1962. Bayliss, Whittle and Wysocki 2007.

Richard Bradley

Figure 3. The West Kennet Long Barrow

the river assumed even more importance during subsequent phases.

done the same. They took in a section of the river 500m downstream from the Swallowhead Spring. Few artefacts were associated with either of these structures and any material that had accumulated on these sites must have been taken away. Perhaps it was deposited inside the older tomb; it may even have been opened for the purpose. As well as food remains it included a series of lavishly decorated vessels in a style which was used in southern England during the Middle Neolithic period. At the same time, additional human remains were placed inside the tomb, but the primary deposits remained largely intact. Radiocarbon dating has confirmed that the bones in the secondary filling were more recent than the original burials.

The dating programme undertaken at this monument had two unexpected results.17 The first was that this massive structure was used for only half a century before the tomb was closed. The other was that it was brought back into use after a period of abandonment that could have lasted 300 years. At that stage it seems possible that part of its roof was removed so that the primary deposits were exposed. Then over almost a millennium the chambers were filled with a series of deposits that included inhumation burials, disarticulated human bone, cremations, faunal remains and a selection of artefacts among which were pins, beads and decorated pottery.

By the end of the fourth millennium BC the enclosures had gone out of use, but the tomb still continued to receive special deposits. It retained its importance as new developments happened in the surrounding area. The first was the reuse of the sites of the palisaded enclosures by people who employed a new ceramic style which is often associated with the ceremonial centres of the Late Neolithic. A settlement developed there and produced an assemblage of animal bones which were probably the remains of feasts.20 It is possible that there were ephemeral houses as well as timber circles, but

It was at about the time when the tomb was reused that two palisaded enclosures were built on the lower ground overlooked by the barrow (Figure 4).18 New dates show that they were constructed between 3300 and 3200 BC.19 There were obvious connections with the previous history of the site. One of the enclosures spanned the Kennet, and its neighbour may have Bayliss, Whittle and Wysocki 2007. Whittle 1997: 53-167. 19  Bayliss et al. 2017. 17  18 

20 

12

Bayliss et al. 2017.

Commemoration and Change: Remembering What May Not Have Happened

Figure 4. The site of the palisaded enclosures viewed from the West Kennet long barrow. The monuments were on the low ground in the centre of the picture

there is not enough evidence to show this. On the other hand, the settlement occupied exactly the same position as the timber enclosures, although little trace of the abandoned monument could have been recognised on the ground. Artefacts contemporary with the reuse of that site were placed inside the long barrow.

This remarkable sequence ended with the first appearance of Bell Beakers and metalwork in southern Britain. It seems likely that this phase saw significant developments in the composition of the local population, and it is possible that the construction of enormous monuments was one way of reasserting traditional norms in the face of sudden change.22 It was then that the construction of monuments at West Kennet came to an end. At the long barrow it happened when decorated Beaker vessels were placed inside the monument during the late third millennium BC.23

The Late Neolithic settlement was contemporary with an even more impressive monument: Silbury Hill itself (Figure 5). It changed its form in the course of construction, starting as a circular enclosure bounded by a bank and ditch.21 It had a central mound which grew to enormous proportions over a surprisingly short period of time. Although it was associated with few prehistoric artefacts, its creation seems to have spanned the period between about 2500 and 2400 BC. Like the long barrow which remained a conspicuous feature on the horizon, it overlooked the spring that was the principal source of the Kennet. Still more important, it was bounded by a ditch which can still hold water today. On one side of the earthwork it was enlarged to create an enormous pool. Anyone standing on the mound commands an impressive view over the surrounding area. 21 

Commentary How should these developments be interpreted? Perhaps some lessons can be learned from the history of Tara. Certain questions seem particularly important. Would the remains of older structures have been comprehensible to a later audience? West Kennet long barrow belonged to a well-researched architectural tradition. It is unlikely that similar structures were being built in the region by the late fourth millennium BC, but this was a period when the entrances of other 22 

Leary, Field and Campbell 2013.

23 

13

Bradley 2013: 13-14. Piggott 1962: 44-45.

Richard Bradley

Figure 5. Silbury Hill seen from the West Kennet long barrow. The Roman small town was on the low ground in front of the mound and on the right hand side of the monument

tombs were blocked.24 It means that they would have been familiar at the time that West Kennet long barrow was brought back into use. The nature of such a building would have been understood when the palisaded enclosures encircled the course of the river, and this may be why the deposition of human remains resumed there.

the direction of the rising sun. Those features remained the same throughout the entire sequence. The last question suggested by the archaeology of Tara is whether there were periods when political developments encouraged people to emphasise their pasts. The argument could apply to the building of Silbury Hill at another time when the occupants of southern England were exposed to unfamiliar people, practices and beliefs. Towards the middle of the third millennium BC enormous monuments of entirely insular forms were constructed or reconstructed. A building like Stonehenge consumed a huge amount of human labour, yet many of these monuments were remarkably short lived. After a period that might have been less than a century some of them became a focus for Bell Beaker graves. Others were modified and were probably used in new ways. It is tempting to suggest that the siting of Silbury Hill was an attempt to harness the power of the past in order to strengthen a society that was losing its cohesion.25 This can be compared with the attempts by the southern Uí Néill to capitalise on the past of Tara.

A second question is whether successive structures at West Kennet were associated with natural features or processes that might have retained their significance over long periods of time. The most important must have been the presence of the river. It was perhaps the most important tributary of the Thames and was certainly associated with a range of special monuments. The West Kennet complex has two distinctive characteristics. It includes the Swallowhead Spring which provides a dependable source of water through much of the year. Both the enclosures and the ditch around Silbury Hill drew on this association. The emergence of fresh water from underground would have been difficult to explain, and that could be why springs were equally important at Irish royal centres. A second reason that the Kennet remained significant might be that its water travels in 24 

Darvill 2004, chapter 7.

25 

14

Bradley 2013: 13-14.

Commemoration and Change: Remembering What May Not Have Happened

The later phases

‘Workmen dug up the body of the great king there buried in the centre, very little below the surface … Some weeks after I came luckily to rescue a great curiosity which they took up there: an iron chain … It was a bridle’.29

After the building of Silbury Hill there was more emphasis on the monuments associated with Avebury, and Early Bronze Age cemeteries developed on the surrounding hills. Excavation at West Kennet suggests that this place had lost its former significance. It played little role until the Iron Age and Roman periods.

He continued to document this find in later life and there seems no reason to doubt his account of the discovery. Although it has since been lost, a drawing of the bridle was published, and it is clear that it dated from the 11th century AD.30

The earliest development may have been the construction of a shrine at the foot of Silbury Hill.26 It has not been excavated but is documented by geophysical survey. It was located beside the confluence of two tributaries of the Kennet. The best comparisons are with structures dated to the Iron Age, and a few sherds of that date were found in excavation of the mound.

There have been other discoveries of early medieval weapons on Silbury Hill, although few are precisely dated: a spur, four arrowheads and a spearhead, as well as a stirrup mount found in the river.31 They may have been associated with the final modification of the mound, for its upper levels were rebuilt during this period. The most recent excavation identified postholes cut into the surface of this earthwork, one of which was associated with a radiocarbon date of 890 -1030 AD. A dress pin dating from the 9th to 10th century may be associated with this activity.

During the Roman period activity resumed on a more impressive scale (Figure 5). The site was located at a river crossing on the route between Bath and Silchester. Between the first and fourth centuries AD or even later an extensive settlement developed around Silbury Hill.27 Part of it assumed a remarkably regular layout, and early excavations, combined with more recent surveys, have identified the positions of masonry buildings and a series of wells. The nature of this activity has been discussed by several writers but still remains in doubt. Its position on a major route encouraged the idea that this might have been a stopping point for travellers, a mansio, but the increasing size of the settlement revealed by remote sensing makes it much more likely that this was a small town. The structures encountered during early fieldwork have been equally difficult to explain and Corney has identified at least one of the stone buildings as the site of a temple.28 There has been even more disagreement concerning the artefacts found at Silbury. Were some of them votive deposits, or were they domestic waste? They might even have been the remains of offerings cleared from a shrine.

It is difficult to interpret this evidence, but it seems more than a coincidence that Silbury Hill should have been reused for the last time during a well-documented period of conflict between Viking raiders and the local inhabitants.32 It may have become a military stronghold. At all events its history ended three and half thousand years after it had been built. Commentary Can the later use of this complex shed any light on the role of the past in the past? It is worth returning to the questions raised by the archaeology of Tara. Would the remains of older structures have been comprehensible to a later audience? And did they share any features with monuments that were still being built? In the Roman phase the question is easy to answer. Round barrows, some of considerable proportions were constructed at this time.33 The form of Silbury Hill would have been familiar, although its scale was unprecedented, and only 2km from that monument three small circular tombs were constructed beside the Roman road.34 What is even more remarkable is that the mound of Silbury itself shows no sign of reuse. Few artefacts were found during excavation on its summit, although a large collection of coins came from the top

What is extraordinary is that the advocates of a purely ‘practical’ interpretation of the site say so little about its most obvious feature. It was built in a damp, rather inhospitable environment around the base of the largest artificial mound in Europe. It also incorporated the spring at the head of the one of the main rivers in southern England. These features cannot be overlooked in the attempt to achieve a tidy solution. Even more confusion surrounds the early medieval use of Silbury Hill. The most dramatic discovery was also the first to be made, and for that reason it is difficult to discuss. Writing in 1743, Stukeley recorded that:

Quoted by Leary, Field and Campbell 2013: 6. Graham-Campbell 1992. Leary, Field and Campbell 2013: 289-291. 32  Pollard and Reynolds 2002: 184. 33  Eckardt 2009: 66-69. 34  Smith and Simpson 1964. 29  30  31 

Leary, Field and Campbell 2013: 260-261. Corney 2001: 26-29; Leary, Field and Campbell 2013: 255-284. 28  Corney 2001: 26-29. 26  27 

15

Richard Bradley of its ditch. If the form of Silbury Hill was familiar to a Roman audience, the monument was respected.

according to a pagan rite observed in Scandinavia. One of its commonest features was the choice of an ancient mound. This observation goes to the heart of the problem. Had the grave been that of a foreigner, the past significance of the site could not have been remembered. But if the dead person was commemorated according to the traditions of his own people, the placing of the grave evoked a past that would not be known by the local inhabitants.

Were the successive structures associated with natural features or processes that had held their significance over a long period of time? The presence of the Swallowhead Spring remained important during the Roman phase. The source of the Kennet may have been acknowledged by the presence of wells close to the base of the mound. The water table was high for at least part of the year, meaning that the coins in the ditch might have been deposited in a pool. It was common for sanctuaries to develop in such locations. In Gaul the most famous example must be Fontes Sequanae at the source of the River Seine,35 and in south-east England a well-documented parallel is the aptly-named Springhead.36

Conclusion By a curious coincidence a Viking may have been buried on a mound in southern England at about the same time as a poet celebrated the history of Tara. Little was shared between the present and the past, but in each case it was important to make a connection. A few elements may have been especially tenacious, but any link was slender and for that reason was easy to exploit. The new practices at ancient structures may have commemorated a distinctive and mysterious history, but it is most unlikely that it was recalled with any accuracy. In Ireland and Wessex the reuse of older monuments was a creative act. If the histories of such places were represented as memories, that was either a fabrication or an illusion. When people looked back across an enormous expanse of time it is likely they were remembering things that had never happened.

In some ways the early medieval use of Silbury had a different character. The structural evidence from its summit suggests that it was fortified at the time of Viking raids on Wessex in the tenth and eleventh centuries AD.37 At first sight the final period of reuse at this extraordinary monument can be explained in practical terms. That overlooks one element. William Stukeley described an unusual burial discovered on top of Silbury Hill. It was associated with a bridle of AngloScandinavian type which dates from the 11th century. This deposit has been claimed as a Viking grave, but a recent account rejects that interpretation and argues that that this was another military artefact associated with the defence of the hill.38 If, as Stukeley believed, it was associated with human bones the burial would have been out of context so long after the Christian conversion; it makes more sense in a pagan setting. In fact its closest parallels come from other places where Viking raids are documented39. Inhumation burials with similar associations are common in Denmark, Sweden and Norway.40 Some of them come from barrows, and Pedersen makes the important point that nearly 30% of the ‘equestrian burials’ considered in her study were in older mounds reused during the Viking Age.41

References Andrén, A. 2014. Tracing Old Norse Cosmology. Lund, Nordic Academic Press. Andrews, P. 2011. Springhead religious complex. Settling the Ebbsfleet Valley, vol. 1, edited by P. Andrews, E. Biddulph, A. Hardy and R. Brown. Oxford and Salisbury, Oxford Wessex Archaeology: 13-134. Bayliss, A., Whittle, A. and Wysocki, M. 2007. Talking about my generation: the date of the West Kennet long barrow. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 17.1 (supplement): 85-101. Bayliss, A., Cartwright, C., Cook, G., Griffiths, S., Madgwick, R. Marshall, P. and Reimer, P. 2017. Rings of fire and Grooved Ware settlement at West Kennet, Wiltshire. The Neolithic of Europe, edited by P. Bickle, V. Cummings, D. Hofmann and J. Pollard. Oxford, Oxbow: 249-277. Bhreathnach, E. 1993. The topography of Tara: the documentary evidence. Discovery Programme Reports 2: 68-76. Bhreathnach, E. 1999. Authority and supremacy in Tara and its hinterland. Discovery Programme Reports 5: 1-23. Bradley, R. 2013. Houses of Commons, Houses of Lords: domestic dwellings and monumental architecture in prehistoric Europe. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 79: 1-17.

This interpretation could shed new light on the last use of Silbury Hill. One possibility is that this location was selected for the burial as a way of appropriating an indigenous past. Another is more tenuous but potentially more revealing. Perhaps the grave was that of a Viking raider or settler whose body was deposited Detys 1994. Andrews 2011. 37  Pollard and Reynolds 2002: 226-228. 38  Pollard and Reynolds 2002: 227. 39  Graham-Campbell 2001. 40  Pedersen 2014: 117-125. 41  Pedersen 2006. 35  36 

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Commemoration and Change: Remembering What May Not Have Happened

Corney, M. 2001. The Romano-British nucleated settlements in Wiltshire. Roman Wiltshire and After, edited by P. Ellis. Devizes, Wiltshire Archaeological Society: 5-38. Darvill, T. 2004. Long Barrows of the Cotswolds and Surrounding Areas. Stroud, Tempus. Detys, S. 1994. Un people pélerins. Offrandes de pierre et de bronze des Sources de la Seine. Dijon, Revue Archéologique de l’Est et du Centre-Est, supplement 30. Eckardt, H. 2009. Roman barrows and their landscape context: a GIS case study at Bartlow, Cambridgeshire. Britannia 40: 65-98. Graham-Campbell, J. 1992. Anglo-Scandinavian equestrian equipment in eleventh century England. Anglo-Norman Studies 14: 77-89. Graham-Campbell, J. 2001. Pagan Scandinavian burials in the central and southern Danelaw. Vikings and the Danelaw, edited by J. Graham-Campbell, R. Hall, J. Jesch and D, Parsons. Oxford, Oxbow. Chapter 6. Leary, J., Field, D. and Campbell, G. (eds) 2013. Silbury Hill. The Largest Prehistoric Mound in Europe. Swindon, English Heritage. Mallory, J. 2016. In Search of the Irish Dreamtime. London, Thames and Hudson. O’Kelly, M. 1982. Newgrange. Archaeology, Art and Legend. London, Thames and Hudson. O’Connell, A. 2013. Harvesting the Stars: A pagan temple at Lismullin, Co. Meath. Dublin, National Roads Authority. O’Sullivan, A. and Kinsella, J. 2013. Living by a sacred landscape: the early medieval archaeology of the Hill of Tara and its environs. Tara from the Past to the Future, edited by M. O’Sullivan, C. Scarre and M. Doyle. Dublin, Wordwell: 63-90.

Pedersen, A. 2006. Ancient mounds for new graves – an aspect of Viking-age burial customs in southern Scandinavia. Old Norse Religion in Long-term Perspective, edited by A. Andrén, K. Jennbert and C. Raudvere. Lund, Nordic Academic Press: 346-353. Pedersen, A. 2014. Dead Warriors in Living Memory. A Study of Weapon and Equestrian Burials in Viking-age Denmark, AD 800–1000. Copenhagen, National Museum. Petrie, G. 1839. On the history and antiquities of Tara Hill. Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy 18: 25-232. Piggott, S. 1962. The West Kennet Long Barrow. Excavations 1955- 56. London, HMSO. Pollard, J. and Reynolds, A. 2002. Avebury. The Biography of a Landscape. Stroud, Tempus. Sherratt, S. and Bennet, J. (eds) 2017. Archaeology and Homeric Epic. Oxford, Oxbow. Smith, I. and Simpson, D. 1964. Excavation of three Roman tombs and a prehistoric pit on Overton Down. Wiltshire Archaeological Magazine 59: 68-85. Waddell, J. 2014. Archaeology and Celtic Myth. Dublin, Four Courts Press. Wheatley, D. 2015. Myth, memento and memory: Avebury (Wiltshire, England). The Lives of Prehistoric Monuments in Iron Age, Roman and Medieval Europe, edited by M. Díaz-Guardamino, L. García-Sanjuan and D. Wheatley. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 99-117. Whittle, A. 1997. Sacred Mound, Holy Rings. Silbury Hill and the West Kennet Palisade Enclosures: A Later Neolithic Complex in North Wiltshire. Oxford, Oxbow.

17

The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE James Whitley

Cardiff University [email protected]

Introduction: Memento

Phenomenology,

Memory

and

‘The Past in Prehistoric Societies’ is one of Richard Bradley’s most influential works.1 It represents the fruit of a long engagement with the notion of the past, and how ‘the past’ might be have been seen by people in prehistory and then made visible in their landscapes. One of the most obvious ways was through the creation of monuments – monuments which embodied concrete human interventions in the natural world and which must have been built to last. One such is this Neolithic megalithic tomb whose image (Figure 1) I have taken from Kiel’s ‘Human Development in Landscape’ webpage. Let us dwell on this image for a while. It shows a stone-built burial chamber, built not onto the land as such but into a rocky knoll.2 While its entrance façade faces away from the sea our view looks towards it. This particular view seems to have been chosen to suggest that the forebears of the builders of this tomb may have come from over the sea. If so, this is then a profoundly phenomenological image, by which I mean phenomenological in an archaeological sense. For it does not depict Heidegger’s beloved Schwarzwald near Freiburg so much as represent an icon of landscape phenomenology. It is not a view of anything in Germany (though, being on a German website, it perhaps represents a view from Germany). The prospect of the sea from the hills, the dry-stane dyke in the corner with the sheep behind, the way the lichen clings to the stone all suggest a location somewhere other than continental Europe. As such it is perhaps a perfect icon of landscape phenomenology, which is, after all, the appropriation of German philosophy by British archaeological theorists in the 1990s.3 This specific image moreover represents a re-appropriation of ‘British’ phenomenology on the part of German prehistorians; it shows a view over Cairnholy 2, in the Stewartry of Kirkudbright in Galloway in SW Scotland.

Bradley 2002. Which must have made construction more not less difficult; see Cummings 2009: 100, Fig. 5.9. 3  E.g. Tilley 1994 1  2 

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 18–35

Cairnholy 24 could certainly be used to support Bradley’s thesis about how monuments are reinterpreted, since in recent times it was thought to be the tomb of the legendary Scottish King Galdus. But it is its near neighbour, Cairnholy 1 that has the most interesting sequence: two periods of construction/ use in the Neolithic,5 followed by blocking. We do not know how many bodies were burnt and placed in this grave, since it had been looted, but it cannot have been that many – maybe as few as six separate burial events, judging by the number of fires in the forecourt. The pottery that was interred with these burials was already broken by the time it was deposited, and one of the burials was accompanied by a small fragment of a jadeite axe that seems to have come all the way from the Alps – an ‘entangled object’ with a story to tell. Finally, at some point in the Middle Bronze Age (circa 1500-1000 BCE) the rear chamber of the cairn was reopened and a cremation placed in it. This interment was accompanied by a food vessel and a cup-and-ring marked stone, presumably hewn from some of those examples of rock art to be found in the nearby valley.6 That a monument such as this one was re-used and re-interpreted over the passage of several generations has usually been attributed to the operation of social memory.7 In the 1990s British prehistorians often linked social memory to ancestors.8 A concern with social memory relates necessarily to a revival of interest on the part of European and North American prehistorians in oral traditions. This recognises that many ancient peoples were people in time, with living histories, not the inhabitants of a timeless ‘ethnographic present’.9 This renewed interest has also led to some very optimistic conclusions as to both the accuracy and the longevity of these traditions. Pollard et al.10 have this to say about the after-life of Stonehenge:

A chambered cairn first excavated by Stuart Piggott and T.G.E. Powell in 1949; Piggott and Powell 1949. 5  One perhaps dating to as early as 3700 cal BCE; Cummings 2009: 73; Thomas 2013: 333-4. 6  Bradley et al. 1993; Bradley 1997: 71, 83, 98, 142 and plate 14. 7  See Diaz Guardamino et al. 2015. 8  Tilley 1994; see overview in Hill and Hageman 2016c: 52-5. 9  Echo-Hawk 2000. 10  Pollard et al. 2017: 295-6. 4 

The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE

Figure 1. View over Cairnholy 2, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland. Photo taken from Human development in landscapes: graduate school at Kiel University http://www.gshdl.uni-kiel.de (Courtesy and copyright, Graduate School, Human Development in Landscape, Kiel University)

‘Seven hundred or a thousand years, 30 or 40 generations, is a long time, but the preservation of individual names and stories over such a span is not without precedent among non-literate societies …. Perhaps the claims over Stonehenge made by those buried in the Normanton Down barrows, and physically asserted through the eventual enclosure of both cemetery and monument, were more real than fictive, historical rather than mythic.’

human groups into four ‘ontologies’: the animist, who are exemplified by the gatherer-hunter partial horticulturalists of the Amazon basin; the totemist, by which he mainly means the original inhabitants of Australia; the analogist (which appear to comprise most fully agricultural, sedentary and urban societies); and the naturalist, that is the modern West, the only human group to make a sharp either/or distinction between nature and culture. Amazonians are animist in that they ascribe spirits and indeed entire social orders to what we would consider entirely ‘natural’ creatures; Australians are totemist in that they link the origins of the natural and cultural worlds (again in our terms) to an original Dreamtime, a time that is both past and present. Neither animists nor totemists have a ‘past’ as such, nor do they have ancestors in the strict sense of the term (see below). As Descola says of the native Australians’ ‘Dream-beings’:

For Pollard and others then the true significance of Stonehenge – a reasonably accurate understanding of its meaning and purpose -- was remembered over several generations and several hundreds of years (though clearly not into historical times). This statement immediately raises a whole series of other questions. First what are we to make of the authors’ generalisation about ‘non-literate peoples’? Are we to believe that–all non-literate peoples (both those known ethnographically and those known archaeologically) retained a fundamental similarity, a shared essence that distinguishes them from any people who make use of scripts? Are we to subscribe to the idea that there exists a universal ‘ontological divide’ that separates type of society (ethnographic and prehistoric) from another (literate and historical)?

‘As for the beings of Dreamtime, they cannot be likened to classic mythical heroes, since their organizing impetus, partly given solid material form by various features in the landscape, has continued without interruption even [ever?] since they abandoned the earth’s surface. Nor are they ancestors, in the strict sense, since every existing being, whether human or nonhuman, is linked to the entity that determines it in a direct relationship of duplication, actualization, or formation rather than through an affiliation that unfolds from one generation to the next.’13

Such a divide may seem like common-sense to many prehistorians. But it makes no sense to those who have actually looked in detail at what literate cultures have in common.11 Historical and literate societies are every bit as varied as ethnographic and prehistoric ones. And if we are to follow some kind of classification of human groups by ‘ontology’ then it seems most sensible to follow that of Philippe Descola.12 By ‘ontology’ Descola means the way in which human groups make sense of the relationship of what we (but no-one else) would call the natural and cultural worlds. Descola divides 11  12 

Amazonian animist collectives moreover destroy any trace of ‘ancestors. Ancestors however are characteristic of analogist ontologies, who tend to be more sedentary and more committed to agriculture. A particular extreme case is of the Tallensi of Ghana,14 originally studied by Meyer Fortes.

Bloch 1998: 152-70. Descola 2013.

13  14 

19

Descola 2013: 147; see also Fortes 1976. Descola 2013: 330-33.

James Whitley Here we come to a question central to any discussion of ‘the past in the past’: what is an ancestor? Here we are reliant on anthropologists for our definitions, which go back to Meyer Fortes. Hill and Hageman15 could find to unanimity in their ethnographic sources. But it is clear that not all dead are ancestors – ancestors have to have descendants, and these descendants have to remember who their forebears were. Ancestorhood is thus an achieved status.16 Of course, one can manipulate lines of descent, as the Hapsburgs clearly did17 – ancestors can be made up. But there has to be continuity of ‘making up’, or at least telling stories about one’s forebears, if the notion of ancestor is to retain any meaning at all. For something to be ancestral it has first to be remembered.

essences, can exert distinct ideological claims on the present. This has been explored in a light-hearted fashion by Patrick Leigh Fermor22 in his ‘HellenoRomaic dilemma’. This dilemma refers to the different claims, or the different ways that modern Greeks value and use two very different pasts, conceived as existing simultaneously: the first, the Hellenic, represents antiquity, with a particular focus on the Classical Age and Periclean Athens; the second represents the complex ‘Romaic’ heritage both of the Christian East Roman Empire (misleadingly referred to in the West as the ‘Byzantine’ Empire) and the Greeks (Rumi) under the Ottomans. Leigh Fermor uses two buildings to illustrate these two pasts: the Hellenic is represented by the Parthenon, the ‘Romaic’ by the dome of Ayia Sophia in Constantinople. Both pasts are simultaneously both lost and present. In this sense, multiple pasts are part of the day-to-day experience of modern Greeks.

Memory therefore implies a degree of continuity. Wheatley18 has recently made an important distinction between memory and memento. In his terms monuments can embody memories of past events if they are constantly re-used through regular rituals that take place at those monuments, or if they are recurrently referenced within a continuous oral tradition. But these traditions may be lost, and continuity interrupted. When this happens monuments, like Neolithic cairns, become mementos – people know they are supposed to remind them of something, and that they are linked to a past, but they cannot remember precisely what they are supposed to remind one of. Whatever happened at Cairnholy then represents a series reinterpretations in which these two monuments served as mementos. The original choice of a rocky knoll for the site of Cairnholy 2 the Middle Bronze Age intervention in Cairnholy 1 and the later (medieval?) tradition associating the cairns with King Galdus represent three separate (and mutually inconsistent) re-interpretations of the same place. These episodes of re-use cannot represent continuity as such, if by continuity we mean the maintenance of memory through continual re-use reinforced by a continuous oral tradition. Nor can the re-use of Cairnholy 1 in the Bronze Age after a gap of one thousand years have been ancestral in the strict sense of this term.19 Instead of one continuous tradition about the past Cairnholy is thus entangled with three different pasts: the pasts of Cairnholy are multiple.

That this is nothing new is the major theme of my paper. Different traditions – different pasts –made different claims on the present in Archaic times. By this I do not simply mean that each polis had a distinct view of its past.23 Rather each different region had a particular form of material relation to their past, and that each was interpreted slightly differently. Different kinds of material relation to the past had different material effects, and this (in Archaic times) is easier to see in the archaeological record than in the literary. The past in Crete was quite distinct from the pasts of the Argolid. Oral traditions, Material Mementos and the Argive Past(s) The ‘past’ in Classical studies has long been problematized. This can be illustrated by the long debate over how we are to understand Hesiod’s famous myth of the five races – Gold, Silver, Bronze, Heroes and Iron.24 Is this a strict chronological succession of races? Is it a linear model of time? Or a cyclical one? That it is successive but not linear, and that the four races preceding the race of Iron continue to be ‘present’ in some form is a conundrum that J.P. Vernant struggled with.25 Hence his rather qualified view of the ‘past’, as in:

In Classical studies the study of memory goes back to Halbwachs.20 The multiplicity of different pasts is a concept with which scholars of ancient (and modern) Greece are already familiar. Arnold Toynbee21 talked about the ‘Greeks and their Heritages’ (plural). Chronologically distinct periods, conceived as distinct

‘The ‘past’, as presented by the stratification of the races, is built upon the model of a timeless hierarchy of functions and values.’26 If the term ‘past’ is problematic so too is the notion of the ‘ancient Greeks’. The Archaic Aegean between 800

Hill and Hageman 2016b: 5-8; see also Bloch 1996. Whitley 2002; Antonaccio 2016. 17  Weiss-Krejci 2016. 18  Wheatley 2015. 19  Whitley 2002; see Bloch 1996: 43; Fortes 1976. 20  Discussed in Alcock 2002: 1-35. 21  Toynbee 1981. 15 

Fermor 1966: 107-113. And that these might have conflicted with a more panhellenic view of ‘the past’; see Gehrke 2001; Clarke 2008. 24  Hesiod, Works and Days: 109-201. 25  Vernant 1983: 3-72; see also Boehringer 2001: 25-34. 26  Vernant 1983: 20.

16 

22  23 

20

The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE

Figure 2. View from the Argive Heraion looking over the Argive plain towards Argos itself (photo author)

and 450 BCE was perhaps the most materially diverse region of the Iron Age Mediterranean.27 It had not only regions (such as Crete, or the Peloponnese) but sub-regions (such as the Argolid and Eastern Crete). Generalisations about ‘Archaic Greece’ or ‘the Greeks’ (frequently written from an ‘Athenian’ perspective) often overlook this central point. If, for example, one wanted to illustrate just quite how multiple, and quite how polyvalent the term ‘the past’ actually is you have to take a close look at the Argolid in the North West Peloponnese.

to De Polignac) check-mating their competitors for leadership of the region. Its location is also ‘phenomenological’ in another sense– it is on the edge of the plain and at the base of the hills, betwixt and between the sown and the wild. And it references ‘the past’ in other ways. First, the masonry of the temple terrace on which the sanctuary is placed seems, at first sight (Figure 3) very reminiscent of Mycenaean masonry (that is the masonry of the walls of Mycenae and Tiryns). It is made from large cut blocks of conglomerate. This type of masonry was, in later times (by which we mean the time of the 2nd century AD periegete, Pausanias) associated with the ‘Kyklopes’,29 the one-eyed giants of whom Polyphemos(in the Odyssey) is the best known (Figure 4). For only giants could have built the walls of Mycenae and Tiryns. There was for some time a debate about the date of this temple terrace. Was it a Mycenaean structure that had been re-used? Or was it a consciously ‘pseudo-Mycenaean’ or ‘pseudo-Cyclopean’ structure, one that deliberately referenced a heroic past? James Wright30 argued strongly in that it was the latter – the terrace was Archaic, and was deliberately referencing the more ancient monumental masonry of Mycenae, Tiryns and Midea.

Let us start with a view that is every bit as ‘phenomenological’ as that of the one of Cairnholy: this (Figure 2) is taken from the sanctuary to Hera (the so-called Argive Heraion) back over the plain towards the city/town of Argos itself. This perspective however is not straightforwardly concerned with landscape. Rather the view itself is also political, since in De Polignac’s28 account the Argive Heraion represents the ritual pole of the ‘bi-polar’ citizen state of Argos. By placing a sanctuary here, mid-way between Argos’ rivals, the competing poleis of Mycenae and Tiryns on the other side of the plain, the Argives were (according 27  28 

Broodbank 2013: 506-584. De Polignac 1984: 54-55; but see Hall 1995b.

29  30 

21

Pausanias 2.16.5. Wright 1982.

James Whitley

Figure 3. Detail of pseudo-Cyclopean masonry, upper temple terrace, Argive Heraion (photo author)

large.32 Greek myth is conceived as a coherent body of interlocking tales set in the heroic past; Greek myth exists (and has always existed) alongside a historical Greece. But this notion is misleading. Greek myth is a modern construct – or at least a post-Hellenistic one. It is an attempt to tidy up the multiple stories that Greeks told about their heroic pasts and present the whole as a coherent system. Yet these tales were, in the first instance, transmitted orally; they must have existed in multiple versions.

But which ‘past’ are we talking about? The Greeks of the Archaic period can have had no knowledge of the Mycenaeans, as we understand the term; Mycenaean is a modern ‘etic’ term, a 20th-century cultural-historical label for a region and a period. It is true that these major sites (Mycenae and Tiryns in particular) figure prominently in the Trojan War Cycle of tales, particularly in the Catalogue of the Ships in Book 2 of the Iliad. These tales talk of Achaeans rather than Mycenaeans. By Pausanias’ time many of the monuments of Mycenae were associated with particular figures from the Trojan War Cycle – Pausanias noted that there were underground ‘treasuries’ and tombs associated with Atreus, Aigisthos and Clytemnestra, and that Agamemnon was buried inside the walls31. Scholars have tended to assume that these associations begin at a relatively early date, well before the time of Pausanias and the systematizing mythographers of the Second Sophistic (such as pseudo-Apollodoros) in the 2nd century CE.

Here I need to digress on the subject of the Homeric poems. Thirty years ago, it was still possible to believe that the two great poems traditionally attributed to Homer reached a recognisable written form in the years around 700 BC. Of course, everyone agreed (and still agrees) that all Greek epic was based on a tradition of oral poetry33 it was then not thought odd that these two poems suddenly appeared around 700 BC, nor that they must have preceded the other six epic poems of the Trojan War cycle. The first ‘myth’ scenes to appear on Greek vases did so because these two ‘Homeric’ epics were circulating – Bild quite naturally followed Lied. This consensus has now completely broken down.

Archaeologists with a classical education have always tended to interpret this material evidence, these apparent references, through the prism of literary sources. Here the notion of ‘Greek myth’ looms 31 

e.g. Giuliani 2013. This tradition can now be traced, on iconographic grounds, far back into the Bronze Age; see Stocker and Davis 2017. 32  33 

Pausanias 2.16.6-7.

22

The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE

Figure 4. The blinding of Polyphemos on an Argive krater, around 650 BC (image courtesy École Françaised’Athènes/ Deutschesarchäologisches Institut Athens).

Archaeologists and art historians34 are much more reluctant than they were to use images such as Figure 4 as a kind of terminus ante quem for the composition of the Odyssey as a whole.

least two cycles of tales37, one focused on Thebes and one on Troy. Trojan and Theban cycles must have existed in multiple, oral versions for many centuries. Nor was there any moment – any event – where the Iliad and Odyssey (the two principal epics of the Trojan Cycle) were ‘written down’. Rather than a point in time when an oral tradition became a fixed text there was a panhellenic process of convergence that was as much oral as literate. This process by which the Iliad becomes the Iliad and the Odyssey the Odyssey began in the late 7th century BC and lasted through the sixth.

The collapse of the old consensus is in large part due to the work of Gregory Nagy35and Martin West.36 West doubted that there was any person called ‘Homer’. Nagy goes further. He has argued that the Iliad and the Odyssey reached a form we would recognise through several stages, principally through a process of oral convergence, through multiple re-tellings in a performative context at the great panhellenic festivals; there was no moment of composition at which the poems were written down as such. These two great poems form part of a cycle of tales focused on Troy – the Trojan War cycle. Hesiod, the first poet we can date with some assurance to around 700 BC, notes at

Not everyone now accepts this argument, and (given the nature of Homeric scholarship) not everyone will. Nonetheless it is now much more difficult to believe that the Iliad and the Odyssey appeared in fully literate and written form out of the head of Greek Oral Tradition at some point around 700 BC. It is by contrast much easier to believe that the Trojan and Theban tale cycles were widely known in oral versions throughout most of the Greek-speaking Mediterranean in the years

E.g. Snodgrass 1998: 55-7 and 90-100. Nagy 1990; 1995; 1997. 36  West 1999. 34  35 

37 

23

Works and Days: 161-6; see West 1978: 102 and 191-2.

James Whitley after 700 BC. These tales intersect with another cycle, that of Herakles. We know of the Herakles cycle not so much through a surviving epic poem as through a series of distinct mythic episodes known through the iconography of painted pottery, an iconography which was codified in the ‘Twelve Labours’ represented by the metopes on the 5th century temple of Zeus at Olympia. Two of these labours are linked to sites in or near the Argolid: the Hydra with Lerna, a village just south of Argos; and the Lion with Nemea, just beyond the Argolid proper. If you (as I do) accept the Nagy theory of the development of Epic verse these stories (the Trojan, Theban and Herakles cycles) did not become literature (that is being written down as definitive tales, rather than transient oral performances) much before the middle of the 6th century BC.

and an heröon of Perseus42 at or near Mycenae. The latter has not been found43, and the former does not seem to date back before Classical times44. There is also the Agamennoneion (that is, a sanctuary to the heroized Agamemnon), an un-pre-possessing shrine near the Chaos Gorge which certainly has votive finds (terracottas and pottery) that can be traced back to around 700 BC.45 The inscribed dedications to Agamemnon however are much later (late 5th century BC at the earliest), and it is possible that the earliest focus of the cult here was not Agamemnon. There is only one proper shrine of Archaic date to heroes from an epic cycle in the Argolid – the monument to the ‘Seven against Thebes’ (Figure 5) in the centre of Argos itself.46 This was re-used and moved in later times – we don’t know its original location. The inscription, in Archaic letters, is rightly interpreted as meaning ‘of the heroes in Thebes’, and must relate specifically to those stories told in the Thebais.47 In the version we know from Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes, one of the sons of Oedipus, Polyneikes leads six other heroes against Thebes, defended by his brother Eteokles (both die). In the modern west we know this tale primarily as the backstory to perhaps the most influential of all Greek tragedies, Sophocles’ Antigone. The overall picture of the engagement of the peoples and political communities of the Argolid with a heroic past known from oral tradition has been summed in Table 1.

These three tale cycles must count as memory in Wheatley’s38 sense. How then did they relate to a local (Argive) understanding of its heroic past? Normally scholars would turn to Greek vase painting to assess this – but Greek vase painting is largely Athenian vase painting, and so may not relate closely to local understandings of a distant, perhaps heroic past(s) (as any reading of Hesiod implies). Argive vase painting peters out in the 7th century – about the only example we have of any narrative scene that relates to epic is the famous image (Figure 4) of the blinding of the Kyclops, Polyphemos by Odysseus and his companions39 from a (probably) funerary context in Argos itself.

The picture is, to say the least, mixed – memories of many pasts (or different tales about the same past) seem to have been differently important in different ways and at different times and in different places. Hero cult, in the strict sense of cults to named heroes of epic, does not seem to have been that important, and did not in general relate to the major Epic cycle (the Trojan war) in which the places and people of the Argolid figure prominently.

What images can we then rely on, if we should be wary of Athenian images? There is one body of iconographic evidence which, if it is not quite Argive, at least clearly originates in the northeast Peloponnese – the ‘Argive’ Schildbänder.40 These elaborate bands (used as interior straps within round hoplite shields) seem to employ an episodic narrative technique similar to that found on the François vase and Pausanias’ description of the ‘Chest of Kypselos’. A rough count of the images that occur on these shield bands gives us at least twentyfive examples – the Trojan war was clearly important to the peoples and political communities of the Argive plain. But so too was the Herakles cycle (which never seems to have become an epic poem) – we have at least 22 examples on these shields of images of the ‘Twelve Labours’ – ten depicting the Nemean Lion, though none of the Lernaian Hydra.

But this is to ignore another aspect of ‘hero cult’ in the broader sense, in which the Argolid looms large. These are the tomb cults (Iron Age cults in or over Late Bronze Age chamber or tholos tombs) which became a staple of archaeological debate from the 1970s onwards. Coldstream48 noted that offerings of late 8th and early 7th date in Mycenaean tombs occurred widely in mainland Greece, but with particular concentrations in Attica, the Argolid and Messenia49. These cults were

Did any of the heroes from these epics receive cult? Though cults of Herakles were common in many parts of Greece by the end of the 6th century BC none are known from the Argolid. Pausanias mentions a fountain41

Paus 2.18.1. So far as I know; see Hall 1999. Wace et al. 1953. 45  Cook 1953. 46  Pariente 1992. 47  The ‘Theban cycle’ of tales; Daumas 1992. 48  Coldstream 1976. 49  I will not deal here with the significance of tomb cult in Messenia, which persists even after its conquest by Sparta at some point in the 7th century BC. See discussion in Antonaccio 1995: 70-102. That 42  43  44 

Wheatley 2015. Courbin 1955; see Hom. Od. 9.391-3. 40  Bol 1989; cf. Kunze 1950. 41  Paus 2.16. 6. 38  39 

24

The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE

emergence of the polis. I noted (Figure 6) the distinct difference57 between their distribution in Attica and the Argolid. In the Argolid they are found in three major concentrations, near Argos itself (Deiras cemetery), Mycenae and the Prosymna cemetery (near the Argive Heraion).58 In Attica they are dispersed, often being found in the areas of later demes (Menidi, Thorikos). Whereas in the Argolid they might plausibly be linked to state formation in Attica such cults seem to represent local reactions against the forces of political centralization. First Antonaccio59 and then Boehringer60 undertook more comprehensive studies. Antonaccio’s figures61 demonstrate the centrality of the Argolid for this phenomenon: there are more cults here than anywhere else.62 Antonaccio also detached this phenomenon from hero cults proper (cults to actual heroes, whether named or not), noted that the cults embraced a diversity of practices (from re-use as a tomb to proper to metal offerings) and argued that these were ancestor cults, an archaeology of ancestors. The people of the Argolid were not venerating heroes (heroes conceived as something other) but rather their forebears. Inhabitants of the Argolid (whether citizens of Mycenae, Argos or Tiryns) must then (so this argument runs) have conceived themselves as the descendants of whoever occupied these tombs.

Figure 5. The inscription from the monument commemorating the ‘Seven Against Thebes’ found in the Agora of Argos. The inscription reads ΕΡΟΟΝΤΟΝΕΝΘΗΒΑΙΣ - ἡρώωντωνἐνΘήβαις– the hero shrine of those in Thebes (image after Pariente 1992, plate 36 fig. 2; courtesy École Françaised’Athènes)

short-lived, and so Coldstream linked them to the shortlived phenomenon of the ‘circulation of epic’ around 700 BC. Coldstream’s original hypothesis was that the focus on Mycenaean (tholos and chamber) tombs only occurred in regions where similar forms of tomb architecture did not persist into the Iron Age. So tomb cult was not to be found in either Thessaly or Crete, both regions which continued to use both tholos and chamber tombs throughout the Iron Age. Since 1976 the number of known cases of ‘tomb cult’ has increased, as has their geographical range. They are to be found in Achaea50, Thessaly51 and Crete.52

One logical inference from this interpretation of the objects of veneration as that of ancestors is that it entails some notion of continuity of memory between the Bronze Age and the Iron Age. If there is no evidence that this was maintained through re-current ritual and re-use then we have to posit some kind of oral tradition. Of course we do know of not one but at least two oral traditions but these relate to heroes not ancestors as such (since Hesiod’s heroes – his fourth race – have no descendants, and did not receive cult). In this way we come back to the longstanding question of whether heroes could be ancestors or ancestors could be heroes.63 And if these categories (ancestor and hero) overlap, how do they do so? It depends, of course, on what we mean by hero. In 199564 I put forward the following typology of ‘the hero’:

Snodgrass53 pointed out that there was nothing either ‘heroic’ or Homeric about these Mycenaean tombs, since heroes in the Iliad were (after death) invariably cremated and placed under tumuli.54 Snodgrass put forward the idea that these offerings represented the actions of colonising peasant agriculturalists, eager to appease the previous inhabitants of the land represented by the imposing architecture of Bronze Age tombs. For Snodgrass then these tombs represent not memories but mementos.55 Morris56 called them ‘crisis cults’, and linked them in general terms to the

1.

these cults had something to do with the maintenance of ‘Messenian’ identity seems highly probable. 50  Aktypi 2014. 51  Antonaccio 1995: 135-137; Whitley 2003: 54; Whitley et al. 2006: 7576. 52  Lefèvre-Novaro 2005. 53  Snodgrass 1980: 37-40. 54  See Lorimer 1950: 103-110. 55  Again, in Wheatley’s (2015) sense. 56  Morris 1988.

Named heroes (Agamemnon, Menelaus, Polyneikes) relating to one of the two majorEpic cycles (Trojan or Theban);

Whitley 1988. Though there are single outliers at Tiryns and Berbati. 59  Antonaccio 1995. 60  Boehringer 2001. 61  Antonaccio 1995: 143 fig. 13. 62  Antonaccio 1995: 12-65; cf Boehringer 2001: 132-242. 63  Antonaccio 1995; 2016; Whitley 1995; 2002. 64  Whitley 1995: 52. 57  58 

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James Whitley

Figure 6. Map showing distribution of tomb cults in the Argolid and Attica (map prepared by Kirsty Harding)

Table 1: Summary of argument: iconographic evidence for interest in oral tale cycles (Trojan, Theban, and Herakles) and evidence for cults to named heroes from one of these tale cycles. Epic Cycle Images on ‘Argive’ shield bands Schildbänder1 before 450 BC

Images on Argive painted pottery before 450 BC Cults to named heroes known before 450 BC

Cults to named heroes known after 450 BC

1 

Trojan (later eight epics, including Iliad and Odyssey)

Theban (later four epics, including the Thebais[lost])

Herakles (known largely from images)

Other tales (e.g. Perseus)

22 examples

None

22 examples

None

1 example (see fig. 4)

None

None

None

None

None certain (see below)

None

Fountain and Heröon (hero shrine) of Perseus at Mycenae

None certain; possibly ‘Heroes in Thebes’ or Agamemnoneion near ‘Seven against Thebes’ Mycenae in Argos Agamemnoneion near Mycenae

‘Seven against Thebes’ in Argos

Bol 1989.

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The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE

2.

3. 4.

Named heroes who have at best a minor role in epic,65 or about whom no story is known (e.g. Akademos). These heroes only received cult at Sounion66 and the Academy respectively Historical figures who were heroized after their death (e.g. Brasidas at Amphipolis)67 Anonymous heroes, known mostly from 4th century BC Attic inscriptions, associated with very specific localities.68

kind of short-lived cult.73 But if these finds represent cult it is remarkable how few votive inscriptions we have found. Indeed there is only one, found over Grave Circle A inside the walls of the citadel. This inscription simply says ‘Του hεροος ειμι‘ Tou heroos eimi’ – I am of the hero.74 The only clear example of ‘hero cult’ in or over Bronze Age tombs at Mycenae was then to an anonymous hero, not an Epic one. This rather raises the question of who these anonymous heroes were. My hypothesis75 is that these were Hesiod’s Silver Race,76 one of the five races of men (Gold, Silver, Bronze, Heroes and Iron) first created and then destroyed by Zeus. The Silver Race were, after their disappearance, ‘covered by the ground’, and as ‘underground’ beings received some kind of ‘honour’. Mycenaean tholos and chamber tombs are all underground. Someone coming across them (who did not practise the same burial customs) might well have considered them as belonging to the ‘Silver’ Race.

We have dealt, I think, with the first group – only the ‘Seven against Thebes’ received cult in the Argolid before 450 BC. There are no minor heroes in category 2 to be found in the Argolid, and I know of no example of heroization after death that relates to this region. What then of the cults in or over Mycenaean tombs? Do these represent cults to anonymous heroes (category 4)? Let us look first at 8th to 7th century activity in the Mycenaean chamber tomb cemetery of Prosymna, adjacent to the Argive Heraion.69 There are certain points of similarity between cults in tombs and cults in the sanctuary itself. Cult activity in the Argive Heraion continued over several centuries and involved the deposition of large numbers of bronze objects,70 a very small proportion (0.753%) of which have inscriptions that indicate they are gifts to Hera. There are even fewer inscriptions on vases – though there is one to an anonymous hero.71 The deposition of offerings in the Prosymna chamber tombs – if that is what it was – was short-lived, little more than two generations or so. The kinds of things placed as offerings in the chamber tomb – such as bronze phialai and bowls – are very much the same kind of objects as were given as votives to the goddess Hera in the nearby shrine. This suggests that the two kinds of activity (giving to a god, and giving to whatever being is thought to have inhabited the Mycenaean tomb) are related; and that the objects of veneration (god and demi-god) were similar. Ancestors were not, in Greek thought, god-like beings; heroes by contrast are often (as in Hesiod) thought of as being ἡμίθειοι– semi-divine. Further clues come from an examination of the finds from Mycenae, which represents the largest concentration of ‘tomb cults’ anywhere.72 To be sure, many of these deposits might not be ritually significant –they may be just dumps, or the result of later building activity. But some of them clearly were. The considerable quantities of objects found in the Epano and Kato Phournos tholos tombs, and in the ‘tomb of Clytemnestra’ must represent some

My general point here is to distinguish between beings who might be ‘ancestral’ (that is who shared something in common with the people of the present, whose heirs they might be) and those considered ‘other’. In the imagination of the historic peoples of Northern Europe (Norse, Irish and Scots in particular) there are a whole host of human-like beings who are ‘other’ – trolls, fairies, goblins, pixies, elves and so forth. No-one in historical Scandinavia claims descent from a troll. Hesiod’s first two races (Gold and Silver) are certainly ‘other’ – human-like but not quite human. But, it may be objected, the silver race are not heroes. Perhaps. Who exactly counts as a hero, and what this term means is ambiguous and has been the subject of learned philological debate for well over 100 years. Antonaccio insists that some heroes were ancestors: some yes, but while some ancestors could be heroes, not all heroes were ancestors. No typology of the term has found wide acceptance,77 and I am not the only scholar to have found Antonaccio’s interpretation of the Argive tomb cult evidence as Ahnenkult (ancestor worship) unconvincing.78 And, while claiming descent from a famous or heroic ancestor (énoncer une ascendance) is Boehringer 2001: 162-167. Jeffery 1990: 174 no.6. The only tomb cult with evidence of cult to a named hero is the one excavated by B.Intzesiloglou in Thessaly at Xeroneri Georgiko (Kouphia Rachi), where a Mycenaean tomb used in LHIIIB-IIIC received later (Archaic to Classical) votive offerings (Whitley 2003: 54; Whitley et al. 2006: 75-6). This has an inscription of around 600 BC which may be a dedication to Aiatos, father of Thessalos (and so be a dedication to an eponymous local hero). 75  Whitley 1995; following Snodgrass 1988. 76  Hesiod, Works and Days: 140-42. 77  It is worth quoting Boehringer 2001: 25: ‘Der Versuch, den Begriff ’Heros’ klar und eindeutig zu definieren, gleicht demjenigen einen Pudding an eine Wand zu nageln – es funktioniert nicht‘. Antonaccio (2016) does not reference Boehringer. 78  Boehringer 2001: 34-46. 73  74 

E.g. Phrontis; see Od.3.278-83. Abramson 1979. 67  Thuc. 5.11.1. 68  Heroes of the saltmarsh, or heroes of the plain; Kearns 1989: 144 and 193 respectively. 69  Blegen 1937; Antonaccio 1995: 53-65; Boehringer 2001: 144-160. 70  Waldstein 1902; Du Cou 1905. 71  Pfaff 2013: 279-289. 72  Antonaccio 1995: 30-53; Boehringer 2001: 160-178. 65  66 

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James Whitley

Figure 7. Map of Crete, showing location of sites mentioned (prepared by Kirsty Harding)

one of Duplouy’s79 ‘modes de reconnaissance sociale’ it is often not a very effective one. Certainly, it did not form the basis for the supposed ‘Archaic aristocracy’, as has often been claimed.

Bronze Age tombs, is not unknown on the island81 – but their occurrence is much rarer, and the offerings therein much less rich than our Argive examples. One of two finds of small painted pots have been found in the tombs of the Mesara (Kamilari), at Ayia Triada and in the Phourni cemetery near Archanes.82 But there is nothing like a tomb cult (in Antonaccio’s sense) in the greatest of Bronze Age sites in Crete, Knossos (Figure 7). That is not to say that there is no re-use of tombs in the Iron Age cemeteries of Knossos – Bronze Age tombs seem to have been cleared out and re-used for burial. But, in Knossos at least, no cult was involved. There are some cults to named heroes – but very few. The only certain one I know of is the Shrine of the hero Glaukos at Knossos,83 which does not really get going before Classical times. Most if not all cults in Crete – insofar as we can identify the object of cult (and there are very few votive inscriptions to go on)—seem to be to gods not heroes.84 And very few if any seem to be cults to the major figures of the Trojan or Theban cycles, or to Herakles.

Whoever is right here what is clear about the Argolid is that it seems to have made extensive use of several pasts: the Trojan War cycle and the Herakles cycle are prominent in iconography but not in cult; the opposite is true of the Seven against Thebes and the Theban cycle. While these uses of the past represent some kind of memory (memory which makes no claim to accuracy) tomb cults (in my view) represent the opposite. Between 750 and 650 BC there is an enormous concentration of cult offerings to anonymous beings, who may be ancestors or who may be more like Northern European faerie folk – quite ‘other’ rather than quite ‘ancestral’. Here the tombs themselves served not as the locus of memory (lieux de memoire) but as mementos. Not only then were the pasts multiple80 but these different pasts involved distinctly different sets of relationships between past and present – both memory (in oral tales) and memento (in re-use of monuments). This diversity of competing, multiple pasts is not however quite so evident in other parts of the Archaic Greek world.

Crete seems to have been peripheral to the major Trojan War cycle in the Archaic period85– Idomeneus is not a major figure in the Iliad, and while Odysseus does at one point (falsely) claim to be a Cretan,86 this seems to be a joke, perhaps an allusion to the ‘Cretan liar’ paradox.

The past continuous: Eastern Crete The situation in Crete could not be more different from that in the Argolid. Tomb cult, that is offerings of late 8th century or early 7th century date in or over 79  80 

Lefèvre Novaro 2005; Cf. Legarra Herrero 2015. Lefèvre Novaro 2005: 187-191. 83  Callaghan 1978. 84  Prent 2005. 85  Things change in the Roman period (see Alcock 2002: 99-131). The so-called Tomb of Meriones near Knossos dates from this time but this seems to be an example of the ‘invention of tradition’. 86  Hom. Od.17. 178-84. 81  82 

Duplouy 2006: 37-77. Antonaccio 2016: 121.

28

The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE

We do know of stories relating to mythical kings of Crete – Minos in particular, but also Rhadymanthus and others, which are alluded to from time to time in Plato’s Laws and in other mainly fourth-century writers. The shadowy ‘philosopher’ Epimenides (from Knossos) is said to have composed a poem of four thousand lines on Minos and Rhadymanthus, according to the 2nd to 3rd century AD writer Diogenes Laertius.87 This is the only Cretan epic on a Cretan subject that we know of.

Homer96 mentions ̶ the ‘Eteocretans’. Etymologically ‘Eteo-Cretan’ means ‘True Cretan’ – more Cretan than the others, having a greater claim to autochthony. Here an oral tradition concerning the past seems to relate, very clearly, to a claim to a distinct ethnicity.97 Strabo goes on to say that Praisos is where one of the most important sanctuaries of Crete was to be found, the Sanctuary of Dictaean Zeus.98 This has been found, not near the city of Praisos itself, but at Palaikastro.99 It is an unambiguous example of a ruin cult, placed over Block Chi of the Bronze Age city, with numerous finds of bronze votives, including tripod cauldrons and bronze tympana (though no architecture to speak of). Does the location of this cult make it ‘ancestral’? It is very hard to tell – abandoned Bronze Age cities were both so numerous and so extensive in Crete that it would be very unusual if there were no ruin cults at all on the island. The position of this cult, within the territory of Praisos but on the border with the neighbouring city of Itanos, might have made the ‘liminal’ quality of this location particularly important and thereby enhanced the significance of ruins. But if a past is being referenced, or continuity with an earlier cult (‘Dictaian Zeus’ the youthful Minoan male deity) is being claimed this would certainly be an appropriate place.

This is not to say that Cretans did not have a notion of their past.88 In the Archaic period we do have some evidence for ‘ruin’ cults in or over abandoned Bronze Age palaces or settlements which have otherwise been set to one side.89 Such cults have been identified at AyiaTriada (near Phaistos), the Palace at Knossos itself (the Sanctuary of Rhea) and at the Temple of Dictaean Zeus at Palaikastro.90 These cults however do not closely resemble those on mainland Greece. The Archaic temples that were erected over or close to the palaces of Tiryns or Mycenae have no parallel in Crete.91 Crete too is an island of regions, and what applies to North Central Crete (Knossos) may not apply to the East of the island. Here there are three examples of tomb cult – some meagre Late Geometric and Orientalising offerings have been found in the Early Bronze Age cemetery at Ayia Photia and the Late Bronze Age tombs of Achladia and Mochlos.92 These offerings are much less rich than those to be found in Argive tombs – there are no bronzes for example, and no major deposits such as we find in the ‘Tomb of Clytemnestra’ at Mycenae. The rarity (and relative poverty) of the kinds of cults we see on the mainland does not mean that some notion of the ‘past’ was not important to Cretans. If we follow our literary sources, it ought to have been particularly important in Eastern Crete. The people of Praisos for example told a story about themselves to the historian Herodotos.93 When King Minos led a disastrous expedition to Sicily (where he lost his life) he emptied the island of people, except for those of Polichna and Praisos. Later writers, beginning with Staphylos of Naukratis94and later Strabo95, associated the people of Praisos with one of the five peoples that

The idea of the True Cretans certainly encourages a search for material remains on which this claim might have been based – how else is the superior autochthony of the Eteocretans to be demonstrated? Certainly this expectation coloured the work of earlier investigators, such as Evans, Halbherr and Bosanquet, who looked for clear evidence of continuity of occupation between the Bronze and Iron Ages on the Acropolis of Praisos and comprehensively failed to find it.100 More recently a systematic attempt has been made to find something ‘ancestral’ about Praisos’s claims to the past.101 Likely places for Praisian ancestors have been sought in the tholos tombs in the cemetery ridge (just to the south of the city itself) which begin to be used at the very end of the Bronze Age.102 These tombs show continuous use from around 1200 BC down into the Archaic period (and later) and but no sign of tomb cult such as we find in the Argolid, or indeed elsewhere in Crete. Around Praisos the ‘past’ was in general not something that had to be reclaimed.

Laertius 1.112. It is however misleading in the extreme to characterise this as a ‘Minoan’ past (Whitley 2006b). The ancient Cretans had no more notion that they were ‘Minoans’ than the Bronze Age Greek-speakers of the Argolid had that they were ‘Mycenaean’. These pseudo-emic labels serve no purpose. 89  Prent 2003; 2014: 655-658. 90  Bosanquet 1905. 91  For these see Frickenhaus (1912) and Klein (1997) respectively. Joseph Maran has recently demonstrated that the earliest architectural phase of the Tiryns temple goes back to LHIIIC. 92  Lefèvre Novaro 2005: 185-186. 93  Herodotos 7.170-1. 94  FrGrHist 269 fr. 12. 95  Strabo 10.4.6. 87  88 

Rather than being reclaimed it was continuity itself that was emphasised. Once the polis of Praisos was established sometime around 700 BC great efforts were made to Hom. Od. 19., 175-7 Hall 1995a; 1997; Whitley 1998; 2006a. 98  Strabo 10.4.12. 99  Bosanquet 1905. 100  See Whitley 2015: 28-35; Bosanquet 1902. 101  Sjörgen 2007. 102  Bosanquet 1902: 240-54. 96  97 

29

James Whitley ensure that the present differed little from the past of living memory. Continuity requires conservatism: conservatism in the retention of household storage jars over several generations;103 conservatism in the iconography of the numerous ‘warrior’ plaques,104 whose imagery (firmly established around 700 BC) lasted well into the 4th century and whose deposition may have had something to do with the re-production of the male citizen body;105 conservatism in the iconography of male, ‘initiatory’ plaques in sanctuaries which ‘face’ the neighbouring city of Itanos;106 conservatism in the retention of the institution of the andreion, whose rituals emphasised the consumption of wild animals;107 conservatism and idiosyncrasy in the retention of a ‘ritual’ Eteocretan language expressed in monumental form in law codes that adorned the principal sanctuary of the city.108 Here epigraphy overlaps with ethnicity – it has been argued that not only did the ‘Eteocretans’ maintain their language (rather like the Welsh) but also maintained peculiar letter forms, whose phonetic value remains disputed.109

with a totemist ontology (Australian Aborigines) only have a very distant one – the Dreamtime – whose connexion to the present is in no sense historical. While ‘analogist’ and ‘naturalist’ ontologies do have, generally speaking, some notion of a past or pasts, this leaves us with another problem. How can we tell, a priori, that the ‘ontology’ of prehistoric Europeans was ‘analogist’? Only, I would suggest, by looking at what remains of their oral tales or traditions in history and folklore -not by simply looking at the monuments. Even in these societies the past is not always remembered. Sometimes, as in the case of the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age tells of Northern Greece it seems to have been, quite deliberately, forgotten.113 Settlement sites, which had been occupied for millennia, were abandoned without a trace of any memory amongst the descendants of the people who once lived there. Of course, such mounds could always be re-interpreted – and they have been in modern times as ‘toumbes’, burial mounds rather than settlement tells. We have no general theory to account for why and how palpably ancient things – from tells to cromlechs- come to be re-interpreted.114

This is not to say that the ‘Eteocretans’ might not have referenced their past. Mieke Prent once suggested110 that the three hills of Praisos itself might ‘reference’ the three hills of the neighbouring earlier ‘refuge settlement’ at Kipia above Kalamafki (which can clearly and easily be seen from Praisos itself) – a phenomenological referencing. This is both entirely plausible and utterly unprovable. What is clear is that, in general, the people of East Crete had an entirely different relation to their past than did the people of the Argolid. This was in part because their pasts were different. In East Crete there is little or no reference to cycles of tales set in another time, nor any cults of heroes or other beings (whether conceived of as ‘ancestral’ or ‘other’). This cannot simply be because the people of Praisos had a different, Minos-centred epic cycle. Rather the tales they told about themselves did not manifest themselves in any identifiable ‘narrative’ iconography.111 Instead material and ritual conservatism was the main means by which the past was maintained.

Interest in ‘the past’ and its uses is now widespread amongst several strands within archaeology as a whole. There is now considerable interest both in how monuments in prehistory were re-interpreted in subsequent generations115 and in the role of ancestors.116 This paper is a contribution to these debates; it is also a plea for scholars of Iron Age Europe to join classicists in the century-long discussion we have had about ‘the past in the past’. But here we encounter a problem of disciplinary divides. Prehistorians are accustomed to obtaining much of their theory from anthropology, on the assumption that ‘prehistoric and traditional’ societies are somehow alike, both being equally (and ontologically) different from literate ones. This belief in an ontological difference between literate and non-literate societies makes it difficult for prehistorians and classicists to talk to one another. It is not, however, consistent with a move away from a timeless ethnographic present that Echo-Hawke117 has advocated. Nor is a divide between ‘prehistory’ and ‘history’ compatible with Descola’s118 notion of his four ontologies – animist, totemist, analogist and naturalist (only the last two of which have any use for ‘ancestors’). The notion moreover that oral traditions were always and everywhere the same will strike the classicist as odd. To be sure some oral tales can undergo relatively little change, and others can retain (some) accurate information. But

Discussion and Conclusion Not all societies have pasts. Or at least, if we follow Descola112 societies with an ‘animist’ ontology (such as Amazonian gatherer-hunter-horticulturalists) don’t remember much about even a recent past; and some Whitley 2011: 27-34; 2018: 60-30. Pilz 2011; 2014. Whitley 2011: 16-19; 2016: 256-60. 106  Erickson 2009; cf. Whitley 2008. 107  Whitley and Madgwick 2018. 108  Third Acropolis or Altar Hill; Hall 1995a. 109  Jeffery 1949. 110  See Whitley 2015: 39-40. 111  Pace Pilz 2014. 112  Descola 2013. 103  104  105 

Whitley 2017. Pace Weiss-Krejci 2015. Diaz Guardamino et al. 2015. 116  Hill and Hageman 2016a. 117  Echo-Hawke 2000. 118  Descola 2013. 113  114  115 

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The Multiple Pasts of Archaic Greece: The Landscapes of Crete and the Argolid, 900-500 BCE

the mechanisms by which information is transmitted orally vary greatly in time and space. In the Greek case (which is perhaps the most closely studied oral poetic tradition) epic poetry was not so much concerned with accuracy as with telling an engaging story set in an ‘other’ time. Nagy’s119 work is as relevant to European prehistorians interested in memory as anything that comes from cultural anthropology.

storage jars) over several generations;123 and through iconographic, linguistic and epigraphic conservatism. If in material terms this conservatism is not very exciting, it was supremely successful in retaining social memory and in re-creating and re-producing the political community of Praisos for several centuries from around 700 to around 140 BC. These considerations should perhaps prompt a reappraisal of the term ‘ancestral’. In the case of Praisos the only practice that focused clearly on ancestry (narrowly defined) was the retention of storage vessels. If these were ancestral they were ancestral in matrilineal rather than patrilineal terms.124 Nothing in the Argive case is ‘ancestral’ in any sense. Returning to our original example of Cairnholy 2 ‘ancestral’ is a rather reductive way of understanding how the past was referenced. In choosing to make a tomb in a natural, rocky knoll I cannot imagine how this could have referenced the forebears of the architects of the tomb. But they may well have been referencing an imagined past, or another world –perhaps a world of spirits, or those other half-human creatures who still inhabit our dreams and our nightmares. Pasts are always multiple.

A principal outcome of the debates that scholars of Early Iron Age Greece have reached is that there is no single, straightforward model of how ‘the past’ or rather ‘pasts’ were remembered (or re-discovered). Unlike the claims made for Neolithic and Early Bronze Age NW Europe, no-one has looked for ancestors in the inclusions to be found in the fabric of Archaic Greek potsherds.120 In the ancient Aegean there was a multiplicity of ways in which the past could have been multiple.121 In the Argolid several pasts were referenced, and sometimes celebrated. Of the oral tale cycles about the heroic past, only one (on Thebes) manifested itself in hero cult (but not in images); the others (Troy, Herakles) were celebrated in song and in images (iconography). These tales constitute a kind of memory in that they were linked to the present through a continuous oral tradition of epic poetry. But (if my interpretation is correct) the Argive use of earlier material remains did not so much focus on memory but on mementos. The Bronze Age tombs at Argos, Mycenae and Prosymna reminded them of something – but this something probably was not an ‘Epic’ past, still less a past of known and identifiable forebears. Instead, through the establishment of cults in these places, a re-imagined past (Hesiod’s Silver Race?) was being re-claimed. These pasts were not maintained through simple continuity and conservatism; rather they required continual re-interpretation. This to me is likely to be a response to rapid social change, of which the re-telling and re-fashioning of tales (both orally and through iconography) was both a symptom and a manifestation.122

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Anthony Snodgrass, Christian Horn, Marta Díaz-Guardamino and the anonymous referee for helpful comments on earlier drafts of this paper. Bibliography Abramson, H. 1979. A hero shrine of Phrontis at Sounion? California Studies in Classical Antiquity 12: 1-19. Aktypi, K. 2014. Finds of the Geometric period in the Mycenaean cemetery of Agios Vasileios, Chalandritsa, Achaea. Annual of the British School at Athens 109: 129-157. Alcock, S.E. 2002. Archaeologies of the Greek Past: Landscape, Monuments and Memories. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Antonaccio, C.M. 1995. An Archaeology of Ancestors: Tomb Cult and Hero Cult in Early Greece. Lanham (MD), Rowman and Littlefield. Antonaccio, C.M. 2016. Achieving ancestorhood in ancient Greece. The Archaeology of Ancestors: Death, Memory and Veneration, edited by E. Hill and J. B. Hageman. Gainesville (FL), University of Florida Press: 102-123. Blegen, C.W. 1937. Post-Mycenaean deposits in chamber tombs. Archaiologiki Ephemeris 100: 377-390.

The situation in Eastern Crete was completely different from that of the Argolid. Though there were probably oral tales relating to a specifically Cretan past (the time of Minos and Rhadymanthus) there is no evidence of a tradition of epic poetry as such (one poem about Minos does not constitute a tradition). Instead the past was maintained through ritual practice (initiation rituals); through the retention of matrilineal heirlooms (pithoi, Nagy 1990. As in Parker Pearson 2000. This is in spite of the fact that ceramic petrography in the Aegean sphere is both methodologically and conceptually much more sophisticated than that to be found in Britain, chiefly as a result of the work of the Fitch Laboratory in Athens. 121  As noted by Antonaccio 2016: 120-121. 122  Morris 1988. 119  120 

123  124 

31

See Whitley 2018: 60-30. Ebbinghaus 2005; Whitley 2018: 60-63.

James Whitley Bloch, M.E.F. 1996. Ancestors. Encyclopedia of Social and Cultural Anthropology, 43, edited by A. Barnard and A. Spencer. London, Longman. Bloch, M.E.F. 1998. How We Think They Think: Anthropological Approaches to Cognition, Memory and Literacy. Boulder (Colorado), Westview Press. Boehringer, D. 2001. Heroenkulte in Griechenland von der geometrischen bis zur klassischen Zeit: Attika, Argolis, Messenia (Klio Beihefte neue Folge Band 3). Berlin, Akademie Verlag. Bol, P. C. 1989. Argivische Schilde. (Olympische Forschungen XVII). Berlin and New York, De Gruyter. Bosanquet, R.C. 1902. Excavations at Praesos I. Annual of the British School at Athens 8: 231-269. Bosanquet, R.C. 1905. Excavations at Palaikastro IV: the temple of Dictaean Zeus. Annual of the British School at Athens 11: 298-308. Bradley, R. 1997. Rock Art and the Prehistory of Atlantic Europe: Signing the Land. London and New York, Routledge. Bradley, R. 2002. The Past in Prehistoric Societies. London and New York, Routledge. Bradley, R., Harding, J. and Mathews, M. 1993. The siting of prehistoric rock art in Galloway, South-west Scotland. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 59: 269283. Broodbank, C. 2013. The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World. London, Thames and Hudson. Callaghan, P.J. 1978. KRS 1976: Excavations at a shrine of Glaukos, Knossos. Annual of the British School at Athens 73: 1-30. Clarke, K. 2008. Making Time for the Past: Local History and the Polis. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Coldstream, J.N. 1976. Hero cults in the age of Homer. Journal of Hellenic Studies 96: 8-17. Cook, J.M. 1953. Mycenae 1939-1952 III: The Agamemnoneion. Annual of the British School at Athens 48: 30-68. Courbin, P. 1955. Un fragment de cratère Protoargien. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 79 [1955]: 1-49. Cummings, V. 2009. A View from the West: The Neolithic of the Irish Sea Zone. Oxford, Oxbow. Daumas, M. 1992. Argos et les sept. Polydipsion Argos: Argos de la fin des palais mycéniens à la constitution de l’État Classique (Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique Supplément XXII), edited by M. Piérart. Athens, Paris and Fribourg, École Française d’Athènes, De Boccard and Éditions Universitaires de Fribourg: 253-263. Descola, P. 2013. Beyond Nature and Culture. Translated from the French by Janet Lloyd. Chicago and London, Chicago University Press. De Polignac, F. 1984. La Naïssance de la Cité Grecque: Cultes, Espace et Société VIIIe-VIIe Siècles avant J.C. Paris, Éditions La Découverte.

Díaz-Guardamino, M., García Sanjuán, L. and Wheatley, D. (eds) 2015. The Lives of Prehistoric Monuments in Iron Age, Roman and Medieval Europe. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Du Cou, H.F. 1905. The bronzes of the Argive Heraeum. The Argive HeraeumII: Terracotta Figurines, Terracotta Reliefs, Vases and Vase Fragments, Bronzes, Engraved Stones, Gems and Ivories, Coins, Egyptian, or GraecoEgyptian, Objects, edited by C. Waldstein. Boston and New York, Houghton-Mifflin: 191-331. Duplouy, A. 2006. Le Prestige des Élites: Recherches sur Les Modes the Reconnaissance Sociale en Grèce entre les Xe et Ve Siècles avant J.C. Paris, Les Belles Lettres. Ebbinghaus, S. 2005. Protector of the city, or the art of storage in Early Greece. Journal of Hellenic Studies 125: 51-72. Echo-Hawk, R.C. 2000. Ancient history in the New World: Integrating oral traditions and the archaeological record in deep time. American Antiquity 65: 267-290. Erickson, B.L. 2009. Roussa Ekklesia, Part I: Religion and Politics in East Crete. American Journal of Archaeology 113: 353-404. Fermor, P.L. 1966. Roumeli: Travels in Northern Greece. London, John Murray. Fortes, M. 1976. An introductory commentary. Ancestors, edited by W.H. Newell. The Hague, Mouton: 1-16. Frickenhaus, A. 1912. Die Hera von Tiryns. Tiryns I: Die Ergebnisse der Ausgrabungen des Instituts, edited by Deutsches Archäologisches Institut. Athens, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut in Athen: 1-126. Gehrke, J. 2001. Chapter 14: myth, history and collective identity: uses of the past in ancient Greece and beyond. The Historian’s Craft in the Age of Herodotus, edited by N. Luraghi. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 286-313. Giuliani, L. 2013. Image and Myth: A History of Pictorial Narration in Greek Art. Translated from the German by Joseph O’Donnell. Chicago and London, Chicago University Press. Guarducci, M. 1942. Inscriptiones Creticae Opera et Consilio Frederici Halbherr Collectae III: Tituli Cretae Orientalis. Rome, Libreria dello Stato. = ICrIII Hägg, R. (ed.) 1999. Ancient Greek Hero Cult: Proceedings of the Fifth International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult organized by the Department of Classical Archaeology and Ancient History, Göteberg University. (Skrifter Utgivna av Svenska Institutet I Athen, 8º, XVI). Stockholm, Paul Åströms Förlag. Hall, J.M. 1995a. The Role of Language in Greek Ethnicities. Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 41: 83-100. Hall, J.M. 1995b. How Argive was the ‘Argive Heraion’? The political and cultic geography of the Argive plain, 900–400 BC. American Journal of Archaeology 99: 577-613. Hall, J. 1997. Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. 32

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Hall, J.M. 1999. Beyond the polis: the multilocality of heroes. Ancient Greek Hero Cult: Proceedings of the Fifth International Seminar on Ancient Greek Cult organized by the Department of Classical Archaeology and Ancient History, Göteberg University. (Skrifter Utgivna av Svenska Institutet I Athen, 8º, XVI), edited by R. Hägg. Stockholm, Paul Åströms Förlag: 49-59. Hill, E. and Hageman, J.B. (eds) 2016a. The Archaeology of Ancestors: Death, Memory and Veneration. Gainesville (FL), University of Florida Press. Hill, E. and Hageman, J.B. (2016b). Leveraging the dead: the ethnography of ancestors. The Archaeology of Ancestors: Death, Memory and Veneration, edited by E. Hill and J.B. Hageman. Gainesville (FL), University of Florida Press: 3-41. Hill, E. and Hageman, J.B. (2016c). The archaeology of ancestors. The Archaeology of Ancestors: Death, Memory and Veneration, edited by E. Hill and J.B. Hageman. Gainesville (FL), University of Florida Press: 42-80 Jeffery, L.H. 1949. Το Γράμμαειςτήν Κρήτην, Kretika Chronika 3 [1949]: 143-149. Jeffery, L.H. 1990. The Local Scripts of Archaic Greece (2nd edition, revised by Alan Johnston). Oxford, Clarendon. Kearns, E. 1989. The Heroes of Attica. (Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies Supplement 57). London, Institute of Classical Studies. Klein, N.L. 1997. Excavation of the Greek temples at Mycenae by the British School at Athens. Annual of the British School at Athens 92: 247-322. Kunze, E. 1950. Archaische Schildbänder (Olympische Forschungen II). Berlin, De Gruyter. Lefèvre Novarro, D. 2005. Les offrandes d’époque géométrique-orientalisante dans les tombes crétoises de l’âge du bronze: problèmes et hypothèses. Creta Antica 5: 181-197. Legara Herrero, B. 2015. What happens when tombs die? The historical appropriation of the Cretan Bronze Age cemeteries. The Lives of Prehistoric Monuments in Iron Age, Roman and Medieval Europe, edited by M. Díaz-Guardamino, L. García Sanjuán and D. Wheatley. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 265-285. Lorimer, H.L. 1950. Homer and the Monuments. London, Macmillan. Morris, I. 1988. Tomb cult and the ‘Greek renaissance’: the past in the present in the 8th century B.C. Antiquity 62: 750-761. Nagy, G. 1990. Pindar’s Homer: The Lyric Possession of an Epic Past. Baltimore and London, Johns Hopkins University Press. Nagy, G. 1995. An evolutionary model for the making of Homeric poetry: comparative perspectives. The Ages of Homer: A Tribute to Emily Townsend Vermeule, edited by J.B. Carter and S.P. Morris. Austin TX, University of Texas Press: 163-179. Nagy, G. 1997. The Shield of Achilles: Ends of the Iliad and beginnings of the polis. New Light on a Dark Age: Exploring the Culture of Geometric Greece, edited by S.

Langdon. Columbia MO and London, University of Missouri Press: 194-207. Parker Pearson, M. 2000. Ancestors, bones and stones in Neolithic and Early Bronze Age Britain and Ireland’. Neolithic Orkney in its European Context, edited by A. Ritchie. Cambridge, McDonald Institute Monographs: 203-214. Pariente, A. 1992. Le monument argien des ‘sept contre Thèbes’. Polydipsion Argos: Argos de la fin des palais mycéniens à la constitution de l’État Classique. (Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique Supplément XXII), edited by M. Piérart. Athens, Paris and Fribourg, École Française d’Athènes, De Boccard and Éditions Universitaires de Fribourg: 195-225. Pfaff, C. 2013. Artemis and a hero at the Argive Heraion. Hesperia 82: 277-299. Piérart, M. (ed.) 1992. Polydipsion Argos: Argos de la fin des palais mycéniens à la constitution de l’État Classique. (Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique Supplément XXII). Athens, Paris and Fribourg, École Française d’Athènes, De Boccard and Éditions Universitaires de Fribourg. Piggott, S. and Powell, T.G.E. 1949 [1951]. The excavation of three Neolithic chambered cairns in Galloway, 1949. Proceedings ofthe Society of Antiquaries of Scotland 83.2 [1948-49]: 103-161. Pilz, O. 2011. Frühe matrizengeformte Terrakoten auf Kreta: Votivpraxis und Gesellschaftsstruktur in spätgeometrischer und früharchaischer Zeit. (Beiträge zur Archäologie Griechenlands 2). Mohnsee, Bibliopolis. Pilz, O. 2014. Narrative art in Archaic Crete. Cultural Practices and Material Culture in Archaic and Classical Crete: Proceedings of the International Conference, Mainz, May 20-21, 2011, edited by O. Pilz and G. Seelentag. Berlin and Boston (MA), de Gruyter: 243-261. Pollard, J., Garwood, P., Parker Pearson, M., Richards, C., Julian Thomas, J. and Welham, K. 2017. Remembered and imagined belongings: Stonehenge in the age of the first metals. The Neolithic of Europe: Papers in Honour of Alasdair Whittle, edited by P. Bickle, V. Cummings, D. Hofmann and J. Pollard. Oxford, Oxbow: 279-297. Prent, M. 2003. Glories of the Past in the Past: Ritual Activities at Palatial Ruins in Early Iron Age Crete. Archaeologies of Memory, edited by R.M. Van Dyke and S.E. Alcock. Malden MA and Oxford, Blackwell: 81103. Prent, M. 2005. Cretan Sanctuaries and Cults: Continuity and Change from Late Minoan IIIC to the Archaic Period (Religions in the Graeco-Roman world vol. 154). Leiden and Boston, Brill. Prent, M. 2014. Ritual and ideology in Early Iron Age Crete: the role of the past and the east. The Cambridge Prehistory of the Bronze and Iron Age Mediterranean, edited by A. Bernard Knapp and P. van Dommelen. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 650-654. 33

James Whitley Sjögren, L. 2007. The Eteocretans: ancient traditions and modern constructions of ethnic identity. Opuscula Atheniensia: Annual of the Swedish Institute at Athens 31-32 [2006-07]: 221-230. Snodgrass, A.M. 1980. Archaic Greece: The Age of Experiment. Berkeley and Los Angeles, The University of California Press. Snodgrass, A.M. 1988. The archaeology of the hero. Annali dell’ Istituto Universitario Orientale di Napoli: Dipartimento di Studi del Mondo Classico et del Mediterraneo, sezione di archeologia e storia antica 10: 19-26. Snodgrass, A.M. 1998. Homer and the Artists. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Spencer, N. (ed.). 1995. Time, Tradition and Society in Greek Archaeology: Bridging the ‘Great Divide’. London and New York, Routledge. Stocker, S.R. and Davis, J.L. 2017. The combat agate from the grave of the griffin warrior at Pylos. Hesperia 86: 583-605. Thomas, J. 2013. The Birth of Neolithic Britain: An Interpretive Account. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Tilley, C. 1994. A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments. Oxford, Berg. Toynbee, A.J. 1981. The Greeks and Their Heritages. Oxford and New York, Oxford University Press. Vernant, J.P. 1983. Myth and Thought among the Greeks. London, Routledge and Kegan Paul. Wace, A.J.B., Holland, M., Hood, M.S.F. and Woodhead, A.G. 1953. Mycenae 1939-52 II: The Perseia fountain house. Annual of the British School at Athens 48: 19-29. Waldstein, C. 1902. The Argive Heraeum Vol. I. Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin and Co. Waldstein, C. 1905. The Argive Heraeum Vol. II. Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin and Co. Weiss-Krejci, E. 2015. The plot against the past: re-use and modification of ancient mortuary monuments as persuasive efforts of appropriation. The Lives of Prehistoric Monuments in Iron Age, Roman and Medieval Europe, edited by M. Díaz-Guardamino, L. García Sanjuán and D. Wheatley. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 307-324. Weiss-Krejci, E. 2016. Royal ancestor construction and veneration in the House of Habsburg. The Archaeology of Ancestors: Death, Memory and Veneration, edited by E. Hill and J.B. Hageman. Gainesville (FL), University of Florida Press: 166-188. West, M.L. 1978. Hesiod: Works and Days: Edited With Prolegomena and Commentary. Oxford, Clarendon. West, M.L. 1999. The invention of Homer. Classical Quarterly n.s. 49: 364-382. Wheatley, D. 2015. Myth, memento and memory: Avebury (Wiltshire, England). The Lives of Prehistoric Monuments in Iron Age, Roman and Medieval Europe, edited by M. Díaz-Guardamino, L. García Sanjuán and D. Wheatley. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 99- 117.

Whitley, J. 1988. Early states and hero cults: a reappraisal. Journal of Hellenic Studies 108: 173-182. Whitley, J. 1995. Tomb cult and hero cult: the uses of the past in Archaic Greece. Time, Tradition and Society in Greek Archaeology: Bridging the ‘Great Divide’, edited by N. Spencer. London and New York, Routledge: 43-63. Whitley, J. 1998. ‘From Minoans to Eteocretans: The Praisos Region 1200-500 B.C.’. Post-Minoan Crete: Proceedings of the First Colloquium (BSA Studies Series 2), edited by W.G. Cavanagh, M. Curtis, J.N. Coldstream and A.W. Johnston. London: British School at Athens: 27-39. Whitley, J. 2002. Too many ancestors. Antiquity 76: 119126. Whitley, J. 2003. Archaeology in Greece 2002-03. Archaeological Reports 49: 1-88. Whitley, J. 2006a. Praisos: Political Evolution and Ethnic Identity in Eastern Crete, c.1400-300 B.C. Ancient Greece: From the Mycenaean Palaces to the Age of Homer (Edinburgh Leventis Studies 3), edited by S. DegerJalkotzy and I.S. Lemos. Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press: 597-617. Whitley, J. 2006b. The Minoans: a Welsh invention? A view from East Crete. Archaeology and European Modernity: Producing and Consuming the ‘Minoans’ (Creta Antica 7), edited by Y. Hamilakis and N. Momigliano. Padua, Bottega D’Erasmo: 55-67. Whitley, J. 2008. Identity and sacred topography: the sanctuaries of Praisos in Eastern Crete. Religion and Society: Rituals, Resources and Identity in the Ancient Graeco-Roman World: The BOMOS-Conferences 2002-2005 (Analecta Romana Instituti Danici Supplementum XL), edited by A. Holm Rasmussen and S. William Rasmussen. Rome, Edizioni Quasar: 233-246. Whitley, J. 2011. Praisos V: a preliminary report on the 2007 excavation season. Annual of the British School at Athens 106: 3-45. Whitley, J. 2014. Commensality and the ‘citizen state’: the case of Praisos. Cretan Cities: Formation and Transformation (Aegis 7), edited by F. GaignerotDriessen and J. Driessen. Louvain-la-Neuve, Presses Universitaires de Louvain: 141-163. Whitley, J. 2015. Scholarly traditions and scientific paradigms: method and reflexivity in the study of ancient Praisos. Classical Archaeology in Context: Theory and Practice in Excavation in the Greek World, edited by D. C. Haggis and C. M. Antonaccio. Berlin and New York, Walter de Gruyter: 23-49. Whitley, J. 2016. Fusing the horizons, or why context matters: the interdependence of fieldwork and museum study in Mediterranean archaeology. Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 29: 247-269. Whitley, J. 2017. The end of the tells: the Iron Age ‘Neolithic’ in the central and northern Aegean. The Neolithic of Europe: Papers in Honour of Alasdair Whittle, edited by P. Bickle, V. Cummings, D. Hofmann and J. Pollard. Oxford, Oxbow: 24-33. 34

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Whitley, J. 2018. Two kinds of agency: the pithos and the krater. An Age of Experiment: Classical Archaeology Transformed (1976-2014), edited by L. Nevett and J. Whitley. Cambridge, McDonald Institute Monographs series: 59-73. Whitley, J. and Madgwick, R. 2018. Consuming the wild: more thoughts on the andreion. Feasting and Polis Institutions (Memnosyne Supplement 414), edited by F. van den Eijnde, J. Blok and R. Strootman. Leiden, E.J. Brill: 125-148.

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Aeneas, Romulus, and the Memory Site of the Forum Augustum in Rome Matthias J. Bensch

Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg [email protected]

Hinc videt Aenean oneratum pondere caro et tot Iuleae nobilitatis avos hinc videt Iliaden umeris ducis arma ferentem. On this side he sees Aeneas weighed down by a dear burden, and so many forebears of Julian nobility; on the other side he sees the son of Ilia [Romulus] carrying the (vanquished) leader’s arms on his shoulders (Ov. Fast. 5, 563-566, transl. A. Barchiesi1). Ovid’s1 poetic imagination of the Forum Augustum in Rome leaves no doubt about who emerged as the most important heroic figures2 exhibited in the two galleries in the porticoes to the north west and south east of the complex. Although those two heroes from the foundational period of Roman history might have had two equally visually prominent counterparts from the more recent Roman history, namely Augustus himself and his adoptive father Caesar, Ovid only mentions the figures of the former ones explicitly.3 Whereas Ovid allows Mars to see Aeneas and Romulus performing their virtuous deeds, he lets him read the names Augustus and Caesar,4 while he is admiring his own sacred precinct. While the site of the forum has been amply described as a central monument of Augustan representational culture, often designated with the anachronistic term ›propaganda‹, it has only recently been considered from the viewpoint of cultural memory studies (cf. Shaya 2013; Woolf 2015). In this article, I explore Aeneas’ and Romulus’ role in Roman Republican cultural memory and the way in which the forum’s conception mirrors but also transforms these traditions. Cf. Barchiesi 2005: 285. I prefer to use the more neutral term ‘heroic figure’ instead of the essentialistically connotated Greek loan word ‘heros / hero’, which will be used as a synonym nevertheless (for the latter see von den Hoff et al. 2015: 20–28; Bremmer 2017: 38–43). For the term ‚heroic figure‘ see von den Hoff et al. 2013: 8: „Als heroische Figur verstehen wir deshalb zunächst eine reale oder fiktive, lebende oder tote menschliche Person, die als Held, hero, héros usw. benannt und/oder präsentiert wird und der heroische Eigenschaften zugeschrieben werden, und zwar insbesondere agonale, außeralltägliche, oftmals transgressive eigene Leistungen.’; ‘Exemplary figure’ is used as another synonym (for exemplarity in Roman culture see e.g. Walter 2004: 51–62; Roller 2004; Langlands 2015). 3  For Caesar at the forum see Spannagel 1999: 300–316; for Augustus’ presence at his forum (besides the dedicatory inscription) see the discussion about him being represented in the quadriga in Strocka 2009. 4  Ov. Fast. 5, 567–568: ‘spectat et Augusto praetextum nomine templum, et visum lecto Caesare maius opus’. 1  2 

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 36–45

Remembering heroic figures in Rome – Constructing Roman past To provide context to my discussion, some short and inevitably incomprehensive remarks about Roman cultural memory are necessary to understand the forum’s relation to its other objectivations.5 The range of these media, sites and rituals related to the past, and which actively participate in its construction, is quite substantial (e.g. Blösel 2003; Flower 2009). It comprises literary genres such as historiography and epic, the former actually being a late addition to the ‘wide variety of more or less traditional forms of memory making in Roman culture’ (Flower 2009: 65; cf. Hölkeskamp 2005: 252). The medium of the wax mask (imagines maiorum) is one of those more traditional means (cf. Flower 1996). It appears in two basic communicative situations. Most of the time, these masks were kept hidden in shrines in the atrium, a most public part of the Roman house. On these shrines there were inscriptions (tituli), the real signifiers of the respective ancestors in this arrangement, as E. Flaig has rightly put it (cf. Flaig 2004: 50). The mask itself was displayed during the pompa funebris, the ritual performed at a noble man’s death (cf. Flaig 1995; 2004: 51 – 74; Flower 1996: 91 – 127).6 In a funerary procession the ancestor masks of the family of the deceased, worn by actors, were carried to the Forum Romanum. In this défilé, only those ancestors who had held at least the office of an aedile were included. At the forum a laudatio honoring the virtues of the deceased was held, followed by that of other family members. Subsequently, the procession continued towards the grave.

For A. and J. Assmann’s concept of ‘cultural memory’ see e.g. Erll 2017: 24–31 with biographical references. 6  Polybius (6, 53, 1–54, 3) is the main source for the pompa funebris. 5 

Aeneas, Romulus, and the Memory Site of the Forum Augustum in Rome

By the end of the second century BC, it had become customary and desirable for young and ambitious politicians to hold the office of a tresvir monetalis. The collegium was responsible for the mint in Rome.7 It is generally assumed that a shift in coin design was stimulated by the lex Gabinia of 139 BC, providing for secret ballots in elections,8 although it has been rightly contested how closely these phenomena were causally linked.9 This shift entailed the beginning of the end of the so-called ›public types‹ of coinage and the rise of the ›private types‹.10 Whereas coin iconography was rather standardized during most of the second century BC, showing motifs of significance for the whole polity (Dea Roma, Dioscuri), moneyers then started to use coin imagery to promote their own gens (family), showing either portraits or monuments, or symbolic representations of accomplishments of past members of their respective families.11 Due to this, figures from the past and their exemplary deeds became ever more ubiquitous in visual culture. While most of the images refer to individuals from a more recent past – a development that culminated in the depiction of living persons with Caesar – some moneyers participated in the construction of a primordial past of the civitas.12 Several gentes traced their origins back to the times of the Roman kings and even further to Greek and Trojan heroes.13 The Late Republican era witnessed the development of a new literary genre of genealogical studies (Varro, Atticus, Hyginus), which is our main source for these claims of mythical descendence. The coin images naturally have been evaluated in the light of these genealogical constructions, but the objections of scholars like J. D. Evans and E. Flaig are valid and demand a thorough reconsideration.14 We cannot indeed be sure how much of a claim of mythical descendence the depiction of one of those preRepublican figures really is. Judging from the ex-postperspective of knowing these assertions were made in literature is methodologically precarious.

performance of the pompa funebris was indeed the most effective way of presenting the accumulated ›symbolic capital‹ of the gens.15 On the other hand, the pompa was ephemeral and only feasible in the event of the death of a very accomplished family member. Contrarily, coins could be produced in great amounts during the period of office of the tresviri and circulated on their own volition for quite a time afterwards. So, despite their small size and their allegedly indifferent users,16 who are supposed not to have been able to understand their images anyway,17 coins were surely not as meaningless for keeping the gentes visually present in the public sphere.18 To sum up this short overview of Roman cultural memory, which is far from comprehensive, it should be mentioned how public spaces in the city of Rome were also full of visual allusions to famous men of the past. Honorific statuary is an obvious example of how memory is materialized in a permanent way.19 Inscribed monuments like temple buildings are another one. Statuary was abundantly present in public places such as the Forum Romanum and the Capitolium, the religious centre of the city.20 At times, the forum must have looked like an almost impenetrable ‘forest of statues’. A clearance finally took place in the midsecond century BC, when all monuments not decreed by the senate were removed.21 A place like the Comitium on the forum, the traditional assembly place of the people was a hot spot of memory culture, where statues of some of the oldest and most distinguished heroes of the remote Roman past had been displayed (e.g. the augur Attius Navius or the courageous Horatius Cocles), prior to the rearrangement in the first century BC.22 As K.-J. Hölkeskamp has so eloquently put it, memory indeed ‘tends towards spatiality’.23 15  Cf. Flaig 1999: 91: ‘Die Münzbilder sind für die starken patrizischen gentes ein absoluter Nebenschauplatz, der sich, gelinde gesagt, keiner Hochschätzung erfreut hat.’; Nevertheless, I am strongly opposed to Flaig’s provocatively presented idea of a complete ‘Ohnmacht der Bilder’ (impotence of images) (ibid. 92–95), though I greatly admire his inspiring approach from cultural semiotics. He is right in stressing that the meaning of images as signs is the product of cultural practices. In this sense, the imagines maiorum (also images, by the way!) are indeed more important than honorific statuary, as they are anchored in the ritual of the pompa funebris (a rite – despite its ephemerality – with a very pictorial quality!). But coins are no less a part of conventional practices, in which imagery traditionally played an important role verifying the value of the coin. Moreover, it has been shown by A. Meadows and J. Williams (2001) that coinage has a strong inclination to memory by its relation to the goddess Moneta. 16  Cf. Martin 2011: 130–131 n. 70 for a concise recapitulation of the discussion about the reception of ancient coin imagery. 17  Cf. Hölscher 1984: 12–16. 18  Even if only just as a ‘zeitlose[s] Hintergrundrauschen der akkumulierten und ihrer historischen Kontexte entkleideten Münzbilder’, as R. Wolters (2016: 136) has described it. 19  Cf. Sehlmeyer 1999, passim. 20  Cf. e.g. Hölkeskamp 2004: 137–168. 21  Plin. Nat. 34, 30–31; cf. Sehlmeyer 1999: 152–159. 22  Cf. Sehlmeyer 1999: 83–109; Hölkeskamp 2004: 158–163; Muth 2012. 23  Cf. Hölkeskamp 2005: 252.

The importance of coin imagery has been downplayed in more recent accounts of Late Republican aristocratic representational culture, and rightly so. In the increasingly competitive political climate, the For the organization of the Republican mint see RRC 598–604; Woytek 2012: 322–324. 8  Cf. RRC 782: ‘Once the possibilities had been seen, the consequences of the Lex Gabinia provided a consistent inducement to potential contestants for office to use the coinage for self advertisement; the end of voting by show of hands meant the end of easy control by noble candidates of supporters; use of the coinage was an obvious way in which men could attempt to bring their claims to public notice.’ (M. Crawford). 9  Cf. e.g. Wolters 2017: 158–161. 10  For both terms see RRC 712–734. 11  For the development of Republican coin iconography see e.g. Wolters 1999: 23–37; Woytek 2012: 325–329. 12  Cf. Wikander 1993: 78–80; Flower 1996: 79–86, 333–338. 13  Cf. Wiseman 1974; Evans 1992: 23–32; Hölkeskamp 2004: 199–217; Farney 2007; Jahn 2007: 105–112. 14  Cf. Evans op. cit. (n. 17); Flaig 1999: 90 n. 27; see also the alternative approach by Wolters 2017. 7 

37

Matthias J. Bensch A. Erll rightly stresses the fact that ‘past is not given, but must instead continually be re-constructed and re-presented’.24 Exemplary figures play a crucial role in this construction of a past. They were abundantly present in Roman cultural memory, and the narratives of their heroic deeds were copiously represented in Roman literary and visual culture and in performance, while the stories were continually being remediated. This plethora of objectivations constituting cultural memory formed a thick Geertzian ’web of significance’ around the past. The residents of the city of Rome altogether formed the ‘milieu de mémoire’ (to borrow a term by P. Nora), a large community, in which this memory could and did prosper.25

Rodriguez-Mayorgas demonstrates convincingly that Romulus was securely anchored in Roman conceptions of time and space by religious festivals and urban sites of memory respectively: The Parilia on the 21st of April and the Lupercalia of the 15th of February were understood as celebrations refering to the twin founders of the city, although they might not have had this connotation from the beginning.30 The sites of memory in the urban topography include the Lupercal and the ficus Ruminalis (both referring to the Lupa myth), the cornel-tree and the casa Romuli on the Palatine hill.31 The myth of the suckling of Romulus and his twin brother is considered to have been accepted from early on. It is not like ‘there were always Romulus and Remus’,32 but J. N. Bremmer and N. M. Horsfall among others have argued that it must have been fairly established by the turn of the fourth to the third century BC. It is possible that it had originated already in the sixth century BC, as it has been tentatively suggested by the aforementioned scholars, but the argument remains on shaky ground, since the media of transmission cannot be securely determined.33

Remembering Romulus, remembering Aeneas Before turning to Aeneas and Romulus as the most prominent heroic figures at the Forum Augustum, some elaboration is necessary on the role of these foundational period’s heroes in Roman cultural memory prior to the opening of the forum a few years before 2 BC. My aim is to show that in spite of their similar presentation at the Augustan forum they previously fulfilled very different roles in cultural memory. It is the merit of A. Rodriguez-Mayorgas to have concisely pointed out this divergence in a recent paper.26 She concludes that ‘the Roman example shows how a collective memory can split up when a new source of authority on the past, the Greek histories in this case, to which only a few Romans had access, arises’27. This splitting up of memory can be conceived with the concept of ‘Erinnerungskulturen’ (memory cultures).28 The term – expressed in plural form on purpose – does justice to the fact that neither the media nor the contents of a community’s cultural memory necessarily need to be homogenous: ‘The term ‘Erinnerungskulturen’ denotes the plurality of references to the past that do not only manifest themselves in different formations of cultural memory diachronically but also synchronically in different modes of memory construction. These memory cultures can encompass complementary as well as rivalling concepts, universal as well as particular ones, such that are based on (direct) interaction as well as such based on (storage) media bridging spatial or temporal distances’.29

In Roman historiography, there seems to be a consensus that Romulus was the founder of the city, and important institutions like the pomerium and the triumph were also assumed to stem from his reign.34 The consolidation of his role in public thought is mirrored by the vivid first century BC political discourse about the figure of Romulus, situating him between the poles of a good king and a ruthless tyrant.35 On the other hand, Romulus’ share in Roman Republican visual culture is strikingly small, not only in the sense of the small amount of images. From Livy’s account we know about the group dedicated by the Ogulnii brothers of 296 BC, which showed the twin brothers Romulus and Remus as toddlers under the she-wolf.36 Some 30 years later a didrachm by Q. Ogulnius and C. Fabius Pictor presents Romulus and Remus in the same way.37 This would become the dominant visual conception of the founding figure not only throughout the Republican period, but also during the empire.38 It is repeatedly können’; transl. by M.-X. Hardt. 30  Cf. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 96–99. 31  Cf. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 100; Among the studies on urban mnemotopoi she could not or did not include, I only mention, Rea 2007; Hartmann 2010: 514–539; García Morcillo et al. 2016. 32  Cf. Bremmer – Horsfall 1987: 25. 33  Cf. Bremmer – Horsfall 1987: 25, 47–48; see also RodriguezMayorgas 2010: 91–94. 34  Cf. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 94. 35  M. Ver Eecke (2008) has exhaustively elaborated on this topic; see also the critical reassessment by Neel 2015: 54–88. 36  Cf. Dulière 1979: 43–62; Dardenay 2012: 81–82. 37  Cf. RRC 20/1; Krumme 1995: 243 Nr. 1/1; Dardenay 2012: 256 Nr. L37 (see also n. 38). 38  Cf. Dulière 1979, passim; Evans 1992: 59–86; LIMC VI (1992) 292–296

Cf. Erll 2008: 7. Cf. Hölkeskamp 2006: 491; for P. Nora’s contribution to ‘cultural memory studies’ see Erll 2017: 20–24. 26  Cf. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010. 27  Cf. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 109. 28  That is the eponymous concept of the ‘Sonderforschungsbereich 434’ of the Justus-Liebig-Universität Gießen; cf. esp. Erll 2017. 29  Cf. Erll 2017: 32 (quoting M. Sandl): ‘Der Begriff [Erinnerungskulturen] verweist auf die Pluralität von Vergangenheitsbezügen, die sich nicht nur diachron in unterschiedlichen Ausgestaltungen des kulturellen Gedächtnisses manifestiert, sondern auch synchron in verschiedenartigen Modi der Konstitution der Erinnerung, die komplementäre ebenso wie konkurrierende, universale wie partikulare, auf Interaktion wie auf Distanz- und Speichermedien beruhende Entwürfe beinhalten 24  25 

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depicted on Republican coinage, although not as often as later in imperial times. Moreover, it is adapted on Roman gemstones, whereby Faustulus the shepherd is often added to the composition. It is significant that there is not a single indubitable evidence for an adult Romulus in the archaeological record from the preAugustan period. He was unquestionably presented as such in the group of the kings on the Capitoline hill.39 Other traditions about statues of the founder have been proven to be unreliable.40 Furthermore, there is the meagre evidence of what F. Albertson has called the ‘Historical-Rational tradition’, of which the Basilica Aemilia relief friezes are of course the most important attestation.41 The slabs are obviously unfolding the Romulean tradition in a pictorial narrative. Because of the fragmentary state, it cannot be ascertained whether the story of Aeneas and events between the reigns of these two founder figures were included as well.42

Rome.46 While several attempts were made to link the two figures genealogically, the connection via the list of Alban kings would become the canonical version.47 Taking up a question posed before: who was indeed confronted with the new migrant hero? It is important to stress that the aforementioned development of an inclusion of Aeneas in Roman founding narratives is the product of a historiographic discourse. We have almost no way of knowing how widely this was dispersed in the public sphere. The Greek language of early historiography naturally excluded a great number of possible recipients. But even later on, the situation remains unclear. It may be telling for instance, how sparsely Aeneas is considered in Cicero’s writings, as well as in those of some of his contemporaries.48 Moreover, it is conspicuous that in contrast to Romulus, there is neither a memory site nor any festival in the city of Rome relating to the Trojan hero.49 It is known that newly elected magistrates went to Lavinium for a sacrificial rite, annually renewing a fourth century BC treaty with the city. Since the town also housed a heroon of Aeneas, it is often presumed that the ritual referred to him. But as Rodriguez-Mayorgas has convincingly argued, the sources do not support the idea of him being included among the cult recipients.50 Her insights have far-reaching consequences for the evaluation of the role of Aeneas in Roman cultural memory, which she expresses as follows: ‘[Aeneas] cannot be regarded as part of cultural memory of the Republican Rome. It is hard to believe that there was a well-established remembrance of Aeneas among the Romans, if the Trojan origins did not deserve any public demonstration or celebration. […] [He] was only adopted as ancestor of the Romans by the elite, who were familiar with the Greek historiography by the late third century, and his deeds probably remained mostly an erudite knowledge for some time’.51

Before he was presented as an ancestor of the Roman people in the Aeneid as a new canonical text about the distant Roman past, Aeneas’ role in Roman cultural memory is hard to track down. It is assumed that he was known in Rome by the third century BC, so in fact in about the same period as we can pinpoint the Romulean tradition with more confidence.43 But a question to be asked is, known to whom? As he was already part of the Homeric narrative, Greek authors increasingly referred to the Trojan’s refugee’s voyage to the Western Mediterranean. The fifth century BC historian Hellanicus of Lesbos might have been the first to make him Rome’s founder,44 but as the existence of different eponymous figures proves, this was surely not commonly accepted. From the very ‘Hellenic’ launching period of Roman historiography on, Aeneas seems to have been adapted to the Roman past, while those alternative notions of a Rhome or Rhomos as founders of the city were rejected. A. Erskine has however perceptively reminded us to be cautious in light of the mainly Augustan sources that provide evidence about the early historians’ views.45 The inclusion of Aeneas in Roman history caused no conflict with the tradition of Romulus as founder. With the exception of Sallust, no Roman historian refers to the former as the founder of

The evidence of vases and statuettes with depictions of Aeneas’ flight from Etrurian sites might evoke the false impression that Aeneas was prominent in Roman visual culture from early on, but that is certainly a development of imperial times.52 At the end of the second century BC, Aeneas appears on Roman coins for the first time, on a denarius minted by the moneyer M. Herennius.53 He

s. v. Lupa Romana (R. Weigel); Dardenay 2012: 77–132 and 245–308. 39  Cf. LIMC VII (1994) 640 Nr. 3 s. v. Romulus et Remus (J. P. Small); Sehlmeyer 1999: 68–74. 40  Cf. LIMC VII (1994) 640 Nr. 1–2 s. v. Romulus et Remus (J. P. Small); Sehlmeyer 1999: 74–76, 81; Muth 2012: 14–15 n. 26. 41  Cf. Albertson 2012: 40–45; for the Basilica Aemilia friezes see further, Kränzle 1991; Id. 1994; Evans 1992: 129–134; Tomei 2010; Dardenay 2012: 209 Nr. C1; Neel 2015: 124–127; Freyberger – Ertel 2016: 74–77 (with Maschek 2017). 42  P. Kränzle (1991: 113–115) lists the insufficient evidence. 43  Cf. Bremmer – Horsfall 1987: 12–24; Gruen 1992. 28–29; Jahn 2007: 39–47; Casali 2010; Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 105. 44  Critically discussed by Gruen 1992: 17–18; Casali 2010: 44–45; Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 101 n. 55. 45  Cf. Erskine 2001: 23–30.

Sall. Catil. 6, 1; cf. Erskine 2001: 35–36; Jahn 2007: 110. Cf. e.g. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 107. Cf. Erskine 2001: 30–36. 49  Cf. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 105. For Aeneas’ ship in Rome, seen by Procopius, Hartmann 2010: 516–517. 50  Cf. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 101–103. 51  Cf. Rodriguez-Mayorgas 2010: 106, 109. 52  For the iconography of Aeneas cf. LIMC I (1981), 381–396 s. v. Aineias (F. Canciani); Geyer 1989: 159–203; Evans 1992: 35–57; Spannagel 1999: 90–131. 365–396; Dardenay 2012: 13–75, 211–244. Whether some gemstones and glass pastes are to be dated to the Late Republican era remains a matter of debate (see Spannagel 1999: 103, 388 for the discussion). 53  Cf. RRC 308/1; Böhm 1997: 82–86; Dardenay 2012: 211–212 Nr. E2; 46  47  48 

39

Matthias J. Bensch is presented nude carrying his father on his shoulder. The image is repeated by the early Augustan moneyer Livineius Regulus on an aureus, which has of course been understood as a claim for Octavian’s descendance from his newly acquired Iulian ancestor.54 A few years before, Caesar had already minted a differing image of Aeneas during his campaigns, showing the hero carrying the Trojan palladion, thereby following the custom of presenting mythical ancestors on coinage outlined above.55 By the early Augustan period, painted Trojan cycles seem to have become popular, which Vitruvius explicitly confirms,56 as do the friezes in the Casa del Criptoportico in Pompeii and in the Esquiline columbarium near the tomb of the Statilii in Rome, which both present the Trojan hero.57 However, we cannot know how widespread such representations of Aeneas really were in the times before the Augustan forum, since Aenean imagery in Pompeian wallpainting only kicks off later.58

and epic accounts, but also public monuments. It does not necessarily focus on promoting a specific gens, but rather figures which are important for the whole polity. Both heroes are part of that one. The third one I will tentatively call a ‘topologisch-kalendrische Erinnerungskultur’ (topological-calendrical), which refers to the religious festivals and urban sites of memory mentioned above. Aeneas is excluded from this one, while Romulus is a very important part of it. Forum Augustum If we consider the evidence so far, the pairing of Romulus and Aeneas at the Forum Augustum in Rome wasn’t as obvious a decision as it may seem, although it had, as we know, happened before at the Ara Pacis Augustae only a few years earlier.61 With the dedication of the temple of Mars Ultor in 2 BC, the Augustan forum had become a sacred precinct. By then, it had already been given to the public, since the structure was, according to the testimony of Suetonius desperately needed because of ‘the increase in the number of the people and of cases at law, which seemed to call for a third forum, since two were no longer adequate’.62 With the additional information from Cassius Dio, we can confirm these basic functions of the new forum: enlargement of the forum area (like the Forum Iulium before), jurisdictional functions (the law courts of the praetor peregrinus and the praetor urbanus were settled here) and as a new centre for Roman foreign policy.63 The square was dominated by the temple of Mars in the north east.64 It was further delimited in the south west by the structure of the Forum Iulium and by the two-storied porticoes in the north west and south east, each with two adjacent hemicycles, larger ones near the temple and smaller ones near the entrance.65 The porticoes with the exedrae contained the galleries of marble statues of famous men from the Republican past. The north western portico housed the portraits of members of the Iulian gens including the Alban kings in the bigger exedra, with the group of Aeneas carrying Anchises in the middle, and in this case (by opposition to coin imagery) also guiding his son Ascanius / Iulus as the eponym and progenitor of the gens. The portico on the opposite end of the forum assembled the summi viri,66 the greatest men from the other distinguished Roman families. Most of them were probably

Returning to the concept of Erinnerungskulturen, three different ones are to be distinguished (with admittedly fuzzy boundaries!) which are important for remembering pre-Republican heroic figures such as Romulus and Aeneas, and a fourth one, which is supposedly the most important, but in which both are necessarily absent. This fourth one is the ›gentilizischgenealogische Erinnerungskultur‹ (gentilicgenealogical), which can only relate to ancestors of Republican times. Its most important medium is the imago maiorum, but it also shows itself at sepulchral monuments or monuments in public places, as well as in coinage.59 Pre-Republican heroes can be included in the ‘gentilizisch-vorrepublikanische Erinnerungskultur’ (gentilic-pre-Republican),60 which we can only grasp through the aforementioned literary genealogical studies as well as once more in Republican coinage, whose medial structures allow a subtly formulated public claim for those ancestors, being subtle enough to be uncontroversial. Aeneas is a part of that culture, Romulus isn’t. The second one is the transgentilic ›gesamtstaatliche Erinnerungskultur‹ (pertaining to the entire state), which comprises historiographic for an alternative reading as one of the pii fratres from Katane cf. e.g. Perassi 1994; Krumme 1995: 98–99. 54  Cf. RRC 494/3; Krumme 1995: 256 Nr. 23/1; Böhm 1997: 82–86; Dardenay 2012: 212 Nr. E3. 55  Cf. RRC 458/1; Krumme 1995: 255 Nr. 21/1; Böhm 1997: 82–86; Woytek 2003: 218–225; Dardenay 2012: 212–213 Nr. E7; on the Iulian family tradition of refering to Aeneas and Venus as ancestors cf. e.g. Erskine 2001: 17–23 and 245–253; Jahn 2007: 109–111; Farney 2013. 56  Vitr. 7, 5, 2. 57  For the Casa del Criptoportico frieze, LIMC I (1981) 388 Nr. 97 s. v. Aineias (F. Canciani); Strocka 2006: 281 and 302; Squire 2015: 500–502 and 534 - 537; Augris 2016. For the Esquiline columbarium frieze, LIMC I (1981) 391 Nr. 173 s. v. Aineias (F. Canciani); Feraudi-Gruénais 2001: 81–83 Nr. K 35; Albertson 2012: 40–45; Dardenay 2012: 209 Nr. C2. 58  Cf. Strocka 2006: 302; Provenzale 2008: 17–55. 59  The term is borrowed from Walter 2004: 84–130. 60  The term is an awkward compromise solution, since the ›Erinnerungskultur‹ it describes is as gentilic as it is genealogical.

Cf. e.g. Mlasowsky 2010. Cf. Suet. Aug. 29, 1 (transl. J. C. Rolfe). 63  Cf. Cass. Dio 55, 10, 1a – 1b; for the forum’s functionality in general see Köb 2000: 225–267. Especially for the forum as a place for jurisdiction see Neudecker 2010; Färber 2014: 46–61. 64  For the following reconstruction of the forum see Zanker 1968, passim; Spannagel 1999, passim; Geiger 2008, passim. 65  Archaeological evidence exists only for the south western of the smaller exedrae. It is reconstructed with a pendant on the other side for reasons of symmetry. 66  The designation is used in the Historia Augusta (SHA Alex. 28, 6); for the different ancient designations see Goldbeck 2015: 35. 61  62 

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triumphators, whose portraits were supplemented by elogia; that is detailed inscriptions explaining and lauding their respective accomplishments for the state. As the pendant to Aeneas among the Iulians, the statue of Romulus stood in the centre of the eastern exedra. He was shown carrying the spolia opima, the pieces of armour (attached to a trunk) he has taken from his enemy, the king Acro of the Caeninenses, whom he has defeated and killed in single combat.67 This parade was deemed a paradigm for all later triumphs.68

Having established the Forum Augustum as a veritable memory site, it becomes apparent how the conception relates to and reveals structural parallels with other (traditional) objectivations of social memory. Intermediality is one of the characteristics it shares with many of the other ones.74 Its multimodality (combining the elogia with the portraits) is another one, so are its seriality, selectivity, hierarchization etc. However, I will not dwell on these intermedial relations, but instead contemplate the forum on the superior level of its relations to the previously mentioned ›Erinnerungskulturen‹. My aim is to demonstrate how the conception can be understood as some kind of fusion of all four of them. The northwestern portico with the members of the gens of the Iulii is the part of the forum which unites the ‘gentilizisch-genealogische’ with the ‘gentilizisch-vorrepublikanische Erinnerungskultur’. According to the logic of the pompa funebris, the most noteable men of the gens’ past were assembled. Yet in contrast to the funeral procession, the principles of selection are not determined by conventions, but apparently by the will of the dedicant of the structure. By including Aeneas and by putting him in the most prominent position, the monument breaks with the conventions of the ‘gentilizisch-genealogische Erinnerungskultur’. The claim for descendance from the Trojan refugee and the Alban kings beginning with the eponym Iulus / Ascanius is now as obvious as it can be. With no more need for any subtlety, the exclusive connection of these pre-Republican heroic figures with the Iulii is unashamedly publically formulated. The gallery on the opposite end of the forum proves though, that it is not a mere family monument, but pertains to the past of the entire republic. By that, it is a concession to the other noble families, while making the superiority of the imperial family all too clear, since the importance of the Iulii visually balances that of the other gentes altogether. Last but not least, the forum seems to be strategically conceptualized as a traditional memory site like the Comitium on the Forum Romanum,75 while it is surely nothing like one. Whereas the Comitium was indeed a time-honored structure, grown for centuries and comprising monuments relating to different heroic figures from Romulus on, the Augustan forum was created ex nihilo. Moreover, many of the events memorialized at the Comitium were believed to have actually taken place there, while the space the Augustan forum occupied was formerly private ground, purchased by the emperor, without any such tradition. The forum must consequently be

So much for the material dimension of memory at the forum. However, this ingenious array would have been pointless after all, if it were not for social practices that gave meaning to it: the social dimension of memory.69 So the question is in how far the different functions of the forum stimulate a deeper engagement with the figures encircling it. Considering the forum’s importance in matters of foreign policy, the synergy effects are quite obvious: As we know from the account of Cassius Dio, Roman office bearers going abroad started from here and ideally returned here in order to dedicate their triumphal insignia. The senate decided here whether a triumph should be granted, and also if Rome should go to war in the first place. Successful generals were supposed to be honoured by a bronze statue.70 The presence of the men who had already achieved so much for the Roman state must have created a very stimulating atmosphere for emulation. And the possibility of even being included among them was surely the greatest motivation.71 But daily business at the forum also put the statues into focus. When we take the jurisdictional functions of the forum into consideration, we have to bear in mind how important the exemplary figures on display here were in Roman rhetorics.72 When a lawyer referred once more to one of the great men during a speech at the forum, he would also be able to complement his reference with a visual cue, lending his argument more emphasis by the immediate visual and seemingly corporeal presence of his cited exemplum. And we can anticipate from Cicero that this kind of allusion to the environment surrounding the speaker’s performance was not at all unusual.73

67  For the iconography of Romulus as trophy bearer cf. Schneider 1990: 187–193; LIMC VII (1994) 640–641 s. v. Romulus et Remus (J. P. Small); Spannagel 1999: 132–161 and 396–400; Dardenay 2012: 163– 168 and 326–331. 68  Cf. Plut. Romulus 16, 6. 69  For the differentiation of a material, a social and a mental dimension of Erinnerungskulturen, see Erll 2017: 98–102. 70  Cf. Cass. Dio 55, 10. 71  We know that such honors had indeed been granted in imperial times despite the monopolization of the triumph by the imperial family (cf. Geiger 2008: 163–178). 72  Cf. Stemmler 2001; Morstein-Marx 2004; Walter 2004: 63–70; Bücher 2006, passim. 73  Cf. Morstein-Marx 2004: 77–82; Bücher 2006: 190–195; Hölkeskamp 2012; Klodt 2014.

74  Cf. the concept of ‘interdependence’ by K.-J. Hölkeskamp (2014: 70): ‘The key concept is interdependence – it is the complex interplay of written texts and oral tradition in a variety of genres and shapes; of symbolically charged places and spaces, monuments, and other visual markers of memory, as well as of rituals and other performative reenactments that constitute the specific ‘memorial culture’ as a unique variant of a premodern ‘cultural memory’.’ 75  See n. 22.

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Matthias J. Bensch Acknowledgment

considered an ‘invented’ memory site.76 In spite of these differences, the Forum Augustum nevertheless strongly refers to the Comitium, not only because both aggregate statuary of famous men, but also because the forum inherits parts of the Comitium’s functionality, since the latter used to be the place where the praetores dispensed justice.77 It might therefore not come as a surprise that the continuing rearrangements in the area of the Comitium from Sullan to Augustan times, by which many of the statues disappeared, led to a gradual devalorization of this traditional memory site.78 The Forum Augustum was its legitimate successor. Another way of giving it a traditionalistic flair was of course to relate it to the highly esteemed rite of the triumph.

I am indebted to Dores Cruz, Tonio Hölscher, Julia Rosenfeld, Vera Sichelschmidt, Ralf von den Hoff, Ulrike Zimmermann and the editors of the volume Gianpiero Di Maida, Christian Horn and Gustav Wollentz for reading the text thoroughly and offering invaluable insights and suggestions and / or correcting my English. All remaining errors are mine. Bibliography: Albertson, F.C. 2012. Mars and Rhea Silvia in Roman Art. Bruxelles, Latomus 2012. Augris, B. 2016. Troie à Pompéi. Retour sur la frise iliaque de la maison du Cryptoportique. Peintures murales et stucs d’époque romaine. Une archéologie du décor. Actes du 27e colloque de l’AFPMA, Toulouse, 21 et 22 novembre 2014, edited by J. Boislève – A. Dardenay – F. Monier. Bordeaux, Ausonius: 281–296. Barchiesi, A. 2005. Learned eyes: Poets, viewers, image makers. The Cambridge companion to the age of Augustus, edited by K. Galinsky. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 281–305. Blösel, W. 2003. Die memoria der gentes als Rückgrat der kollektiven Erinnerung im republikanischen Rom. Formen römischer Geschichtsschreibung von den Anfängen bis Livius. Gattungen – Autoren – Kontexte, edited by U. Eigler – U. Gotter – N. Luraghi – U. Walter. Darmstadt, Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft: 53– 72. Böhm, S. 1997. Die Münzen der römischen Republik und ihre Bildquellen. Mainz, Rheinische Friedrich-WilhelmsUniversität Bonn 1997. Bremmer, J. N. 2017. From Heroes to Saints and from Martyrological to Hagiographical Discourse. Sakralität und Heldentum, Helden – Heroisierungen – Heroismen 6, edited by F. Heinzer – J. Leonhard – R. von den Hoff. Würzburg, Ergon: 35–66. Bremmer, J.N. and N.M. Horsfall. 1987. Roman myth and mythography. London, Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies. Bücher, F. 2006. Verargumentierte Geschichte. Exempla Romana im politischen Diskurs der späten römischen Republik. Stuttgart, Steiner. Casali, S. 2010. The development of the Aeneas legend. A companion to Vergil’s Aeneid and its tradition, edited by J. Farrell – M. C. J. Putnam. Malden, Blackwell: 37–51. Dardenay, A. 2012. Images des Fondateurs. D`Énée à Romulus. Bordeaux, Ausonius. Dulière, C. 1979. Lupa Romana. Recherches d’iconographie et essai d’interprétation. Bruxelles, Institut Historique Belge de Rome. Erll, A. 2008. Cultural Memory Studies: An Introduction. Cultural Memory Studies. An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook, Media and Cultural Memory

Instead of a conclusion, I will shift the focus once more: When Augustus died in 14 AD, an impressive funeral procession was staged for him.79 It even led through the porta triumphalis. Deviating from the conventional sequence of the pompa funebris, the bier and three likenesses of the late emperor preceded the parade of the ancestors. Cassius Dio reports further: ‘Behind these came the images of his ancestors and of his deceased relatives (except that of Caesar, because he had been numbered among the demigods) and those of other Romans who had been prominent in any way, beginning with Romulus himself. An image of Pompey the Great was also seen’.80 Of the many divergences from custom of this event, two attract special attention: First, among the défilé of ancestors were figures which were neither members of the Iulian gens nor related to him by marriage or adoption. And secondly, Romulus as a pre-Republican heroic figure was leading those fake ancestors. The pompa of Drusus the Younger nine years later would finally also include an image of Aeneas.81 A comparison with the arrangement of the Augustan forum naturally imposes itself. The imperial house demonstrates emphatically that by now they had all exemplary figures from the past at their disposal. And while ‘speaking’ of Aeneas and Romulus was discursively regulated by the principles of concurring ‘Erinnerungskulturen’ in the Republican era, the new fusionistic approach to the past allowed to deal with them differently, conceding to them a more prominent status in the construction of a Roman past.

76  See the important distinction by G. Truc (2011: 150): ‘There are two distinct and often contradictory movements to which sociologists of memory should turn their attention: the ‘memorialisation’ of the original places of an event (where memory is based on the ‘local’ setting and eye-witness accounts) and the ‘institutionalisation’ of official places of memory (created using the ‘symbolic’ setting and representations)’. 77  Cf. Färber 2014: 28–40. 78  Cf. e.g. Muth 2012. 79  Cf. Flower 1996: 244–245; Flaig 2004: 96–97. 80  Cf. Cass. Dio 56, 34 (transl. E. Cary). 81  Cf. Tac. ann. 4, 9, 2; see also Flower 1996: 253–254; Flaig 2004: 98.

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/ Medien und kulturelle Erinnerung 8, edited by A. Erll – A. Nünning. Berlin, de Gruyter: 1–15. Erll, A. 2017. Kollektives Gedächtnis und Erinnerungskulturen. Eine Einführung. Stuttgart, J.B. Metzler. Erskine, A. 2001. Troy between Greece and Rome. Local Tradition and Imperial Power. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Evans, J.D. 1992. The Art of Persuasion. Political Propaganda from Aeneas to Brutus. Ann Arbor, The University of Michigan Press. Färber, R. 2014. Römische Gerichtsorte. Räumliche Dynamiken von Jurisdiktion im Imperium Romanum. München, C.H. Beck. Farney, G.D. 2007. Ethnic identity and aristocratic competition in Republican Rome. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Farney, G.D. 2013. The Trojan Genealogy of the Iulii before Caesar the Dictator. The Ancient History Bulletin 27: 49–54. Feraudi-Gruénais, F. 2001. Ubi diutius nobis habitandum est. Die Innendekoration der kaiserzeitlichen Gräber Roms. Wiesbaden, Dr Ludwig Reichert. Flaig, E. 1995. Die Pompa Funebris. Adlige Konkurrenz und annalistische Erinnerung in der Römischen Republik. Memoria als Kultur, edited by O. G. Oexle. Göttingen, Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht: 115–148. Flaig, E. 1999. Über die Grenzen der Akkulturation. Wider die Verdinglichung des Kulturbegriffs. Rezeption und Identität. Die kulturelle Auseinandersetzung Roms mit Griechenland als europäisches Paradigma, edited by G. Vogt-Spira – B. Rommel. Stuttgart, Steiner: 81–112. Flaig, E. 2004. Ritualisierte Politik. Zeichen, Gesten und Herrschaft im Alten Rom. Göttingen, Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Flower, H.I. 1996. Ancestor Masks and Aristocratic Power in Roman Culture. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Flower, H.I. 2009. Alternatives to written history in Republican Rome. The Cambridge companion to the Roman historians, edited by A. Feldherr. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 65–76. Freyberger, K.S. and C. Ertel. 2016. Die Basilica Aemilia auf dem Forum Romanum in Rom. Bauphasen, Rekonstruktion, Funktion und Bedeutung. Wiesbaden, Dr Ludwig Reichert. García Morcillo, M., J. H. Richardson, and F. Santangelo (eds). 2016. Ruin or renewal? Places and the Transformation of Memory in the City of Rome. Roma, Edizioni Quasar. Geiger, J. 2008. The First Hall of Fame. A Study of the Statues in the Forum Augustum. Leiden, Brill. Geyer, A. 1989. Die Genese narrativer Buchillustration. Der Miniaturenzyklus zur Aeneis im Vergilius Vaticanus. Frankfurt a.M., Klostermann. Goldbeck, V. 2015. Fora Augusta. Das Augustusforum und seine Rezeption im Westen des Imperium Romanum. Regensburg, Schnell and Steiner.

Gruen, E.S. 1992. Culture and National Identity in Republican Rome. Ithaca, Cornell University Press. Hartmann, A. 2010. Zwischen Relikt und Reliquie. Objektbezogene Erinnerungspraktiken in antiken Gesellschaften. Göttingen, Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 2004. Senatus populusque Romanus. Die politische Kultur der Republik – Dimensionen und Deutungen. Stuttgart, Steiner. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 2005. Images of Power: Memory, Myth and Monuments in the Roman Republic, Rez. zu P. J. Holliday, The origins of Roman historical commemoration in the visual arts (Cambridge 2002), Scripta classica israelica 24: 249–271. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 2006. History and Collective Memory in the Middle Republic. A companion to the Roman Republic, edited by N. Rosenstein – R. MorsteinMarx. Malden, Blackwell: 478–495. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 2012. Im Gewebe der Geschichte(n). Memoria, Monumente und ihre mythhistorische Vernetzung. Klio 94: 380–414. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 2014. In Defense of Concepts, Categories, and Other Abstractions: Remarks on a Theory of Memory (in the Making). Memoria Romana. Memory in Rome and Rome in Memory, edited by K. Galinsky. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press. Hölscher, T. 1984. Staatsdenkmal und Publikum. Vom Untergang der Republik bis zur Festigung des Kaisertums in Rom. Konstanz, Universitätsverlag. Jahn, S. 2007. Der Troia-Mythos. Rezeption und Transformation in epischen Geschichtsdarstellungen der Antike. Köln, Böhlau. Klodt, C. 2014. Place as Argument: Roman Topography in Rhetorical Strategy. Lire la Ville. Fragments d’une archéologie littéraire de Rome antique, edited by D. Nelis – M. Royo. Bordeaux, Ausonius: 85–123. Köb, I. 2000. Rom – ein Stadtzentrum im Wandel. Untersuchungen zur Funktion und Nutzung des Forum Romanum und der Kaiserfora in der Kaiserzeit. Hamburg, Dr Kovač. Kränzle, P. 1991. Die zeitliche und ikonographische Stellung des Frieses der Basilica Aemilia. Hamburg, Dr Kovač. Kränzle, P. 1994. Der Fries der Basilica Aemilia, Antike Plastik 23: 93–130. Krumme, M. 1995. Römische Sagen in der antiken Münzprägung. Marburg, Hitzeroth. Langlands, R. 2015. Roman exemplarity: mediating between general and particular. Exemplarity and Singularity. Thinking through Particulars in Philosophy, Literature, and Law, edited by M. Lowrie – S. Lüdemann. Abingdon-on-Thames, Routledge: 68– 80. Martin, K. 2011. Sprechende Bilder. Zur ‘Sprache des Geldes’ in der Antike. Geld als Medium in der Antike, edited by B. Eckhardt – K. Martin. Göttingen, Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht: 91–138.

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Matthias J. Bensch Maschek, D. 2017. Rez. zu: K. S. Freyberger – C. Ertel, Die Basilica Aemilia auf dem Forum Romanum in Rom. Bauphasen, Rekonstruktion, Funktion und Bedeutung, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Rom. Sonderschriften 17 (Wiesbaden 2016), Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2017.10.65, http://bmcr. brynmawr.edu/2017/2017-10-65.html (25. 01. 2018). Meadows, A. and J. Williams. 2001. Moneta and the Monuments: Coinage and Politics in Republican Rome, Journal of Roman Studies 91: 27–49. Mlasowsky, A. 2010. Ara Pacis. Ein Staatsmonument des Augustus auf dem Marsfeld. Mainz, P. Von Zabern. Morstein-Marx, R. 2004. Mass oratory and political power in the late Roman Republic. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Muth, S. 2012. Reglementierte Erinnerung. Das Forum Romanum unter Augustus als Ort kontrollierter Kommunikation. Kommunikationsräume im kaiserzeitlichen Rom, edited by F. Mundt. Berlin, de Gruyter: 3–47. Neel, J. 2015. Legendary Rivals: Collegiality and Ambition in the Tales of Early Rome. Leiden, Brill. Neudecker, R. 2010. The Forum of Augustus in Rome: Law and order in sacred spaces. Spaces of Justice in the Roman World, edited by F. de Angelis. Leiden, Brill: 161–188. Perassi, C. 1994. I pii fraters e il pius Aeneas. Problemi circa l’iconografia di monete della Sicilia e dell’età repubblicana Romana, Aevum 68: 59–87. Provenzale, V. 2008. Echi di propaganda imperiale in scene di coppia a Pompei. Enea e Didone, Marte e Venere, Perseo e Andromeda. Roma, Edizioni Quasar. Rea, J.A. 2007. Legendary Rome. Myth, Monuments, and Memory on the Palatine and Capitoline. London, Bloomsbury Academic. Rodgriguez-Mayorgas, A. 2010. Romulus, Aeneas and the Cultural Memory of the Roman Republic, Athenaeum 98: 89–109. Roller, M. 2004. Exemplarity in Roman culture: the cases of Horatius Cocles und Cloelia, Classical Philology 99: 1–56. Schneider, R.M. 1990. Augustus und der frühe römische Triumph, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 105: 167–205. Sehlmeyer, M. 1999. Stadtrömische Ehrenstatuen der republikanischen Zeit. Historizität und Kontext von Symbolen nobilitären Standesbewusstseins. Stuttgart, Steiner. Shaya, J. 2013. The Public Life of Monuments: The Summi Viri of the Forum of Augustus, American Journal of Archaeology 117: 83–110. Spannagel, M. 1999. Exemplaria Principis. Untersuchungen zu Entstehung und Ausstattung des Augustusforums. Heidelberg, Archäologie und Geschichte. Squire, J. 2015. Running rings round Troy: Recycling the Epic Circle in Hellenistic and Roman art. The Greek Epic Cycle and it’s Ancient Reception, edited by

M. Fantuzzi – C. Tsagalis. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 496–542. Stemmler, M. 2001. Institutionalisierte Geschichte. Zur Stabilisierungsleistung und Symbolizität historischer Beispiele in der Redekultur der römischen Republik. Institutionalität und Symbolisierung. Verstetigungen kultureller Ordnungsmuster in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart, edited by G. Melville. Köln, Böhlau: 219–240. Strocka, V.M. 2006. Aeneas, nicht Alexander! Zur Ikonographie des römischen Helden in der pompejanischen Wandmalerei, Jahrbuch des deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 121: 269–315. Strocka, V.M. 2009. Die Quadriga auf dem Augustusforum in Rom, Römische Mitteilungen 115: 21–55. Tomei, M.A. 2010. Memorie di Roma. Memories of Rome. Milano, Electa. Truc, G. 2011. Memory of places and places of memory: for a Halbwachsian socio-ethnography of collective memory, International Social Science Journal 62 (203204): 147–159. Ver Eecke, M. 2008. La République et le Roi : le mythe de Romulus à la fin de la République Romaine. De l’archéologie à l’histoire. Paris, De Boccard. von den Hoff, R., R.G. Asch, A. Aurnhammer, U. Bröckling, B. Korte, J. Leonhard and B. Studt. 2013. Helden – Heroisierungen – Heroismen. Transformationen und Konjunkturen von der Antike bis zur Moderne. Konzeptionelle Ausgangspunkte des Sonderforschungsbereiches 948, helden. heroes. héros. E-Journal zu Kulturen des Heroischen 1 (1): 7–14. von den Hoff, R., R.G. Asch, A. Aurnhammer, C. Bahr, U. Bröckling, M. Butter, A. Friedrich, A. Gelz, B. Korte, J. Leonhard, S. Lethbridge, M. Mommertz, D. Neutatz, T. Schlechtriemen, G. Schreier and T. Seedorf. 2015. Das Heroische in der neueren kulturhistorischen Forschung: Ein kritischer Bericht, in: H-SozKult 28.07.2015, http://hsozkult.geschichte.huberlin.de/index.asp?id=2216andview=pdfandpn= forumandtype=forschungsberichte (25.01.2018). Walter, U. 2004. Memoria und res publica. Zur Geschichtskultur im republikanischen Rom. Frankfurt a. M., Antike. Wikander, Ö. 1993. Senators and equites V. Ancestral pride and genealogical studies in Late Republican Rome, Opuscula Romana 19: 77–90. Wiseman, T.P. 1974. Legendary genealogies in LateRepublican Rome, Greece and Rome 21: 153–164. Wolters, R. 1999. Nummi Signati. Untersuchungen zur römischen Münzprägung und Geldwirtschaft. München, C.H. Beck. Wolters, R. 2016. Nachrichten ohne Publikum? Münztypübergreifende Darstellungsformen in der Denarprägung der römischen Republik. Neue Forschungen zur Münzprägung der römischen Republik. Beiträge zum internationalen Kolloquium im Residenzschloss Dresden 19. – 21. Juni 2014, edited by 44

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F. Haymann – W. Hollstein – M. Jehne. Bonn, Dr R. Habelt: 125–143. Wolters, R. 2017. Mehr als die Familie, Tagesaktuelle Bezüge und exempla in der Denarprägung des späteren 2. Jahrhunderts v.Chr. Politische Kultur und soziale Struktur der Römischen Republik. Bilanzen und Perspektiven. Akten der internationalen Tagung anlässlich des 70. Todestages von Friedrich Münzer (Münster, 18. – 20. Oktober 2012), edited by M. Haake – A.-C. Harders. Stuttgart, Steiner: 155–183. Woolf, G. 2015. Mars and Memory. Cultural memories in the Roman empire, edited by K. Galinsky – K. Lapatin. Los Angeles, Getty Publications: 206–224.

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The Spoils of Eternity: Spolia as Collective Memory in the Basilica of St. Peter during the 4th century AD Christina Videbech University of Bergen [email protected]

Introduction Shortly after its construction, probably requested by Constantine, the Basilica of St. Peter became important as a symbol of Christianity, an imperial space, and a victory monument of both Christ and Constantine.1 Though the sources covering the 4th century are scarcer than expected,2 earlier scholarship has clarified the Christian liturgy that took place here during Late Antiquity and how the basilica functioned as a space for the veneration of the dead and an important location for pilgrimage.3 Meanwhile, it can be documented based on archaeological, epigraphic, and literary sources, that several activities besides the purely Christian were performed here. In fact, many of the activities expected to be found on a forum, were also present in the basilica, indicating that Late Antique churches played a great political and social role.4 Since the basilica, at least at Forsyth 1955: 64–65; Brandenburg 2005: 97; Humphries 2014: 185. Blaauw 1994: 498. 3  Forsyth 1955: 65; Blaauw 1994; Magnuson 2004: 73–74 and 79; Brandenburg 2005: 97; Trout 2005: 139. Literary sources: Aug.serm 61,26; Anon.Vales. 2, 65-67; PL 54, 857-866. 4  Examples of these activities are: Civic activities taking place in the Basilica of St. Peter: Meetings between bishop and emperor (after 4th century), meetings between Senate and clergy (after 4th century), ceremonies/rituals (not specifically Christian – e.g. the adventus), the publishing of poems/art/music. Activities mainly taking place in the fora, but also seen in the Basilica of St. Peter: Schools, judicial audiences/law courts,  trade,  meetings of the Senate, euergetism/self-representation, imperial use/making the emperor visible, traditional rituals and ceremonies (e.g. adventus), sanctuary for the ones in need, publications of decrees/laws/edicts/ imperial letters/etc., the presence of a grave of a mythical founder, place of memory/(museum), poetry readings. The activities have been detected in a thorough examination of the literary, epigraphical and/or archaeological sources, an examination, which is still in progress. Some of the actions are visible in several of the sources and some are only visible in one of them. The actions can be divided into 1: actions, that certainly took place in the basilica, covered by several sources, 2: actions, that are likely to have occurred at the location (This is actions where the evidence is collected from similar locations outside of Rome or from uncertain sources, e.g. literary sources that are known to be not credible or archaeological sources that are ambiguous) 3: actions, which are mentioned in the scholarly literature, but without the primary sources to back up. For a more extensive discussion about the results and underlying data, see Videbech, C., ‘The Forum of St. Peter? A Comparative Study of the Basilica of St. Peter and the Forum Romanum and Forum Traiani’ (forthcoming), which will also be a part of my article-based PhD-thesis. More literature highlighting these actions taking place in churches, especially the Basilica of St. Peter, are: Forsyth 1955: 66; 1  2 

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 46–60

first glance, differed from a forum in terms of layout and accessibility, how was it possible to perform these core activities of a forum here? Based on archaeological, epigraphic, and literary evidence, this paper is a study of the  Basilica  of St. Peter, focusing on the processes that made this possible through the basilica’s role as a vessel of collective memory and Roman identity. This was a role that was made visible in the architecture and the extensive use of spolia as a building component and a link to the Roman past. It will be argued that the basilica was a place for continuing the traditions previously upheld in the Roman fora, but also a place where room was left for innovations. The  basilica  is hence a valuable case study for the understanding of Late Antique Rome and as part of the discussion of the decline of what we now know as ‘Roman culture’.   Spolia Spolia (reused materials, often in a new context) have puzzled scholars for years.5 The practice is seen in various contexts: a sarcophagus, reused as a latrine seat, reused statue bases, old re-erected statues, inscriptions used as building materials, and the extensive use of old building parts in new architecture or as parts of reparations.6 In the Basilica of St. Peter, the viewer of the 4th century would have encountered a treasure-trove of reuse: A literary source from the 16th century claims that the basilica was 100% made of spolia,7 but no contemporary sources confirm this, though undoubtedly a large proportion of the basilica was indeed spolia.8 The basilica was not exceptional in this, as most Roman churches Krautheimer 1985: 17–18; Schumacher 1986: 223–24; Blaauw 1994: 453–56; Brandenburg 2005: 98; Coates-Stephens 2006: 155; Humphries 2014: 179 and 184; Liverani 2014: 28–30; Deliyannis 2016: 248; Sessa 2016: 431 and 437. 5  Deichmann 1975: 3; Alchermes 1994: 167–68; Altekamp, MarcksJacobs and Seiler 2013: 2. 6  Deichmann 1975: 8–12; Curran 1994: 49 and 54; Brenk 1996: 67; Gehn 2013, Jacobs 2013: 414–19; Kristensen 2013: 23–46; 47–48; Underwood 2015: 394 and 399; Lenaghan 2016: 276; Ward-Perkins 2016: 31; Chin 2017: 24. 7  Bosman 2004: 32–38; Bosman 2014: 66. 8  Deichmann 1975: 9; Brandenburg 1996: 19; Bosman 2014: 67.

The Spoils of Eternity: Spolia as Collective Memory in the Basilica of St. Peter during the 4th century AD

Figure 1. Plan by Alfarano of Old St Peters, 1590. Spolia marked with orange by the author.

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Christina Videbech were composed of spolia during the 4th century, making the reuse almost a style in itself (Figure 1).9

by Deichmann’s examination of the archaeological evidence from both the Eastern and the Western Empire.19 So common that it is completely fundamental for our understanding of the period.20 The fact that spolia were stored in storehouses, that offices specialized in the reuse of building materials were installed around Roman cities, and indications of trade with spolia, all suggest that the practice became rather organized throughout Late Antiquity.21

When first entering the atrium, the Late Roman could have spotted the central fountain with its pigna. The fountain was mentioned by Paulinus of Nola,10 but the pigna itself, in a Christian context symbolizing fertility or paradise and possibly originally deriving from the Campus Martius, the Vatican Phrygianum or the Mausoleum of Hadrian, is not mentioned in any source before the 8th century.11 Still, made in the 1st century, it is possible, although unlikely, that it would be in the atrium during Constantine’s reign.12

Literary sources on the practice is often legislative, especially from Codex Theodosianus. This collection of Roman law illustrates that generally emperors and other benefactors from Constantine’s reign and forward, were concentrating on maintaining old buildings as cultural heritage and ornamenta, rather than building anew.22 Much of the legislation of the period regarding spolia thus consider it as stealing from the emperor and perpetrators are therefore severely punished: Very symbolically, he/she could lose a body part like he/she had removed ‘body parts’ from the spoliated buildings.23 Regardless, spolia were used and could even be found in private contexts, especially in the shape of reused statues, some of them maybe originally from the public sphere.24

Continuing into the nave, the Late Roman would discover that the columns here, considered as spolia by most scholars, were very different from each other in both colour and material, maybe determining them as spolia.13 Counted to be 100 in number (96 in the nave and 4 in the transept) by Gregory of Tours in 590, many of them erected in pairs on the basis of colour and marble type.14 At the high altar and presbytery, the Roman viewer would encounter the six twisted columns that Constantine collected from Greece, even today reused in the present basilica.15 Though they have popularly been identified as coming from the Temple of Salomon since medieval times, most scholars date them between the 2nd and 3rd century.16

Occasionally, especially during the 6th century, buildings considered beyond repair could be used as spolia if approved by the emperor or the senate.25 The bishop apparently also had access to spolia from the 5th century onwards as illustrated by the fact that Pope Sixtus III reused porphyry columns previously stored during Constantine’s reign and spolia from the Forum of Caesar.26

Undetectable spolia were also used in the basilica: Inscriptions, some probably reused during the basilica’s construction, others added during restorations in the late 6th/early 7th century, were reused in the floor, while roof tiles taken from the Temple of Venus and Roma and the Basilica of Maxentius were used to repair the roof of the basilica in the 7th century.17

Despite the evidence of extensive Late Antique use of spolia, the underlying motivations behind the practice are debated, since no contemporary literary sources account for this.27 The practice has often been denounced by scholars as poor workmanship and a loss of building techniques.28 The practical aspect has been

In spite of the extensive reuse in the basilica and the fact that spolia, taken from both Christian and preChristian monuments, were used heavily by Christians, spolia was not a Christian invention.18 The practice was very common in Late Antique buildings as illustrated

Deichmann 1975; Brandenburg 2005: 34–35. Deichmann 1975: 93–94; Altekamp, Marcks-Jacobs and Seiler 2013: 1; Underwood 2015: 384. 21  Pani Ermini 1999: 52; Kristensen 2013: 32; Underwood 2015: 266. 22  Pensabene 1992: 56; Lim 1999: 266. 23  Kinney 2013: 264. Literary sources: Cod. Theod. XV.1.1; XV.1.37; XV.1.14; XVI, 10,3; XVI,10,8; XVI.10.15 and 18; Nov. Maior. IV; Cass. Var. 3, 31, 3-4, C.J.8,10,7. Cod. Theod. XV.1.19, probably dating to 376 and read to the senate in august of the same year is especially interesting in this regard. The texts stresses how you should not build new buildings in Rome, but repair the old ones instead. If you have to build new buildings, then it is for private funding and the use of spolia is not allowed. 24  Kristensen 2013: 31–32; Videbech 2018. 25  Ward-Perkins 1984: 204; Bjornlie 2012: 244–45; Kinney 2013: 263; Kalas 2015: 126. Literary sources: Cass.Var.2.7, 3.9.1-3 and 3.49.3;. 26  Brenk 1996: 67. Literary sources: LP. 36,7. 27  Curran 1994: 53; Kinney 1996: 53. 28  Deichmann 1975: 99; Greenhalgh 1989: 11–12; Alchermes 1994: 169; Brandenburg 1996: 17–18; Kinney 1997: 117; Wohl 2001: 99; CoatesStephens 2002: 280; Papalexandrou 2003: 57; Sande 2003: 112; 19  20 

Deichmann 1975: 8–10; Brandenburg 1996: 30; Elsner 2000: 154; Greenhalgh 2009: 526; Brandenburg 2011: 67; Chin 2017: 24. 10  Ep. 13.13 11  Krautheimer, Corbett and Frazer 1977: 264; Kinney 2005: 31–33. 12  Kinney 1997: 31–32; Krautheimer 1980: 28; Bauer 2004: 160–63. 13  Kinney 1997: 127; Bosman 2004: 9, 39–46 and 139–40; Brandenburg 2005: 97; Kinney 2005: 21 and 29; Brandenburg 2011: 60; Bosman 2014: 67–69. 14  Krautheimer, Corbett and Frazer 1977: 174; Arbeiter 1988: 114-136; Wohl 2001: 92; Kinney 2005: 29; Bosman 2014: 68. 15  Elsner 2000: 154. 16  Ward-Perkins 1952: 21 and 30; Toynbee and Ward-Perkins 1956: 205; Kinney 2005: 30. 17  Forsyth 1955: 63–64; Coates-Stephens 2002: 291; Coates-Stephens 2006: 153; Machado 2011: 513; Prusac 2012: 131. CIL VI 946 may be an inscription (originally from Trajan to Titus), which is reused in the Basilica of St. Peter by Constantine. Literary sources: LP, 72.7. 18  Deichmann 1975: 4; Wohl 2001: 85; Coates-Stephens 2002: 278; Coates-Stephens 2003: 352; Greenhalgh 2009: 10; Bosman 2014: 78. 9 

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The Spoils of Eternity: Spolia as Collective Memory in the Basilica of St. Peter during the 4th century AD

stressed several times and seems at least sometimes to be a likely explanation:29 Spolia could be a cheap, easy, and fast compromise when building anew or repairing buildings, essentially transforming the historical buildings into marble quarries.30 The fact that parts of abandoned monuments were stored for later use seems to confirm this.31 As does the fact that some spolia were undetectable to the viewer of the monument.32 Another strong point is the declining amount of new quarried marble in Late Antiquity, forcing dedicators to be creative.33 However, some scholars argue against an interpretation of spolia as cheap, easy, and an expression of decline, seemingly able to support their argument through the literary sources of the 5th and 6th century, where a positive attitude to spolia seems detectable.34 In this period, maybe even before, spolia seem to have been regarded as something good, pious, and aesthetically appealing, sometimes worth transporting across large distances.35

I acknowledge the plausibility of each of the abovementioned interpretations and the fact that in some cases several reasons could simultaneously motivate the reuse. It also seems likely that the reasons behind spolia could differ from case to case. In the case of the Basilica of St. Peter, I would like to put forth the interpretation that spolia could be used as a reference to the past.42 The theory of collective memory can help shed some light on this interpretation. Although it is not an unproblematic theory to use in a Roman context, since it was developed for the modern period by the sociologist Maurice Halbwachs, it is useful as a thought-provoking tool.43 The theory deals with a social kind of memory tied to a group of persons, just as memory can be tied to an individual.44 Group and memory are completely interdependent, since the group is formed based on the memory, but also develop the memory over time in a social process.45

Visible spolia with its diverse appearance have also been interpreted as a sought-after aesthetic, called varietas.36 Moreover, it has been argued that spolia showed wealth and luxury.37 Another dominant interpretation suggests that spolia could be an expression of an ideology, maybe as proof of victories, e.g. the Christian victory over nonChristian religions.38 This explanation seems especially tempting when the spolia consist of reused temple parts in churches.39 However, some scholars reject this interpretation due to the lack of sources supporting it.40 Furthermore, it has been demonstrated that both pagan and Christian inscriptions were reused in churches.41 This makes such an interpretation less likely.

The theory was further developed by the scholars Pierre Nora and Jan and Aleida Assmann, who focused on the elaboration of the idea that memory could be stored in, among other things, rituals, texts, monuments, and social spaces.46 Labelled ‘memory vessels’, these ‘storage spaces’ would remind people of the past, hereby revitalizing and strengthening the memory.47 Monuments thus transferred the past into the present by being proof of important events or persons.48 Nevertheless, the stored memory would be highly heterogeneous in nature, based on the individuals of the group and always in flux as new memories were added and others forgotten.49 There was consequently

Brandenburg 2005: 253; Esch 2011: 13. 29  Bauer 1996: 136; Lavan 2003: 176; Bosman 2004: 141; Galinsky 2008: 3; Greenhalgh 2011: 77–78; Lavan 2015: 78. 30  Deichmann 1975: 92–93 and 96; Ward-Perkins 1984: 78 and 214–15; Greenhalgh 1989: 145; Papalexandrou 2003: 57; Sande 2003: 108; Saradi 2006: 366; Brandenburg 2011: 61; Lenaghan 2016: 276. 31  Coates-Stephens 2003: 9; Jacobs 2013: 404–5 and 554–56. 32  Coates-Stephens 2002: 278–79; Coates-Stephens 2003: 354; Gehn 2013: 48–50; Underwood 2015: 388 and 392. 33  Bosman 2004: 40, 45, 50 and 53; Greenhalgh 2009 3, 115–16 and 444–45; Brandenburg 2011: 57. 34  Ward-Perkins 1984: 213–14; Brenk 1987: 105–6; Brandenburg 1996: 20; Brandenburg 2005: 36; Esch 2011: 133; Liverani 2011: 35; Hansen 2013: 88; Noethlichs 2013: 13–14. Literary sources: Cass. Var. 1.28 and 5.8. 35  Greenhalgh 2009: 48–50. Literary sources: Cass. Var. 5.8. 36  Ward-Perkins 1984: 213–14; Brenk 1987: 105; Curran 1994: 47–48 and 55; Brenk 1996: 55–56 and 75–76; Hansen 2001: 71; Papalexandrou 2003: 61; Bosman 2004: 142; Brandenburg 2005: 36 and 254; Saradi 2006: 367; Brandenburg 2011: 56 and 68; Bosman 2014: 77; Hughes 2014: 106. 37  Brandenburg 2005: 24; Greenhalgh 2009: 444–45. 38  Brenk 1996: 103; Kinney 1996b, 53; Wohl 2001: 98; Hughes 2014: 103; Bonnie 2016: 206–10; Witschel 2017: 35. 39  Deichmann 1975: 100–101; Hansen 2001: 80–81; Coates-Stephens 2003: 348–49. 40  Ward-Perkins 1984: 213–14, Brenk 1987: 103; Coates-Stephens 2002: 279; Brandenburg 2005: 254; Greenhalgh 2009: 79–80 and 526; Brandenburg 2011: 67. 41  Coates-Stephens 2002: 292.

Brandenburg 1996: 20–21. I discuss this thoroughly in my forthcoming article ‘Debating the  Application  of Collective Memory in Late  Roman  Archaeology’, which will be a part of my article-based PhD-thesis.  44  Bartlett 1967: 294 and 310; Halbwachs 1980: 23, 26–27, 33 and 51; Halbwachs 1992: 43; Connerton 1996: 1; Alcock and Van Dyke 2003: 2; Rose 2003: 9; Russell 2006: 793; Wertsch 2009: 118–19; Whitehead 2009: 126; Schmidt 2010: 192–94 and 200; Straub 2010: 227; Assmann 2011: 21; Blondel 2011: 156; Olick, Vinitzky-Seroussi and Levy 2011: 18; Olick 2011: 225; Ricoeur 2011: 476; Zerubavel 2011: 221–22; Diefenbach 2012: 194; Popkin 2016: 11–12. 45  Halbwachs 1980: 25–26 and 118–19; Assmann 1988: 10–11; Connerton 1996: 1; Nora 1996: 3; Halbwachs 1997, chap. 3; Alcock 2002: 1, 16 and 22; Olick, Vinitzky-Seroussi, and Levy 2011: 18; Roediger, Zaromb and Butler 2009: 162; Assmann 2011: 23. 46  Nora 1989: 7 and 12; Assmann 1995: 129; Nora 1996: 1 and 6–7; Huskinson 2000: 7; Ng 2016a, 238; Hölkeskamp 2001: 99; Hölkeskamp 2004: 142 and 170; Rutledge 2012: 18; Wertsch 2009: 119; Assmann 2010: 111; Assmann 2011: 37–38, 42–44, 74 and 119–20; Hughes 2014: 109; Assmann 2015: 332; Morcillo, Richardson and Santangelo 2016: 13–14. 47  Assmann 1988: 11; Meskell 2003: 36; Goffart 2006: 92; Jones 2007: 3, 6, 22, 26, 34 and 225; Assmann 2010: 111; Assmann 2011: 36–37; Truc 2011: 147–59; Assmann 2015: 331–34. 48  Haug 2001: 111 and 116; Hölkeskamp 2001: 102; Meskell 2003: 39; Galinsky 2014: 2. 49  Halbwachs 1992: 59-65; Alcock and Van Dyke 2003: 3; Kristensen 2013: 28–29 and 34–35; Galinsky 2014: 3; Hölkeskamp 2014: 70; Galinsky 2016a, 1; Orlin 2016a, 116; Morcillo, Richardson, and Santangelo 2016: 12. 42  43 

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Christina Videbech no homogenous Roman memory or identity, making both terms notoriously hard to define, though scholars try.50

Though sounding much like an elite-controlled process, both the elite and the non-elite had to have something invested in the memory for it to survive. It was therefore often created in a co-operation between both parties, believing in the memory, they were in fact constructing themselves.57

.

Some antique examples of how memory of an object could change, are the Zeus/Asclepios-head, found in the Church of St. Theodore in Gerasa, which might have been interpreted as Jesus in this context; or the incident where a woman present a picture of two men clad as philosophers to Eusebius as Jesus and Paul, an interpretation, which Eusebius deemed wrong.51 A third example from the Basilica of St. Peter is the previously mentioned twisted columns: According to Liber Pontificalis they originated from Greece, but in the Middle Ages they were rumored to originate from the Temple of Salomon.52 New layers of memory had been added during the centuries, evolving the memory of the columns.

Many scholars of archaeology have welcomed the theory on the connection between objects, monuments, and memory. A connection, which even the antique authors seem to have been aware of.58 They knew how monuments can attack the senses, forcing us to be influenced by them and their version of the past. When the Roman viewer walked into a monument, his/her whole body would be affected by the monumentality of the space. By moving in and around this monument, the memory was almost brought to life right before his/her eyes.59 Rome was an archive of such memory vessels in a time when memory was extremely important.60 The monuments helped the Romans understand themselves, their cultural heritage, and identity by making their history and culture visible, thereby strengthening it, even in the case of pagan temples.61 This is one of the reasons why material culture provides such a good opportunity to manipulate memory and it is this process the spolia-use was a part of:62 Spolia would give the Roman viewer a feeling of cohesion with the past and previous generations through the classical expression it evoked in the new context.63 It became a visualization of a shared identity, based on a past every Roman could be proud of.64 Bringing the past into the present, it legitimized present values and conditions, making the viewer feel like a part of a greater whole.65 Spolia were therefore not the death of the spoliated monument, as previously claimed, but a revival of the values, the old buildings had represented, simultaneously keeping up the appearance and aesthetics of Rome.66

The above examples clarify, that memory vessels were open to different interpretations at different times and contexts, and by different people.53 There was no guarantee that the past the memory vessel originally commemorated, was also what the future viewers would perceive. The initiators of the vessels did not control how the memory was managed, interpreted or used by the future as the memory quickly gained its own life. Usually the groups depending on the memory vessels, would not be aware of this fact, but sometimes the changes would be made intentionally to achieve a contemporaneous goal by changing the vessel’s appearance for it to legitimize claims or establishing new traditions.54 The stored memory was therefore not the truth, but highly influenced by the concerns of the present and the project of mythmaking, that a given society, or groups of society, needed in order to legitimize itself or themselves, its social values, and the identity of both society and its individual members.55 To avoid that the memory of the vessels was forgotten or replaced, it would have to be maintained by the active effort of the group in the shape of traditions and rituals or the re-telling and activation of the memory.56

To interpret spolia thus is nothing new, but it is a theory that deserves to be discussed more thorough than has previously been done.67 The main argument against 2010: 153; Assmann 2011: 48 and 72–74; Durkheim 2011: 137; Rutledge 2012: 118–19; Assmann 2015: 341. 57  Davis 2007: 233–34. 58  Edwards 1996: 17, 22 and 29; Jaeger 1997: 15–16; Hölkeskamp 2001: 101–2; Hölkeskamp 2004: 175; Crawford 2007: 13–16; Diefenbach 2007; Whitehead 2009: 10; Assmann 2011: 15; Orlin 2016: 118. Literary sources: Cic. De Oratore, 11.86.351-354; Cic. De Finibus 5.1.1-2. 59  Jaeger 1997: 10 and 17–18. 60  Edwards 1996: 18; Orlandi 2012: 293–94; Orlin 2016: 118. 61  Assmann 1988: 16; Haug 2001: 120; Orlin 2016: 116 and 119; Popkin 2016: 22. 62  Crawford 2007: 12. 63  Pensabene 1992: 56; Alchermes 1994: 170; Papalexandrou 2003: 56; Kalas 2010: 37. 64  Kinney 2011: 3. 65  Sande 2003: 108–9; Bosman 2004: 53; Kalas 2010: 36; Esch 2011: 22– 23; Kinney 2012: 14–15; Bosman 2014: 79–80; Kalas 2015: 17. 66  Alchermes 1994: 178; Esch 2011: 17–19; Varner 2014: 68. 67  Deichmann 1975: 99–100; Brenk 1987: 107; Kinney 1996: 86; Hansen 2001: 80; Wohl 2001: 105; Ousterhout 2003: 13; Bjornlie 2012: 243; Prusac 2012: 133 and 135–36; Sande 2012: 74; Hansen 2013: 88;

Huskinson 2000: 6; Galinsky 2014: 2; Popkin 2016: 21. Kristensen 2013: 34–35. Literary sources: Eusebius letter to Constantia: PG 20, 1545. 52  LP I, 176. 53  Hölkeskamp 2014: 64. 54  Halbwachs 1980: 82; Goff 1992: 98; Halbwachs 1992: 86; Connerton 1996: 14–15; Jones and Graves-Brown 1996: 1; Nora 1996: 3; Alcock 2002: 17; Alcock and Van Dyke 2003: 3; Castelli 2004: 13, 17 and 186; Crawford 2007: 12; Diefenbach 2007: 95-96; Olick 2007: 20; Witmer 2007: 81–82; Assmann 2010: 97–99 and 105; Assmann 2011: 54; Burke 2011: 191; Hobsbawm 2011: 271; Schudson 2011: 290; Brilliant 2012: 23; Assmann 2015; Bommas 2016: 166–68; Galinsky 2016b, 6; Marlowe 2016b, 246–47; Rutledge 2016: 226. 55  Goff 1992: 99; Halbwachs 1992: 199; Assmann 1995: 127; Castelli 2004: 29–30; Schudson 2011: 287–90; Popkin 2016: 20–21. 56  Halbwachs 1980: 31–32; Assmann 1988: 12; Wickham and Fentress 1992: 47; Rowlands 1993: 795–96; Connerton 1996: 3–4, 40 and 44; Haug 2001: 120; Alcock 2002: 18–19; Goffart 2006: 92–93; Pennebaker and Gonzales 2009: 174; Roediger, Zaromb and Butler 2009: 148; Schmidt 50  51 

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this interpretation is, as always when discussing spolia, whether the Late Roman viewer could recognize spolia as such and identify its origin.68 Surely, certain knowledge of styles, architecture, and Roman history was necessary to be able to do this and it is doubtful that every Roman, with their varying education and background, had this knowledge.69 Some scholars therefore argue that monuments as memory vessels were only relevant to the educated elite of the Roman Empire.70 Other scholars disagree and point out that the Roman identity rested on the knowledge of Roman monuments, history, and religion, at least in the Early Empire.71

and write.79 The ability to read simple inscriptions was probably less rare than the ability to read or write literary texts,80 but still, we have examples of even wealthy Romans, who could only write their name.81 It is unavoidable that the lack of literacy inhibited the dissemination of knowledge about the Roman monuments, spolia, and Roman history in general. Even Roman historians, which you would expect to be well educated, could mistake monuments and disseminate inaccurate information.82 To make matters worse, inscriptions would occasionally exaggerate or lie as a consequence of a present bias.83 Still, several scholars argue that uneducated Romans would be able to grasp at least parts of the message of both inscriptions and state reliefs because of their design and their expression of Roman core values, relatable to most.84 Rituals and the interaction with Romans, who could read and disseminate the message, would enforce this understanding. We can even speculate that tour guides were available for hire in big Roman cities, as stated for earlier times by Pliny, Cicero, and Pausanias.85

This discussion on how objects and monuments seemed to the ancient viewer and if the non-elite Roman understood the message of art has been studied extensively.72 Christian authors were also interested in this since art was important in the spreading of Christian ideology and memory.73 They were concerned how church art could be interpreted, pointing out that art had to be explained to the uneducated, preferably through text, to avoid misunderstandings.74 On the other side of the argument, Gregory the Great considered church art good because of its ability to disseminate Christianity to the illiterate.75

That even the uneducated Roman viewer had some kind of understanding of spolia and an opinion on the use of the ancient monuments is indicated by literary sources: Dio Chrysostom declares the reuse of statues to be a threat to the traditional relationship between patrons and communities,86 while John of Antioch accounts for the anger of the people of Antioch, when Avitus takes bronze decoration from Rome to pay his army.87 If we can trust these sources, the Roman people do not seem indifferent to the use of spolia, at least not when it was used wrongly. It is unlikely that all Romans could identify spolia, but a Muslim travel report from the  12th century, informing on how Roman ruins could be recognized from Islamic buildings, indicates that even much later some people did have the ability to do so.88

Certainly, the difference in knowledge would result in different, sometimes even contradicting, interpretations existing simultaneously.76 The fact is that the identification of the origins of spolia is very hard and problematic even for modern scholars.77 How should the Roman viewer stand a chance to identify such things then, unless told about it, which cannot be proven without literary sources confirming such sharing of information. From the 8th century, we have some spolia columns with inscriptions telling of their setup, but these are both firmly placed outside Late Antiquity and furthermore seem exceptional.78

Regarding the Basilica of St. Peter, the fact that people in the renaissance mention how it consisted of spolia, indicates that they could recognize this centuries after the basilica’s construction and that the spolia had become common knowledge at some point. If such knowledge was available in the Middle Ages and the renaissance, would it be too much to suggest that contemporary Romans would possess it too? Even if we assume that the Romans did not possess such knowledge and that most Romans had no idea about

Even if the before-mentioned sources disseminating the origins of spolia did exist in Late Antiquity, would the normal Roman be able to read them? It has been estimated that only very few Romans were able to read Kristensen 2013: 26–27; Noethlichs 2013: 19; Kalas 2015: 17, 19 and 132. 68  Coates-Stephens 2003: 342. 69  Kinney 1996b: 57; Mayer 2002: 196; Liverani 2011: 46; Hughes 2014: 108. 70  Saradi 2006: 384. 71  Hope 2000: 86–88; Rutledge 2012: 85; Rutledge 2016: 226–27. 72  Rutledge 2012: 79–80, especially note 2. 73  Castelli 2004: 170. 74  O’Hogan 2016: 146–49 and 153. 75  Ep. 9.209 and 11.10. 76  Edwards 1996: 23; Galinsky 2016a, 8; Morcillo, Richardson, and Santangelo 2016: 12–14. Literary sources: Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2.54.2 and 3.1.2. 77  Lavan 2015: 79. 78  Kinney 1996a, 83–86.

Bodel 2001: 15; Miles 2000: 52. Miles 2000: 53. Miles 2000: 53. 82  Wiseman 1986: 87–100. 83  Wiseman 1986: 90 and 99–100. 84  Varner 2014: 67; Rutledge 2016: 226–27; Orlandi 2017: 407. 85  Rutledge 2012: 118–19. 86  Dio. Chrys. Or.31 and Or.37,42. 87  John of Antioch, FR 202. 88  Greenhalgh 2011: 81. 79  80  81 

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Christina Videbech architecture, spolia could still work as memory vessels: The viewer did  not have to know the exact dating or origin of the spolia. He/she only had to recognize it as old. The viewer would have the old buildings in the rest of the city to compare with. Of course, the ‘old look’ could be obtained using newly carved marble in old styles, but here the convenience of the reuse of abandoned buildings probably played a part. In Rome there would have been plenty.

Just as the mnemonic power of Roman monuments was used by other groups of Roman society to further their own gains, so the Christians, being a part of the same cultural language, could do the same:98 Martyrs and saints were incorporated into the ideal of Rome, turning the city into Roma Cristiana.99 Constantine’s use of spolia in his churches might have been influenced by pragmatism, but it was also a conscious political choice, linking himself and his dynasty with the past thus legitimizing both, while simultaneously promoting the turning of Rome into a Christian city.100 In the Roman Empire novelty and innovation was suspect, especially when it came to religion, and it had to be securely anchored in tradition to ensure acceptance.101 One of the most severe attacks on Christianity was therefore pointing out its novelty and its lack of roots in Roman tradition.102 The incorporation of the past in church architecture made the new look old and familiar, making Romans feel safe in spite of the many changes actually taking place. It was a very human process, which has been used both intentionally and unintentionally throughout history.103 Though written so often that it is almost becoming a cliché, identity and connections to the past becomes especially important during times of change or contestation of the world order, previously taken for granted, both very present during Constantine’s reign:104 If anything was contested during Late Antiquity, it was Christianity and the part this new religion was to take in Roman culture and identity.

The continuation of the eternal Rome and the Basilica of St. Peter After the tetrarchs, Rome never became the sole capital again and she therefore had to compete with several other cities for the attention of the emperors.89 Consequently, her political importance waned.90 Still, throughout Roman history, Rome was repeatedly referred to as the eternal city, Roma Aeterna.91 The idea of Roma Aeterna as a symbol, the heart of the empire, and even as a goddess, was strong throughout Roman history and Late Antiquity.92 Rome was an important symbol and visualization of continuity with her architecture.93 Yet, supported by some written sources, it could be argued that the continued drawing attention to Rome as eternal in the written and epigraphical sources really reflected the city’s decline and therefore the claim to eternity had to be justified repeatedly.94 However, the crisis of Rome did not keep people from hoping and working for the glory to return.95 The restorations and maintenance of monuments, and the construction of new buildings such as churches, was therefore a vital way of reviving the past, a practice which by the time of Late Antiquity had proven effective repeatedly.96 Restorations and new constructions ensured the continued glory of Rome, rejuvenated by Christianity, even on the other side of her prime.97

In the Basilica of St. Peter, the creation of a link to the past was ensured through the architecture, having roots back to ancient Greece and great similarities with public architecture in general, combined with the use of spolia.105 The fact, that the spolia might have originated from storehouses before their use in the basilica does not exclude this interpretation. The spolia would, because of their diversified and distinct look be recognizable as older.106 Thus, even though some Christians contested the usefulness of the past before the life of Christ, memory proved essential for the success of legitimizing everything from the Christian religion itself to taxes.107 It was so essential, that Christian writers, if an appropriate link to the

89  Purcell 1992: 421; Mayer 2002: 235; Humphries 2003: 30; Machado 2006: 161; Humphries 2009: 98; Grig and Kelly 2012: 6–7. 90  Harris 1999: 9; Machado 2006: 157 and 169. 91  Edwards and Woolf 2006: 8; Oenbrink 2006: 200; Bleckmann 2015: 325. 92  Pratt 1965: 25–30; Paschoud 1967: 56–67; Krautheimer 1980: 4–5 and 18; Matthews 1986: 20; Salzman 1992: 27, 155–56, 177 and 184; Fuhrmann 1993: 88–90; Edwards 1996: 87; Humphries 2003: 30; Edwards and Woolf 2006: 16; Humphries 2009: 97; Orlandi 2012: 300; Orlandi 2016: 268–69. Literary sources: Livy, 4.4.4; 5.7.10 and 28.28.11; Aelius Aristides, Orationes, xxvi, 6-9 and 61-62; Ausonius Ord.Urb.Nob.1; Amm.Marc.16.10.14 and 22.16.12; Claudian, On the Sixth Consulship of Honorius, 39-51 and On the Consulship of Stilicho, III, 65-70, 130137; Rutilius Namatianus, De Reditu Suo, 1, 47-50; Symmachus Rel.3,7; Procopius, 8.22.5-6. Inscriptions mentioning Rome as the eternal city: CIL VI 1188: 1189: 1190: 1736: 31402: 33856: 36968. 93  Browning 1987: 101 and 126; Harris 1999: 10; Warland 2003: 297; Fried 2006: 174–75; Drijvers 2007: 11. 94  Orlandi 2012: 301–2; Morcillo, Richardson, and Santangelo 2016: 23–24. Literary sources: Amm. Marc. 14.6.3; Claud. De Bello Gildonico, 1.21-25. 95  Orlandi 2012: 301. 96  Haug 2001: 112; Sande 2003: 103; Lim 2009: 506; Kalas 2010: 22–23; Kousser 2016b, 33–48. 97  Ruggini 1991: 10, 21 and 34; Salzman 1999: 123; Cameron 2001: 1; Trout 2005: 142; Dal Santo 2016: 329.

98  Hope 2000: 77–79; Huskinson 2000: 11; Hölkeskamp 2001: 99; Hölkeskamp 2004: 174; Davis 2007: 233–34; Rose 2012: 152; Kousser 2016: 33.. 99  Bardy 1949: 234–35; Krautheimer 1980, Rome, 42; Fuhrmann 1993: 91; Lançon 2000: 160–61; Sághy 2016: 314–15 and 319. 100  Brenk 1987: 105; Prusac 2012: 129; Chin 2017: 26–27. 101  Busine 2012: 252; Hekster 2015: 1. 102  Busine 2012: 252. 103  Lowenthal 1975: 6. 104  Nora 1989: 12; Jones and Graves-Brown 1996: 1; Miles 1999: 3; Crawford 2007: 38–39; Yoffee 2007: 4; Swain 2016: 205. 105  Pensabene 1992: 55–56; Brandenburg 2005: 30–31; Jacobs 2013: 371. 106  Brandenburg 1996: 11; Brenk 1996: 50; Hansen 2001: 75. 107  Sande 2003: 108; Fried 2006: 158–84; Busine 2012: 244–45 and 253; Goodman 2012: 69 and 72–73; Cochran 2013: 6.

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The Spoils of Eternity: Spolia as Collective Memory in the Basilica of St. Peter during the 4th century AD

Figure 2. Part of Tabula Peutingeriana. Cut made by the author.

Conclusion

past could not be found, would occasionally produce it themselves.108 It is not unlikely that the architecture of the basilica, and especially the use of spolia was part of such an effort to link Christianity with the past and the greatness of the Roman Empire, not just ideologically, but physically, hereby providing the much needed auctoritas and age to Christianity.109 It legitimized Christianity and justified the fact that the basilica took over many of the activities previously preserved for the fora: Social, civic, and political activities, which made Christianity a part of people’s everyday life, even the lives of non-Christians. Quickly this became a selfperpetuating process, where the memory justified the actions, while the actions revitalized the memory. 108  109 

Today spoliation is prohibited both during peace time and war by the 1954 Hague Convention and the UNESCO convention of 1970.110 The conventions mirror a view on spolia today, that could affect our interpretation of ancient spolia negatively.111 The Codex Theodosianus seems to document that similar views were shared in Late Antiquity, however, the use of spolia in the Basilica of St. Peter indicates that the case might not be so straight forward. I have argued that the use of spolia in the basilica was meant to illustrate how Christianity was a natural continuation of the idea of Roma Aeterna: By using easily recognizable architectural forms, which woke the feeling of historical pride in

Busine 2012: 245. Kinney 2005: 29.

110  111 

53

Kinney 2011: 6. Liverani 2011: 40.

Christina Videbech the viewer, the basilica visualized Christianity as a natural continuation of the past, not a break. This use of Roman collective memory and cultural heritage made it possible to move traditional actions from the fora of Rome to the basilica. Furthermore, it legitimized the relatively new religion of Christianity. The novelty of Christianity was a disadvantage  in a time when newness was often a devaluating feature. Being able to demonstrate  old traditions and a mythic past was therefore very important. The Basilica of St. Peter with its extensive use of spolia was a part of the argument for the continuation of the greatness of the Roman Empire at the bosom of the Christian church. This seems to be perfectly illustrated in the Tabula Peutingeriana, a 12th century copy of a 4th century map, where the city of Rome was placed in the middle of the Roman world with no other landmark than Constantine’s basilica (Figure 2).112

Bartlett, F. 1967. Remembering. A Study in Experimental and Social Psychology. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Bauer, F. A. 1996. Stadt, Platz und Denkmal in der Spätantike. Mainz am Rhein, Zabern. Bauer, F. A. 2004. Das Bild der Stadt Rom im Frühmittelalter. Papststiftungen im Spiegel des Liber Pontificalis von Gregor dem Dritten bis zu Leo dem Dritten. Wiesbaden, Reichert. Bjornlie, M. S. 2012. Politics and Tradition Between Rome, Ravenna and Constantinople, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Blaauw, S. de. 1994. Cultus et Decor. Liturgia e Architettura nella Roma Tardoantica e Medievale: Basilica Salvatoris, Sanctae Mariae, Sancti Petri. Vatican City, Biblioteca apostolica vaticana. Bleckmann, B. 2015. Constantine, Rome, and the Christians. Contested Monarchy. Integrating the Roman Empire in the Fourth Century AD, edited by J. Wienand. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 309–329. Blondel, C. 2011. Revue Critique. M. Halbwachs ‘Les Cadres Sociaux de La Mémoire’. The Collective Memory Reader, edited by J. K. Olick, V. Vinitzky-Seroussi, and D. Levy, New York, Oxford University Press: 156. Bodel, J. 2001. Epigraphy and the Ancient Historian. Epigraphic Evidence. Ancient history from inscriptions, edited by J. Bodel. London, Routledge: 1–56. Bommas, M. 2016. From Ancient Egypt to the Mississippi Delta. A Comparative Approach to Cultural Memory and Forgetting. In Envisioning the Past Through Memories, edited by D. Nadali. London, Bloomsbury: 163–181. Bonnie, R. 2016. Thrown into Limekilns. The Reuse of Statuary and Architecture in Galilee from Late Antiquity Onwards. Spaces in Late Antiquity. Cultural, Theological and Archaeological Perspectives, edited by J. Day, R. Hakola, M. Kahlos, and U. Tervahauta. Abingdon, Taylor and Francis: 190–211. Bosman, L. 2004. The Power of Tradition. Spolia in the Architecture of St. Peter’s in the Vatican. Hilversum, Uitgeverij Verloren. Bosman, L. 2014. Spolia in the Fourth-Century Basilica. Old Saint Peter’s, Rome, edited by R. McKitterick, J. Osborne, C. M. Richardson, and J. Story. Cambridge, Cambridge Univesity Press: 65–80. Brandenburg, H. 2005. Ancient Churches of Rome. From the Fourth to the Seventh Century. Turnhout, Brepols. Brandenburg, H. 1996. Die Verwendung von Spolien und Originalen Werkstücken in der Spätantiken Architektur. Antike Spolien in der Architektur des Mittelalters und der Renaissance, edited by J. Poeschke. München, Hirmer: 11–48. Brandenburg, H. 2011. The Use of older Elements in the Architecture of fourth- and fifth-Century Rome. A Contribution to the Evaluation of Spolia. Reuse Value. Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine, edited by R. Brilliant and D. Kinney. Farnham, Routledge: 53–73.

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Were TRB Depositions Boundary Markers in the Neolithic Landscape? Michael Müller

Free University of Berlin [email protected]

Introduction The Funnel Beaker complex,1 abbreviated TRB2 (complex), dating between 4100 and 2800 cal BC, describes the first Neolithic societies in Northern Europe. The historically-based subdivision of the TRB into different groups certainly needs a revision.3 The most prominent TRB groups (‘TRB groups in a narrow sense’4) are believed to be those known as the Western group5, the Eastern group6 and the Northern group7. The bearers of the TRB complex were forming their environment by constructing several thousand megalithic tombs, settlements, areas for agriculture or dozens of causewayed enclosures. This all led to the first measurable deforestation in their distribution area.8 Numerous hints suggest that, during the time of the TRB, the inhabited space was divided into different areas by separating, for instance, the places for the living from the places for the dead. Considering the causewayed enclosures, there is a strong possibility that they originally may not have functioned as defensive structures, but as places for ritual activities.9 However, in all of those places and different spheres, depositions of various objects could be observed so it might be of interest to think about the function of at least some of them within this world of divided spaces. TRB depositions in Archaeology Before getting deeper into the topic, it is necessary to clarify the terms hoard and deposition which will be The term TRB culture was last discussed and refused by Furholt 2014. Even if Lüning 1972 tried to disconnect the term culture from political, social, religious, military or economic categories and interprets it as a chronological order of finds and their connected phenomena, the term culture still leads too easy to a wrong conclusion. That is why it was not used in this paper. Instead the term complex, like Furholt 2014 is using it, was found more suitable. 2  The abbreviation TRB comes from the German word Trichterbecher, which means funnel beaker, and became the standard abbreviation also in English language. 3  Furholt 2012. 4  Müller 2011: 10–11. 5  Located in what is now Northern Netherlands and Northwest Germany. 6  Located in what is now Northern Poland. 7  Located in what are now Northern Germany, Denmark and Southern Sweden. 8 Müller 2017. 9  Andersen 2002: 9; Nielsen 2004: 21; Klatt 2009: 46–48; Larsson 2012: 112. 1 

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 61–70

further used in this article. While the hoard is employed when a minimum of two objects are deposited at the same time, deposition is used when referring also to single items.10 For both categories, it has to be made certain that they are neither grave goods nor objects of daily use found in ordinary contexts within settlements. To identify single depositions, the find circumstances are the decisive factor, when finding them under a big stone, for example, in a pit under the floor of a house or inside a megalithic tomb. Since the beginning of Archaeology as a discipline, hoards from all prehistoric periods have constantly been in focus, especially those hoards comprising items made of bronze, iron or flint found while peat cutting or draining bogs in the open countryside which have fascinated scientists with their extraordinariness or their large number. What became more and more obvious over the following decades of examination was that these places in the open countryside, away from settlements and graves of the same time period, were particularly chosen for a very large number of hoards. In Northern Europe, the first theories about hoards from prehistory were published in 1866 by the Danish archaeologist J. J. A. Worsaae, who was focusing only on Bronze Age depositions.11 One of the earliest archaeologists mentioning and characterizing hoards from Neolithic times was S. Müller in 1886.12 Around the same time, Neolithic hoards received attention in Northern Germany, where they have been discovered as well, albeit lesser in number. The theories about their nature and purpose varied considerably and included trade goods, caches, stashes, or sacrificial offerings. When taking a closer look at the objects from Neolithic hoards that captivated both early and more recent archaeologists, it is remarkable that they mainly consist of flint axe heads (Figure  1). Although the majority of these axe heads were made of flint, there was a smaller number made of ground-stone, as well. It seems necessary to underline that only the heads of the axes were found in these hoards, without shafts or hafts that would make them functional axes. The moist, For further discussions on that topic, see Hansen 2002. Worsaae 1866. 12  Müller 1886. 10  11 

Michael Müller

Fig 1. Hoard with thin-butted flint axe blades from Djupbrunns (region Gotland, Sweden) Michael Müller; Courtsey of the Statens Historiska Museet, Stockholm (Sweden)..

oxygen-free atmosphere of the bogs in which they were often found is perfect to preserve organic matter. It is, therefore, very safe to affirm that these axe heads were not attached to wooden shafts when they were deposited. The very few examples of hafted axe heads occurred in connection with depositions of animal and/or human bones. In these cases, mostly one axe was found together with a couple of bones.13 Regionally distinctive and rarer are hoards with ceramic vessels, amber beads, or copper items.14

Past decades’ studies presented many arguments supporting an interpretation for most of the Neolithic hoards as ritual offerings. The selection of objects, their often extraordinary sizes and surface treatments, as well as their arrangements and the chosen places of deposition make especially TRB hoards in the open countryside areas very likely ritual depositions, dedicated to unknown higher forces after the formula do ut des.15 However, some of the cases could be seen as possible caches left behind, for example, blanks of axe heads (flint nodules roughly brought into shape) found close to exploitable flint resources.16

Compare Klimscha 2009. The depositions of the TRB culture were regionally more intensively studied. See, amongst others, for Sweden: Karsten 1994; for Denmark: Nielsen 1977; Koch 1998 and Ebbesen 1995; for the Netherlands: Wentink 2006 and for Germany and Scandinavia in general: Rech 1979. 13 

15  For further literature connected to that topic as well as discussions about depositions and the necessary connection with M. Mauss’ concept of the gift and M. Halbwachs’ concept of the collective memory, see Hansen 2016. 16  Becker 1980.

14 

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Different depositions for different surroundings

of causewayed enclosures. They were built and used in a time span between EN  II and MN  Ib (3500–3100 cal BC) and consisted of up to five parallel rows of elongated pits or ditch segments, as well as possible inner palisades. The later (2900–2600 cal BC), partly comparable phenomenon of the palisade enclosures is not in our focus here.21 So far, the majority of the causewayed enclosures of the TRB have been discovered in Scandinavia. These belong mainly to the Sarup type of sites, delimiting areas between 1.5 and 20 hectares. They are commonly located near wetlands, by which they can even be surrounded. During their first phase of usage, many pottery sherds and human bones, typically intentionally fragmented, were deposited inside the enclosing elongated pits, often in association with fireplaces. After filling, those pits have been reopened, used as places for depositions, and refilled several times. Thus far, connected to this phase, flint artefacts could only very rarely be detected. Moreover, if they were, customarily scrapers and thin-butted flint axe heads have been observed, among which the amount of burnt pieces was quite high. The occurrence of human bones and pottery sherds has been interpreted also as a gathering of various settler units for performing certain burial rituals, in connection with traces of temporal settlement activities inside the enclosed area.22 After this first phase, only a few enclosures have been abandoned forever. The others were overbuilt by large settlements, during the second phase of usage at the end of the TRB complex, around the 3rd millennium cal BC.23

The emphasis in archaeology has mostly been put on TRB offerings from wetland areas, more specifically in the open countryside as will be shown below. Before describing them and their locations in detail, it is necessary for understanding the postulated overall pattern to bring into discussion other kinds of depositions. Rarely, studies describe other places with deposited objects from the TRB, which can be found inside inhabited and at burial places.17 Not only have the places differed, but also the selection, the number and the treatment of the objects, in comparison with the ones from the open countryside. Due to the lack of intensive examination, we know less about these depositions. However, a closer look at the placing of some of them gives important information necessary for their interpretation. In connection to megalithic tombs of the TRB, at least three different kinds of depositions can be distinguished, those linked to the erection of the megalithic tombs (interpreted as building sacrifices), those connected to burial practices and rituals (interpreted as pottery offerings in front of the chambers of the passage graves) and those associated with the lithic boundary of the grave area (kerbstones). If we were to focus only on the latter, we would, first of all, note that mostly flint axe heads were deposited. Secondly, this phenomenon is connected to the second half of MN-phase18 of the TRB, considering that mostly thick-butted19 flint axe heads were discovered. Several examples of axe heads found in connection to the kerbstones which enclose the barrow, are known. These axe heads very often bear ancient damage or are sometimes only partially preserved. Most examples of this kind of deposition might have been overlooked so far because the area around the kerbstones is only rarely in the interest of scientific examination. Another place for the deposited and often anciently-fragmented axe heads can be found outside the burial chamber, in the vicinity of the entrances. Amongst others, flint chisel heads, flint blades or flint scrapers were also detected. They show partial damages caused by alleged intentional fire.20

Beside these late settled former causewayed enclosures from the TRB, there are many other examples of depositions known from inside settlements. They contain objects of flint or ground stone, both of which can occur, among others, in an intentionally burnt status.24 While objects from inside the pits under the house floors or inside the postholes are interpreted as building sacrifices, the role of depositions from the pits outside the buildings stays unclear. Moreover, it is very hard to detect such kind of depositions and distinguish them from garbage, storage or other kinds of pits. A structured deposition of a pit’s filling as, for example, a layer of burnt flint, followed by a layer of animal bones, could be one criterion for an interpretation as deposition pit. Another criterion could be the presence of intact tools in settlement pits, such as axe heads, or items of high value, such as copper objects.25 However, of course, it is also possible that deposition occurred in different forms or with contents that are not readily distinguishable today. Due to aspects such as these, the actual picture of settlement depositions is quite

Another case of depositions in connection with the delimitation of a space can be seen in the example See for example Ebbesen 1975. MN-phase stands for the Middle Neolithic phase of the TRB culture and describes the younger half of its development from 3300 cal BC (MN Ia) to 2800 cal BC (MN V), followed by the Single Grave culture (2800–2200 cal  BC). Thick-butted axes occur first in phase MN  III around 3000 cal BC. 19  The typology of axe heads from the TRB culture is based on the shape of their butt end. Additionally, the axe types can be connected to certain stages of the TRB development where they are most dominant. Pointed-butted axe heads are connected to EN  I (see below), thin-butted mostly to EN II (see below) and thick-butted to the MN-phase (see above). 20  Ebbesen 1975: 162–166. 17  18 

Nielsen 2004: 19–20; Larsson 2012. Andersen 2002: 9; Nielsen 2004: 21; Larsson 2012: 112. 23  Larsson 2012: 119. 24  Karsten 1994: 145–165. 25  See, for instance, Karsten 1994: 155. 21  22 

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Michael Müller place of constant human activity from the same time. It can only be supposed that the depositions were therefore put into a still intact natural environment. But we also know that the clearance of the land, leading to the creation of large open areas, reached its first peak by 3500 cal BC.29 As was described above, the main part of them consists of un-hafted axe heads made out of flint or, more rarely, ground-stone. The second most frequent category of objects to be found in depositions is flint chisel heads. Locally, especially in Northern Denmark and on the Danish Isles, hoards with thousands of amber beads in all production stages along with hoards – but also accumulated depositions – of ceramic vessels are often present. Judging from the types and the respective dating of axe heads, ceramic pots, amber beads and copper items found in the depositions, most of them must have been put down between EN Ib and MN II (3800–3000 cal BC). By contrast depositions from the open countryside are much rarer at the very beginning (FN  Ia, 4100–3800) and at the last phase (3000–2800 cal BC) of the TRB complex and contain mostly only axe heads.

Fig 2. Hoard with thin- and pointed-butted flint axe heads and their reconstructed arrangement from Moeckow (federal state of Mecklenburg-West Pomerania, Germany) Photo: Schanz and Schoknecht 2014, title..

blurry and their detection is rather difficult, rendering any interpretation relatively vague.26 Besides common pits, there are also examples of wells, showing a layered filling as shown above. For instance, at Dannau LA 77, in Schleswig-Holstein (Germany), two 2.3m and 1.4m deep wells, dated to the end of the 4th millennium cal BC were examined. They showed a filling of fruits and cereals at the bottom, followed by burnt hut clay, millstone fragments and, at the uppermost level, fresh and saltwater molluscs.27

What unites all the depositions from the open countryside is the fact that their location is not inside or in the direct vicinity of settlements or burial places and not within causewayed enclosures or any other

A lot of time and effort needed to be invested to exploiting the raw materials and bring them into shape for the stone objects in the depositions from the open countryside, especially for the flint axe heads. They are mostly 20 to 50cm in length, far above the average for flint axe heads from TRB graves, settlements and their connected depositions, as described above. The length of the axes from depositions cannot be explained by their mostly unused or barely used status. It is possible to use a flint axe head with a length up to 30 cm, but it is also very impractical due to its heaviness and difficult balance behaviour. Additionally, with a length bigger than 30cm the possibility of a blade breakage increases.30 Overall, it is more plausible to see these oversized axe blades as objects of a primarily symbolic nature, considering the time invested to make them31 as well as the capability to form an item of an unusual size. The thin-butted flint axe heads from the depositions appear usually with two different surface treatments: unpolished or completely polished. The unpolished axe heads are actually pre-works in a ready-to-polish status. The so-called polished axe heads are actually ground and not polished. On the thin-butted axe heads this treatment can be found all over the surface, even if technically not necessary – a grinding of the edge area would be sufficient for chopping wood. Many polished flint axe heads in the depositions ended up in the ground in a re-sharpened or unused condition. In hoards, where the number of objects varies between two and several dozens, they were often observed to have been put in

Winther 1935: 51.66; Karsten 1994: 145–165; Brück 1999; Andersson et al. 2015: 38–39; Brozio 2016: 37–40. 27  Müller 2017: 29–31. 28  Compare Rassmann 1993: 62; Wentink 2006: 65; Müller in prep.

Müller 2017: 48–50. Personal communication Harm Paulsen. 31  The longer the axe blade the longer it takes to manufacture it. The most time-consuming process is not the knapping, but the polishing of the axe blade, which takes at least two dozen hours.

Depositions in the open countryside The reason why the name ‘depositions in the open countryside’ was chosen instead of ‘wetland depositions’, which occurs more often in the specific literature, is that it describes them more precisely. In fact, judging from the location and surrounding of their find places, it is often not possible to decide if these depositions were originally placed in areas with a connection to any kind of water source or on dry land. Large-scale drainage activities for gaining agricultural space, the regulation of rivers and streams, the natural drying up of lakes or ponds and the growth of bogs over the past millennia have had a great impact on the aspect of most landscapes. Nowadays they do not have much in common with the natural landscapes of the TRB time.28

29 

26 

30 

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Were TRB Depositions Boundary Markers in the Neolithic Landscape?

certain arrangements. However, because most of the finds were chance discoveries during agricultural and construction works or peat cutting, this information is usually lacking. Laying side by side, star-shaped, on top of each other or standing upright are only a few of a broad variety of possible arrangements (Figure 2). In addition, the placing or the way of being set down seems to differ a lot. While especially those examples from wet environments were mostly placed on the ground at shores or on islands inside standing water, others from dry land were found dug into the ground beside or under glacial erratics.32 It was especially under these circumstances that most of the known single depositions could be identified. However, what should taken into regard is that hundreds of single flint axe heads were found in the past centuries. Without secure find circumstances or observations of their surroundings it is impossible to say if they were part of the hoards, were individually put on or into the ground, nor if they were parts of the settlement or burial finds. What is surely surprising, and not really put into focus in any investigation so far, is the fact that depositions from wet ground were possibly visible on the surface or at least reachable for a long time. This, at least, can be said for the very few examples with more detailed finding descriptions, which showed that finds were unearthed from under several decimetres or even meters of peat, but they were found lying on the pure sandy ground. Sometimes even trees, possibly from the same time as the deposition, or their roots, deep inside the bog, are mentioned. This could also be seen in connection with the placing of the finds. These pieces of information give hints that especially hoards with stone objects from wet ground were preferably put in the border zone between dry land and the water. Other finds, such as those from the vicinity of spring crop-outs underline this assumption as well.

but also firths, regardless of whether the depositions were found on wet or on dry ground. If we were to take the example of the deposition distribution on the peninsula of Vendsyssel-Thy in Northern Jutland (Denmark), we would acknowledge an obvious pattern, as described above (Figure  3). Along the dense concentration of tombs, which are partly certain and partly hypothetical early examples (dolmens), some depositions with stone objects can be observed. The situation appears denser around the settlement areas in the south-west of the described section. Altogether, the depositions flank or surround the areas with settlements and tombs and, even if they appear sometimes to lay in their immediate proximity, the distances between the find spots are, in most cases, of at least several hundred meters. Another case study picked to show the degree of segmentation in the landscape, is the situation on the Djursland peninsula in the north-eastern part of Jutland (Denmark). Here we note one of the few cases where the depositions are not all totally scattered, but are put aligned along the old riverbed of the ‘Vegerslev Å’ (Figure 4). Once again, similar to the example of Vendsyssel-Thy, concentrations of dolmens located close to the areas covered by settlements are surrounded by very few depositions. The area east of the denser distribution of depositions is almost ‘empty’ with the exception of very few dolmens. A third and last example comes from the Eastern part of the Danish Island Zeeland (Figure  5). Aside the analogous situation to the previously shown cases, a line going from north to south is visible in the eastern part of the shown map. Of course, the depositions along this line will not directly be connected to each other; the average distance between the find spots is about 5 km. However, what can be observed as well is that they lay in an area with only very few dolmens. Moreover, they are placed between a region with dense tomb concentrations to the west and settlement concentrations to the east.

When examining the distribution of TRB depositions in the open countryside from the later EN, a certain pattern seems to be repeated in all the regions. It is noticeable that most of the depositions were found in the same regions with the TRB settlements and burials, which might be not surprising because these sites mark the area of activity of the respective groups. But when taking a closer look, it seems that the depositions only surround the areas with dense concentrations of graves and settlements (cp. Figure 3–5). This means that they rarely gather or cluster, even if the TRB activity is very high. Instead, they lay in lines or scattered around or along the activity areas in a range of a few hundred meters to several kilometres away from them. Additionally the whole distribution of the TRB depositions follows a particular logic in the open countryside, which shows a relation, at least in part, with running water systems, such as streams and rivers, 32 

Discussion Firstly, the most extensive and complex phenomenon shall be discussed – the depositions in the open countryside. Why do the depositions in the open countryside seldom show a common distribution pattern? Or, better said, why do they not show a common concentration with settlements and graves on a local scale? Around 45% of the depositions in the open countryside were found within wet ground. This ratio is surprisingly low, regarding the fact that from wet ground, as an expression, is usually used synonymously

Rech 1997; Müller in prep.

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Michael Müller

Figure 3. Distribution map of TRB depositions with stone objects in the Northern part of the peninsula Vendsyssel-Thy in Northern Jutland (Denmark). Blue diamond: depositions from wet ground; red diamond: depositions from dry ground; yellow diamond: depositions from unknown ground; pink circles: dolmens and related graves with stone chamber from EN-phase; pink squares: flat graves from EN-phase; green areas: EN-settlements. The maps (Figure 3-5) were edited by the author. The data for the distribution map was partly provided by the Agency “Slots- og Kulturstyrelsen” of the Danish Ministry of Culture (http://www.kulturarv.dk/fundogfortidsminder/). The ground map was created with the program QGIS. A part of the layers was created with Jarvis et al. 2008 (http://srtm.csi.cgiar.org).

to describe the depositions in the open countryside. In truth, it must be acknowledged that from the 55% of depositions coming from dry ground, around 10% were with certainty found very close to bogs, seashores, standing or running water. At least occasionally, these places might have also been under water. Therefore, an amount of about 50% of the TRB depositions can be more or less put in connection with wet ground. In addition, there is a certain amount of finds from dry ground, for which it is nowadays impossible to reconstruct a probable former proximity to wet ground. It is rather unlikely for the TRB societies to have built grave monuments in the direct surroundings of wet ground and there is also no lakeshore settlement known in the region covered by the TRB groups in a narrow sense (see introduction). So the question why most of the depositions were put into or close to wet ground is still to be answered. In addition, the depositions from dry ground show the same dispersion as the ones from wet ground, not closer but further away from settlements and burials. Nonetheless, these interpretations must be taken carefully since we have no information regarding the contemporaneity of the phenomena described here. Indeed, for the examinations and distribution maps, finds and structures from the second half of the EN-phase of the TRB were chosen, but still this is a long-

time range of about 300 to 400 years. Therefore, the chronology of the regions has to be examined through the depositions or the settlements. Furthermore, one cannot rule out the possibility that it all happened at the same time. Nevertheless, it should be challenged whether the overview shown by distribution maps nowadays really existed in the mentality of the TRB societies and if there was truly a strategy behind this segmentation of the landscape. On the grounds of what has been asserted so far about the TRB depositions in the open countryside it could be discerned that they are a certain selection of objects (flint axe heads), with a special surface treatment (unpolished or re-sharpened), of an often extraordinary size, which were placed in particular arrangements in a particular environment, at the edge or inside the unsettled world. Hence, it can be reasoned that the TRB depositions consist of ritually relinquished objects or that they were intended as sacrifices.33 Similar observations of depositions in landscapes, to those presented here, were made also for other periods and different regions, with no connection to the TRB 33 

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Seiwert 1998: 269.

Were TRB Depositions Boundary Markers in the Neolithic Landscape?

Figure 4. Distribution of TRB depositions with stone objects from the Djursland peninsula in the Northeastern part of Jutland (Denmark). Blue diamond: depositions from wet ground; red diamond: depositions from dry ground; yellow diamond: depositions from unknown ground; pink circles: dolmens and related graves with stone chamber from EN-phase; pink squares: flat graves from EN-phase; green areas: EN-settlements.

Figure 5. Distribution of TRB depositions with stone objects from the Eastern part of the Danish Island Zeeland. Blue diamond: depositions from wet ground; red diamond: depositions from dry ground; yellow diamond: depositions from unknown ground; pink circles: dolmens and related graves with stone chamber from EN-phase; pink squares: flat graves from EN-phase; green areas: EN-settlements.

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Michael Müller societies. One example are the Bronze Age hoards from Bohemia, where Vachta shows that hoards in the open countryside have specifically chosen locations (i.e. are not randomly distributed), are partly connected to water, have aligned arrangements (with the same objections as made above) and are located at the edge of the inhabited world.34 Comparable contexts could be observed for stone axe and adze depositions of the Neolithic Rössen culture (4800–4500 cal  BC), which were put into the ground several hundred years before the emergence of TRB. The hoards containing objects attributed to the Rössen culture were found until hundreds of kilometres apart from their settlement areas and partly deep inside of the world of the Mesolithic Ertebølle (5450–4100 cal BC) culture.35 More examples of deposition practices, which are comparable to the ones of the TRB, could be given for different other times and regions.36 One might get the impression that the boundary concept of ritual depositions tends to be a universal social praxis or an anthropological constant. The placing of the depositions was not random, but chosen by the acting community, within their developed physical space.37 They were inside or at the border of what Foucault used to call ‘heterotopias’ or ‘other places’, which he described as ‘actually realized utopias’ or locatable ‘places outside of all places’.38 In connection with prehistoric societies, Foucault identified for example ‘crisis heterotopias’ which could be privileged, hallowed, or forbidden places.

to remember collectively it is necessary, according to Maurice Halbwachs, to have common conditions and ideas that exist in the consciousness of the whole community. Thus, the individuals always remember as part of their specific group. This does not require the actual participation of every single individual at the entire experience which is stored by the collective memory. Like this, every individual is connected with their group and nothing of what happened before their participation to this group is foreign to them.42 It can be imagined, that with the act of depositing selected items at special, more precisely ‘other’ places, part of the frame for the identity of the particular group was built. Also, according to this interpretation, the TRB depositions mark certain boundaries. But this idea can also be turned around. If we assume that the flint axe heads and other items were not simply laid on the ground, but were parts of possible rituals, the actions undertaken in the process could have served as a memory source for certain moments to the involved society. In this case, every deposition tells a story in the tense of a metaphysical present. One moment of the past, one event, maybe an offer for settling new land by the group was re-enacted and thus brought back in the minds of the group members or even more, the moment was happening again. This idea does not exclude the theory in connection to the collective memory explained above. Even more, these re-enactments could be undertaken by group members who never personally participated on a deposition act, but only knew from other group members all the necessary details.

As it was shown through the examples above, many of the chosen places for the TRB deposition in the open countryside delimited the inhabited world. They were put at its borders and most likely marked the places where the continuity of the landscape was interrupted. This may seem rather unlikely, considering that these depositions could not have been seen directly on the surface since most of them were dug in or at least covered by water. But this visibility might not have been necessary at all if one were to assume that at least a part of the actors was present at the event of the sacrifice, because then the possibility of oral transmission is given. For a society, it is often times not particularly relevant to remember the exact place of the deposition as long as it is known and transmitted to further generations that a certain area was successfully marked or delimited and, with the favour39 of higher forces, also protected.40 Moreover, through the means of sacrifices, the inhabited world was claimed and taken out of the unknown and the chaos.41 In order

Speculations on why certain areas have a denser distribution of depositions or why in half of the cases wet grounds were chosen would stretch the probability too far. However, it should not go unmentioned that rivers, for example, were for Neolithic societies comparable to roads for ours, with networks which, on the one hand, provided the means to connect broader regions if not the whole known world. On the other hand, they can also be seen as open gates that everyone could enter, which possibly needed to be restricted.43 In any case, the depositions in the open countryside were most probably much more diverse than it can be determined nowadays. But they seem to have had at least some basic elements in common, like the objects which were chosen to be put down or that these depositions always seem to surround inhabited areas. Finally, the same function as the one proposed for the depositions in the open countryside can be transferred to the depositions at the kerbstones of TRB barrows and in elongated pits of the causewayed enclosures.

Vachta 2016. Schirren et al. in prep. 36  For comparisons of the same phenomenon within other times and cultures and for further literature, see Vachta 2016: 184. 37  Vachta 2016: 180. 38  Foucault 1992: 39; see furthermore Eliade 1959: 12. 39  Compare with Hansen 2016: 220. 40  Hansen 2016: 222–223. 41  Eliade 1959: 31–32. 34  35 

42  43 

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See Halbwachs 1991. See Eliade 1959: 29.

Were TRB Depositions Boundary Markers in the Neolithic Landscape?

The locations chosen for these depositions are already obvious borders.44 If one were to speculate again, this placement could suggest, that somebody or something should stay out of the enclosures or inside the tombs.45 Furthermore, one could regard the inner part of a enclosure as a special place also, bearing certain attributes, which divide it from the outer world. The offerings in the elongated pits constitute the necessary threshold, as Eliade described it, which can be used as an allegory here.46 Of course, it will remain forever unknown which forces were invoked and gifted with items of high value, to make these imagined borders function and protect their inhabitants.

Becker, C.J. 1980. Hov, Gem. Sennels, Amt Thisted, Jütland. 5000 Jahre Feuersteinbergbau: Die Suche nach dem Stahl der Steinzeit, edited by G. Weisgerber, Bochum, Deutsches Bergbau-Museum. Ebbesen, K. 1975. Die jüngere Trichterbecherkultur auf den dänischen Inseln. Copenhagen, Akademisk förlag. Ebbesen, K. 1995. Die nordischen Bernsteinhorte der Trichterbecherkultur. Prähistorische Zeitschrift 70: 32–89. Eliade, M. 1959. The sacred and the profane: The nature of religion. New York, Harvest Books. Foucault, M. 1992. Andere Räume. Aisthesis. Wahrnehmung heute oder Perspektiven einer anderen Ästhetik, edited by K. Barck, P. Gente, H. Paris and S. Richter Leipzig, Reclam: 34–46. Furholt, M. 2012. Die räumliche Struktur der entwickelten Trichterbecherkeramik: Eine quantitative Analyse stilistischer Ähnlichkeitsmuster. Siedlung, Grabenwerk, Großsteingrab. Studien zu Gesellschaft, Wirtschaft und Umwelt der Trichterbechergruppen im nördlichen Mitteleuropa, edited by M. Hinz and J. Müller. Bonn, Frühe Monumentalität und soziale Differenzierung 2, Habelt Verlag: 473–484. Furholt, M. 2014. What is the Funnel Beaker complex? Persistent troubles with an inconsistent concept. Landscapes, histories and societies in the Northern European Neolithic, edited by M. Furholt, M. Hinz, D. Mischka, G. Noble and D. Olausson. Bonn, Frühe Monumentalität und soziale Differenzierung 4, Habelt Verlag: 17–26. Halbwachs, M. 1991. Das kollektive Gedächtnis. Frankfurt a. Main, FISCHER Taschenbuch. Hansen, S. 2002. Über bronzezeitliche Depots, Horte und Einzelfunde: Brauchen wir neue Begriffe. Archäologische Informationen 25 1–2: 91–97. Hansen, S. 2016. Gabe und Erinnerung – Heiligtum und Opfer. Raum, Gabe und Erinnerung. Weihgaben und Heiligtümer in prähistorischen und antiken Gesellschaften, edited by S. Hansen, D. Neumann and T. Vachta. Berlin, Berlin Studies of the Ancient world: 211–236. Jarvis, A., H. I. Reuter, A. Nelson and E. Guevara. 2008. Hole-filled SRTM for the globe Version 4, available from the CGIAR-CSI SRTM 90m Database (http:// srtm.csi.cgiar.org). Karsten, P. 1994. Att kasta yxan i sjön. En studie över rituell tradition och förändring utifrån skånska neolitiska offerfynd. Lund, Lund University Publications. Klatt, S. 2009. Die neolithischen Einhegungen im westlichen Ostseeraum. Forschungsstand und Forschungsperspektiven. Neue Forschungen zum Neolithikum im Ostseeraum, edited by T. Terberger. Leidorf, Rahden/Westf: 7–134. Koch, E. 1998. Neolithic Bog Pots from Zealand, Møn, Lolland and Falster. Copenhagen, Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab. Larsson, L. 2012. Mid Neolithic Enclosures in Southern Sweden. Recent studies in Britain and Europe,

Conclusion The depositions of the TRB complex treated here appear as ritually relinquished objects in the open countryside, at causewayed enclosures and at kerbstones of barrows. As it could be shown, it is possible to speak about largescale demarcations (in the open countryside) and small-scale demarcations (at the pits of enclosures and the kerbstones of barrows). As ritually relinquished objects put down during a sacrifice, these depositions mark the borders of social spaces. Furthermore, the act of depositing could have served as a part of the frame which formed the identity of a group and stayed present in their collective memory. Other, following depositions could in addition be understood as a re-enactment of a possible first deposition moment. Acknowledgements This paper arose from a lecture held at the session ‘‘Tonight will be a memory too’ – Memory and landscapes’ which was part of the International Open Workshop ‘Socio-Environmental Dynamics over the last 12,000 Years: The creation of landscapes V’ in March 2017 in Kiel. I would like to thank Dr. Gustav Wollentz (Nordic Centre of Heritage Learning and Creativity) and Dr Christian Horn (University of Gothenburg) for organizing this session to which they invited me and for giving me the possibility to contribute to this volume. My special thanks go to Mihaela Savu (PhD student, CAU Kiel) for all the discussions, ideas and proofreading the text. References Andersen. N. H. 2002. Neolithic Enclosures of Scandinavia. Enclosures in Neolithic Europe, edited by G. Verndell and P. Topping. Oxford, Oxbow books: 1–10. Compare also Fontijn 2012: 49–50. Compare Eliade 1959: 29. 46  Without agreeing to the author’s whole concept and strong separation of the sacred and the profane; see Eliade 1959: 25. 44  45 

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Michael Müller Rech, M. 1979. Studien zu Depotfunden der Trichterbecherund Einzelgrabkultur des Nordens. Neumünster, Wachholtz. Schirren, M., M. Müller and B. Ramminger. in prep. Exoten an der Randow. Ein rätselhaftes frühneolithisches Axtdepot aus der Gemarkung Friedefeld, Lkr. Vorpommern-Greifswald (in preparation). Schanz, E. and U. Schoknecht. 2014. Archäologische Berichte aus Mecklenburg Vorpommern 21. Neustrelitz. Seiwert, H. 1998. Opfer. Handbuch religionswissenschaftlicher Grundbegriffe IV, edited by H. Cancik. Stuttgart/Berlin/Köln, W. Kohlhammer: 268–284. Vachta, T. 2016. Bronzezeitliche Hortfunde und ihre Fundorte in Böhmen. Berlin, Excellence Cluster 264 TOPOI. Wentink, K. 2006. Ceci n’est pas une hache. Neolithic Depositions in the Northern Netherlands. Leiden, Sidestone Press. Worsaae, J. J. A. 1866. Om nogle mosefund fra Broncealder. Aarbøger: 313–326.

edited by A. Gibson. Enclosing the Neolithic. Oxford, British Archaeological Reports Oxford Ltd: 109–123. Müller, S. 1886. Votivfund fra Sten- og Bronzealderen. Aarbøger: 216–308. Müller, J. 2011. Megaliths and Funnel Beakers: Societies in Change 4100–2700 BC. Amsterdam, Stichting Nederlands Museum voor Anthropologie en Praehistorie. Müller, J. 2017. Großsteingräber, Grabenwerke, Langhügel. Frühe Monumentalbauten Mitteleuropas. Archäologie in Deutschland. Sonderheft 11/2017. Müller, M. in prep. Die Deponierungen der Trichterbecherkultur. (Doctoral thesis Free University Berlin, in preparation). Nielsen, P. O. 1977. Die Flintbeile der frühen Trichterbecherkultur in Dänemark. Acta Archaeologica 48: 62–138. Nielsen, P. O. 2004. Causewayed camps, palisade enclosures and central settlements of the Middle Neolithic in Denmark. Journal of Nordic Archaeological Science 14: 19–33.

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Memories Created, Memories Altered: The Case of Kakucs-Turján Household and Pottery Robert Staniuk

Christian-Albrechts-University, Kiel [email protected]

Introduction This paper addresses the implications of applying cultural memory theory for the communities inhabiting the Danube-Tisza Interfluve in the first half of the second millennium BC. It is argued that a theoretical framework focused on the historicity of communities living in the past provides an explanatory model for the numerous markers of continuity recorded in the Hungarian Middle Bronze Age. Instead of interpreting changes in the archaeological record as indicators of population change, as in the persistent culture-historical framework, the proposed framework acknowledges change as a constant part of any community and pursues meaningful practices which countermeasure change. As such it provides a means to approach the archaeological record from an emic perspective.1 An examination of the current state of research is considered the initial step towards identification of problems which can be addressed by the proposed theoretical platform. As such, the first part of this paper serves as a background to the inquiry by examining commonly accepted views on the Middle Bronze Age communities in the Hungarian part of the Carpathian Basin. The second part discusses cultural memory studies, their primary focus, and basic analytical concepts which will be applied for the following study. Discussing the principles of the sociological sub-discipline is necessary for the proper definition of what cultural memory is and its applicability for the archaeological record. The third section examines the significance of applying the concepts of communicative memory and the memory of things in the context of an on-going archaeological project. Their usefulness is examined on the basis of the stratigraphic sequence and traits recognised in the material culture. The final section summarises the result of the present inquiry and discusses the possible implications for the communities inhabiting the Carpathian Basin in the 1 

Bourdieu 2007.

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 71–81

second millennium BC in order to overcome cultural boundaries established on the basis of culture-historical paradigm. The Carpathian Basin in the Middle Bronze Age – landscape of the present Present-day Hungary in the first half of the second millennium BC (Figure 1) was a diverse landscape characterised by the presence of distinct ceramic styles.2 The spatio-temporal dynamics of their components is generally accepted based on sequences developed using funerary materials.3 The correspondence of pottery stylistics and funeral rites remains an argument behind attributing pottery styles to groups of real people,4 a problematic claim when considering settlements. Settlements are attributed cultural affinity based on two factors: their positioning within the style-defined cultural boundaries and ceramics found in particular archaeological layers. The overlapping of styles and their changes show that the clear cultural boundaries identified on the basis of the funerary materials were non-existent in the settlement context, thus making it necessary to explain the basis for their cultural affiliation rather than simply assigning it based on the ceramic distribution. There are several additional specific obstacles to this distribution-based method, the three major ones being: 1) settlements – investigative vs interpretative approach; 2) investigating long-term patterns vs short-term patterns; 3) cultural change and stylistic change. Firstly, settlements, especially the tell settlements and/or multi-layered settlements of the first half of the second millennium BC are primarily identified on the basis of their monumentality, usually a result of long uninterrupted habitation. Such habitation was to become a widespread phenomenon in the Early Bronze Age 35 and is associated with the communities of the Nagyrév and Hatvan cultures.6 However, the Fischl et al. 2013: 357 Fig. 2. E.g. Bóna 1963; 1975; Thomas 2008; Vicze 2011; Kiss 2012. Sørensen and Rebay-Salisbury 2008. 5  Hungarian periodisation scheme – cf. Fischl et al. 2015; Marková and Ilon 2013. 6  Bóna 1992a. 2  3  4 

Robert Staniuk

Figure 1. Distribution of Middle Bronze Age pottery styles in the central part of the Carpathian Basin (after: Fischl et al., 2013, p. 357, Figure 2).

presently encountered monumentality is not a result of planned and organised habitation connected with the site origins but rather a consequence of longterm habitation.7 Despite this, the existing narratives emphasise the significance of the largest tell sites as seats of power or regional centres,8 which served as means of connecting the particular areas of Europe into a so-called ‘prehistoric globalization’.9 Due to the absence of settlement studies which would identify the histories of particular sites and the social processes behind their formation, their significance in regional and interregional networks remains enigmatic.

Thirdly, while the transition from the Early to Middle Bronze Age is associated with pottery change in funeral assemblages,11 further evidence of this transition remains elusive. The presence of a cultural change between Early and Middle Bronze Age is characterised by some persistent traits – occupation of previously established sites, continuity of burial grounds, reoccurrence of stylistic traits–which are markers of continuity.12 A change is observable in the decreasing settlement network between Early Bronze Age 3 and Middle Bronze Age 1, the substitution of stylistic differences by a single uniform style and, finally, the disintegration of several archaeological cultures.13 The ambiguity of equating cultural change with stylistic change is best illustrated by the fact that, on the one hand stylistic change is used for marking population changes in the Bronze Age, while in the context of tell-sites it is considered merely a change in cultural affiliation of the settlement.14

Secondly, within settlement contexts the pottery material used for such investigations is attributed to general structures – long duration habitation phases represented by large layer thickness found in, e.g. Tószeg-Laposhalom or Baracs-Földvár.10 While such layers are sufficient for general patterns and broad chronological categories, their usefulness for precise determinations and identification of events is questionable. Due to the dynamics of settlement practices, which constantly undergo modification, the overall archaeological record is rarely preserved in an undisturbed fashion.

The aforementioned obstacles limit the possibilities of investigating large-scale social processes behind the formation, sustenance and collapse of Middle Bronze Age communities in the Carpathian Basin. However, the stratigraphic data reflecting the continuous use of sites

Kienlin, Fischl and Marta 2017: 119. Kristiansen and Larsson 2005; Earle and Kristiansen 2010a. 9  Vandkilde 2016. 10  Bóna 1992c; Vicze 1992.

Vicze 2011. Bóna 1975; Kreiter 2007b, 29; Vicze 2011. 13  Fischl et al. 2015, Fig. 1; Gogâltan 2017, Map 5-6. 14  E.g. Bóna 1992a, Fig. 16–17.

7 

11 

8 

12 

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Memories Created, Memories Altered: The Case of Kakucs-Turján Household and Pottery

Figure 2. Selected Middle Bronze Age sites with reported features of the Nagyrév culture in Central Hungary (after: Bóna, 1992a, 1992b, 1992c; Bóna and Nováki, 1982; Csányi and Stanczik, 1992; Kreiter, 2007, p. 17; Poroszlai, 1992, 2000; Vicze, 1992).

The connective structure formed between memory, identity, and continuity is a cultural phenomenon existing on a social and temporal level.19 It provides actors with a common area of experience, expectation, and action whose connecting force provides them with trust and with orientation. This connective structure ultimately underlies the collective experience of ‘we’, actively shaping it by incorporating common knowledge, providing individuals with framework for action in the present and the future.20

allows tracing the histories of particular communities and the practices involved in their everyday lives. Identification of practices, their temporality, and changes in the uninterrupted transmission of cultural patterns provides a means of investigating the history of particular communities. The concept of cultural memory considered as a unified experience to which every actor can relate15 is one way of addressing the subject. Cultural memory and its archaeological implications

The apparent uniformity of the constituents of the collective memory is an outcome of a persisting mind-set of actors supported by means of socially and culturally maintained practices requiring repetition; an outcome of structured socialisation rather than the consistent quality of the phenomenon.21 In other words, it is rather the appearance of stability which is encountered rather than actual persistence. Disturbances in an individual life-span affect the cultural memory by means of constant confrontation and comparison, most of the time encountered through the so-called communicative memory which will be elaborated on below.22 The lack of a point of reference for the actor or the absence

Memories of an individual are neither exclusively singular nor existing outside of a historically developed order.16 Whether related to the life or development stages of an individual, one always confronts recollections of the past with the experience of others, or rather their recollections, thus re-affirming particularity or encountering contradictions.17 The presence of the latter and overcoming its implications for constructing the social is an essential property of cultural memory or the constitution of a unified experience relatable for every actor, although not mirroring individual experiences.18 Halbwachs 1992. Connerton 1989: 2–3; Assmann 2008: 109. 17  Halbwachs 1992; Assmann 1995: 125. 18  Assmann 2011.

Assmann 2011: 2. Assmann 2011: 2–3. 21  Halbwachs 1992: 155 ff. 22  Assmann 1995: 126–127.

15 

19 

16 

20 

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Robert Staniuk of such within the existing structure of knowledge can result in an individual re-constitution of what constitutes a particular memory. The entire structure of knowledge can be affected by such re-formulation. Whether that occurs, i.e. an individual interpretation becomes accepted and widespread or rejected is a complex issue, largely affected by the overall capacity to reconstruct the cultural memory in order to address the contemporary frame of reference23 as much as the individual’s capability of gaining support.24

concerned with on-going evaluation of the events taking place due to the presence of witnesses and participants.32 Memory of things exists within cultural and communicative memory since it constitutes the material reality of actors which through sheer existence, interaction with and production of objects establish their identities and their expressions.33 In this instance, the emphasis is made on how the outlined aspects of material reality are recalled and whether this recollection remains essential for actors and the practices they are involved in. Since the temporality of things remains the primary research objectives of archaeology,34 the memory of things is arguably the most archaeologically useful way of developing the discussion on dimensions of cultural memory.

The four areas of conditions imposed by society and cultural contexts are: mimetic memory, the memory of things, communicative memory and cultural memory.25 Apart from cultural memory, which serves as an allencompassing aspect associated with the handing down of meaning, the first three represent various levels of social interaction with human actors and material culture alike. As such, cultural memory as the handing down of meaning, becomes a final process providing common reference for individuals acting within a complex network of relationships encompassing ontological boundaries (gender, age, social class, etc.).

Tracing both the memory of things and communicative memory provides the means of investigating the longterm sustainability of cultural continuity characterising Central Hungary in the second millennium BC. Instead of focusing on the form of institutionalised structures of power, as is often the case for the communities of the Carpathian Basin,35 memory of things and communicative memory provide insight into the structuration dynamics of everyday practices. It is in this particular social milieu that the institutions of power, exchange, and interaction were intertwined affecting overall patterns of action of individuals and the formation and maintenance of group identity. The formation of cultural memory might be considered one of many means of preserving the community in moments of conflict.

From an archaeological perspective Assmann’s memory of things and communicative memory seem to be concepts which, if not already present in mainstream discussions, were inexplicitly addressed in studies of exchange and trade, especially within the modern framework of contextualisation.26 Communicative memory is connected with the recent past and is directly related to generational memory and the life cycle of the individual.27 Although originally introduced as collective memory by Halbwachs as a social framework of memory constitution which generates a common area of experience by means of interaction,28 it has been reinterpreted into the framework of cultural memory as communicative memory by Assmann primarily due its dialectic and informal character.29 With the initial focus on interaction in the present tense it intentionally excluded the structures of tradition, transmission, and transference – key institutions behind the modern cultural memory.30 Contrary to cultural memory, communicative memory is a non-institutionalised, non-formalized phenomenon generating unstable contents, since it is primarily reenacted via non-specialized communication.31 As such it can be characterized by content focusing on the individual experience, favouring informal discourse

Kakucs-Turján36 – Middle Bronze Age case study Kakucs-Turján (Figure 3) is the subject of an interdisciplinary research project aimed at studying relations between Middle Bronze Age communities in the Carpathian Basin.37 Contrary to the on-going excavations of the Bronze Age Százhalombatta-Földvár tell,38 the aim was to study those relations in a milieu which was not directly affected by relations established in the past. The Kakucs microregion is located between the left bank of the Danube south of Budapest, limited by the limits of Dömsöd to the South and the midway between the towns Kakucs and Gyál.39 With the Assmann 2011: 41. Assmann 2011: 6. Sørensen 2015: 92–93. 35  Kristiansen and Larsson 2005: 120–127; Earle et al. 2011. 36  While the official site name in Hungarian is Kakucs-Turján mögött, throughout the Kakucs Archaeological Expedition and the subsequent publications,the site name was reduced to Kakucs-Turján. 37  Jaeger, Kulcsár, et al. 2018. 38  Poroszlai 2000b. 39  Szeverényi and Kulcsár 2012: 322. 32 

Assmann 1995: 130 24  Weber 1978: 1121–1122. 25  Assmann 2011: 5–7. 26  E.g. Maran 2012. 27  Assmann 2011: 36. 28  Halbwachs 1992. 29  Assmann 2011: 31. 30  Assmann 2008: 110. 31  Assmann 2008: 111; 2011: 40. 23 

33  34 

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Memories Created, Memories Altered: The Case of Kakucs-Turján Household and Pottery

Figure 3. Kakucs-Turján: geophysical imagery of the site with the location of trenches (after: Jaeger, M., Kirleis, W., et al. 2018, 16, Figure 2).

archaeological record of the area comprising of several known settlements and cemeteries it represented a counter-point for investigations of large tell-sites located in the Mézőföld.40 From a culture-historical perspective, the area was definitely inhabited during the Early Bronze Age as proven by the reported burial rite and ceramics found on the cemetery in ÚjhartyánVatya-Puszta (presently: Újlengyel),41 while direct evidence of established Early Bronze Age settlements was found in Kakucs-Balla-domb.42 Prior works in the area of the Kakucs-Turján have suggested that the earliest activities in the area can be related to the Early Bronze Age Makó-Kosihy-Čaka finds.43 However, during excavations it became clear that what was to be a Middle Bronze Age fortified settlement founded in a previously uninhabited landscape was actually a fortified multi-layered settlement. The site biography was narrowed down to 11 phases corresponding to the entire sequence of the Hungarian Early and Middle Bronze Age and an additional phase corresponding to the Migration period.44

habitation practices.45 Changes were mostly associated with household construction, use, and collapse, followed by infilling of the abandoned structures. While none of these four stages of house biography are unusual for the Carpathian Basin,46 recognition of such structures in a previously unknown area provides a possibility of tracing re-enactment of practices in a new environment.47 Application of the framework of cultural memory allows identification of the dynamics of everyday practices in the Middle Bronze Age. Due to the on-going stage of research, three aspects were selected for this particular study. Memory of things or memory of the group – the households The biography of housing space in Middle Bronze Age Kakucs-Turján can be summarised as construction, use, abandonment, destruction, and infilling by turning the remains into a garbage heap, eventually leading to levelling and the construction of a new house.48 The two recorded cases of houses erected upon each other in Kakucs-Turján could represent a regularity. From a comparative perspective, the site formation processes reported from Százhalombatta-Földvár, until recently, did not accentuate the significance of the infilling periods for the habitation.49 Perhaps the

The shift in the original time-span of the settlement allowed investigating the formation of the site and social changes by tracing continuity and discontinuity of Earle and Kristiansen 2010b; Szeverényi and Kulcsár 2012: 322. Bóna 1975: 28, 30. 32 Fig. 2-4. Pl. 29; 30; 4-5, 7-11; 31; 1-3, 5-9, 11, 1314; Pl. 32-36; Szeverényi and Kulcsár 2012: 328. 42  Jaeger and Kulcsár 2013: 300. 43  Kulcsár 2011: 199. 44  Jaeger, Staniuk et al. 2018: 98, Table 1. 40 

Jaeger, Staniuk, et al. 2018. Cf. Vicze 2013. 47  Sørensen 2010, Table 5.3. 48  Jaeger et al. 2018. 49  e.g. Sørensen 2010. A recent presentation of a shift in a research 45 

41 

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Robert Staniuk epistemological difference in Kakucs-Turján, where the infilling phases were recognized as constitutive for the social practices from the earliest stage of excavations, can be associated with a difference in the geological and geographical setting of the site and was closely related to the habitation practices.50 Regardless of cross-site differences, examination of the social implications of such a breakage in habitation provides two significant observations: 1) development of a waste disposal system which allowed the deposition of refuse within the inhabited zone, and 2) presence of a frequent situation when a group of people inhabiting the household were left without a living space.

Figure 4. Example of tokens found in Kakucs-Turján (after: Staniuk 2018, 152, Figure 22).

house inventories can be observed. For now, suffice to say that in this particular case household biography might provide a starting point for investigation of a system encouraging connections and maintenance of a connective structure in the Middle Bronze Age Hungary. However, memory of things extends beyond spatially recognized events and can be also encountered directly in the material culture used in daily life.

Whether households are associated with family groups51 or are considered as a representation of individuals who sustain themselves as groups,52 such a break in habitation is fundamentally important as it would require the involvement of the larger community to provide living space and subsistence for the displaced individuals. From the stratigraphic perspective, the second household was constructed above the previous one; but in between these phases the area was used for waste disposal.53 The repetition of the pattern can signify the importance of this particular sequence.

Memory of things – recycling of pottery While recycling is widely acknowledged as a Bronze Age practice related to the circulation of metal, in particular bronze since it is recognised as a precious resource,57 recent research has suggested the practice was a much wider phenomenon. While recycling of metals is considered as means of a continuous use of a scarce material, recycling of ceramics is studied via the medium of creativity and material manipulation associated with ritualised practices.58

House abandonment and temporary discontinuity in space maintenance, which required inclusion of people into different households could be considered as a form of maintaining and structuring social ties extending beyond the household group and therefore contributing to the accumulation of social capital.54 Such an interpretation emphasising the significance of maintaining local connections requires an actor, and kinship groups are a likely candidate for the constitution of communities inhabiting the Carpathian Basin. Presence and significance of such structures is supported by research on the transmission of technological innovations in the Late Copper Age and Early Bronze Age55 and the confirmation of systems not characterised by increasing inequality.56

The ceramic assemblage recovered during excavations represents all development stages of the Vatya style with confirmed presence of so-called ‘imported’ wares from all major entities of the Carpathian Basin.59 However, the emphasis here is on three selected aspects of the recovered material which are connected by the practice of recycling.60

Whether such a system definitely existed requires the collection of further information, e.g. the temporality of waste disposal – how long was the house area used as a garbage dump? – and whether continuities between

Recycling of ceramics was confirmed in Kakucs-Turján by the presence of so-called ‘tokens’ (Figure 4) – small, round objects made of broken-down ceramics with chipped and abraded edges,61 spindle whorls,62 and in the ceramic technology itself.

perspective was delivered at the 24th EAA Annual Meeting in Barcelona by Sofaer Joanna, Sørensen, Marie Louise and Vicze, Magdolna ‘The messiness of everyday life. Reflections on site formation processes at the Bronze Age tell of Százhalombatta-Földvár, Hungary’ at session 429 ‘Current Approaches to tells and tell-like sites in the prehistoric old world’, organized by Blanco-González, Antonio and Kienlin, Tobias L. 50  Niebieszczański et al. 2018. 51  Yanagisako 1979. 52  Giddens 2009: 1121. 53  Jaeger, Staniuk, et al. 2018a, 102, Fig. 8, 106, Fig. 14, 111, Fig. 22. 54  Sztompka 2016. 55  Kienlin 2010. 56  Duffy 2014.

Tokens found in Kakucs-Turján are a typologically consistent group produced mainly out of large sherds belonging to the body of cooking pots or large storage vessels; tokens made out of broken cups were also Kuijpers 2008: 22–23; e.g. Delfino 2014. Kreiter 2007b, 241–247; Sofaer 2015: 56. Staniuk 2018. 60  Sofaer 2015: 40–56. 61  Michelaki 2008, Fig. 6b; Sofaer 2015: 49; Staniuk 2018: 152. 62  Staniuk 2018: 150. 57  58  59 

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Figure 5. Kakucs-Turján: tokens grouped by thickness with frequencies of diameter groups [n=17].

recorded. The typological diversity of the vessels used for token production is reflected in the surface of tokens, which varies between decorated and undecorated.63 In the case of Kakucs-Turján there seems to have been a preference towards decorated surfaces, as evidenced by the persistent presence of incised decoration. As these decorations can be observed to not conform to the edge-boundaries of the tokens, they were not secondarily added to affect value but instead highlight structuring of the recycling practice as it seems that decorated sherds of large vessels were actually sought for in rubbish heaps. No tokens made out of stylistically non-local pottery were recorded. Their function is not clear. The finds studied were all found inside rubbish layers, possibly indicating that the sizes recorded indicate when they were no longer considered useful.

on a household level. Identically to the token finds, no re-used non-local ceramic objects were found. Lastly, recycling is the constitutive component of the ceramic economy in both Early and Middle Bronze Age Hungary, where it serves as the primary nonplastic inclusion in temper.65 The archaeometric study of urn-shaped and squashed-shaped vessels provided evidence that these vessels were produced using grogbased technology in spite of the fact that the amounts added to the clay were not sufficient to affect the physical properties of the vessels.66 More importantly, the analysed thin sections display a phenomenon deemed as ‘generations’ of grog – an instance in which potters producing wares would re-use fragments of pots developed in their workshops.67 The ceramic technology used in the Carpathian Basin furthermore shows little variability between the majority of distinct Bronze Age ceramic styles, at least when considering those applied to these two broad categories of vessel types.68

Spindle whorls are a much more diverse set of finds with a clearly defined function – textile manufacturing. However, contrary to tokens which were completely made out of re-used sherds, the spindle whorl assemblage can be divided into two types: originally designed spindle whorls and re-used sherds made into spindle whorls. Similar patterns types were recognised on the tell settlement of SzázhalombattaFöldvár.64 Spindle whorls form a more diverse group of finds also due to a larger size set (Figure 6). The distribution of ranges and their relationship seems to be affected by whether the spindle whorls were made of sherds or formed as spindle whorls from the beginning. This might indicate that the presence of two identified spindle whorl sets is the result of two types of production, aimed at developing different products 63  64 

These three observations related to ceramic technology in the second millennium BC have significant social implications. Such uniformity despite the passage of time requires a mode of transmission. Shifting away from the technological transmission, from a settlement archaeology perspective it is interesting to consider the waste economy which allowed the emergence and persistence of the ‘generations’ of grog phenomenon. Potters had to either intentionally collect remains of Kreiter 2007b; Kreiter et al. 2007. Kreiter 2007b: 241–242. 67  Kreiter 2007b: 242. 68  Kreiter 2007: 241, Table 20. 65  66 

Staniuk 2018: 150. Bergerbrant 2018.

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Robert Staniuk

Figure 6. Kakucs-Turján: distribution of spindle whorl types by diameter range [n=24].

their pots, store unsuccessfully fired vessels for future production or, most likely, both. What is supported by the evidence from Kakucs-Turján is that waste disposal areas could have served as the source of the tempering material, especially due to the abundance of ceramic fragments. More importantly, it is confirmed that change in the technological style can be correlated to the end of the Middle Bronze Age and the emergence of the so-called Tumulus culture in the Late Bronze Age with its distinct clay mixtures (lack of grog) and different standards in pottery manufacturing.69

Figure 7. Kakucs-Turján: example of temper groups and inclusion size of token finds [n=17].

By returning to the previously discussed tokens, this time as indicators of ceramic technology of vessels, it is possible to show that the ceramic technology of Kakucs-Turján was based on grog (Figure 7). The presence of quartz seems to be a natural property of the local clays, while gravel and shells indicate imperfect preparation of clay. Although a detailed study of the technological development of pottery will be addressed separately, the uniformity of ceramic technology present in the aforementioned group of tokens shows that the practice of adding grog to the clay mixture corresponds to the general patterns observable throughout the Bronze Age network.70 The time-depth and technological consistency suggests an institutionalised means of its cultivation since the Early Bronze Age 1, when it is identified among the MakóKosihy-Čaka and Somogyvár-Vinkovci complexes.71 Ceramics related to the former style were identified

in Kakucs-Turján mögött and the persistence of grog inclusions was confirmed by macroscopic observation. Perhaps this archaeological homogeneity is related to a high level of internal mobility and is an outcome of maintaining tight connection between the communities inhabiting the Carpathian Basin. A distinction between correspondence and non-correspondence systems was recently proposed as an explanatory model behind homogeneity and heterogeneity of the socio-spatial organisation of prehistoric communities.72 Rather than a binary opposition, they represent the far ends of a spectrum for the consideration of translocal social groups and the persistence (or absence) of geographically and culturally considered non-local relations.73 In this particular case, homogeneity is an outcome of favouring

Kreiter 2007: 241, Table 20. Kreiter 2007. 71  Kreiter 2007. 69  70 

72  73 

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Furholt 2017. Furholt 2017: 6.

Memories Created, Memories Altered: The Case of Kakucs-Turján Household and Pottery

the already familiar settlement communities.74 Technological homogeneity would be an argument for persistence of contacts within the Carpathian Basin and the durability of local transmission of knowledge and practices and crossing the boundaries between memory of things and communicative memory.

communities inhabiting the Carpathian Basin in the second millennium BC due to their existence in an already established social order, rather than a tabula rasa. As such it allows the overcoming of the temporal boundaries developed archaeologically in order to assign material culture to particular cultural units by encouraging investigation of long-term transmission of patterns embedded in daily practices. Instead of pursuing differences in order to explain cultural change, it allows consideration of well-established social structures capable of withstanding moments of change.

Kakucs-Turján household and pottery: memories created, memories altered Construction of memories in Kakucs-Turján can be examined by tracing house biographies and ceramic production. Whether associated with the construction of house structures or procurement of specific material culture, the community inhabiting the settlement was persistently making use of on the material culture of the past.

Acknowledgements The author would like to express his gratitude to Prof Martin Furholt and Dr Mateusz Jaeger for their insightful comments and advice when writing the paper, as well as to Sarah Martini for the proof-reading and language correction. I would also like to thank Dr Gabriella Kulcsár, who reviewed the paper and the vital corrections she suggested.

Concerning houses, the investigated area was re-used for housing purposes after periods where the same area was used for waste disposal. Repetition of this exact pattern in the local context suggests the presence of a ritualised practice, a distinctive feature when compared with other settlements. Its implications for the transmission of cultural behaviour lie in the histories of inhabitants of the settlements. If people living inside the house were to abandon it and the house was not re-built immediately – were they incorporated into other households? The social implications of this practice require a detailed study which would consider the spatial development of the settlement.

The research is funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG) through Graduate School ‘Human Development in Landscapes’, Kiel University [Grant name GSC608]. Bibliography: Assmann, J. 1995. Collective Memory and Cultural Identity. New German Critique 65: 125–133. Assmann, J. 2008. Communicative and Cultural Memory. Cultural Memory Studies. An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook, edited by in A. Erll and A. Nünning. Berlin/New York, de Gruyter: 109–118. Assmann, J. 2011. Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance, and Political Imagination. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Bergerbrant, S. 2018. Creativity and Spindle Whorls at the Bronze Age Tell of Százhalombatta-Földvár, Hungary. Creativity in the Bronze Age Understanding Innovation in Pottery, Textile, and Metalwork Production, edited by L. Bender Jørgensen, J. Sofaer and M. L. S. Sørensen. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 91–98. Bóna, I. 1963. The cemeteries of the Nagyrév culture, Alba Regia 2–3: 11–23. Bóna, I. 1975. Die mittlere Bronzezeit Ungarns und ihre südöstlichen Beziehungen, Budapest, Akadémiai Kiadó. Bóna, I. 1992a. Bronzezeitliche Tell-Kulturen in Ungarn. Bronzezeit in Ungarn: Forschungen in Tell-Siedlungen an Donau und Theiss, edited by W. Meier-Arendt. Frankfurt am Main, Stadt Frankfurt am Main: 9–41. Bóna, I. 1992b. Dunapentele-Dunaújváros-Koziderpdlás. Bronzezeit in Ungarn: Forschungen in Tell-Siedlungen

Examination of material culture provides further ground for recognising the significance of the past for the community of Kakucs-Turján. Typologically, certain forms are exclusively made out of objects destroyed in the past, while technologically the entire ceramic inventory is based on grog. While it would seem plausible that broken ceramic were immediately re-used as ladles or spoons during everyday life, the persisting practice of using grog suggests continuous collection of broken material. This widespread phenomenon shows over-arching similarities across the entire Carpathian Basin, possibly due to widespread exchange networks in the Middle Bronze Age as recently proven by network analysis.75 What remains to be discovered are the origins of this systems, and how well it follows up on the one from the Early Bronze Age. The highlighted potential of applying the framework of cultural memory studies lies in its exploratory possibilities for assessing the local biographies due the affirmation of the significance of past actions for the constitution of the present reality. The proposed notion of historicity is an important factor for studying 74  75 

Furholt 2017. Przybyła 2016.

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Robert Staniuk an Donau und Theiss, edited by W. Meier-Arendt. Frankfurt am Main, Stadt Frankfurt am Main: 149– 152. Bóna, I. 1992c. Tószeg-Laposhalom. Bronzezeit in Ungarn: Forschungen in Tell-Siedlungen an Donau und Theiss, edited by W. Meier-Arendt. Frankfurt am Main, Stadt Frankfurt am Main: 101–114. Bóna, I. and Nováki, G. 1982. Alpár bronzkori és Árpád-kori vára / Alpár. Eine bronzezetiliche und mittelalterliche Burg. Cumania 7: 17–118. Bourdieu, P. 2007. Szkic teorii praktyki poprzedzony trzema studiami na temat etnologii Kabylów. Kęty, Wydawnictwo Marek Derewiecki. Connerton, P. 1989. How societies remember. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Csányi, M. and Stanczik, I. 1992. Tiszaug-Kéménytető. Bronzezeit in Ungarn: Forschungen in Tell-Siedlungen an Donau und Theiss, edited by W. Meier-Arendt. Frankfurt am Main, Stadt Frankfurt am Main: 115– 119. Delfino, D. 2014. Bronze recycling during the Bronze Age: some consideration about two metallurgical regions. Antrope, 1(December): 121–143. Duffy, P. R. 2014. Complexity and Autonomy in Bronze Age Europe : Assessing Cultural Developments in Eastern Hungary. Budapest, Archaeolingua. Earle, T., Kreiter, A., Klehm, C., Ferguson, J. and Vicze, M. 2011. Bronze Age Ceramic Economy: The Benta Valley, Hungary. European Journal of Archaeology 14(3): 419–440. Earle, T. and Kristiansen, K. 2010a. Introduction: Theory and Practice in the Late Prehistory of Europe. Organizing Bronze Age Societies. The Mediterranean, Central Europe, and Scandinavia Compared, edited by T. Earle and K. Kristiansen. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 1–33. Earle, T. and Kristiansen, K. 2010b. Organizing Bronze Age Societies: The Mediterranean, Central Europe and Scandinavia Compared. New York, Cambridge University Press. Fischl, K. P., Kiss, V., Kulcsár, G. and Szeverényi, V. 2013. Transformations in the Carpathian Basin around 1600 B.C. 1600 – Kultureller Umbruch im Schatten des Thera-Ausbruchs? 4. Mitteldeutscher Archäologentag vom 14. bis 16. Oktober 2011 in Halle (Saale) / 1600 – cultural change in the shadow of the Thera-Eruption? 4th Archaeological Conference of Central Germany, edited by H. Meller, F. Bertemes, H.-R. Bork, and R. Risch. Halle (Saale), Landesamt für Denkmalpflege und Archäologie Sachsen-Anhalt: 355–371. Fischl, K. P., Kiss, V., Kulcsár, G. and Szeverényi, V. 2015. Old and new narratives for Hungary around 2200 BC. 2200 BC – Ein Klimasturz als Ursache für den Zerfall der Alten Welt? 7. Mitteldeutscher Archäologentag vom 23. bis 26. Oktober 2014 in Halle (Saale) / 2200 BC – A climatic breakdown as a cause for the collapse of the old world? 7th Archaeological Conference, edited by H. Meller, H. W. Arz, R. Jung, and R. Risch. Halle (Saale),

Landesamt für Denkmalpflege und Archäologie Sachsen-Anhalt: 503–523. Furholt, M. 2017. Translocal Communities - Exploring Mobility and Migration in Sedentary Societies of the European Neolithic and Early Bronze Age. Prahistorische Zeitschrift 92(2): 304–321. Giddens, A. 2009. Sociology. 6th edn. Cambridge, Polity Press. Gogâltan, F. 2017. ‘The Bronze Age Multilayered Settlements in the Carpathian Basin (ca. 25001600/1500 BC). An old catalogue and some chronological problems. Journal of Ancient History and Archaeology, 4(3): 28–55. Halbwachs, M. 1992. On collective memory. Chicago, The University of Chicago Press. Jaeger, M. and Kulcsár, G. 2013. ‘Kakucs-Balla-domb. A case study in the absolute and relative chronology of the Vatya culture’. Acta Archaeologica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 64(2): 289–320. Jaeger, M., Kulcsár, G., Taylor, N. and Staniuk, R. 2018. Kakucs-Turján: a Middle Bronze Age multi-layered fortified settlement in Central Hungary. Bonn, Dr Rudolf Habelt GmbH. Jaeger, M., Staniuk, R., Müller, J., Kulcsár, G. and Taylor, N. 2018. History of Bronze Age Habitation. KakucsTurján: a Middle Bronze Age multi-layered fortified settlement in Central Hungary, edited by M. Jaeger, G. Kulcsár, N. Taylor and R. Staniuk. Bonn, Dr Rudolf Habelt GmbH: 97–118. Kienlin, T. L. 2010. Traditions and Transformations : Approaches to Eneolithic (Copper Age) and Bronze Age Metalworking and Society in Eastern Central Europe and the Carpathian Basin. Oxford, Archaeopress. Kienlin, T. L., Fischl, K. P. and Marta, L. 2017. Exploring Divergent Trajectories in Bronze Age Landscapes: Tell Settlement in the Hungarian Borsod Plain and the Romanian Ier Valley. Ziridava Studia Archaeologica 31: 93–128. Kiss, V. 2012. Middle Bronze Age Encrusted Pottery in Western Hungary. Budapest, Archaeolingua. Kreiter, A. 2007. Technological choices and material meanings in Early and Middle Bronze Age Hungary: understanding the active role of material culture through ceramic analysis. Oxford, Archaeopress. Kreiter, A., Bajnóczi, B., Sipos, P., Szakmány, G. and Tóth, M. 2007. Archeometric Examination of Early and Middle Bronze Age Ceramics from SzázhalombattaFöldvár, Hungary. Archeometriai Műhely 2: 33–47. Kristiansen, K. and Larsson, T. B. 2005. The Rise of the Bronze Age Society. Travels, Transmissions and Transformations. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kuijpers, M. H. G. 2008. Bronze Age Metalworking in the Netherlands (c. 2000-800 BC). A research into the preservation of metallurgy related artefacts and the social position of the smith. Leiden, Sidestone Press. Kulcsár, G. 2011. Untangling the Early Bronze Age in the Middle Danube Valley. Ten Thousand Years Along 80

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the Danube, edited by G. Kovacs and G. Kulcsár, G. Budapest, Archaeolingua: 179–210. Maran, J. 2012. One World Is Not Enough : The Transformative Potential of Intercultural Exchange in Prehistoric Societies. Conceptualizing Cultural Hybridization, edited by P. W. Stockhammer. BerlinHeidelberg: Springer Verlag: 59–66. Marková, K. and Ilon, G. 2013. Slovakia and Hungary. The Oxford Handbook of The European Bronze Age, edited by H. Fokkens and A. Harding. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 813–836. Michelaki, K. 2008. Making Pots and Potters in the Bronze Age Maros Villages of Kiszombor-Új-Élet and Klárafalva-Hajdova. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 18(3): 355-380. Niebieszczański, J., Pető, Á., Serlegi, G., HildebrandtRadke, I., Galas, J., Sipos, G., Páll, D. G., Onaca, A., Spychalski, W., Jaeger, M., Kulcsár, G., Taylor, N. and Márkus, G. 2018. Geoarchaeological and non-invasive investigations of the site and its surroundings. Kakucs-Turján a Middle Bronze Age multi-layered fortified settlement in Central Hungary, edited by M. Jaeger, G. Kulcsár, N. Taylor, and R. Staniuk. Bonn, Dr Rudolf Habelt GmbH: 43–71. Poroszlai, I. 1992. Százhalombatta-Földvár. Bronzezeit in Ungarn: Forschungen in Tell-Siedlungen an Donau und Theiss, edited by W. Meier-Arendt. Frankfurt am Main, Stadt Frankfurt am Main: 153–155. Poroszlai, I. 2000a. Die Grabungen in der Tell-Siedlung von Bölcske-Vörösgyűrű (Kom. Tolna)’. Acta Archaeologica Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 51: 111–146. Poroszlai, I. 2000b. Excavation campaigns at the Bronze Age tell site at Százhalombatta-Földvár I. 1989 1991; II. 1991 - 1993’. Százhalombatta Archaeological Expedition SAX Annual Report 1, edited by I. Poroszlai and M. Vicze. Százhalombatta, Matrica Museum: 13–74. Przybyła, M. S. 2016. Middle Bronze Age social networks in the Carpathian Basin. Recherches Archéologiques Nouvelle Serie 8: 47–84. Sofaer, J. 2015. Clay in the Age of Bronze. Essays in the Archaeology of Prehistoric Creativity. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Sørensen, M. L. S. 2010. Households. Organizing Bronze Age Societies. The Mediterranean, Central Europe, and Scandinavia Compared, edited by T. Earle and K. Kristiansen. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 122–154. Sørensen, M. L. S. 2015. ‘Paradigm Lost’ – on the State of Typology Within Archaeological Theory’. Paradigm

Found - Archaeological Theory: Present, Past And Future. Essays in Honour of Evžen Neustupný, edited by K. Kristiansen, L. Šmejda and J. Turek. Oxford and Philadelphia, Oxbow Books: 84–94. Sørensen, M. L. S. and Rebay-Salisbury, K. 2008. Landscapes of the body: burials of the Middle Bronze Age in Hungary. European Journal of Archaeology 11(1): 49–74. Staniuk, R. 2018. Preliminary results of pottery analysis from Kakucs-Turján. Kakucs-Turján a Middle Bronze Age multi-layered fortified settlement in Central Hungary, edited by M. Jaeger, G. Kulcsár, N. Taylor and R. Staniuk. Bonn, Dr Rudolf Habelt GmbH: 137–155. Staniuk, R. 2018. The world within a household - KakucsTurján mögött case study and the interrelatedness of Middle bronze age pottery. Bronze Age Connectivity in the Carpathian Basin. Proceedings of the International Colloquium from Târgu Mureş, 13-15 October 2016, edited by B. Rezi and R. E. Németh. Târgu Mureș, Editura MEGA: 55-73. Szeverényi, V. and Kulcsár, G. 2012. Middle Bronze Age Settlement and Society in Central Hungary. Enclosed Space – Open Society. Contact and Exchange in the Context of Bronze Age Fortified Settlements in Central Europe, edited by M. Jaeger, J. Czebreszuk and K. P. Fischl, K. P. Poznań-Bonn, Bogucki Wydawnictwo: 287–351. Sztompka, P. 2016. Kapitał społeczny. Teoria przestrzeni międzyludzkiej. Kraków, Znak Horyzont. Thomas, M. 2008. Studien zu Chronologie und Totenritual der Otomani-Füzesabony-Kultur. Bonn, Dr Rudolf Habelt GmbH. Vandkilde, H. 2016. Bronzization : The Bronze Age as Pre-Modern Globalization. Prähistorische Zeitschrift 91(1): 103–123. Vicze, M. 1992. Baracs-Földvár. Bronzezeit in Ungarn: Forschungen in Tell-Siedlungen an Donau und Theiss, edited by W. Meier-Arendt. Frankfurt am Main, Stadt Frankfurt am Main: 146–148. Vicze, M. 2011. Bronze Age Cemetery at Dunaújváros-Dunadűlő. Budapest, Eötvös Loránd University. Vicze, M. 2013. Middle Bronze Age Households at Százhalombatta-Földvár. Moments in Time. Papers Presented to Pál Raczky on His 60th Birthday, edited by A. Anders, G. Kulcsár, G. Kalla, V. Kiss, and G. V. Szabó. Budapest, L’Harmattan: 757–769. Weber, M. 1978. Economy and Society. Berkeley, University of California Press. Yanagisako, S. J. 1979. Family and household: the analysis of domestic groups, Annual Review of Anthropology 8: 161–205.

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‘These Battered Hills’: Landscape and Memory at Verdun (France) Paola Filippucci

Murray Edwards College, Cambridge [email protected]

In 1932, at the inauguration of a vast ossuary gathering the remains of unidentified soldiers fallen in the battle of Verdun in 1916, French president Michel Lebrun cast doubt on whether life would ever return to ‘these battered hills,’ referring to a landscape devastated beyond all recognition by a ten-month battle sometimes said to be the most brutal in history, causing the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives and unprecedented destruction through the concentrated use of heavy artillery. A century later, however, the former battlefield is a thriving forest landscape with unusual biodiversity, protected and promoted as the source of new value for this space, a ‘green’ image replacing its darker associations as a space of mass death and destruction. Between these dates is the reconstruction of this upland area with the clearing of ordnance, the levelling of parts of the terrain, the replanting of trees and the recovery and disposal of human remains with the creation of burials, monuments and memorials to the catastrophic violence and mass death that occurred here in 1916. The perimeter of the former battlefield was declared out of bounds for resettlement and farming, enshrining its status as a ‘special’ place in history and memory and over the century since the battle Verdun has become one of Europe’s main lieux de mémoire.1 Particularly for France and Germany it has become a theatre for public acts of reconciliation between the two former enemies that use the memory of the carnage and horror of this battle as the basis for European unity through a shared commitment to peace.2 This chapter focuses on the memorial role of this battlefield to argue that far from a passive backdrop or repository for historical, social and individual memory, as a landscape that was shaped by mass destruction and mass death, it can be considered a memorial agent. The discussion focuses on the materiality of the former battlefield and on how it was impacted by the battle and attended to and curated in its aftermath. It highlights discursive and practical associations made both by immediate survivors and in the 21st century between the landscape of the battlefield and the bodies of the dead and missing, arguing that these associations are not simply metaphorical, but instead display an effort 1  2 

Cf. Prost 2002. See Roy-Prévot 2012; Amat et al. 2015.

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 82–96

to create a metonym for the dead. The reconstruction of the battlefield landscape was a material means of recomposing the brutalised or lost remains of the fallen into ‘bodies’ which could be mourned, helping different constituencies – the nation, families, veterans, posterity – forge a relationship with the fallen. In other words the battlefield landscape was a medium for the ‘regeneration of life’, in Bloch and Parry’s terms,3 a tangible means for restoring continuity and identity after an event in which death seemed to take the upper hand. At Verdun this drew upon the inherent, natural powers of regeneration of the physical milieu, and a century later this is still a relevant factor in how this landscape ‘remembers’ the battle. As a living entity, the landscape created by the monstrous destruction that occurred here in 1916 acts upon the memory of successive generations, as much as being acted on by it. ‘Total’ battle ‘The only victor at Verdun was death.’4 The battle of Verdun in 1916 is widely considered one of the most brutal and destructive in history, marking a quantum leap in the levels of violence inflicted on the human body and battlefield surroundings by new armament technologies developed since the start of the Great War in 1914. In 1916 the ‘dynamic of destruction’ that for historian Alan Kramer5 is at the heart of modern war, came into its own. At Verdun and later in the year, on the Somme, battle was for the first time ‘totalised’ at a military level:6 the vast majority of casualties were as a result of the impact of heavy artillery and the conditions of battle pushed soldiers to the very limit of their moral and physical endurance, as the intensity of carnage left no respite, no time to fulfil elementary physical or mental needs, to collect the wounded, to attend to the dead, let alone dispose of their bodies properly. The intensity of ‘total’ battle can also be measured spatially: for instance at Verdun during the initial bombardment in February 1916 an estimated Bloch and Parry 1982. Gerd Krumeich (n.d.), public lecture, May 2013, Journée de formation sur ‘Verdun et la construction d’une mémoire européenne’, CDDP de la Meuse, Centre Mondial de la Paix, Verdun (France). 5  Kramer 2007. 6  Krumeich et Audoin-Rouzeau 2012: 393. 3  4 

‘These Battered Hills’: Landscape and Memory at Verdun (France)

80,000 shells fell on a single locality during the first day.7 The battle, lasting from February to December 1916 and won by the French (in the sense that they ultimately held Verdun) cost approximately 400,000 human lives according to some estimates.8 As well as staggering in number by contemporary and even later standards, battlefield deaths at Verdun were ‘bad deaths’: violent, sudden, away from home and family, involving suffering and premature as almost all who died were under the age of 40, with the vast majority being much younger.9 In many, if not most cases, through the force of new armaments bodies were brutalised in unprecedented ways: disfigured, shattered and scattered, blown into the air and around, obliterated so completely that by the end of the battle there were thousands and thousands of missing. Because of the concentrated use of heavy artillery, not only bodies were pulverised but so was the land itself, the two substances no longer distinguishable and neither bearing any clear relationship with ‘living’ substances. The fighting at Verdun was relatively dynamic and artillery so intense that trenches were mostly very makeshift and more often than not soldiers sheltered in shell holes; survivors’ accounts and photographs indicate that bodies remained strewn around and sometimes piled up in no man’s land, and sometimes became incorporated into trench walls.

Figure 1. The Ossuary at Douaumont, Verdun battlefield, 2009. Source: Author.

unsettled both figuratively and literally the subject/ object distinction, and this arguably ‘opened new questions’ about life and death.13

Arguably the unprecedented scale, concentration and force of artillery generated a new relationship with the material world on the battlefield. This new materiality was dominated by metals in terms of weapons, ammunitions, tanks and artillery,10 but beyond this the power of new armaments overturned the body’s habitual sensory experience:

Placing the Dead14at Verdun Questions about life and death, and in particularly about the possibility of life after such death, dominated views of the Verdun battlefield in the inter-war period:

‘One’s whole body seemed to be in a mad macabre dance… I felt that if I lifted a finger I should touch a solid ceiling of sound, it now had the attribute of solidity’ (testimony referring to the battle of the Somme).11

‘In truth we are here at the cemetery of France. […] Years and years will pass before nature regains its former smile [ait repris son sourired’antan]. Will it ever regain it, with these rows of white or black crosses that human piety will strive to keep and perpetuate, in the midst of these battered hills […] from which it seems that all life has disappeared.’15

As the living body was forced into a ‘mad macabre dance’, the boundary between life and death was breached metaphorically and also literally as soldiers were not just wounded or killed but their bodies were maimed in grotesque ways, shattered, scattered and often pulverised, completely obliterated, while survivors were physically and mentally traumatised, sank into ‘a sort of death’.12 Bodies were brought into close and penetrating contact with other materials - metals, and also land and soil - and merged into them, disappeared within them. Overall, the weaponry deployed in the war

With these words, in 1932 the French President, Michel Lebrun, inaugurated an Ossuary to hold the remains of the myriad unidentified dead of Verdun (Figure 1). Sponsored by the Bishop of Verdun and funded mainly by relatives and friends of the missing and by veterans, this was a private/civil society initiative and eventually came to contain the remains of some 130,000 individuals16 officially identified

Brown 1999: 64. See Horne 1993: 327-8; Ousby 2003: 5-6. 9  Bloch and Parry 1986: 13; Laqueur 2008. 10  Saunders 2003. 11  Cit. in Davis 2012: 26. 12  Ousby 2003: 66-68.

Harvey and Knox 2014: 4. Bloch 1971. IOD 1932: 55, my translation. 16  Unidentified remains continue to be added when they are discovered within the battlefield perimeter for instance during forestry works.

7 

13 

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Figure 2. The national cemetery of Fleury-sous-Douaumont, Verdun battlefield, 2009. Source: Author.

as French.17 Next to it was a state-funded cemetery with some 16,000 individual graves for identified or partially identified individuals (Figure 2). The two sites are the main repositories for the French dead, apart from a few individual graves scattered across the battlefield; while the German fallen are buried in several smaller cemeteries outside the battlefield perimeter as delimited during reconstruction (19191930).18 It has always been informally understood that the unidentified remains contained within the Ossuary are likely to be part German, but this has not been officially or publicly acknowledged until very recently (see below).

Placement in the cemetery was granted on the basis of the remains being ‘whole’20 and identifiable, attached to a name or a partial name and/or regimental number marked on each cross along with the designation mort pour la France [dead for France], framing these deaths within the sacrificial economy of the nation/state.21 Names also feature in the Ossuary, but they were inscribed at the request of the families of individual missing and do not necessarily correspond to those whose remains are collected inside nor do they give a comprehensive list of them. In the Ossuary the disconnection between bodies and names is also physical, in that names are inscribed on the ceiling of the central gallery, while the bones are held in underground vaults marked by stone caskets. Each vault holds the remains collected in one of 46 named localities or landmarks on the battlefield.22 These names were inscribed on the caskets and were recognisable to veterans and also non-combatants, as they marked well-known episodes or phases of the battle.23 As such they may have offered a means of naming and thus restoring some kind of identity to the missing: indeed this arrangement was explicitly intended to allow those ‘with no tomb to visit’ to kneel in front of a casket and feel ‘close to a little bit of him’, so

The Ossuary and the cemetery were placed in the most fought over section of the battlefield, straddling the point where French forces stopped the enemy advance, fulfilling the practical and symbolic need for the proper disposal of the French war dead in different ways. The ideological connotations were more explicitly religious for the Ossuary (mainly Catholic although the chapel inside it is multi-faith); Republican for the national cemetery, its crosses and other religious symbols19 dominated by a large tricolour flying at its centre. See Sherman 1999; Amat et al. 2015. The only exception are a few hundred German soldiers killed by an explosion in one of the forts and left in situ, their accidental grave marked by a commemorative plaque and, since 2013, by a statue. See Roy-Prévot 2012. 19  Steles with the Crescent Moon symbol for Muslim soldiers (mainly French colonial troops), and stars of David for Jewish soldiers. 17  18 

Cf. Sherman 1999. Cf. Strenski 1997; Stepputat 2014. 22  By 1932 they had run out of space and added two further larger vaults to collect future finds and used up to this day. 23  See Amat 1987: 226. 20  21 

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that ‘the missing soldier is no longer entirely missing’ as one of the Ossuary benefactors put it.24 Caskets stood in for places, places stood in for the missing bodies, and together they assembled a ‘proper’ burial: in this pre-DNA era, places arguably helped to ‘reconstitute the body in order to reclaim the person’,25 by enabling survivors to forge a post-mortem relationship with the dead, centred on a burial. Through naming the missing via places, the Ossuary at once collected them from the battlefield and symbolically placed them back into its landscape, reinforcing its status as an ‘immense cemetery’ and thus, taken as a whole, as a material repository of the dead. This aspect may perhaps have mattered less to those who did have an individual grave to visit in the national cemetery, but the Ossuary made an imposing stone statement about the importance of the battlefield landscape in post-war efforts to care for the dead at Verdun.

Forestry Service (Eaux et Forêts) for forestation31. Conifer plantations began in the early 1920s32 and covered the area apart from the plateau facing the Ossuary, allowed to regenerate spontaneously so as to maximise intervisibility between key monuments and sites.33 The reforestation of the battlefield, though economically sensible, was controversial. Particularly veterans and veteran associations advocated the preservation of the destruction, in memory of the battle and its victims and as an object lesson in the horrors of war, and saw forestation as a way to forget the suffering and sacrifices of combatants.34 For veterans the destroyed battlefield was also an ‘emotional landscape’35 inextricably linked with an experience that most of them would never forget but famously struggled or refused to articulate.36 Contemporary accounts also suggest that the former battlefield was for veterans a means of imaginatively and affectively encountering ‘their’ dead, the comrades with whom and arguably for whom soldiers had fought (rather than for the abstract ‘nation’):37

‘A national park of French remembrance26’ The devastated battlefield posed both practical and symbolic challenges to survivors. The battle in 1916 unfolded on limestone heights to the north of the city of Verdun, that before 1914 were sparsely inhabited, with small villages surrounded by arable fields, orchards and patches of woodland. The battle and renewed fighting in 1917 and 1918 obliterated the villages, while vegetation was wiped out and the very soils were damaged, mineralised or ploughed down to bedrock and heavily polluted by organic and inorganic chemicals from degrading military matériel and human and animal remains.27 Reconstruction began in 1919 with the aim of reclaiming as much land as economically viable for cultivation and settlement;28 however at Verdun the perimeter of the battlefield, around 9500 ha., was deemed too costly to reclaim and expropriated by the state for clearance and limited reclamation, excluding future habitation and cultivation. Seven villages were never reconstructed and decorated as ‘Dead for France’.29 As this designation suggests, the decision not to reconstruct was not purely practical but also responded to the desire to commemorate a battle that for the French had become emblematic of the whole war.30 Around 30% of the area was classed as ‘national heritage’, including military vestiges in the most iconic and contested sites of the battle; the remaining 70% was handed over to the care of the state

‘I went back [to the battlefield] with my heart full of memories of those I saw fall and who were my comrades; I went back as into a church, hardly daring to walk where their blood had been spilled. […] And there, as I climbed, I saw them all again, my former comrades who fell during a night-time attack, the missing, the anonymous dead.’ (BinetValmer n.d., my transl.38). Such perceptions help to explain why for veterans the death of men was inseparable from and required the terminal ‘death’ of the battlefield landscape; however, this land’s ‘return to life’ was forced on veterans and others by the landscape itself. As Amat39 has documented, vegetative regeneration was vigorous even during the war, as ‘ploughing’ of soils by artillery awoke old dormant seed and favoured new pioneer plant species; while fauna such as rats and mice, birds, insects and snails proliferated.40 From an ecological 31  Amat 2015: 438 ff. Trees and saplings were requested from Germany as war reparations but delays in delivery and poor quality eventually led to rely on nationally produced specimens; some ‘German’ specimens were planted and a few survive today (see Amat 2015: 461). 32  This type of tree was chosen for its fast growth and because it discourages undergrowth helping to keep the ground clear, ensuring visibility of and access to vestiges such as trenches. 33  In the interwar years, veteran volunteers were in charge of controlling its regrowth; it was taken over by the National Forestry agency after the war. 34  Amat 2015: 438-441; cf. Prost 1992. 35  Denizot 2008. 36  See e.g. Sherman 1999. 37  Cf. Audoin-Rouzeau 1991. 38  The quote is from a fund-raising publication for the Ossuary, probably dating from the early 1920s, consulted at the Municipal Archives in Verdun. 39  Amat 2015. See also Pearson 2012: 134-137. 40  Amat 2015: 420. An informant who grew up in Verdun in the 1930s remembered that snails picked on the battlefield had been a source of food and petty income for local residents. See also Pearson 2012: 135.

24  Cit. in Sherman 1999: 92. Although Catholic authorities were keen to disclaim that the physical remains could communicate anything but spiritual communion and consolation to mourners (Sherman 1999: 92). 25  Lambert and McDonald 2009: 11. 26  ‘Parc national du Souvenir Français’, cit. in Amat 2015: 441 – see below. 27  See Amat 2015: 417 ff. 28  See Clout 1996. 29  See Filippucci 2010. 30  E.g. Ousby 2002: 6-7.

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Figure 3. ‘Orderly and homogenous plantations’. Verdun forest, 2011. Source: Author.

point of view, military destruction broke linear and cyclical dynamics of ecological succession, ‘diversifying’ the established forest and farm landscape and giving it massive new energy input to regenerate.41 Spontaneous regeneration thus began years before artificial regeneration via plantation was fully implemented, forcing people to respond both practically and symbolically. In particular, it led to rethink the role of ‘nature’ from agent of oblivion to agent of revival and through this, of remembrance.

of fruitful resurrection and faith in the future’ was emphasised.43 ‘Nature’ was presented as the agent ensuring a physically and morally viable future for the former battlefield: creating a forest was an acceptable way to restore life there, in a way that respected and honoured the dead and their sacrifice. In terms of the French state’s need to reconstruct the devastated areas, the inter-war creation of a forest at Verdun made good economic and ecological sense, but the controversies surrounding this policy indicate that emotional and symbolic considerations were paramount for many survivors and shaped their understanding of the landscape that was created. The greening of the battlefield was explicitly and vocally linked with the need to restore ‘life’ in such a way as to take care of the dead – or indeed to restore life without neglecting the dead.44

The symbolism of ‘nature’ as a force of renewal and regeneration in the midst of death and destruction was common in contemporary accounts of the ruins of war, and in the case of Verdun it was deployed to argue that abandoning the former battlefield would lead to uncontrolled regrowth and so to oblivion, while ‘orderly and homogeneous plantations’ would assist memory by keeping the ground clear and accessible (Figure 3). ‘Pilgrims’ would be able to ‘kneel at spots that they recognise’, under a verdant, silent canopy disturbed only by birdsong and by the ‘weeping’ of the wind: nature could be harnessed to ‘show respect’ for the dead by framing and enhancing the majesty of burials and monuments, fostering reflection and meditation as Verdun became ‘an immense sanctuary’ and ‘national park of French remembrance’.42 The symbolism of covering the area with greenery ‘throbbing with life’, ‘the colour of hope’ and ‘evidence 41  42 

Mass death and the regeneration of life In light of the debates about the reforestation of the battlefield, President Lebrun’s depiction of Verdun as a place of terminal death could be heard Cit. in Amat 2015: 441. At the symbolic level, the creation of a forest at this location may also have evoked victory: woodland had been a key aspect of French fortification along the Eastern ‘frontière’ (borderlands) with Germany since the 18th century (see Amat 1987). A forest on the Verdun battlefield could thus allude to the role of the city as an impenetrable barrier or rampart, a theme widely associated with the city as a result of the victory (see Amat, et al. 2015). 43  44 

Amat 2015: 424-430. Cit. in Amat 2015: 441, my translation. See also Pearson 2012: 137.

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as an expression of respect for the fallen and of the commitment to remember them. However, fear that life might not return, expressed by many at the sight of the battlefield45 may also respond to a problem posed to survivors by the mode of death in the Great War. This was overwhelmingly violent, untimely and often leaving no identifiable remains or a known grave: a ‘bad’ death in Bloch and Parry’s terms, making it difficult to lay the deceased to rest so as to ‘regenerate life’.46 As Robert Hertz, himself a victim of the Great War, theorised,47 society’s effort to ‘recover its peace’ after death and ‘triumph over death’ can only occur by passing the deceased ‘from the visible society of the living to the invisible society of the dead’.48 The means of this is the handling of the corpse, that mediates a series of emotional and social partings by which survivors gradually let go of and transform the living personhood of the deceased into another kind of person (such as an ancestor or, in this case, one of the ‘Fallen’).49 Through the proper disposal of the physical remains survivors unmake and remake relations and identities around the loss, and so are able to move on; conversely without ‘correct burial’ the deceased as ‘unquiet and spiteful souls roam the earth forever’, disturbing the identity and continuity of individuals and society.50 This last is often the fate of those who die a violent death, for whom ‘death has no end’ because they cannot be laid properly to rest.51 Though written before the Great War, these words seem poignantly relevant to the mass death that occurred at Verdun, especially to the missing whose bodies were never found, those whose bodied were found but remained nameless and so could not be properly mourned.

never retrieved.52 Each of these monumental forms arguably tried to resolve the disconnection between bodies, graves and names caused by the war. Arguably, it provided an alternative ‘body’ for the dead in the sense of a tangible focus for mourning and so for ‘placing’ the dead in the absence of a proper or known burial.53 A similar role may have been played by the battlefields as a whole. Contemporary evidence indicates that visits to the former battlefields were hugely popular between the wars and were central to many if not most families’ mourning. Sources also show that families’ greatest concern was to know and be able to visit the place where their relative’s body was or may have been buried, or if this was unknown, where he had last been seen alive, wounded, or dead.54 In the words of an Imperial War Graves Commission official at the time, to families ‘the place means everything’.55 Laqueur interprets mourners’ focus on places in counterpoint to the centrality of names as core sites of mourning and memory for survivors.56 Much as they cherished names as signs and tokens of their loved ones’ memory and poignant absence, families understood that they were also means of a vast bureaucratic exercise of state sovereignty, turning unique lives and deaths into serial ‘sacrifices’ or tokens of nationhood.57 Through naming the Fallen, the state both acknowledged their individuality, and co-opted it.58 Thus names may have borne an uncertain relationship with the embodied and affective presence of the individual dead as experienced by those who had known them in life, and as such they were inadequate for the personal, familial and societal process of mourning. This required a body to bury and when this was not available, people perhaps resort to places thought and felt to be linked to it (‘where he last walked’, ‘where he fell’).59

As is well known, the number of missing or nameless dead caused by the Great War led to innovative commemorative and monumental responses such as the Cenotaph, the grave of the Unknown Soldier or the great battlefield memorials to the missing, recording and listing the names of all those whose bodies were

The link between bodies and places can be inferred from Hertz’s central insight that the physical manipulations and tangible transformations of the corpse effect social and emotional transitions among survivors. For instance, Hertz observes that cremation or exposure of the remains are not forms of destruction but ways of turning the corpse into a ‘new body […] capable of entering a new life’.60 This helps to destabilise a literal understanding of ‘body’ and uncouple it from its anatomical reality. The body is instead to be found ‘where there are relationships’, and ‘personhood and relatedness (or social substance) emerge as being essential to the “bodiliness” of human material’61. In

45  See for example a description of the battlefield written by a Verdun-based journalist: ‘And all those remains have the sad aspect of remains doomed to disappear. After the death of beings, here comes, slower and more profound, the death of things. All the useless gear of the battlefields is swallowed up in the rot of seasons, as in the same rot of seasons are swallowed up the corpses of the soldiers of both camps, that one encounters still here and there, in the middle of a disemboweled military cemetery. […] one tears up one’s clothes and one’s hands in continuing this walk, more evocative of torments than a circle of hell. [… this is] death, true death, total death’ (Frantz 1923: 54, my translation). The ‘Red Zone’ was also compared to Hell by France’s wartime President Poincaré in a speech in 1921 in which he resorted to Dante’s Inferno to describe it as ‘the domain of horror and desolation, entering which one must, as the poet says, abandon all hope’ (cit. in Amat 2015: 359). 46  Bloch and Parry 1982; cf. Laqueur 2008. 47  Hertz fell at Marchéville, not far from Verdun, in 1915. 48  Hertz 2004 [1907]: 86. 49  Hertz 2004 [1907]: 81-83. 50  Hertz 2004 [1907]: 27. 51  Hertz 2004 [1907]: 85; cf. Bloch and Parry 1982.

See e.g. Winter 1995; Crane 2013. Cf. Bloch 1971. See Laqueur 2015; Sherman 1999; Crane 2013; Lloyd 1998. 55  Laqueur 2015: 475. 56  Laqueur 2015: 447 ff. 57  Stepputat 2014: 4; cf. Petrović-Šteger 2009: 67; Strenski 1997. 58  Laqueur 2015: 487. 59  Cf. Lloyd 1998. 60  Hertz 2004 [1907], 43. 61  Lambert and McDonald 2009: 10. 52  53  54 

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Paola Filippucci this optic a ‘body’ does not have to coincide with the physical boundaries of a corpse but it can be understood in more general terms as the tangible ground that enables relations or relatedness with the dead and among the living through the dead. In the case of the Great War, the uncertainty surrounding the fate of many soldiers and the difficulty in locating or retrieving their bodily remains may have led people to perceive and experience land, the material medium enveloping their bodies, as such a ground.62 Land and landscape could thus be considered part of the socially constituted ‘body’ of and for the war dead, insofar as they were used and experienced by survivors as a ground for forging relations with the dead and among themselves around their loss. Indeed parallels between the battlefields and the human body abound in contemporary testimonies describing the devastated lands as ‘scarred’, ‘mutilated’ or ‘wounded’.63 This includes Verdun, where for instance a combatant in 1918 called the area of Douaumont (where the Ossuary would eventually be built) ‘a corpse with tortured features’.64 Combatants’ accounts of the Great War battlefields also often compared damaged trees to human bodies, describing them as ‘mutilated’ or ‘bleeding’, or celebrating them as sole survivors among the devastation and carnage (e.g. at Vauquois in the wider Verdun theatre, where a tree that survived the battle is depicted on the main monument).

could also acquire in perpetuity.69 Trees thus helped to ‘place the dead’ in Bloch’s70 sense of putting them in their proper relationship with the living, both physically and spiritually. This can be tentatively extended to the battlefield at Verdun: with the reforestation of the battlefield in the interwar period at Verdun, ‘human life cycles and the life cycle of trees or forest succession’ became intricately interlocked, blurring ‘what belongs to human history and what pertains to ecological conditions’.71 Landscape and ‘nature’, understood as the land’s inherent potential to self-regenerate, helped survivors to ‘regenerate life’ in the anthropological sense of managing the relationship (or indeed tension) between remembering and forgetting, honouring the dead and moving on at an individual and at a societal level after such a catastrophic and violent loss of life. This cannot be substantiated ethnographically for the interwar period, but it can be examined in the case of the Verdun battlefield in the time of its centenary. Verdun in the 21st century In 21st century Verdun, the ‘place’ of the war dead seems to have been finally settled. At first sight, mourning has been replaced by more distanced and dispassionate remembrance or indeed, in a phrase formulated for the 90th anniversary of the Great War and used as the guiding framework for the centenary initiatives, by ‘the time of history’.72 In ‘the time of history’ [le temps de l’histoire’] and its victims are no longer remembered directly (‘souvenir’) or even indirectly (mémoire), and we must instead learn about the war from impersonal sources such as school, books, films and so on. Although commemoration continues, it should occur alongside initiatives that educate and inform. In the Department of the Meuse, that includes the Verdun battlefield, ‘Le Temps de l’Histoire’ is the title for the centenary initiatives, that have included more visitorfriendly historical information and signposting of the main war vestiges and tourist itineraries, a complete refurbishment of the battlefield museum (the so called ‘Mémorial’) to improve its historical communication, and a range of historically-focused talks, lectures and guided tours. In line with recent trends in the heritage industry, there has also been a focus on ‘bringing to life’ the war for visitors through audio-visual guides and smartphone apps that enable them to ‘experience’ the past by animating the surroundings of some of the main sites with historic photographs and footage, recordings and sounds; while guided tours to parts of the battlefield to show visitors the unfolding of the battle on the actual terrain and encourage them to identify with the combatants through titles such as

In light of such perceptions, the reforestation of the battlefield landscape could be interpreted not simply as a policy of ecological and economic regeneration but as a powerful material-symbolic device enabling survivors to ‘place’ the war dead in the sense of recomposing and also of situating them spatially and temporally in relation to the living, alongside more conventional burials. In particular, trees are often associated with burials, sometimes explicitly perceived as ‘homes’ for the soul.65 In 19th- and early 20th-century France mortuary imagery included sculptures of broken tree stumps, particularly on the graves of those who died prematurely or without issue (including the Great War Fallen).66 Kselman67highlights the funerary role of trees and greenery in France from the 18th century, using ‘natural sublimity’ to distance images of bodily corruption and pain and inspire serene recollection of the dead and contemplation of death, in tune with Enlightenment ideas about a ‘secular’ relationship with the dead focused on the memory of their past deeds.68 ‘Green’ cemeteries sublimated and distanced rotting corpses even as they brought the dead emotionally close through individually named burials which families Cf. Sofaer 2006: 50. Wittman 2011: 160. 64  Cit. in Horne 1993: 326. 65  See e.g. Petrović-Šteger 2009 for Serbia. 66  Feeley-Harnik 2013: 207. 67  Kselman 1993. 68  Kselman 1993: 168; cf. Laqueur 2015. 62  63 

Kselman 1993; Laqueur 2015. Bloch 1971. 71  Rival 1997: 24. 72  Barcellini 2009. 69  70 

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‘In the steps of the [French] soldiers’ [‘Sur les pas des poilus’]. Some of the main anniversaries have also included costume re-enactments, such as the centenary of the start of the battle on 21 February 2016 which began at 6.45 am with a ‘historic evocation’ at the iconic location of Bois des Caures, involving some 100 French and German re-enactors in period costume staging scenes from the German bombardment that opened the battle, as witnessed from the post of Colonel Driant, the first famous French casualty of the attack.73 As media reports put it, history was ‘brought to life’ in the torchlit forest by actors in period uniforms, by sounds and flashes of artillery and by disembodied voices reading testimonies of soldiers from both sides. Being in the actual landscape enhanced the reality effect: as media reports also noted the weather, though warmer than a century ago, was nevertheless unpleasant, drizzly and muddy, making real for actors and spectators an iconic aspect of the Verdun/Great War combat experience.74 Comparable performances have been happening regularly alongside more conventional ceremonies at various locations across this and other nearby battlefields since I began my fieldwork in this region in 2000,75 especially in summer which is the main tourist season. Overall this could be described as a shift from commemoration towards ‘heritage’, in which education and entertainment complement one another, as ‘bringing to life’ the past helps to make knowledge about the war accessible, vivid and memorable.

instead something with an ethical dimension, and so, closer to memory: ‘You realise what they have lived when you see the places’, ‘And note that we had good weather - how much worse it must have been then [during the war], in the rain and the cold!’, ‘They really lived like animals, like the cows in the field, wet when it was wet, cold when it was cold’.77 Recognising past suffering, as these visitors did, is at the very core of notions of ‘souvenir’ and ‘mémoire’ in French war commemoration,78 and indeed the couple who made the comments above explicitly framed their visit to the battlefield in such terms. Their tour was guided by the diary entries of the man’s grandfather who had fought and died at Verdun, and as they and their bed and breakfast host explained: ‘for us it’s not a holiday, it’s a pilgrimage, is for treading in their footsteps’ [aller sur leurs pas à eux].’; ‘He has come to fulfil the duty of remembering [devoir du souvenir] for his father who could never visit, and for his grandfather who never returned [home from the war]’. In fact most if not all initiatives and activities that involve the landscape of the former battlefield are framed in terms of remembrance and as a sort of tribute to the fallen. This is the case with costume reenactors, who say that they have fun dressing up but that their purpose is to honour and acknowledge those who suffered and died here. This is how re-enactors at the ‘historic evocation’ of 21 February 2016 explained the aim of the initiative:

However, particularly activities surrounding the war’s physical vestiges and those aimed at ‘bringing to life’ the war are not simple entertainment: ethnography reveals a ‘serious’ aspect about these activities and about how people engage with the landscape of the former battlefield in the 21st century that suggests that these are part of a generations-long process of memorialisation of this conflict, that overlaps with the interwar effort to process this catastrophe through caring for its dead. Both visitors and residents voice the idea that being in the battlefield surroundings helps to make the war ‘real’ in a unique way:

‘we do this because it must have been awful for those who lived this, we do this to render homage to them’.79 A similar outlook is expressed about other, more unlikely activities: ‘The route of the [mountain bike] tour shows participants progressively more damaged structures to make them understand [what happened] and to make them realise that this was a history of men. We also tell them to behave appropriately on their bikes because we are cycling over a cemetery, and at Fleury80 we always come off the bike and cross it on foot as a mark of respect’.81

‘you can read about the war, you can see photos, you can see films, but it’s when you come here that you realise it really happened’.76 This ‘reality effect’ is exploited by heritage promoters, but people presented experiences and mental images garnered in and from the former battlefield landscape as more than simple entertainment or fancy, and Cf. Horne 1993. Cf. Ousby 2003: 11 16. 75  This paper is based on fieldwork conducted during E.U. –funded project CRIC (Cultural Heritage in the Aftermath of Conflict) in 20082011 and return visits in 2013-’14; I began fieldwork in the region in 2000 (see e.g. Filippucci 2004; 2010a). 76  Visitor interview, 2008. 73  74 

Visitors, Verdun 2011. Cf. Margalit 2002. 79  See France 3 2016. 80  A ruined village close to the Ossuary and national cemetery. 81  Organiser of mountain bike tours, Verdun 2011. 77  78 

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Paola Filippucci In Verdun, treading the battlefield, even on a bicycle, is not just a way to imagine the war but also to remember in the most profound, ethical sense of evoking and honouring those who lived it and, more especially, those who suffered and died. This leads to consider a less explicit but pervasive way in which the battlefield landscape may ‘bring the past to life’ for contemporary visitors. While none of my informants used the term ‘ghosts’, for many the battlefield landscape seemed to evoke uncanny presences. Some local tourist guides mentioned that ‘at certain locations’ they experience unexplained, overwhelming emotion, or that they ‘see the soldiers’ running or ‘hear’ them shouting as they go over the top in an attack. Some locals said that they avoid parts of the forest because they feel spooky, and a common claim was that at some locations in the forest ‘you hear no birdsong’ but instead a deadly silence.82 In all these comments the idea that these places might allow us to experience the war past is subtly changed to the sense that here people can feel the past as a sort of haunting. In other words, these places do not only put 21st century visitors in touch with the war past, but with ‘them’: the battlefield landscape allows visitors, even a century after the event, to experience the presence of the dead.

continues to act as a means or ground for forging relations with the war dead, and among ourselves through them and around our collective loss. ‘Nature’ and the dead at Verdun today Over the past century the physical fabric of the former battlefield has continued to evolve. The forest is now managed by the Office National des Forêts partly as a source of wood for sale, but particularly the central plateau and the immediate vicinity of the principal military vestiges, excluded from this because of their protected historic heritage status, have developed unusual biodiversity for this part of Europe. This is in part a direct result of mass destruction in 1914-18, that stopped cultivation and thus pollution by modern chemical fertilisers; and in part because the decaying remnants of the battlefield provide ideal habitats for certain rare species of animals and plants: the limerich mineralised slopes of forts for rare orchids, shell holes where water stagnates for rare amphibians, and concrete dugouts and other structures for bats (Figure 4). In 2000, parts of the battlefield were listed as a Zone Natura 2000 (an E.U. label) and the whole battlefield was designated as a ‘corridor for East-West species migration’, while the bat colony is protected as one of the largest in Europe.85

Also running through many of the comments made today about being ‘in the places where it happened’ is the notion that this landscape elicits special feelings and behaviours because it bears the material traces of the dead: their ‘steps’ or also their bodies (‘cycling over a cemetery’). The perception of a visceral connection between the battlefield landscape and those who fought here remains common in the 21st century:

Once again, the physical fabric of the landscape has done its own processing of the traces of war, forcing a response from those who formally or informally care for this site. For many this offers a welcome opportunity to redefine the value and meaning of this landscape away from its darker connotations. For instance in 2009 a group of local authorities proposed turning the former battlefield into a national park protecting the environmental value of so-called polémopaysages, landscapes created or shaped by war, presented as ‘signs of peace finally reconquered’ promoting ‘nature education, leisure and sustainable development’.86 The plan prioritised the protection of animal and plant species over war vestiges, in direct conflict because it is the decay of the war vestiges that fosters the fauna and flora. The proposal explicitly presented this as an opportunity to get the area ‘recognised for something else than the terrible battle of Verdun’ and highlight ‘the real value of this beautiful region’ (see note 20). As a supporter of the plan said:

‘A third soil, a third iron, a third flesh: it’s what my grandfather used to say to me about the land of the battlefield, about the land here’.83 ‘Each person who fell here at Verdun is the rootstock of this forest […] the trees have their roots in these men who fell here, even as we see the capacity of nature to regenerate itself and launch its branches into the sky’; ‘a forest which bears the scars of a world war […] what better symbol of life, humanity, peace and durability’.84 As these quotes indicate, even in the ‘time of history’ the dead remain very present at Verdun and in particular, they remain closely associated with the physical landscape of the former battlefield, that arguably

‘it is important to develop the green aspect of this territory in order to overcome the black image that Verdun has. Of course we are in a place where awful things have occurred, so we need to show respect towards these places […] but we must continue to

Cf. Horne 1993, xvi Bed and Breakfast owner, Verdun 2011. 84  Official speeches, inauguration of Forêt d’Exception 2014. The speeches at this event also linked the plantations to the suffering of the war by remembering not just the many foresters who fell in the battle (the Forestry Agency was a guard of the French Army at the time); but also the foresters who after the war worked ‘in extreme conditions’ to plan this forest as a way to preserve the memory. 82  83 

See e.g. Natura 2000; Bonnaire 2009. See discussions of the project at http://parcnational-verdun. eklablog.fr/accueil-cl118559 accessed on 12 January 2016. 85  86 

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‘These Battered Hills’: Landscape and Memory at Verdun (France)

Forêt d’Exception means that many of the dugouts and other underground structures are now off limits for tourists, in order to protect the bat colonies they host; and a network of paths for hiking and cycling has been designed explicitly to keep visitors away from areas of greatest biodiversity and ecological sensitivity as well as from the most fragile historic vestiges88. As this suggests the label Forêt d’Exception is granted to forests that combine natural and historical value and enables management that enhances the two jointly.89 At Verdun the plan also includes completing the conversion of fir and pine plantations into more locally adapted deciduous forest, begun in the 1970s;90 and selectively removing woodland so as to make the overall battlefield more legible and ‘real to visitors’ as a forester told me. At the core of the plan is to protect and enhance the biodiversity of the forest, but as the quote cited in the previous section suggests, this is linked explicitly not only to the historic aspects of this landscape, but also to the memory and indeed presence of the fallen. Metaphorical links between the forest landscape and a return to life that ‘remembers’ the dead, and metonymical links between the forest landscape and the bodies of the fallen continue to pervade accounts of the battlefield landscape, even when these are ostensibly focused on its thriving environmental richness. Again and again people comment that ‘nature has reclaimed its own’ [la nature a reprisses droits] but only to reiterate the importance of remembering (Figure 5):

Figure 4. Shell-holes colonised by pond plants and rare amphibian species, Thiaumont, Verdun battlefield, 2014. Source: Author.

live, one can animate the territory while respecting the places’.87

‘nature has reclaimed its own but we must manage it at certain sites so that we can understand what happened here’; ‘nature has reclaimed its own here, and the ground is no longer red like blood, but green, like hope - because giving one’s life for one another is the first duty of humanity.’91

Like many locals, especially among the younger generations, this man made it quite clear that he has had enough of the negative associations of this area and with the idea of a ‘duty’ to remember the war: as he put it to me, ‘it’s not a ‘duty – duty is obligatory, memory is not like that…’. The desire to make war memory less mandatory was also implied in this informant’s reference to rethinking how we ‘respect’ the former battlefield. A veteran-sponsored law of 1961 banned all leisure activities (camping, picnics, outdoor games etc…) within the perimeter of the former battlefield in the name of the ‘respect des lieux’ [respect for [these] places], a concept usually applied to places of worship or burial. In view of the centenary the state-appointed committee in charge tried to lift or restrict the ban in a bid to make the battlefield more tourist-friendly, but failed due to the opposition by various commemorative associations. However, bids to preserve biodiversity would not necessarily make the battlefield more accessible to visitors. Although the national park plan did not succeed, a new protection plan adopted in 2014 listing the Verdun forest under the national scheme of 87 

These words were part of the sermon during a commemorative mass on the battlefield and as the celebrant spoke them he held up his chasuble to show that its green front concealed a red lining. This gesture could be taken to show that life has moved on - red to green, blood to hope - but the two-sided chasuble also embodies the fact that these often seem as two sides of the same coin at this location. Life does not and cannot efface death. As mentioned in the previous section, war See https://www.fondation-patrimoine.org/les-projets/verdun1916-foret-d-exception-un-centenaire-un-heritage, accessed on 18 April 2018. 89  See e.g. http://www.onf.fr/gestion_durable/++oid++168d/@@ display_media.html accessed on 18 April 2018. 90  Although pine plantations are maintained at selected sites to protect key historic vestiges, and also some of the pines themselves are protected as historic vestiges of the initial reforestation. 91  Haumont ceremony 2011. This is the annual commemorative ceremony at one of the seven ‘destroyed villages’ (see Filippucci 2010). 88 

Tourist Office Director, Charny 2010.

91

Paola Filippucci

Figure 5. ‘Nature has reclaimed its own’. Verdun battlefield, 2014. Source: Author.

is seen as embedded in the very fabric of the land, and a sort of ‘double vision’ or reading of the battlefield landscape as at once verdant and bloody is pervasive. In the same breath, people may praise the beauty of the forest and remark on its ‘eerie silence’ or comment that you would never think that horrors occurred here; locals in particular often convey a dissonant perception and experience of the battlefield surroundings:

background and override the historic and death-related aspects of this place; however like landscape and in and through the landscape, the war past and its victims remain ‘here’, unremarked and unremarkable but ever available to attention and care. In the 21st century, this quality of landscape does not seem to be used, as in the interwar period, to achieve consolation by distancing the reality of violent death while also bringing the dead affectively close. However, closeness or distance from this war and its dead are still arguably at issue, as implied by the comments above about the ‘duty’ to remember. In the time of its centenary, when the war has ostensibly become ‘history’, the question of whether we should remember and how remains poignant.94 A century after the battle, for different and perhaps opposite reasons than just after the war, the ‘place’ of the war dead - ‘where’ they are and how we should relate to them - is once again uncertain. At Verdun, like a century ago, this dilemma is articulated in relation to the landscape of the battlefield, and resorts to ‘nature’ in particular to forge a new, arguably less obligatory but no less ethical understanding of memory and of the relationship with the war past and the war dead. I return to the earlier point about interwar survivors attending to the battlefield landscape as a means to restore ‘body’

‘throughout my childhood we picked lily of the valley in the forest. Only later I realised that it was strange to go pick lily of the valley on a battlefield. It seemed normal to see cemeteries everywhere, only later I realised that under the crosses there were people’.92 Such comments suggest that especially perhaps for locals, war and mass death have become enfolded into the ordinary day-to-day reality of place and landscape.93 By the same token, they remain available in and through them: the materiality of the landscape and the idea of ‘nature’ associated with it may help both locals and visitors to bring the war and specifically the fallen both into and out of sight. From a discursive as well as physical point of view, ‘nature’ or ‘environment’ in their perceived timelessness and ‘life’ can help to 92  93 

Resident, Bras-sur-Meuse 2011. Cf. Hastrup 2011: 129.

94 

92

See e.g. Jeanneney 2013.

‘These Battered Hills’: Landscape and Memory at Verdun (France)

Figure 6. ‘He is there’. Costume re-enactors in the Verdun forest, anniversary of the battle, June 2014. Source: Author.

or personhood to the war dead, making them available for relatedness. Today, the battlefield landscape in its association with nature offers a ‘body’ that affords a more inclusive relatedness with the war dead that beyond family or nation, based on ‘the attribute of being human’.95 This is once again articulated through a perceived link between the landscape and the missing:

him – I will do that on the day of his death’.96 (Figure 6) This informant was a local volunteer involved in the commemorations of the battle in 2014, who stood beside some re-enactors in French period uniforms and gave voice to the soldiers by reading out their testimonies to visitors. Although pitting memorial above environmental value, he pointed to the surrounding forest and to the forest soil when he stated that ‘he’, the soldier, is present to our memory, casting the physical fabric of the forest as a call to or ground for memory and care. By focusing his commitment on the missing, he also presented memory not only as a way to acknowledge relatedness – caring for one’s own family - but also to claim relatedness by caring for all the dead, claiming all of them as ‘ours’ to remember.97 This recalls the interwar listing of the dead, however names now enable more inclusive relatedness than just family or nation, including the unrelated dead, the missing and

‘What they prioritised at first was the environment – special trees, special amphibians… they forgot the essential: that it’s men who died, it’s a cemetery, they all died for peace, French and also German. 300 000 dead. Over 300 days of 2016 I would like people to commemorate one of them, French or German, each day: by clicking on a name on the day of his dead I become a godparent – I think about him, if I am Christian I pray for him; if I am family, I get a Mass sung – even if I am not sure he’s a relative. For instance I chose a person with my same surname, I am not sure he is a relative but he is missing so he is here [points to the ground next to where we are standing]. It doesn’t matter [whether or not we are related] – it’s necessary that someone thinks about 95 

Verdun battlefield, June 2014. This is also reminiscent of a 2014 British Legion initiative in UK called ‘Every Man Remembered’ which seeks to ensure that a century on, as ‘real’ families have forgotten, we can all help to remember one of the fallen, whether or not we know them. 96  97 

Margalit 2002: 8.

93

Paola Filippucci also, increasingly as the war recedes into the past, the forgotten98. The role of ‘nature’ and landscape as grounds for this more inclusive memory was expressed in a comment to the recent (2014) addition of the name of a German soldier, Peter Frundl, to the Ossuary:

firs like those given between the wars by Germany in reparation, but sycamores, a species indigenous to the Meuse valley, which would have been encountered on the terrain by soldiers of both sides and perhaps used as shelter. These trees today add to the biodiversity of a stretch of the former battlefield pitted by shell-holes full of rare frogs and whose calcified soils are a breeding ground for rare orchids. The ‘nature’ of the battlefield and so its landscape are not agents of forgetting, as feared by survivors, but instead a living memento of the monstrous event that occurred here, that endures in spite of our efforts to reinterpret and reimagine its meaning, and so shaping our memory as much as being shaped by it.

‘This place is ugly, this church is the ugliest place I have ever seen. Personally I would have built at this site a garden, a huge garden, with trees for climbing on, with gardenias, dahlias, roses and carnations; birds, without fear of being executed [hunted], would have come to make their nests next to Peter and Victor99 and all the others, so that life could resume’.100 In this 21st-century quote a return to ‘life’ is premised on ‘freeing’ the dead from their names carved in stone and giving them a home among flowers, trees and birds. It is tempting to find an echo between this ‘life’ and the idea of ‘biodiversity’ that acknowledges the regenerative potential of the former battlefield, that is, the literal power of this landscape to generate new and diverse forms of life directly out of the destructions of war, and invests this landscape with value that transcends spatial and indeed political borders, for instance as part of a ‘European’ environment and ‘transborder’ space for some rare animal and plant species.101 Arguably today’s landscape understood as a biodiverse environment provides not just an alternative, ‘less dark’ value for these surroundings, but also a material metaphor for connectedness and relatedness across human and nonhuman, spatial and temporal boundaries. This resonates with the idea of a widening ‘community of mourning’102 for the Verdun dead as the battle recedes into the past, which includes former enemies and strangers alongside family and friends. It is interesting that at the most iconic of Verdun’s official moments of Franco-German reconciliation, the 1984 ceremony when Presidents Mitterrand and Kohl spontaneously held hands in front of the Ossuary, Franco-German friendship was not only symbolised and embodied by this gesture and by the two coffins lying side-by-side under the two national flags, but also by trees planted by German school-children between the Ossuary and the memorial in memory of (French) Jewish soldiers. The trees were not ‘Austrian’

Conclusions This chapter has developed a case for the ‘agency’ of landscape by approaching it through the lens of its destruction in war and subsequent reconstruction. At the centre of the discussion has been the impact of mass destruction and mass death on the materiality of a particular landscape. At Verdun mass destruction in 1916 changed physically the terrain where the battle unfolded, virtually obliterating the pre-existing surroundings and ecosystem but triggering new vegetative, faunal and mineral phases. Mass death did not impact it physically, but radically changed perceptions of this terrain that came to be seen as a burial ground. Since the war, this perception has dominated how people have approached and responded to this landscape. However, their approach has also been shaped by the intrinsic physical dynamics of the landscape as a living entity, capable of selfregeneration. As described, this began almost as soon as the destruction occurred and forced survivors to go against their desire to see and maintain this as a place of terminal death. The ‘natural’ regenerative dynamic of the post-battle landscape at Verdun forced upon survivors a connection between death and life that they had been reluctant to make in their concern to respect the dead and preserve their memory. The landscape thus became an actor in the process of memory and more broadly in what Bloch and Parry have termed the ‘regeneration of life’.103 This is an intangible social, symbolic and affective process of affirming continuity and identity after death, but as Hertz104 has theorised it centrally unfolds through material acts, performed through the disposal of the remains of the deceased. In the case of Verdun, I have tentatively suggested that the role of ‘corpse’ may have come in part to be fulfilled by the landscape, which survivors linked in a visceral, metonymical way with the remains of the dead and missing it enveloped. The reconstruction of the landscape was thus a tangible means of ‘placing the

98  The link perceived today between the missing and those now forgotten because of the passage of time was explicit in a 2013 exhibition in the Verdun Ossuary,displaying photographic portraits of men and women who survived the Great War but have now mostly passed away (including the ‘last known veteran’, who died in 2008 – see Offenstadt 2010: 142). 99  From the public comments on a news items about adding the German name to the Ossuary wall, Les Actualités du Droit, 10-02-2014, my translation.Victor Manassy is the name of the French soldier next to which Peter Frundl’s name was carved in 2014. 100  Found at http://lesactualitesdudroit.20minutes-blogs.fr/ archive/2014/02/10/temp-2e028cb27b837988948bac8585 ff3557-891892.html, accessed on 6 November 2015. 101  See e.g. Bonnaire 2009: 7-8. 102  Winter 1994.

103  104 

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Bloch and Parry 1982. Hertz 1909.

‘These Battered Hills’: Landscape and Memory at Verdun (France)

dead’,105 a ground for forging relations with the dead, as individuals and the wider society processed the catastrophic loss. I argued that this has not ended with the passing of survivors, partly because of the ‘natural’, vital materiality of this landscape. This has continued to evolve and to act on our memory of the mass death that occurred here, retaining the power to make the dead imaginatively and affectively available to our care, even if in new ways, and as such challenging the idea that with the passing of generations, the war is now abstract, distant ‘history’. Overall, the landscape as a tangible and, especially, a living entity can be seen as a powerful agent of memory rather than just a repository of it.

Davis, W. 2012. Into the Silence. The Great War, Mallory and the conquest of Everest. London, Vintage Books. Denizot, A. 2008. Douaumont. Vérité et Légende. Paris, Perrin. Eksteins, M. 1989. Rites of Spring. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Company. Feeley-Harnik, G. 2013. Placing the dead. Kinship, slavery and free labour in pre- and post-Civil War America. Vital Relations, edited by F. Cannell and S. McKinnon. Santa Fe, SAR Press: 179-216. Filippucci, P. 2004. A French place without a cheese. Problems with heritage and identity in northeastern France. Focaal – European Journal of Anthropology 44: 72-86. Filippucci, P. 2010. Archaeology and the anthropology of memory. Takes on the recent past. Archaeology and Anthropology: understanding similarities, exploring differences, edited by D. Garrow and T. Yarrow. Oxford, Oxbow Books: 69-83 Filippucci, P. 2010a. In a Ruined Country. Place and the memory of war destruction in Argonne (France). Remembering Violence. Anthropological perspectives on intergenerational transmission, edited by N. Argenti and K. Schramm. Berghahn Books: 165-189. France 3. 2016. Verdun 2016. Cent ans après, jour pour jour, au cœur du Bois des Caures. http://france3regions.francetvinfo.fr/lorraine/verdun2016cent-apres-jour-pour-jour-au-coeur-du-bois-descaures-933263.html, accessed on 26-2-2016. Frantz, G.-F. 1923. La Zone Rouge. Paris, Éditions Nouveau Roman. Fussell, P. 1975. The Great War and Modern Memory. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Gillis, J.R. 1994. Memory and identity. The history of a relationship. Commemorations. The politics of national identity, edited by J.R. Gillis. Princeton, Princeton University Press: 3-24. Harvey, P. and H. Knox. (eds). 2014. Objects and Materials. London, Routledge. Hastrup, F. 2011. Weathering the World. Oxford, Berghahn. Hertz, R. 2004 [1907]. A contribution to the study of the collective representation of death. Death and the Right Hand. Cohen and West: 29-86. Horne, A. 1993. The Price of Glory. Verdun 1916. London, Penguin Books. IOD. 1932. Inauguration de l’Ossuaire de Douaumont, 6-7-8 Aout 1932. Nancy, Imprimeries Réunies. Jeanneney, J-N. 2013. La Grande Guerre si loin, si proche. Paris, Seuil. Kramer, A. 2007. Dynamic of Destruction. Culture and mass killing in the First World War. Oxford University Press. Krumeich, G. And S. Audoin-Rouzeau. 2012. Les batailles de la Grande Guerre. Encyclopedie de la Grande Guerre. Tome I. Éditions Perrin, edited by S. Audoin-Rouzeau and A. Becker (sous la diréction de): 385-401. Kselman, T. 1993. Death and the Afterlife in Modern France. Princeton, Princeton University Press.

Bibliography Amat, J.-P. 1987. Guerre et milieu naturels: les forêts meurtries de l’est de la France, 70 ans après Verdun.’ L’Espace Géographique, no. 3: 217-233. Amat, J.-P. 2015. Les Forêts de Guerre. Histoire, mémoire, patrimoine. Paris, Presses de l’Université ParisSorbonne. Amat, J.-P., P. Filippucci, P. and E. Savouret. 2015. The cemetery of France: reconstruction and memorialisation on the battlefield of Verdun (France). War and Cultural Heritage: biographies of place, edited by M.L. S. Sørensen and D. Viejo-Rose. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 46-68. Audoin-Rouzeau, S. 1991. The national sentiment of soldiers during the Great War. Nationhood and Nationalism in France. From Boulangism to the Great War, 1889-1918, edited by R. Tombs. London, Harper Collins: 89-99. Barcellini, S. 2009. 90ème Anniversaire de l’Armistice du 11 Novembre 1918. Unpublished report, Secrétaire d’Etat à la Defence et aux Anciens Combattants. Binet-Valmer. (n.d.). Ossuaire de Douaumont. Pour Ceux de Verdun. Promotional leaflet, Verdun, Bibliothèque Archive. Bloch, M. 1971, Placing the Dead. London, Seminar Press. Bloch, M. 1998, How We Think They Think. Anthropological approaches to cognition, memory and literacy. London, Westview Press. Bloch, M. and J. Parry. 1982. Introduction. Death and the Regeneration of Life. Cambridge University Press: 1-44. Bonnaire, E. 2009. Projet ‘Parc National de Forêt Feuillue de Plaine’ Note scientifique à destination du MEEDDAT. Nancy, Direction Régionale de l’Environnement, Lorraine. Brown, M. 1999, Verdun 1916. Stroud, Tempus. Clout, H. 1996. After the Ruins. Exeter, University of Exeter Press. Crane, D. 2013. Empires of the Dead. London, William Collins. 105 

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Paola Filippucci Lambert, H. and M. McDonald. (eds). 2009. Social Bodies. Oxford, Berghahn. Laqueur, T.W. 1994. Memory and naming in the Great War. Commemorations. The politics of national identity, edited by J.R. Gillis. Princeton, Princeton University Press: 150-167. Laqueur, T.W. 2008. Among the graves. London Review of Books 30, 24, 18 December: 3-9 Laqueur, T.W. 2015. The Work of the Dead. A cultural history of mortal remains. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Lloyd, D.W. 1998. Battlefield Tourism. Pilgrimage and the commemoration of the Great War in Britain, Australia, and Canada, 1919-1939. Oxford, Berg. Margalit, A. 2002. The Ethics of Memory. Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press. Mosse, G. 1990. Fallen Soldiers. Reshaping the memory of the World Wars. Oxford, Oxford UniversityPress. NATURA 2000. (n.d.). Formulaire standard de données pour les zones de protection spéciale (ZPS), les propositions de sites d’importance communautaire (pSIC), les sites d’importance communautaire (SIC) et les zones spéciales de conservation (ZSC),FR4100171 - Corridor de la Meuse. Found at https://inpn.mnhn.fr/site/natura2000/ FR4100171 (accessed 28 June 2018). Offenstadt, N. 2010. 14-18 Aujourd’hui. La Grande Guerre dans la France contemporaine. Paris, Odile Jacob. Ousby, I. 2003. The Road to Verdun. London, Pimlico. Pearson, C. 2012. Mobilizing Nature. The environmental history of war and militarization in modern France. Manchester and New York, Manchester University Press. Petrović-Šteger, M. 2009. Anatomizing conflict. Accommodating human remains. Social Bodies,

edited by H. Lambert and M. McDonald. Oxford, Berghahn: 47-76. Prost, A. 1992. In the Wake of War. ‘Les anciens combattants’ and French society. Oxford, Berg. Prost, A. 2002. Verdun. The life of a site of memory. Republican Identities in War and Peace: representations of France in the 19th and 20th centuries. Oxford, Berg: 45-71. Rival, L. 1998. Trees, from symbols of life and regeneration to political artifacts. The Social Life of Trees, edited by L. Rival. Oxford, Berg: 1-36. Roy-Prévot, J. 2012. Verdun: la mémoire allemande. 1418, no. 55 (novembre – decembre – janvier): 12-37. Saunders, N.J. 2003. Trench Art. Materialities and memories of war. Oxford, Berg. Sherman, D.J. 1999. The Construction of Memory in Interwar France. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Sofaer, J. 2006. The Body as Material Culture. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Stepputat, F. 2014. Governing the Dead. Sovereignty and the politics of dead bodies. Manchester, Manchester University Press. Strenski, I. 1997. Contesting Sacrifice. Religion, nationalism and social thought in France. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Winter, J. 1995. Sites of Memory, Sites of Mourning Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Wittman, L. 2011. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Modern Mourning and the Reinvention of the Mystical Body. Toronto, University of Toronto Press.

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Set in Stone? Transformation and Memory in Scandinavian Rock Art Christian Horn1 and Rich Potter1 University of Gothenburg [email protected]

Introduction The Nordic Bronze Age dating from 1700 to 550 BC has, among others, two important features;1 rock art and metalwork. Both inform us about Bronze Age life, ritual, economy, social structures, and activities (Figure 1). More detailed approaches to rock art are hoped to improve our ability to study these aspects in evercloser detail asking and answering new questions.2 One such aspect of rock art will be described in this paper. As part of the fieldwork to study rock art, different panels were documented using new 2.5 and 3D imaging techniques. Some of the discoveries will be described in this paper and the transformations that were observed will be discussed. Various authors have recognized transformations in rock art before. Joakim Goldhahn argued that the slabs of the Bredarör tomb in Kivik have been re-engraved multiple times.3 In another study, Katty Hauptmann-Wahlgren observed that lines on images were re-engraved. When rock art is cut freshly, it appears lighter against the normal color of the rock. After some years, the color darkens and fades back to the normal color. By re-engraving lines, they show up lighter again. Hauptmann-Wahlgren argued that by doing so these parts of a carving are in a sense switched on again.4 Others have demonstrated that panels were built-up by repeated carving acts spread out in time.5 Per Nilsson demonstrated that even people in the Late Iron Age engaged with the Bronze Age images by adding their own engravings.6 Most recently Ingrid Fuglestvedt has studied the imagery of the Mesolithic in Northern Europe seeing it as the visual products of the existing ‘concrete logic’ of the time that has been repeated and transformed.7 In our own work, we discovered additional ways rock art was transformed, not only on the level of the panel as prior authors have argued, but also on individual motifs. In previous research, the accumulation has been accepted as a phenomenon, but the social base Kneisel et al. 2014; Olsen et al. 2011. 2  Bertilsson et al. 2017; Horn and Potter 2017; Nordbladh 1981. 3  Goldhahn 2013. 4  Hauptman Wahlgren 2004. 5  Bengtsson 2004, Fredell n.d. 2010, Ling 2014. 6  Nilsson 2012. 7  Fuglestvedt 2018. 1 

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 97–107

has rarely been specified beyond general remarks.8 The observations presented in this paper gives the whole phenomenon an entirely new scale. In the following, the potential connection between rock art and ancestral memory will be discussed and specified. Conversely, the results suggest that the rock art images are not linked to a godly sphere. However, it is not the aim to swing the interpretative pendulum back from religious to secular interpretations.9 Instead, a middle ground may be presented incorporating both. New methods The methods will only be discussed in passing to conserve space and because a longer discussion of them has already been published elsewhere.10 The methods used to record the panels and individual figures are all image based: Reflectance Transformation Imaging (RTI), Structure from Motion (SfM) and Optical Laser Scanning (OLS). RTI uses a series of photographs from a static camera with repositioned lighting for each photo. The open source software RTIBuilder11 computes surface normals based on these photos and the differing directions of the light reflection to create an artificial representation of the shape of the rock’s surface.12 The result is a 2.5D representation that can be viewed in the open source software RTIViewer. In this program lighting is infinitely adjustable and visuals can be improved using filters such as specular enhancement and diffuse gain.13 SfM software such as Agisoft Photoscan© identifies points in a series of photographs and calculates their position in three-dimensional space. Based on this, further points can be identified and a mesh is created. This procedure provides a full 3D model of the rocks surface.14 For OLS a cheap Sense 3D scanner was employed previewing panel sections to identify interesting spots and locate particular images. Bengtsson 2004; Ling 2014. Kristiansen 2012; cf. Kaul 2004. 10  Bertilsson et al. 2017; Horn and Potter 2017. 11  Cultural Heritage Imaging 2013. 12  Horn and Potter 2017; Jones et al. 2015; Malzbender et al. 2000; Malzbender et al. 2004; Mudge et al. 2005. 13  Cultural Heritage Imaging 2013. 14  Meijer 2016. 8  9 

Christian Horn and Rich Potter

Figure 1. Map of southern Scandinavia indicating panels with anthropomorphic rock art (white dots) and the working area (star).

There are many advantages of using these new methods over older techniques.15 Most important for the presented work is that it visualizes depth differences. This makes it easier to identify superimpositions and intersections, which are used to create a relative sequence of engraving actions on the scene or image. Differences in width, depth, and technique indicate different carvers. If archaeologically known objects were identified some of these carving actions could be brought into a chronological order indicating later additions and transformations.16 It should be mentioned 15  16 

that all methods have their advantages and that old and new methods work best in conjunction with one another. The fieldwork focused on Finntorp, a gently sloping valley in Tanum, Bohuslän (Sweden). It is located within the UNESCO world heritage area by the name Rock Carvings in Tanum. Exposed rock faces frequently bear rock art. The stone is Bohus granite with quartzite veins. The veins are usually not engraved. Lichen growth is moderate and can mostly be ignored. However, before recording rock art the panel needs to be cleared of moss, leaves and other plant material. In the following discussion, sites will be referenced by

Bertilsson et al. 2017. Horn and Potter 2017.

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Set in Stone? Transformation and Memory in Scandinavian Rock Art

Figure 2. Case studies from Finntorp (Tanum 89:1): (a) RTI snapshot and (b) engraving sequence of the large spear warrior; (c) RTI snapshot and (d) engraving sequence of the axe warrior; (e) RTI snapshot and (f) engraving sequence of the two warriors with the pronounced knees (all images and graphics Christian Horn and Rich Potter).

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Christian Horn and Rich Potter the numbers provided by the Swedish Heritage Board (Riksantikvarieämbetet). These numbers and further information concerning the sites can be found in the Heritage Boards database Fornsök (http://www. fmis.raa.se) and the website of the Swedish Rock Art Research Archive (http://shfa.se).

largest spearhead possibly represents a type that may date to period Ib (1600-1500 BC). The other spearheads depicted are strongly disturbed and very abstract. They could be Late Bronze Age spearheads or spearheads made from flint.22 The latter has recently been proposed by Ulf Bertilsson for all depicted spears in Finntorp dating them to the preceding Late Neolithic Bell Beaker phase.23 This, however, is problematic, because neither the chronology nor the functionality for most of the flint blades he depicts as comparisons are settled or even properly investigated. This is illustrated by the one comparison that belongs to a form that has been analyzed. The flint blade in question is possibly a thick flint point. These blades are commonly associated with the earlier Funnelbeaker Culture (4300-2800 BC) dating at least 1000 years before the earliest figurative rock art in Scandinavia24 and they were hafted perpendicular to the handle like halberds and not like spears.25

Case Studies Finntorp Tanum 89:1 The panel in Finntorp designated Tanum 89:1 contains fourteen canoes, seventeen human figures and at least seventeen individual cupmarks (Figure 2a). In addition, a few lines without coherent composition can be observed. RTI was conducted on four human figures. Four times on a large spearman, two times on two warriors with protruding knees, and one time on an axeman close to the two warriors.17

In any case, there is a chronological depth in the (re-) engravings of the spearheads. The same is true for the other depicted objects. The shield consists of three concentric circles and the cupmark forms a shield boss. The cup mark could like the head of the figure pre-date the concentric circles. Shields of the depicted type date to the transition from period II to III (1400-1200 BC) by Uckelmann.26 Lastly, the chape on the sword sheath points to parallels dating to period III (1300-1100 BC).27

The head of the big spearman was applied in a different technique than the rest of the lines. It seems to have been ground into the rock as opposed to the lines that seem to have been pecked. The centre of the concentric circles may also have been ground. Both are bowlshaped and deeper than any of the lines and may have been cupmarks that have been reused.18 A neck superimposes the handle of the spear and the head. The shaft of the spear was possibly re-engraved 2-3 times so that there are 3-4 different spearheads visible. The concentric circles are around the other cupmark can possibly be interpreted as a shield. Furthermore, the sheath of a sword including a chape superimpose the outer ring of the shield. These objects provide the opportunity to compare them to bronze finds from the archaeological record.

If the identification of the spear, the shield and the chape are correct, it suggests that there may be a considerable time-depth between the individual objects. This is of course highly tentative given the insecurities introduced by the typological dating and the abstract style of rock art. Thus, we will suggest a maximum and minimum time span that seem plausible if the objects were identified correctly. The shield and the first spear are separated by between 100 and 300 years. The shield and the sword sheath could have been carved almost contemporaneously to one another. However, the differences in width and depth could suggest two different carvers. A new 3D model created in 2018 supports the chronological sequence that the shield is older than the sword because it indicates that the sword cuts into the shield’s outer ring (Figure 3). At the maximum, they may also be separated by 300 years. The different techniques and different styles of the cupmarks indicates that they were applied by yet another individual before the shaft of the spear was pecked. It is impossible to date when that happened. The deeply and narrowly pecked line that is the phallus may indicate yet another engraver. Summarizing all these

There are considerable insecurities in comparing physical objects to depictions in rock art because of the medium, the generally downscaled proportions and the abstract nature of the images. Furthermore, objects that are not known from the archaeological record could be depicted. However, the method has been used with some success in the rock art areas of the Alps.19 In fact, Bror Emil Hildebrand, who settled the early discussion about the general dating of Scandinavian rock art by comparing depictions with Bronze Age swords,20 used the method. This demonstrates the merits of comparing depictions to known objects while being aware of its problems. The results of the typological analysis have been published and will not be discussed at length here.21 The

Cf. Horn and Potter 2017. Bertilsson 2018. Müller et al. 2010; Persson and Sjögren 1995; Schulz Paulsson 2010. 25  Ebbessen 1992; Horn and Schenck 2016; Lübke 1997/98. 26  Uckelmann 2012. 27  Laux 2009: 137–138. 22 

Horn and Potter 2017. 18  Horn 2016. 19  Anati 2008; Casini 1994; Lumley and Bégin-Ducornet 1995. 20  Hildebrand 1869. 21  Cf. Horn and Potter 2017. 17 

23  24 

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Figure 3. 3D model (photogrammetry) of the large spear warrior from Finntorp (Tanum 89:1): (a) snapshot, (b) colorized curvature, (c) local relief modelling visualized using a multi-color ramp with indication of the area in which the sword potentially cuts into the outer ring of the shield.

alterations suggests that the image was potentially transformed six to eight times (Figure 2b).

superimpose all other parts and based on their style they were also later additions and could represent the latest phase. The warriors were each possibly transformed two to three times.

The axeman and the two warriors with pronounced knees also show indicators of repeated transformations (Figure 2c-d). The axe of the axeman was reengraved once. The arms are applied in another technique to the rest of the lines. They seem almost to be scratched into the surface. The phallus is cut deeper and somewhat narrower than the leg and the sheath and cuts across the latter. The sheath has a similar chape to that of the spearman. That potentially indicates a period III date. Since the phallus superimposes the legs and the sheath it could mean that the phallus is the latest Bronze Age addition. Potentially, four separate transformations of the figure took place.

The chronology of the canoes on the panel shows that engraving actions took place on the panel in the proposed periods. Four canoes date to the Late Bronze Age, three between periods II to III and the one closest to the spear dates to late period I or early period II.28 The transformations could have been applied when the canoes were added. All transformations represent additions or enhancements. Destruction or eradication cannot be observed and were presumably not intended. Finntorp Tanum 184:1 The panel designated Finntorp Tanum 184:1 contains 11-12 anthropomorphic figures, 13-14 canoes, six animals, two wheels, one cross, over 450 cupmarks and many individual lines. The panel was recorded using SfM (Figure 4a). An older frottage of the lower part of the panel shows a setup of two ships that seem to mirror

One of the warriors with pronounced knees has also a chape like the one of the spearman, suggesting a period III date (Figure 2e-f). The pronounced knees came into being by attaching another pair of legs to the front of a pair of feet. This addition cannot be dated but given that the figures were complete with legs without the transformation, we may assume that some time past until the next engraving. The phalli on both figures

28 

101

Cf. Horn and Potter 2017.

Christian Horn and Rich Potter each other. Similar situations have been interpreted by Fuglestvedt as a ship of the living and a ship of the dead.29 An argument could be made that the one vessel that has humans on board could indicate ‘life’ while the supposed upside-down canoe seems to be empty and represents a mirror image. Therefore, the latter could represent the canoe of the dead. However, using the advantage of a freely rotatable 3D model, a depression between the two canoes become visible by rotating the scene to an isometric view. In fact, the canoes are not mirrored but are located on opposite sides of the depression (Figure 4b). After this discovery, we went back to the photo material for the SfM and discovered that the depression has a blackish-brown discoloration indicating that water runs frequently through it, which is confirmed by a photo taken after rain (Figure 4c). Cupmarks on the bottom of the depression may have disturbed water flows adding to the impression of a stream or water waves. Throughout the Bronze Age fjords were running through the landscape less than 100m away from the scene.30 Previous research has of course already stressed the relation of water and rock art.31 However, here we find that a natural configuration of the rock was transformed into a miniature landscape that could represent a fjord or perhaps a river. The canoes are floating right on top of the water’s edge (Figure 4c). Interestingly, the two canoes represent different chronological phases. The vessel without a crew has a straight keel line and upturned prows without any attachments. These features may suggest a period II date. The other canoe was perhaps applied during period V as indicated by its asymmetry, the upturned keel line and the armed warriors on board.32 This transformed the motif into an antagonistic scene, but by adding on to it, not by destroying or erasing anything.

Figure 4. Rock art panel in Finntorp (Tanum 184:1): (a) snapshot of the 3D model (photogrammetry) of the entire panel, (b) 3D model rotated and zoomed to visualize the channel between the two boats, (c) photo of running water in the channel, the two boats can be seen just above the water’s edge.

Anthropomorphic figures and objects This section will briefly discuss another form of transformation that in its final form shows body parts merging into objects. Frequently, the sword sheath is extended at crotch level. This could be argued to be the sword’s hilt. However, this part frequently has other features like glans, testicles, an upward curve, and is the part penetrating in intercourse scenes.33 Considering these features, it is perhaps better to see this particular depiction as a phallus or a phallus-hilt hybrid. In many cases the human, phallus and weapon could be contemporary. However, recent 3D documentation of a panel in Fossum (Tanum 255:1) has shown that a period

II sword wielded by one human figure was transformed into the hilt-phallus setup described above (Figure 5ab). The possible dating of the axe which the second figure is wielding, suggests that this could have happened already in period II as well.34 Sometimes canoes are in position of the sheath-hiltphallus setup in a process during which a human figure is superimposed on an older canoe or vice versa.35 However, this is a much wider phenomenon. In 157 cases canoes replace body parts like arms, legs, or whole human figures are built up from canoes etc. The

Fuglestvedt 1999. Ling 2014. 31  Bengtsson 2004; Ling 2014; Melheim and Horn 2014. 32  Cf. Ling 2014: 103–104. 33  Fari 2003; Horn 2018. 29  30 

34  35 

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Ling and Bertilsson 2016. Ling and Bertilsson 2016: Fig. 12.

Set in Stone? Transformation and Memory in Scandinavian Rock Art

Figure 5. Detail focusing on the combat scene in Fossum (Tanum 255:1): (a) 3D model snapshot, (b) local relief modelling of the scene visualized using a black-white-color ramp. Detail of the rock art panels in Gisslegärde (Bottna 74:1) and Farläv (Bro 607:3) showing a canoe replacing the phallus and the sword (c) and the arm (d) of warrior figures.

placement is so precise that an accidental placement seems unlikely36.

(Figure 5d). The straight keel line and missing crew of the canoe indicates that there is a time differential.38

Dating these superimpositions and determining their chronology is difficult because as opposed to canoes, human figures are not well dated, and extensive research is missing. However, existing differences in engraving style indicate a time differential between the application of the images. For example, in Gisslegärde (Bottna 74:1) a very chunky figure was applied to a rather delicately engraved canoe (Figure 5c). Another example from Färlev (Bro 607:3), is a warrior with a Hallstatt-style sword sheath possibly dating to period V37 who superimposes an Early Bronze Age canoe

As with the case studies before, destruction and eradication cannot be observed in any of the examples. Rather new images were applied in a manner to use the old images to enhance their own meaning or vice versa.

36  37 

Discussion The described transformations are all different in character and scale. In Finntorp 89, direct additions were used on the microscale sequentially creating a human out of something, i.e. the cupmarks, that might not have been intended to be a human and updating objects, i.e. the spear and the axe (Figure 2). In Finntorp

Cf. Horn 2018. Roymans 1991.

38 

103

Ling 2014: 103.

Christian Horn and Rich Potter 184, first a natural feature was transformed into a miniature landscape, and then the configuration was transformed into an antagonistic scene by adding features to the context (Figure 4). Lastly, we saw the wider phenomenon to add humans to things and using features of prior motifs to replace body-parts by superimposing the two motifs (Figure 5).

these additions and superimpositions may have been very varied, for example initiation rites, pre-war rituals or even fertility rituals. The questions remain, why these transformations happened and how it relates to memory.

In Finntorp 89 it is interesting to observe that it seems like some aspects were repeatedly felt missing or not matching current imagination. This does not seem to have been the case in Finntorp 184. By period II and the application of the first canoe the water in the neighboring valley was still very close, possibly close enough for water travel. That memory may have still been alive by period V when the water had further retracted. After all, the area was still a maritime region important for waterborne mobility.39 In the process of replacing body parts with canoes the examples from Gisslegärde and Färlev but also Tuvene (Tanum 302:1) indicate that in several cases the human figure was added last. More research is necessary to find out whether this is the case in a majority of the examples. However, perhaps it can be suggested following Fuglestvedt’s recent elaboration that the origin of these motifs and their transformation lies in the concrete logic of their contemporary people. In southern Scandinavia during the Bronze Age the visual output of this logic seems mostly to be concerned with activities that are socially important, i.e. warfare and seafaring, which were frequent occurrences judging from the archaeological data for combat and maritime mobility.40

The additions made were respectful towards the older carvings. Destruction or eradication does not seem to have been the motive. The open context of rock art made it a medium hard to control. Most of the images are not connected to palisades like the panel at Madsebakke on Bornholm.42 The manifold additions and transformations described in this paper, but also indicated by the research of others43 demonstrate that the carvings were not sacrosanct and indeed were engaged very frequently. That means they were not untouchable or ‘holy’.

Interpretation

All these features indicate that they were more approachable than images of gods. Based on this, it may be more likely that the rock bear images of daily activities of mortals.44 This is not intended to swing the pendulum of interpretations of rock art back away from ritualistic interpretations,45 but rather to find a middle ground. Those who transformed images and panels were potentially aware that other humans carved those rocks engaging in similar practices. Since the initial engravings were present before the transformation people were perhaps even aware of a rudimentary timeline. This may go along with a reverence for humans that visited these rocks before. In discussing the Sarsen stones, Gillings and Pollard point out that the permanence of stone compared to the fleeting nature of human lives may facilitate knowledge about ancestral presence.46 In the Scandinavian case, the occurrence of older images on the rocks may amplify such beliefs and link them to stories people remembered through oral traditions. Indeed, southern Scandinavian rock art seems to fit the particular temporality which Mark Freeman called ‘mythic time’. Mythic time is something that happened in the past and is anticipated to repeat in the more recent past, the present, and so on.47 This cyclical reoccurrence fits very well with the repetition of motifs and their emergence through transformation out of pre-existing images. The latter seems to synchronize the imagined mythic time with current practices.

The equation of body parts and objects has been described as pragmamorphism. The term is borrowed from physicist and economist Emanuel Derman and means infusing a human body part with the ‘inner essential substance’ of a material object. An example can illustrate the meaning of this term. The modern saying ‘her brain works like a computer’ does not literally mean that her brain works in binary code. Instead we mean an attributed inner essence of computer, i.e. that they are fast. Therefore, equating a human brain with a computer means that that the individual is thought of as a fast thinker. Thus, these superimpositions could aim to infuse warriors or a body part of them with object powers for example, canoe-like momentum.41 The feature that unifies all the described cases, is the use of past images. In neither case is an outright destruction visible. The images new and old enhance each other. There seems to be a sense of respectfulness, but also an inherent transformability, and always a concern for human activity. The specific purposes of

Sørensen 2006. Hauptman Wahlgren 2004; Ling 2014; Ling and Bertilsson 2016; Milstreu 2017. 44  Ling and Cornell 2010. 45  Kristiansen 2012. 46  Gillings and Pollard 1999. 47  Freeman 1998. 42  43 

See Nimura 2015. See for example Horn 2013; Ling 2014. 41  Cf. Horn 2018. 39  40 

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Consequently, rock art may have served as a form of lieux de memoire as deliberately as Pierre Nora suggested they should be used in modern times.48 In that sense, the images reminded visitors of humans who were by the rocks before them perhaps in a mythic time. However, as Jan Assmann has pointed out, memory is not stored in lieux de memoire whether they are monuments or images. Whoever visits these places cannot readily read the memories of those who made the images. However, the images have a content because they are figurative. They may have conveyed the gist of stories potentially also transmitted by oral traditions linked to important activities that made the rock art gathering places.49 Paul Connerton50 stresses the bodily dimension of memories. In his sense, daily activities, and routine action shape memory. In Finntorp 89, the spear may have conveyed the gist of a story of action in warfare and the memories of past violent encounters, which later observers were familiar with through personal experience. Similarly, the presence of a canoe along flowing water on the rock in Finntorp 184 was perhaps relatable because past individuals recognized the kind of depicted landscape and activity. Possibly, these activities consisted mainly of seafaring, warfare, or raiding, i.e. establishing warrior identities.51

the ideals, identities, and ideologies present in each generation.54 Conclusion Based on the described and discussed transformations, it is possible to provide an answer to the question in the title whether rock art was ‘set in stone’. The answer is no. On the contrary, rock art and memories were not set in stone, both were not stable throughout time and the images we see today were not pre-conceived. This also means that wholesale interpretations of rock art remain even more problematic. However, it would also be problematic to claim that the images and their meaning were free floating. Each image, each transformation, each story, and myth streamline the next transformation of an image. The myths and past activities kept cultural memories in a general line anchored in the landscape. By so doing, the rock art was potentially reinforcing social values. References Anati, E. 2008. The way of life recorded in the rock art of Valcamonica. Adoranten 7: 13–35. Bengtsson, L. 2004. Bilder vid vatten. Göteborg, Institutionen för arkeologi. Bertilsson, U., Ling, J., Bertilsson, C., Potter, R. and Horn, C. 2017. The Kivik tomb - Bredarör enters into the digital arena - documented with OLS, SfM and RTI. New Perspectives on the Bronze Age. Proceedings from the 13th Nordic Bronze Age Symposium, held in Gothenburg 9th June to 13th June 2015, edited by S. Bergerbrant and A. Wessmann. Oxford, Archaeopress: 289-305. Bertilsson, U., 2018. ‘In the Beginning There Was the Spear’. Digital Documentation Sheds New Light on Early Bronze Age Spear Carvings from Sweden. Prehistoric Warfare and Violence. Quantitative and Qualitative Approaches, edited by A. Dolfini, R.J. Crellin, C. Horn, M. Uckelmann. Springer, Cham: 129–148. Bradley, R. 2009. Image and Audience. Rethinking Prehistoric Art. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Casini, S. 1994. Le pietre degli dei. Menhir e stele dell’età del Rame in Valcamonica e Valtellina. [Sant’Agostino - Città Alta - Bergamo, 20 marzo - 17 luglio 1994]. Bergamo, Centro Culturale Nicolò Rezzara. Connerton, P. 2010. How societies remember. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Cultural Heritage Imaging 2013. Reflectance Transformation Imaging. Available at: http:// culturalheritageimaging.org/Technologies/RTI/ index.html (accessed 5 February 2016). Ebbesen, K., 1992. Tragtbærerkulturens dolkstave. Aarbøger for Nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie 1992: 103–136.

By updating, transforming, and enhancing the images, memories can be maintained, shaped, and controlled. Past individuals may have tried to make the images more readable and more relatable for their own times accommodating current beliefs, social institutions, and the lived environment. Meanwhile, they were engaging with ancestors or even named individuals like heroes to ‘tap into’ their powers and their repeated engagement constitutes a ritual practice. Superimposing a canoe image with a warrior may, therefore, be a ritual action in order to infuse an individual or individuals with the powers attributed to canoes, for example speed, powerfulness or momentum.52 The procedural transformation of two cupmarks into a human figure in Finntorp 89 could also reflect an emerging myth that was not previously present in the region or at least not expressed in rock art,53 but was believed to be present at the point of transforming the rock art. Similarly, the addition of the period V canoe with armed warriors on board may have transformed the scene to accommodate an emerging myth or a recently experienced violent encounter. It is the active creation and procedural transformation of a mythic time that then preempts

Nora 1996. Bradley 2009, Ling 2014; 2013. 50  Connerton 2010. 51  Ling and Cornell 2017. 52  Horn 2018; Ling and Cornell 2010. 53  For other narratological approaches see Fredell 2003; Kaul 2004; Rédei et al. 2018. 48  49 

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Christian Horn and Rich Potter Fari, C.H. 2003. Hieros-Gamos. Helleristningstradisjon og myteverdenen i det østlige middelhavsområdet. Oslo Arkeologiske Serie 5. Fredell, Å. 2009. The Kalleby Experiment. Rock art and rock art panels as architechture. Making History of Prehistory. The Role of Rock Art, edited by Emmanuel Anati. Capo di Ponte, Centro camuno di studi preistorici. Fredell, Å. 2003. Bildbroar. Figurativ bildkommunikation av ideologi och kosmologi under sydskandinavisk bronsålder och förromersk järnålder. GOTARC. Serie B, Gothenburg archaeological thesis 25. Göteborg, Institutionen för arkeologi. Fredell, Å. 2010. A Mo(ve)ment in Time. A Comparative Study of a Rock-Picture theme in Galicia and Bohuslän. Representations and Communications. Creating an Archaeological Matrix of Late Prehistoric Rock Art, edited by Å. Fredell, K. Kristiansen and F. Criado Boado. Oxford, Oxbow Books: 52-74. Freeman, M. 1998. Mythical Time, Historical Time, and The Narrative Fabric of the Self. Narrative Inquiry 8 (1): 27–50. Fuglestvedt, I. 1999. Adorants, voltigeurs and other mortals. An essay on rock art and the human body. Rock art as social representation, edited by J. Goldhahn. Oxford, Archaeopress: 76–100. Fuglestvedt, I. 2018. Rock Art and the Wild Mind. Visual Imagery in Mesolithic Northern Europe. New York, Routledge. Gillings, M. and Pollard, J. 1999. Non‐portable stone artefacts and contexts of meaning. The tale of Grey Wether (www. museums. ncl. ac. uk/Avebury/ stone4. htm). World Archaeology 31(2): 179–193. Goldhahn, J. 2013. Bredarör på Kivik–en arkeologisk odyssé. Kalmar, Artes Liberales. Hauptman Wahlgren, K. 2004. Switching images on and off. Rock carving practices and meaning in Bronze Age life-world. Prehistoric pictures as archaeological source, edited by G. Milstreu and L. Bengtsson. Tanumshede, Tanums Hällristningsmuseum: 149165 Horn, C., 2013. Weapons, fighters and combat. Spears and swords in Early Bronze Age Scandinavia. Danish Journal of Archaeology 2 (1): 20–44. Horn, C. 2016. Cupmarks. Adoranten 2015: 29–43. Horn, C. and R. Potter 2017. Transforming the Rocks. Time and Rock Art in Bohuslän, Sweden. European Journal of Archaeology 63: 361-384. Horn, C. 2018. Fast like a war canoe. Pragmamorphism in Scandinavian rock. Prehistoric Warfare and Violence. Quantitative and Qualitative Approaches, edited by A. Dolfini, R.J. Crellin, C. Horn and M. Uckelmann. Cham, Springer: 109–127. Horn, C., Schenck, T., 2016. Zum Ursprung der Stabdolche und stabdolchartiger Waffen in Europa. Praehistorische Zeitschrift 91 (1): 16–41.

Jones, A., A. Cochrane, M. Diaz-Guardamino, C. Carter, I. Dawson and E. Kotoula 2015. Digital imaging and prehistoric imagery. A new analysis of the Folkton Drums. Antiquity 89(347): 1083–1095. Kaul, F. 2004. Bronzealderens religion. Studier af den nordiske bronzealders ikonografi. Copenhagen, Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab. Kneisel, J., A. Hinz and C. Rinne 2014. Radon-B. Available at. http://radon-b.ufg.uni-kiel.de (accessed 10 May 2017). Kristiansen, K. 2012. Rock art and religion. the sun journey in Indo-European mythology and Bronze Age rock art. Adoranten: 69-86. Laux, F. 2009. Die Schwerter in Niedersachsen. Stuttgart, Franz Steiner Verlag. Ling, J. 2013. Rock art and seascapes in Uppland. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Ling, J. 2014. Elevated rock art. Towards a maritime understanding of Bronze Age rock art in northern Bohuslan, Sweden. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Ling, J. and Bertilsson, U. 2016. Biography of the Fossum Panel. Adoranten 2015: 1–16. Ling, J. and Cornell, P. 2010. Rock art as secondary agent? Society and agency in Bronze Age Bohuslän. Norwegian Archaeological Review 43(1): 26–43. Ling, J. and Cornell, P. 2017. Violence, Warriors, and Rock Art in Bronze Age Scandinavia. Feast, Famine or Fighting?, edited by R.J. Chacon and R.G. Mendoza. Cham, Springer International Publishing: 15-33. Lübke, H., 1997/98. Die dicken Flintspitzen aus SchleswigHolstein-Ein Beitrag zur Typologie und Chronologie eines Großgerätetyps der Trichterbecherkultur. Offa 54/55: 49–95. Lumley, H. de, and Bégin-Ducornet, J. 1995. Le grandiose et le sacré. Aix-en-Provence, Edisud. Malzbender, T., Gelb, D., Wolters, H. and Zuckerman, B. 2000. Enhancement of Shape Perception by Surface Reflectance Transformation. Tech. Rep. HPL- 2000-38R1. Palo Alto, Hewlett-Packard Laboratories. Malzbender, T., Gelb, D., Wolters, H. and Zuckerman, B. 2004. Enhancement of Shape Perception by Surface Reflectance Transformation. Vision, Modeling and Visualization, edited by H.-P. Seidel and M. Magnor. Amsterdam, IOS Press. Meijer, E. 2016. Structure from Motion as documentation technique for Rock Art. Adoranten 2015: 66-73. Melheim, L. and Horn, C. 2014. Tales of Hoards and Swordfighters in Early Bronze Age Scandinavia. The Brand New and the Broken. Norwegian Archaeological Review 47(1): 18–41. Milstreu, G. 2017. Re-cut rock art images (with special emphasis on ship carvings). New Perspectives on the Bronze Age. Proceedings from the 13th Nordic Bronze Age Symposium, held in Gothenburg 9th June to 13th June 2015, edited by S. Bergerbrant and A. Wessmann. Oxford, Archaeopress: 281-287.

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Mudge, M., Voutas, J.P., Schroer, C. and Lum, M. 2005. Reflection Transformation Imaging and virtual representations of coins from the hospice of the Grand St. Bernard. The 6th International Symposium on Virtual Reality, Archaeology and Cultural Heritage VAST, edited by M. Mudge, N. Ryan and R. Scopigno. Goslar, Eurographics Association: 195-202. Müller, J., Brozio, J.-P., Demnick, D., Dibbern, H., Fritsch, B., Furholt, M., Hage, F., Hinz, M., Lorenz, L., Mischka, D. and Rinne, C.R., 2010. Periodisierung der Trichterbecher-Gesellschaften. Ein Arbeitsentwurf. Journal of Neolithic Archaeology: 1–6. Nelson, K., 2003. Self and social functions. individual autobiographical memory and collective narrative. Memory 11 (2): 125–136. Nilsson, P. 2012. The beauty is in the act of the beholder. South Scandinavian rock art from a uses of the past perspective. Encountering imagery. Materialities, perceptions, relations, edited by I.-M. Back Danielsson, F. Fahlander and Y. Sjöstrand. Stockholm, Stockholm University: 77-96. Nimura, C. 2015. Prehistoric rock art in Scandinavia. Agency and environmental change. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Nora, P. 1996. Realms of memory. Rethinking the French past. New York, Chichester, Columbia University Press. Nordbladh, J. 1981. Knowledge and information in swedish petroglyph documentation. Similar finds? Similar interpretations?. Glastonbury - Gothenburg

- Gotland ; nine essays, edited by C.-A. Moberg. Gothenburg, University of Gothenburg: G1-G79. Olsen, J., K. Margrethe Hornstrup, J. Heinemeier, P. Bennike and H. Thrane 2011. Chronology of the Danish Bronze Age based on 14C dating of cremated bone remains. Radiocarbon 53(2): 261. Persson, P., Sjögren, K.-G., 1995. Radiocarbon and the chronology of Scandinavian Megalithic graves. Journal of European Archaeology 3 (2): 59–88. Rédei, A.C., Skoglund, P., Persson, T. 2018. Applying cartosemiotics to rock art. An example from Aspeberget, Sweden. Social Semiotics: 1–14. Roymans, N. 1991. Late urnfield societies in the northwestern European Plain and expanding networks of Central European Hallstatt groups. Images of the Past. Studies on Ancient Societies in Northwestern Europe, edited by N. Roymans and F. Theuws. Amsterdam, Van Giffen-Instituut: 9-89. Schulz Paulsson, B. 2010. Scandinavian models. radiocarbon dates and the origin and spreading of passage graves in Sweden and Denmark. Radiocarbon 52 (3): 1002–1017. Sørensen, P.Ø. 2006. Arkæologiske udgravninger ved de bornholmske helleristningsklipper Madsebakke og Ll. Strandbygård. Adoranten: 64–73. Uckelmann, M. 2012. Die Schilde der Bronzezeit in Nord-, West- und Zentraleuropa. Stuttgart, Franz Steiner Verlag.

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Art and Practices of Memory, Space and Landscapes in the Roman World Anne Gangloff

Univ Rennes, CNRS, Ministère de la culture et de la communication, CReAAH, UMR 6566, F-35000 Rennes, France ; Institut universitaire de France [email protected].

The filmmaker Rithy Pan, whose entire career is devoted to exploring the memory of the genocide perpetrated by the Khmer Rouge between 1975 and 1979, sought in his latest film, Les tombeaux sans noms (2019), to appropriate the landscape where his family was buried anonymously, and to build a landscape bearing the traces of the dead, to appease their souls. The link between landscape and memory seems to be a constant in all cultures. This link was very strong in Greco-Roman Antiquity: we know of the existence of sacred landscapes, battle landscapes or city museum like Athens during the imperial period. In this paper, my aim is to offer, as an introduction to further research, a general reflection on memory and landscape in Roman Antiquity, and especially on the links between these two notions. I would like to discuss some of the main approaches which have been used to explore these notions, and to highlight the core issues. I wish to point out first the close relationship between memory and places in Rome, and then examine the different concepts that can be used to explore this theme in Roman Antiquity, starting with the notion of ’place of memory‘, particularly developed in French and German research. I will then consider the notion of ’memorial landscape‘ or ’landscape of memory‘, its contributions and the questions it raises. I will not deal here, with the notion of ’sensitive landscape‘ which has generated a lot of research in recent times, because I would like to focus my reflection on the question of reading landscapes. Memory, space and landscape in Rome The sociologist M. Halbwachs has shown convincingly how memories, in order to live on, must be physically anchored, especially to spatial references.1 The spatialization of memory was self-evident to the inhabitants of the Roman world, as several famous texts describe sites that evoke figures from the past or ancient customs, facets of the history, culture and identity of a people.2 1  2 

Halbwachs 1941: 58; Assman 2010: 34-35; Halbwachs 1950: 184. See Baroin 2010: 221-230; Spencer 2010.

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 108–117

The ‘evocative power’ of sites in Roman antiquity is showcased at the beginning of book 5 of Cicero’s De Finibus: ‘Thereupon Piso remarked: Whether it is a natural instinct (Naturane) or a mere illusion, I can’t say: but one’s emotions are more strongly aroused by seeing the places that tradition records to have been the favourite resort of men of note in former days, than by hearing about their deeds or reading their writings. My own feelings at the present moment are a case in point. I am reminded of Plato (Venit autem mihi Platonis in mentem), the first philosopher, so we are told, that made a practice of holding discussions in this place; and indeed the garden close at hand yonder not only recalls his memory but seems to bring the actual man before my eyes (non memoriam solum mihi afferunt, sed ipsum uidentur in conspectu meo ponere). This was the haunt of Speusippus, of Xenocrates, and of Xenocrates’ pupil Polemo, who used to sit on the very seat we see over there. For my own part even the sight of our senatehouse at home (I mean the Curia Hostilia, not the present new building, which looks to my eyes smaller since its enlargement) used to call up to me thoughts of (intuens) Scipio, Cato, Laelius, and chief of all, my grandfather; such powers of suggestion do places possess (tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis). No wonder the scientific training of the memory is based upon locality.’ (De Fin. 5.2, trans. H. Rackham [LCL]). This passage describes the process of recollection (admonitio), closely linked to imagination. This process is seen as innate (natura) by the speaker M. Pupius Piso Calpurnianus, who was a cultured aristocrat also known to be a good speaker.3 Using the image of the spatial context to which it had affixed characters, the memory can retrieve the image of the latter and conjure them presently (in mentem venire, affere). This power of evocation of sites allows the mind to re-present at once, visually (in conspectu meo ponere, intuens), the memories attached to a spatial context.4 Piso associates the development of mnemonics based on loci to memory’s

3  4 

Cicero, Brutus, 67.236; see Martha 1967: 103. Baroin 2005: 199-214.

Art and Practices of Memory, Space and Landscapes in the Roman World

natural faculty of producing images in a space and from a space.

All these texts make use of two types of memory according to the distinction established by Aleida and Jan Assmann, who have both developed a theory of cultural and communicative memory since the 1990s. Their works are very useful for reflecting on the role of memory in cultural development: on the one hand we have ‘communication memory’ – a recent memory which provides the cultural context allowing three generations to recognize themselves and communicate - and, on the other hand, ‘cultural memory’, based on cultural codifications that confer meaning to objects and on institutionalized mnemonics.9 These two types of memory obey the same physical and spatial laws of recollection, and both are at work in De domo sua as well as in Titus Livius: we see that they work together and are linked, the communicative memory being, so to speak, assimilated and subsumed by the cultural memory on which the group’s membership is based in the long term: thus the recent shine of Manlius’s exploit at the Capitol is tarnished by the shameful memory of Tarpeia, who in Romulus’ time had delivered the city to the Sabines (the Tarpeian rock was situated at the south-west end of the Capitol). In the De finibus, Cicero discusses mainly cultural memory, which is the basis of an identity that is simultaneously Greek and Roman: in his era, Athens had become a ‘realm of memory’.10

In this passage Piso, who was consul in 61 BC, also highlights the political implications of the places’ power of recollection by associating the context of the Curia Hostilia with great politicians of the past.5 The Roman power was well aware of such implications: the senatusconsultum de Cn. Piso patre, dated December 10, 20 AD, ordered, besides other marks of infamy concerning the statues and imagines of Cn. Piso, or his name, that the curators of public places demolished constructions which he had erected above the Fontinalis gate to join private houses together.6 This measure is further clarified by Cicero’s reflections in De domo sua, 100102: the houses of great politicians, in whose atrium ancestors’ portraits evoked the family’s glory, were personal, familial and civic places of memory.7 This text, just like the senatus-consultum regarding Cn. Piso, shows that the destruction of aristocratic houses could be a form of what modern scholars called damnatio memoriae. It refers to official and public procedures that visually bound for all the inhabitants of Rome the modification of the urban landscape and the writing of Roman history, which was memorial and virtuous. Indeed, under the Republic the sum of the memories of the great Roman families was an essential component of the Memory of Rome. This means we can generalize from Piso’s remark on a place’s natural power of evocation: this natural property was not only true for an elite accustomed to cultural tourism, it worked for all Romans. This is clear in Livy’s text on the death sentence of the Marcus Manlius mentioned by Cicero, where the political significance of the close connection between place and memory in Rome is also highlighted. Marcus Manlius Capitolinus had heroically defended the Capitol against the Gauls in 390 BC, then taken the side of the impoverished Roman plebs, for which he was accused in 385 BC of aspiring to be a tyrant: the tribunes, however, were not able to condemn him, as long as the people could look at the Capitol.8

In the Roman world, the art of memory evoked by Piso rested on sites (topoi, loci), and in particular on topographies. The artes memoriae are quite well known to us thanks to several rhetorical treatises, Rhetorica ad Herennium, Cicero’s De oratore and Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria.11 These techniques taught how to place images of words or things that were to be remembered in concrete, real or imagined places.12 A house, monuments, paths, urban and artistic landscapes could therefore be evoked to fix the discourse. These places had to be organised so that the speaker, by mentally browsing the itinerary he had produced for himself, could retrieve, as he proceeded, the things or the words placed in these sites. There is therefore a structural link between the importance of

5  Baroin 2010: 222, 224-229. See Coarelli 19922: 234 about the changes caused by the new building of the curia’s after 81 BC. 6  CIL, II2, 5, 900 (AE, 1996: 885). 7  Baroin 1998; Guilhembet 2016. 8  Livy, 6.20.9-12: ‘And after rehearsing his services in war, in a speech as magnificent as the height of his achievements and equaling his deeds with its words, he is said to have bared his breast, marked with the scars of battle, and gazing steadily at the Capitol to have called on Jupiter and the other gods to help him, that they might inspire the Roman People in his hour of danger with the same spirit they had given him when he defended the Capitoline Hill; and to have implored the Romans one and all to fix their eyes on the Capitol and Citadel, and turn to the immortal gods while they judged him. In the Campus Martius, when the people were being called by centuries, and the defendant, stretching forth his hands to the Capitol, had turned from men to make his prayers to the gods, the tribunes clearly saw that unless they could also emancipate men’s eyes from the associations of so glorious a deed, no accusation, however true, could ever find lodgment in their grateful hearts. And so they adjourned

the day of trial and appointed a council of the people to meet in the Peteline Wood outside the Flumentane Gate, whence no prospect of the Capitol was afforded. There they made good their charge; men steeled their hearts and pronounced a dolorous judgment, abhorrent to the very ones who rendered it. Some authorities assert that he was condemned by duumvirs appointed to deal with a charge of treason. The tribunes flung him from the Tarpeian Rock, and the same spot served to commemorate extraordinary fame and the extremity of punishment, as experienced by the selfsame man.’ (trans. B. O. Foster [LCL]). 9  Assmann 20094; Assmann 1992 and 2010. 10  Pernot 2005. 11  Rhet. Her., 3.28-40; Cic., De or., 2.350-360; Quint., Inst. or., 11.2; Yates 1966; Carruthers 1990; Coleman 1992; Baroin 2007: 153-155; Baroin 2010: 202-230. 12  Rhet. Her., 3.29; Quint., Inst. or., 11.2.18-22.

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Anne Gangloff places in Latin mnemonics and their importance in individual and collective Roman memories.13

However, two different problems arise: on the one hand, the fate of Pierre Nora’s realms of memory and their inventor’s disappointment; on the other hand, the limits of the application of this modern notion in the ancient world, which must be taken into account.

The specialist of Roman religion John Scheid, in his study of Plutarch’s Roman Questions, presented an attractive theory according to which the organizing structure of the work was built on Rome’s topography:14 Plutarch’s book allows us ‘to restore an urban landscape in which the memory of the great institutions and events were already inscribed, as it unravelled in the 2nd century AD’. Scheid suggests his readers take a walk, to perambulate, Plutarch’s text in hand, in the neighbourhood between the Roman Forum, the Forum Boarium and the Circus Maximus. To explain why Plutarch staged the urban landscape without stating he did so explicitly, Scheid develops the idea that the work may have functioned like ‘a landscape of memory’, borrowing Susan Alcock’s expression landscapes of memory.15 The places and monuments described by Plutarch were well known to the Empire’s Greek and Roman elites (Scheid assumes that Plutarch may have written the Roman Questions for the young people who came to be taught by him and whom he evokes in the Pythian Dialogues), and immediately evoked great moments in the history of Rome or of its institutions. The urban landscape of Rome was therefore used by Plutarch to organize a knowledge on ancient customs and institutions, on the mos maiorum which constituted the heart of Roman culture.

We must begin by recalling Pierre Nora’s aim when he conceived the realms of memory, and how this notion eluded its creator to take on a life of its own. The notion of ‘realm of memory’ is the product of a reflection by the French historian on the relationship between history and memory. His starting point is that we live in a society which has lost memory’s traditional vectors and that there is now a discrepancy between society and memory. Nora stresses the multiplication of archives, commemorations, exhibitions that replace a true physical representation of memory, in order to palliate the fact that our society ‘no longer inhabits its memory’, that it no longer has any direct and immediate relationship with it. Hence his project, developed between 1978 and 1992, to write a new national history of France, attuned with modern society, because it is founded on realms of memory that are at the same time physical (like an archive), functional (as a class textbook), or symbolic (like a national holiday or a ritual). These realms of memory are always characterized by a will and effort to remember, as well as by their evolution in time: this is mentioned by Nora, but this evolving dimension is ambiguous, because the historian also speaks of petrification, i.e. the meaning of a realm of memory become more and more rigid.19 Nora was rapidly overwhelmed by his own creation, and in the second French edition of Les Lieux de mémoire, which dates back to 1997, he expressed his dismay at the swift and widespread usage of his concept to support the most varied memorial claims. This re-use of the concept has given rise to excesses which he regrets.20

As the philosopher Paul Ricœur suggests, there may be a link between our contemporary debates on ‘places of memory’ (or realms of memory as in the English abridged translation of Pierre Nora’s work) and the ancient art of memory.16 Places of Memory and other concepts As memory and spatialization were closely knit in antiquity, using the notion of places of memory in ancient history from the perspectives of cultural history and memory studies has already been very fruitful, something I already mentioned in the introduction to the collective work I edited on the places of memory in the Greek East during the imperial era [Lieux de mémoire en Orient grec à l’époque impériale].17 I will only mention one example here, the two volumes on realms of memory in antiquity, Errinerungsorte der Antike, one on Rome and the other on Greece, which were published in Germany in 2006 and 2010 by Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp and Elke Stein-Hölkeskamp.18

If we now consider the application of the modern notion of ‘realm of memory’ to the ancient world, there are limits to this process which one must be aware of: 1.

2.

Alcock 2002: 21; Gowing 2005: 17; Baroin 2010: 230. Scheid 2012: 12. Scheid 2012: 150-154. 16  Ricœur 2000: 73-78, part. 75. 17  Gangloff 2013. 18  Hölkeskamp and Stein Hölkeskamp 2006 and 2010.

the deconstruction of ‘memorial-societies’ and that of the relationship between history and memory, on which Nora based his notion of ‘realms of memory’, are not relevant to ancient societies.21 Furthermore, this concept cannot, of course, be used to write a history of nations in antiquity.

13  14 

Nora 1984, xxiv. Jéquier 2013: 23-33. 21  Nora 1984, xvii-xviii, xxiv-xv. On history and memory in Antiquity, Gowing 2005: 1-27, part. 11-15.

15 

19  20 

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3.

4.

It is however very useful for reflecting on the notions of ‘collective identities’ or even ‘homeland’,22 based on three essential points that define places of memory for Nora:23 the symbolic and collective dimension, the willingness to remember, which often goes hand in hand with the commemorative function, and the passage of time. It is also a very open concept, which has been criticized for being a ‘catch-all’ concept,24 since realms of memory can be men or events, monuments, actual sites, etc. It must also be pointed out here that, in a restricted sense, in terms of geographical and physical locations, places of memory are particularly adapted to research on memory in Roman antiquity because of the substantial connection which existed for the Romans themselves between loci and memory, as mentioned previously. This notion may seem too static, and I think that this drawback is due to the relationship between realms of memory and heritage, including, in the background, the modern excesses of memorial and patrimonial commemorations (it is also due to the discrepancy between society and memory, history and memory, which Nora emphasized for our modern societies but which is not valid for Antiquity). The issue of heritage management is always dual: heritage must be preserved and valued, and the management of heritage always oscillates between sanctuarization and modernization tendencies. Maybe the tendency to preserve, to petrify, is more pronounced in Nora’s concept because the historian proposed to inventory remains (restes).25

the interpretation of sacred landscape.27 Moreover, the term patrimonium existed in Latin and meant ‘family property’. It is used figuratively in Cicero, in De domo sua, 147, to refer to the family’s symbolic capital (in the sense that the name and the memory of Cicero will be a sufficient ‘inheritance’ for his children). What other notions, ancient or modern, can be used to reflect on the relationship between physical space and memory? There is an interesting notion that was introduced in the early 80’s (before Nora’s realms of memory) by the geographer Joel Bonnemaison in his article ‘A journey throughout the land’.28 The geosymbol is defined as ‘a place, a route, an area that, for religious, political or cultural reasons, takes on a symbolic dimension in the eyes of certain peoples and ethnic groups, which strengthens them in their identity’. By stating that there is a specificity of space that varies with each civilization, Bonnemaison champions a cultural approach in geography in order to find ‘the wealth and depth of the relationship that unites man and places’. He distinguishes three levels in the analysis of space: 1) objective space, that of structures, 2) the space experienced, which he calls ‘space-movement’, made of all the usual places and paths of a group or an individual, and 3) cultural space, culture being defined as a ‘bundle of values tied in a territorial space’. According to him ‘territories, places and, beyond, the landscape can only be understood with reference to a cultural universe’.29 Such an approach explains, for example, why certain buildings survived in late Antiquity to structure the landscape, such as hippodromes, and others did not, like theatres.

Can we use the concept of heritage for the ancient world, when memorial tourism was already in place? Indeed, there existed since the end of the Republic a wellknown cultural tourism, to cities like Athens or Troy, or to visit extraordinary phenomena such as the singing colossus of Memnon in Thebes in Egypt. Battlefields in particular were visited by educated tourists: Plutarch visited Bedriacum, which was the setting for Othon’s defeat against Vitellius in 69 AD, and for Vitellius’ defeat against Antonius Primus, Vespasian’s lieutenant; and Pausanias travelled through the plain of Marathon.26 Religious tourism was also highly developed: there were guided tours in famous sanctuaries like Delphi, in Pausanias’ time (second half of the 2nd century AD) and the itineraries which could be reconstructed influenced

In the Roman cultural universe, there is a very important notion that clarifies the relation between space, memory and man, which is expressed by the Latin word monumentum. Its narrow meaning is grave marker, and its broader meaning refers for instance to any memorial testimony (moneo). Sabine Lefebvre, in a book entitled Monumenta. From the centre of power to the borders of the Empire30, led a collective reflection on the use of monumentum to define the Roman empire according to a triple dimension, spatial, historical and political.31 This research is part of the Monumenta program, ‘Written and figurative traces of memory in the Roman world’, which is in place since 2010 in France and has already given rise to several colloquiums and collective works, notably on the inscription of these ‘traces of memory’ in space.32 At the Lille international colloquium in September 2013, in an introductory

Berns, von Hesberg, Vandeput and Waelkens 2002; Sébillote-Cuchet 2006. 23  Nora 1984, xxiv. 24  Jéquier 2013. 25  Nora 1984, xxiv. 26  Plutarchus, Galba, 14; Pausanias, 1.32.3-5.

Jacquemin 2013. Bonnemaison 1981. 29  Bonnemaison 1981: 256-257. 30  Dijon 2014. 31  Lefebvre 2014. 32  Benoist, Daguet-Gagey and Hoët-van Cauwenberghe 2016; Estienne and Guilhembet, forthcoming. 27 

22 

28 

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Anne Gangloff lecture, Thomas Späth proposed to shift the emphasis from ‘places’ to ‘memorial acts’, and to question the human and social practices that control our figurations of the past.33

– Roman urbanism, from the censorial decision to ‘empty’ overcrowded public squares or to restore damaged monuments, to the ambitious urbanistic program of certain emperors such as Augustus, Nero, Vespasian, Trajan, and so on and so forth. At the same time, we can mention imperial acts of euergetism to help provincial cities restore buildings or rebuild after disasters like earthquakes or a war.

The emphasis on human, social, political and economic practices appears to be the main epistemological benefit of the concept of landscape, which can be defined, according to the landscape archaeology approach, as the historical product of continuous interactions between man and his environment.34 The notion of landscape is a dynamic concept that highlights human action: it allows us to wonder about how a landscape can be constructed to support memory, how it can be organized and interpreted around a geosymbol, or how the landscape evolves at the same time as the memory which it supports. For the ancient world, we are indebted to the archaeologist Susan Alcock, who already in 2002, in her book Archaeologies of the Greek past, landscape, monuments, and memories, had suggested the study of an ‘archaeology of memory’. She had stressed the evolution of monuments and sites, depending on human activities related to commemoration processes.35

Some major trends underlie these memorial practices, like the Roman will to physically inscribe their mastery of conquered spaces after victories, or their inclination to rebuild rather than destroy: Charles Davoine’s recent thesis on the perception of ruins in the Roman Empire showed that the Romans did not like ruins which they associated with death and degradation. On the contrary, they preferred rebuilding, which reminded them of the golden age, a theme put forward in the imperial discourse.38 It is also worthwhile to consider local memorial practices that are more difficult to understand, such as the metagraphè, which consists in replacing one name by another in an inscription. This practice, combined with the damnatio memoriae, was denounced by several representatives of the imperial Hellenism of the end of the first century and in the second century AD, even if in Athens, for example, it seems to have happened mainly towards the end of the Hellenistic period. Concretely, this practice did not dramatically alter the urban landscape: just like the damnatio memoriae, which often displayed the punishment, the past was not abolished; the present was inscribed over or in the past, allowing the latter to be seen. Nevertheless, for Dio of Prusa, Favorinus and Pausanias, because the metagraphè changed memory it modified the reading of the urban landscape: towards 70 AD, the sophist Dio of Prusa accused with exaggeration the Rhodian notables of betraying the Greek identity of their city, so famous for its statues, by re-engraving certain statues with the names of Roman benefactors.39

Memory practices and landscape readings The regressive analysis of landscapes, which is the remit of the archaeology of ancient landscapes, must go hand in hand with the understanding of memorial practices in antiquity. And if one wishes to pursue this argument to its logical conclusion, this analysis also includes the perception by the inhabitants of the Roman world of their landscape (which is not simple as the Roman world, regardless of its centralized state, was conceived as a plurality of peoples and cultures). It may seem anachronistic to speak of ‘memorial politics’ for the Roman world, because centralized decisions concerned only a limited number of elements, including: – The damnatio or abolitio memoriae, which imposed the removal of the condemned man’s name, the destruction of his statues or houses.36 – The erection of trophies, the construction of triumphal arches to mark a victory, and even a trophy-city like Nicopolis, founded by Octavian/ Augustus to commemorate his victory at Actium on September 2, 31 BC, but also to show the Greek world his desire to include it in his vision of a reconciled empire.37

It is difficult to approach the question of the ancient readings of the landscape other than through the testimonies of the cultured elites. A good example of the kind of landscape interpretations they engaged in is provided by the geographer Pausanias, who described Greece in the second century AD by creating ‘landscapes of memory’, through a selection of described monuments. Jacquemin, describing the ‘painful realisation’ by archaeologists that ‘the monuments to which they devoted so much care and time are ignored in the literary tradition’, wondered about Pausanias’ silence regarding the sanctuary of Apollo

Späth 2016. Cambi and Terrenato 20079: 101-107. Even the modern geographical definitions of landscape seem to be close to the definition of the environment or the space experienced. 35  Alcock 2002: 21-32. 36  Flower 2006; Benoist 2007 and 2008. 37  Guerber 2013 ; Hoët van Cauwenbergue - Kantiréa 2013. 33  34 

38  39 

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Davoine 2015; Colpo 2010. Dion, Or., XXXI. Platt 2007: 251; Gangloff 2013: 304-326.

Art and Practices of Memory, Space and Landscapes in the Roman World

Figure 1. Ekklesiasterion of the temple of Isis, Pompeii.

in Delphi, which witnessed in the second century AD ‘a scholarly perambulation of Greeks anxious to relive their past and of Romans eager to share their culture’, and she has highlighted in the geographer’s work the process of reconstruction of memory, which sometimes ignores traces or interprets them in the perspective of a scholarly and moralized history.40

to behold this vision has ever got any good from it, but the spirits are not wroth with such as in ignorance chance to be spectators. The Marathonians worship both those who died in the fighting, calling them heroes, and secondly Marathon, from whom the parish derives its name, and then Heracles, saying that they were the first among the Greeks to acknowledge him as a god. They say too that there chanced to be present in the battle a man of rustic appearance and dress. Having slaughtered many of the foreigners with a plough he was seen no more after the engagement. When the Athenians made enquiries at the oracle the god merely ordered them to honour Echetlaeus as a hero. A trophy too of white marble has been erected. Although the Athenians assert that they buried the Persians, because in every case the divine law applies that a corpse should be laid under the earth, yet I could find no grave. There was neither mound nor other trace to be seen, as the dead were carried to a trench and thrown in anyhow (ἐς ὄρυγμα δὲ φέροντες σφᾶς ὡς τύχοιεν, ἐσέβαλον).’ (Paus. 1.32.3-5, trans. W. H. S. Jones [LCL]).

We can take for example Pausanias’ description of Marathon, in which we recognise the ‘cultural space’ Bonnemaison suggested to geographers as the ultimate level of research: ‘There is a parish called Marathon, equally distant from Athens and Carystus in Euboea. It was at this point in Attica that the foreigners landed, were defeated in battle, and lost some of their vessels as they were putting off from the land. On the plain is the grave of the Athenians, and upon it are slabs giving the name of the killed according to their tribes; and there is another grave for the Boeotian Plataeans and for the slaves, for slaves fought then for the first time by the side of their masters. There is also a separate monument to one man, Miltiades, the son of Cimon, although his end came later, after he had failed to take Paros and for this reason had been brought to trial by the Athenians. At Marathon every night you can hear horses neighing and men fighting. No one who has expressly set himself 40 

In describing Marathon, the Greek geographer was only interested in the memory of the site. The elements of this memorial landscape are the following: 1) funerary monuments, evoking the composition of the armies that clashed during the famous battle. The absence of a monumentum to the fallen Persians is the object of an interpretation (‘as the dead were carried to a trench and thrown in anyhow’), which reminds us that the

Jacquemin 2013: 201.

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Anne Gangloff

Figure 2. Boscotrecase Villa, Polyphemus. On the left, Polyphemus attempts to seduce Galatea and in the background Polyphemus is about to throw a rock at Odysseus’ ship.

landscape was marked to preserve the memory of the victorious Greeks, as the memory of the vanquished could exist in the background through its remarkable absence, 2) the myths and rituals associated with this victory, including the evocation of ghosts that haunt the place and the cult to the heroes who fought at Marathon (a mythical hero, Echetlaeus, is evoked beside the warriors who died on the battlefield),41 and 3) finally, a monument to the victory, a white marble trophy.

The success of Studius, a contemporary of Augustus, described by Pliny the Elder, as well as the discoveries of murals in the Imperial villas, testify to the Roman aristocratic taste from the first century BC onwards for painted landscapes.43 It is interesting to note that the development of this artistic genre is concomitant with the development of the art of landscape architects in the first century BC. The definition of these landscapes is not geographical, one must naturally take into account the medium of artistic representation. Croisille proposed as a principal definition criterion the importance of nature in pictorial representations.44 Nevertheless, the common link between this artistic landscape and the real landscape is that they are marked by human intervention. Man’s presence is indeed visible in Roman landscape paintings, in the form of small figures, but especially of architectural

This text invites us to question the role of monumenta in the perception of landscape in the Roman world and this perception itself. One can even illustrate this reflection through landscape wall-paintings, on which studies have recently multiplied: one can point out in particular Agnes Rouveret’s articles and Jean-Michel Croisille’s work, Landscapes in Roman painting [Paysages dans la peinture romaine].42

Vallette and Wyler 2017, §§8-13. 43  Pliny, Naturalis Historia, 35.116. 44  Croisille 2012: 12: ‘figuration picturale ou graphique d’une étendue de pays où la nature tient le premier rôle et où les figures (d’hommes ou d’animaux) et les constructions (‘fabriques’) sont accessoires’ [according to the Robert dictionary].

Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities, 5.17.4.12, on Marathonia. Heroes were considered particularly dangerous during the night: Chamaileonfr. 9 Wehrli; Hippocrates, De morbo sacro, 8.13 Jouanna. 42  Rouveret 2004; Croisille 2012. On the ancient landscape, see also 41 

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Figure 3. Boscotrecase Villa, Perseus and Andromeda. On the left, Perseus, holding Medusa’s head in his left hand, comes to the rescue of Andromeda in chains; on the right in the background he is shown once again, maybe facing King Cepheus, Andromeda’s father, who holds out his hand to him.

elements: villas, ports, religious monuments such as porta sacra, temples and altars.

Augustus’ friend and son-in-law, display Lysippus’ statue of Poseidon at the Isthmus of Corinth and the site of the battle of Naulochus in Sicily.46 The ekklesiasterion of the temple of Isis in Pompeii, which was a large room for meetings and banquets, contained paintings, dated between 62 and 79, which consist in true panoramic landscapes evoking Egyptian cults and myths: there is probably a founding myth in which the mummy of Osiris, prepared by Anubis, is pulled away from death by the bird on top of the open sarcophagus (Figure 1).47

It is a refined art that testifies to the culture of the owners of the luxurious villas in which these paintings were found (Agnes Rouveret uses the term collection when describing the motifs that prompted the owners to have these murals painted).45 So the connection with memory is obvious. For example, it has been suggested that two paintings from the Villa Farnesina near the Tiber, which may have been the property of Agrippa, 45 

46 

Rouveret 2004: 340.

47 

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Croisille 2012: 86. Croisille 2012: 101-106.

Anne Gangloff Landscape painting also developed by making references to well-known mythical stories involving Odysseus, Icarus, Heracles, Andromeda and Perseus, Polyphemus and Galatea. There is the link between spatialization and memorial practice, as we can see in two paintings from the Boscotrecase villa, near Pompeii, which belonged to Agrippa and his son, Agrippa Postumus (Figure 2 and 3).48 In these two paintings dated between about 15 BC and 10 AD which represent several episodes from the myths of Polyphemus and Andromeda and Perseus, the natural elements seem to anchor the different episodes spatially according to the principle of Roman mnemonics.

classique, edited by L. Villard. Rouen, Publications de l’Université de Rouen et du Havre: 199-214. Baroin, C. 2007. Techniques, arts et pratiques de la mémoire en Grèce et à Rome. Métis N. S. 5: 135-160. Baroin, C. 2010. Se souvenir à Rome. Formes, représentations et pratiques de la mémoire. Paris, Belin. Benoist, S., A. Daguet-Gagey and C. Hoët-van Cauwenberghe 2016. Une mémoire en actes. espaces, figures et discours. Villeneuve d’Ascq, Presses Universitaires du Septentrion. Benoist, S., and A. Daguet-Gagey (ed.) 2008. Un discours en images de la condamnation de mémoire. Metz, Centre Régional Universitaire Lorrain d’Histoire site de Metz. Benoist, S. (ed.) 2007. Mémoire et Histoire. Les procédures de condamnation dans l’Antiquité romaine. Metz, Centre Régional Universitaire Lorrain d’Histoire site de Metz. Berns, C., H. von Hesberg, L. Vandeput and M. Waelkens (eds) 2002. Patris und Imperium. Kulturelle und politische Identität in den Städten der römischen Provinzen Kleinasiens in der frühen Kaiserzeit. Louvain, Peeters. Bonnemaison, J. 1981. Voyage autour du territoire. Espace géographique 10 (4): 249-262. Cambi, F. and N. Terrenato 20079. Introduzione all’archeologia dei paesaggi. Roma, Caroci. Carruthers, M. 1990. The book of Memory. A study of Memory in Medieval Culture. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Coarelli, F. 19922. Il Foro romano. Periodo repubblicano e augusto. Roma, Quasar. Coleman, J. 1992. Ancient and Medieval memories. Studies in the reconstruction of the past. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Colpo, I. 2010. Ruinae... et putres robore trunci.Paesaggi di rovine e rovine nel paesaggio nella pittura romana (I secolo a.C.-I secolo d.C.). Roma, Quasar. Croisille, J.-M. 2012. Paysages dans la peinture romaine. Aux origines d’un genre pictural, Paris, Picard. Davoine, C. 2015. Les ruines dans le monde romain (Ier siècle avant J.-C. - IVe siècle après J.-C.) (these 8). Paris, thèse. Estienne, S. and J.-P. Guilhembet (ed.) forthcoming. L’esprit des lieux. Mémoire, toponymie et patrimoine dans le monde romain, (actes du colloque de l’INHA, Paris, 7-8 octobre 2016). Flower, H. I. 2006. The Art of Forgetting. Disgrace and Oblivion in Roman Political Culture. Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press. Gangloff, A. 2013. Le Langage des statues. Remploi et resémantisation des statues grecques sous le HautEmpire (Dion de Pruse, Or. XII et XXXI). Mètis N. S. 11. 304-326. Gangloff, A. 2013. Lieux de mémoire en Orient grec à l’époque impériale. Grenoble, Lang.

This painting is at the centre of a debate as to whether one can speak of landscape in the Roman world and the main question is the presence or absence of a unitary conception of landscape in Antiquity. In Latin texts, landscape is evoked in the form of an enumeration of elements, or in neuter plural nouns, topia, topiaria, which can be translated as ‘landscape components’.49 Finally, for the Roman world, this, in my opinion, is one of the main challenges that can arise in a reflection devoted to the theme Memory and Landscapes: can we go beyond the conception of a ‘topical’ landscape, organized around and by monumenta? Anne Gangloff Univ Rennes, CNRS, Ministère de la culture et de la communication, CReAAH, UMR 6566, F-35000 Rennes, France ; Institut universitaire de France. Bibliography Alcock, S. E. 2002. Archaeologies of the Greek past. Landscape, Monuments, and Memories. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Assmann, A. 2009. Erinnerungsräume. Formen und Wandlungen des kulturellen Gedächtnisses. München, Beck. Assmann, J. 1992, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen, München, Beck. Assmann, J. 2010. Communicative and cultural memory. A Companion to culturel memory studies, edited by A. Erll and A. Nünning. Berlin, de Gruyter: 109-118. Baroin, C. 1998. La maison romaine comme image et lieu de mémoire. Images romaines, edited by Cl. Auvray-Assayas. Paris, Presses de l’École normale supérieure: 177-191. Baroin, C. 2005. Le rôle de la vue dans les arts de la mémoire latins. Études sur la vision dans l’Antiquité 48  Croisille 2012: 93-98. I am grateful to M. Fuchs (University of Lausanne) and T. Michaeli (Tel Aviv University) for the pictures. 49  Pliny, Naturalis Historia, 35.116 ; Vitruvius, De Architectura, 7.5.2.

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Gowing, A. M. 2005. Empire and Memory. The Representation of the Roman Republic in Imperial Culture. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Guerber, E. 2013. La fondation de Nicopolis par Octavien. Affirmation de l’idéologie impériale et philhellénisme. Lieux de mémoire en Orient grec à l’époque impériale, edited by A. Gangloff. Grenoble, Lang: 255-277. Guilhembet, J.-P. 2016. Domus et monumenta. La résidence urbaine et ses pouvoirs de mémoire dans la ville de Rome (fin de la République - Haut Empire). Une mémoire en actes. Espaces, figures et discours dans le monde romain, edited by S. Benoist, A. DaguetGagey and C. Hoët-van Cauwenberghe. Lille, Presses Universitaires du Septentrion: 77-88. Halbwachs, M. 1941. La topographie légendaire des évangiles en Terre sainte. Étude de mémoire collective. Paris, PUF. Halbwachs, M. 1950. La mémoire collective. Paris, PUF. Hoët-van Cauwenbergue, Chr. and M. Kantiréa 2013. Lieu grec de mémoire romaine. La perpétuation de la victoire d’Actium des Julio-Claudiens aux Sévères. Lieux de mémoire en Orient grec à l’époque impériale, edited by A. Gangloff. Grenoble, Lang: 279-303. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. and E. Stein Hölkeskamp (eds) 2006. Erinnerungsorte der Antike. Die römische Welt. München, Beck. Jacquemin, A. 2013. Des lieux sans mémoire ou les blancs de la carte de la mémoire delphique. Lieux de mémoire en Orient grec à l’époque impériale, edited by A. Gangloff. Grenoble, Lang: 201-214. Jéquier, F. 2013. Les lieux de mémoire. Lieux de mémoire en Orient grec à l’époque impériale, edited by A. Gangloff. Grenoble, Lang: 23-33. Lefebvre, S. 2014. Monumenta. Du centre du pouvoir aux confins de l’Empire. Dijon, Presses Universitaires de Dijon. Martha, J. (ed.) 1967. Cicéron. Des termes extrêmes des biens et des maux, II 1930. Paris, CUF. Nora, P. 1984. Les lieux de mémoire, I. Paris, Gallimard. Pernot, L. 2005. Athènes, lieu de mémoire. Antiquité tardive et humanisme. De Tertullien à Beatus Rhenanus. Mélanges offerts à François Heim à l’occasion de son 70e anniversaire, edited by Y. Lehmann, G. Freyburger and J. Hirstein. Turnhout, Brepols: 101-120. Platt, V. 2007. ‘Honour takes wing’. Unstable images and anxious orators in the Greek tradition. Art and Inscriptions in the Ancient World, edited by Z. Newby and R. Leader-Newby. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press: 246-271. Ricœur, P. 2000. La Mémoire, l’Histoire, l’Oubli. Paris, Seuil. Rouveret, A. 2004. Pictos ediscere mundos. Perception et imaginaire du paysage dans la peinture hellénistique et romaine. Ktema 29: 325-344. Scheid, J. 2012. A Rome sur les pas de Plutarque. Paris, Vuibert. Sébillote-Cuchet, V. 2006. Libérez la patrie! Patriotisme et politique en Grèce ancienne. Paris, Belin.

Späth, T. 2016. Au lieu des Lieux, les actes de mémoire. Figurations du passé et pratiques sociales. Une mémoire en actes. Espaces, figures et discours dans le monde romain, edited by S. Benoist, A. DaguetGagey and C. Hoët-van Cauwenberghe. Lille, Presses Universitaires du Septentrion: 23-46. Spencer, D. 2010. Roman Landscape: Culture and Identity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Valette, E., and S. Wyler. 2017. ‘Le spectacle de la nature’. Introduction et bibliographie. Cahiers ‘Mondes anciens’ [On line], 9 | 2017. URL: http:// journals.openedition.org/mondesanciens/ 1955; DOI: 10.4000/mondesanciens.1955 Yates, F. A. 1966. The Art of Memory. Chicago, Penguin.

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Restoring a Memory: The Case of Kowary Barrow (Lesser Poland, Poland) Anna Gawlik and Marcin Czarnowicz Jagiellonian University Krakow [email protected]

Introduction Memory as a historical, social, or even psychological phenomenon has become, since the second half of the 20th century, one of the major issues discussed by researchers in many different fields.1 Due to the specific nature of archaeological work, the subject of research is not only the site itself, but also its entire social and historical context. An archaeological site as a particular example of a so-called site of memory (lieux de mémoire) as defined by Pierre Nora,2 has already been addressed by other authors.3 From this perspective, the work of archaeologists is not limited to the analysis of artefacts, but it can also play a key role in the creation of social memory of a particular group, both on a micro-regional and nationwide scale.4 Collective memory plays an important role in every society; it provides ways to reinforce and encourage certain patterns of behavior. It also provides legitimacy to the community’s leaders, and strengthens and defines its identity.5 This last aspect is especially important, and should be emphasized, as both the group remembrance and identity are very dynamic and changeable, and cannot be described as constant or permanent.6 Such changes can be either intentional or unintentional. Some events might be removed (or added) according to the group’s needs.7 Collective memory contributes to a group’s identity, but it also works the other way – the group’s identity often shapes its memory.8 The site of Kowary discussed here is an example of such a site of memory, where the phenomena of memory and remembrance can be approached from many perspectives. Background and characteristics of the site The village of Kowary is situated in Lesser Poland, 35km north-west of Krakow (Map 1). East of Kowary, on a Erll 2018, with older literature. Nora 1984-1992. 3  E.g. Bradley 2002; Zalewska 2015; 2016. 4  Zerubavel 2018. 5  Minta-Tworzowska 2013: 35. 6  Ricoeur 2004: 69-92. 7  Zerubavel 2018: 404; Irwin-Zarecka 2018. 8  Nora 1989; Misztal 2003: 13-15. 1 

hilltop by the road (which in this place runs through a quite deep gorge), is the barrow which we wish to examine here. The barrow is oval in shape, roughly 20m wide and 30m long, and 4m high. It occupies a separate allotment/parcel, which has been excluded from any agricultural use since the 19th century. However, this did not protect the edges of the barrow which are still being ploughed (Figure 1). Such a structure isn’t unusual for this area and many barrows dated to different periods can be found in the region, either single or in groups. The barrow stands out because of its relatively good shape and visibility, and for this reason it was studied by archaeologists in the early 1900s, with the first excavations conducted by Marian Wawrzeniecki’s team in 1905.9 According to Wawrzeniecki’s testimony, there were visible traces of earlier excavations at the top of the structure, most likely left by robbers or ‘treasure hunters,’ which significantly changed the shape of the barrow. This is clearly visible in a drawing from 1905, in which the peak of the barrow is located north of its actual center. This is how the barrow looks in modern times as well. In early 2013, a resident of Hebdów, a small town located at the eastern outskirts of Krakow, contacted our fellow archaeologists complaining about the situation he witnessed in Kowary. The local farmer whose land encircled the barrow was systematically cutting the edge of the aforementioned structure. The situation might ultimately have resulted in the destruction of the barrow. The resident admitted that during his last visit to the area he saw a part of the slope torn off from the barrow, revealing human bones. Unaware of its earlier history, the resident pointed out that according to his best knowledge the barrow in Kowary is an eternal resting place for the victims of a skirmish that happened nearby during the early stages of the Great War. He heard about it from his late grandmother. Many years earlier, he was told that she had witnessed a burial which took place in the barrow in question.

2 

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 118–128

Wawrzeniecki 1908: 64-71. Marian Wawrzeniecki (1863-1943) was a painter and enthusiast of archaeology. At the time of excavation in Kowary he was a member of the Academy of Arts and Sciences in Krakow and carried out research as an archaeologist (Woźny 2009: 153).

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Map 1

Figure 1. Kowary site 1, Lesser Poland. General view of the barrow. Photo. I. Pieńkos.

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Figure 2. Kowary site 1. Geophysical surveys (by M.M. Przybyła).

gathered to clear the area and bury the dead. At the day when the burial took place Aniela was only 12 years old. Carts were used to transport the bodies to the barrow located next to the village of Kowary. One man, a severely wounded Austrian soldier, was found alive among the bodies. Aniela’s family, who used to live in the Austrian part of partitioned Poland and spoke German freely, took the young Austrian to their home and helped him to recover from his wounds. Upon his recovery and return back to his country, this soldier kept in touch with Aniela’s family until the outbreak of World War Two, expressing gratitude for saving his life.

In the middle of November 1914, after the defeat at Dęblin, the Austro-Hungarian army was in retreat. Its mighty stronghold, Przemyśl, was again besieged by the Tsar’s army and its only resistance line, Krakow, prevented the so-called Russian steamroller from entering the Habsburg monarchy’s hinterland. The Austro-Hungarian headquarters decided not to hide behind the thick walls of the Krakow strongholds but instead to launch a counter offensive. The First Battle of Krakow was a successful operation. At the end of the third week of November, the Russian army advanced north to the Wisła river and was stopped and pushed back.10 The soldiers who were buried in Kowary took part in clashes in Ścieklaniec and Szreniawa river valleys during the turning point of the operation. According to the eyewitness the skirmish took place at the hill known as Krzemieniec.

Unfortunately, the barrow at Kowary, which could be the last resting place for the soldiers killed in Krzemieniec, is now in a bad condition, due to farming in the adjacent area. The grandson of Aniela decided to write down a testimony about the incidents at Kowary and Krzemieniec and presented it to the local antiquities curator. In June 2013 the site was visited by the local curator and the description provided by Aniela’s grandson about the state of preservation of the barrow was confirmed. It was necessary to undertake work at the barrow to prevent further damage and

This eyewitness, Aniela Szlęk, was born in 1902 and lived in the village of Kąty (about 20km from Kowary). According to her testimony, on the day after the battle, when the frontline moved farther away, local residents 10 

Orman and Orman 2015: 217-415; Bator 2008: 119-136.

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Figure 3. Kowary site 1. Extent of excavation in 2013, on the top of the barrow.

erosion of the barrow, and to verify the information about a wartime burial in 1914. A decision was made by the Institute of Archaeology of the Jagiellonian University and the Provincial Office for the Protection of Monuments to start archaeological excavations at the site.

In 2013, a small trench (5 x 4 m) was opened in the cavity on the barrow’s top (Figure 3). The objective of the fieldwork was not to excavate the entire mound, but to verify the results of earlier research and confirm the existence of the burial from World War One. To avoid further damage of the barrow structure we focused on the area already explored in the past. Wawrzeniecki’s excavations at the beginning of the 20th century were conducted, as he mentioned himself, in quite ‘romantic circumstances,’ at night by the light of the stars and the moon.11 To avoid confrontation with local farmers, who were far from delighted with the prospect of excavation, he started digging a trench on the top of the barrow during the night. Next day Wawrzeniecki’s team encountered the first skeletons. In total, eleven skeletons and two children’s skulls were unearthed.12 

The excavation The first examination of the site revealed the alarming condition of the barrow’s southern slope, with human bones and prehistoric potsherds visible in the section. Geophysical surveys carried out around the mound provided information on its original shape and size. A burnt-out layer detectable in the south-western part can most likely be associated with a primary burial. Three anomalies discovered at the edge of the barrow, on its south-east side, may be additional hearths or pits (Figure 2).

11  12 

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Wawrzeniecki 1908: 64-71. Currently the place storing these human remains is unknown.

Anna Gawlik and Marcin Czarnowicz

Figure 4. Kowary site 1. Results of the excavation in 2013 and the field documentation from 1905 by Wawrzeniecki (1908).

The exploration reached the bottom of the barrow, but nothing was found except for a few potsherds. At 5 p.m. the same day the work was over and the trench was filled back with soil.

to pottery analyses, the chronology was adjusted to the Bronze Age and the barrow attributed to the Trzciniec culture. The excavation of 2013 confirmed that the dating of the barrow to the Trzciniec culture was correct. Due to the discovery of fragments of a very specific vessel in the southern part of the mound (Figure 5), we could connect the construction of the barrow with the early stage of Trzciniec culture in Lesser Poland. The jug represents a form typical of the Mad’arovce culture (Carpathian Basin) (Figure 6).13 A similar jug

Our excavation allowed us to verify Weawrzeniecki’s testimony about the scope of his work. We were able to identify the place of his fieldwork and, beyond its borders, the bodies were buried exactly as described in the excavation report from 1905; on their back, in layers, without equipment (Figure 4). The barrow was originally considered to be a Slavic site, but later, thanks

13 

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Točík 1964: 24.

Restoring a Memory: The Case of Kowary Barrow (Lesser Poland, Poland)

Figure 5. Kowary site 1. Trzciniec culture pottery. 1-2 – the excavation in 1905; 3 - the excavation in 2013.

was found, for example, in collective grave no 71 in the barrow at Żerniki Górne,14 or in Iwanowice,15 both sites in the same region of Poland as Kowary (Figure 6: 2, 3). In the Mad’arovce culture such jugs are frequent in the classical and late phase, which is BrA2 and BrB1 by Reinecke.16 The finds from Lesser Poland should be dated to the late phase of the Mad’arove culture – 1600-1500 BC, and this is probably when the barrow in Kowary was built. Trzciniec culture barrows are known from various regions but are especially frequent in Lesser Poland.17

with iron fittings typical of the 17th century (Figure 7: 1-2).21 This dating corresponds quite well with the fact that a collective grave of the victims of a 17th century epidemic is located in the close proximity of Kowary, near the cemetery in Proszowice (Bożą Męka/Good’s Pasion) (Map 2).22 A nearby prehistoric barrow was reused at that time and a simple lantern of the dead in the form of stone pole was placed on its top (Figure 8). The similarities between these two sites are striking.  The last issue addressed in our research was the supposed collective burial form the First World War. Despite the detailed testimony of Aniela Szlęk we have to reject this hypothesis, since no traces of any objects from that period have been found in the barrow or in its vicinity. According to Aniela’s testimony fallen soldiers died during the clashes which took place in the area of the Krzemieniec hill (Map 2). The clash in question was a prelude to the battle for the control of the Szreniawa and Ścieklaniec valleys and its surrounding hills. From the Austro-Hungarian side, units of the XIV Corps were participating. Fallen soldiers who were involved in clashes nearby, most probably belonged to 3ITD (Infantry Division).23 It is highly doubtful that the bodies from Krzemieniec were transported far away from the battlefield.24 In close proximity of the Krzemieniec hill there are a few well-known war cemeteries such as in

The skeletons discovered in 1905 and 2013 are the evidence of a collective grave from a much later period (17th century AD) than the Bronze Age.18 Anthropological analysis indicates that the skeletons belong mostly to women, children (especially toddlers) and elderly people.19 They may be victims of an epidemic or a plague. The lime baulks found between the bodies and the lack of any furnishings (even clothes) may support this hypothesis.20 Skeleton 1 (Figure 4) is an exception, as the deceased woman was found wearing shoes with the heels reinforced Górski 2007: 25-27, Fig. 18, Tab. 87. Górski 2007, Tab. 5. Točík 1964: 24; Górski 2007: 102; Bátora 1998: 259, Fig. 1; Marková 2007; Molak 2009: 149. 17  Górski 1996; Makarowicz 2010: 210, Fig. 4.1. 18  During the excavation in 1905 remains of 11 adults and 2 children were found. In 2013 we discovered remains of 5 adults and 4 children. 19  Anthropological analyses in 2013 have been carried out by Jarosław Wróbel (Archaeological Museum in Kraków). 20  Karpiński 2000: 155-166. 14  15  16 

21  Gula and Rysiewska 1993: 272; Cymbalak 2006; Wojenka 2007: 218219, Fig. 10. 22  Wojtusik and Solarz 2012. 23  Cf. Orman and Orman 2015: 219; Bator 2008: 130-131. 24  Cf. Pałosz 2012: 110.

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Figure 6. Jugs typical of the Mad’arovce culture. 1 – Kowary, 2 – Iwanowice, 3 – ŻernikiGórne, 4 – Šatov, 5 –Mistelbach, 6 – Veselé, 7 – map by Marková 2007, 2-3 – Górski 2007, 4 – Molak 2009, 5 – Benkovsky-Pivovarová 1976, 6 – Točík 1964; 2-6 – not to scale.

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Figure 7. Iron shoe-heel reinforcements in Poland. 1-2 – Kowary site 1, grave 1, 3-4 – Cymbalski 2006.

Figure 8. Proszowice, Lesser Poland. Prehistoric barrow known as BożaMęka/Good’s Passion, with a lantern of the dead in the form of a stone pole (17th century). Photo. M. Czarnowicz.

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Map 2

Niegardów, Chorąrzyce or Przesławice (see Map 2) from that period. Therefore, it seems highly likely that Aniela Szlęk referred to the real events from her childhood, but certain details, such as the burial place, blurred in her mind over the years. Moreover, local people do not recall anyone telling them that there were soldiers of the Great War buried at Kowary.

by archaeological excavations. We should not regard her account as an intentional effort to mislead others. We should rather consider her young age at the time when she witnessed the outcome of the battle (she was only 12 years old) and the traumatic character of that experience. It is possible that her memories got mixed up.

Oral history and memory

On the other hand, the Kowary barrow was a burial place in the 17th century, yet this episode appears to have been completely forgotten and was not recorded in the community’s collective memory. This may be an example of a rather intentional act of forgetting, a removal of certain facts from the group remembrance. In the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth, in the 16th18th centuries, among the main threats to life were epidemics (the plague, the pox, the typhus, the flu), which decimated entire communities. This had huge consequences for the economy, national defence and social relations.27 Epidemics were considered as an expression of God’s anger, while the sick were treated as impure. They were isolated both during their illness and after their death, buried in mass graves and on cemeteries distant from cities or villages. Such cemeteries were later only in some cases adapted as communal cemeteries or places where a church

Memory has been a subject of numerous academic studies, referring to both modern and prehistoric societies.25 Generally, we can speak of an individual memory, which is one’s biography, based on individual experiences, and a collective/social memory. Memory is commonly seen as something solid and unchangeable, while in fact both individual and collective memories tend to be extremely fragile and flexible. This fact is widely recognized in both social sciences and in forensics.26 The story of the Kowary barrow can be approached from the perspective of both individual and collective memory. On one hand we have Aniela’s personal experience and her detailed testimony which was not confirmed 25  26 

Halbwachs 1992; Ricoeur 2004; Bradley 2002; Assmann 2008. Nora 1989; Loftus 1992; Reed 2001.

27 

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Karpiński 2000.

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was erected.28 Most of them were forgotten not only because people did not want to remember about such events, but also because one of the consequences of the epidemic was widespread migrations29 and sometimes there was no one to remember about the victims of the epidemic. In 1905, when the first archaeological research was carried out in Kowary, no one from the local villages remembered that it was a place of mass burial. However the barrow and its surroundings have been infamous as places where you can meet by night evil spirits called omętra and spoleniec.30

to the collective memory, so that it can contribute to the building of the local identity. We can say that in case of the work conducted at Kowary’s barrow this process was successful. The work reawakens the awareness of the presence of this unique feature in the vicinity of the local community. Our excavations were frequently visited by locals from different social groups. The local newspaper and an internet portal published short articles about the project.34 The farmer who owns the land around the barrow decided to stop his destructive practice and started a discussion with local authorities to sell a part of his land so the barrow can be reconstructed. Most importantly, our excavations attracted the attention of a local group devoted to the local history, who became interested in the barrow despite their previous biggest interest being in the cruel times of WW2. Thanks to the excavations, the mysterious mound in Kowary is no longer a horrifying place known best in the local community as a home for omętra and spoleniec.

And then there is the third piece of the puzzle, the prehistoric burial mound. This is a case of the lack of continuity, as in cultural and ethnic terms its creators belonged to an entirely different community, who had nothing to do with the modern period inhabitants of the area. Archaeologists usually deal with the material evidence of collective memory, so this is an interesting example of when an archaeological investigation proved the individual remembrance (of Aniela) wrong. It should teach us to be exceptionally cautious when interpreting one individual’s remembrance.

References Assmann J. 2008. Pamięć kulturowa. Pismo, zapamiętywanie i polityczna tożsamość w cywilizacjach starożytnych. Warszawa, Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego. Bator J. 2008 Wojna Galicyjska. Kraków, Libron. Bátora J. 1998. Príspevok k otázce kultúrnych vzťahov územia juhozápadného Slovenska k oblasti severne od Karpát v závere staršej doby bronzovej ’Trzciniec’ – system kulturowy czy interkulturowy proces?, edited by A. Kośko and J. Czebreszuk Poznań, Wydawnictwo Poznańskie: 259-265. Benkovsky-Pivovarová, Z. 1976. Zur Enddatierung des Kulturkreises Maďarovce-Věteřov-Böheimkirchen. Germania 54: 341-359. Bradley R. 2002. The Past in the Prehistory. London, Routledge. Cymbalak, T. 2006. Wybrane znaleziska podkówek do butów z terenu Czech na tle analogii środkowoeuropejskich. Archaeologica Pragensia 18: 264-282. Erll, A. 2018. Kultura pamięci. Wprowadzenie. Warszawa, Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego. Gąciarz, A. 2013. Pradawny kurhan kryje ludzkie szczątki, Dziennik Polski 25.10.2013, available online at:https://dziennikpolski24.pl/pradawny-kurhankryje-ludzkie-szkielety/ar/3283110. accessed 16.11.2018. Górski, J. 1996 Uwagi o znaczeniu kurhanów dla społeczności kultury trzcinieckiej z obszarów lessowych Zachodniej Małopolski. Problemy epoki brązu i wczesnej epoki żelaza w Europie Środkowej. Księga

Final reflections Archaeology, as a discipline deals with the past. Because of the public nature of their fieldwork archaeologists can introduce new elements to a collective memory, and they can also bring back elements that were lost or forgotten.31 Of course, it is important to bear in mind that this is a way of restoring the memory of the past from the point of view of the present and for the present. This brings with it many new challenges, because as an element of social memory, archaeological sites are, can be and will be used as a tool of political propaganda.32 This is particularly visible in small communities, in their so-called cultural landscape; a phenomenon that combines physical places with a certain pool of knowledge and information. A landscape is an ideal medium for creating what are called sites of memory; points which collective memory can be anchored to.33 Landscape elements become anchors for memories, especially those which become part of collective memory. Such anchors are much more than vague and distant memories; they are solid and tangible points in space, which can carry meaning and ideas like some gigantic mnemonic devices. Due to its conspicuous location, the Kowary barrow makes a perfect site of memory. We as archaeologists could reintroduce it back Karpiński 2000: 155-157. Karpiński 2000: 223. 30  Wawrzeniecki 1911: 841. 31  Zalewska 2016. 32  Rowlands 2007: 62. 33  Nora 1984-1992; Bradley 2002: 83; Shlanger and Maříková-Kubková 2008; Minta-Tworzowska 2013: 36; Zalewska 2015. 28  29 

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Anna Gawlik and Marcin Czarnowicz jubileuszowa poświęcona Markowi Gedlowi, edited by J. Chochorowski. Kraków, Oficyna Cracovia: 204-2011. Górski, J. 2007. Chronologia kultury trzcinieckiej na lessach Niecki Nidziańskiej. Biblioteka Muzeum Archeologicznego w Krakowie, v. 3. Kraków, DEKA. Gula, M. and T. Rysiewska. 1993. Zabytki wydzielone ze stanowiska Zamek II w Sandomierzu. Sandomierz: badania 1969–1973, t. 1, edited by S. Tabaczyński. Warszawa, Instytut Archeologii i Etnografii Polskiej Akademii Nauk: 262–279. Halbwachs, M. 1992. On Collective Memory. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Irwin-Zarecka, I. 2018. Konflikty pamięci (Frames of Remembrance. The Dynamics of Collective Memory). Antropologia pamięci. Zagadnienia i wybór tekstów, edited by P. Majewski and M. Napiórkowska. Warszawa, Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego: 433-447. Loftus, E. F. 1996. Eyewitness Testimony. Revised edition. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press. Karpiński, A. 2000. W walce z niewidzialnym wrogiem. Warszawa, Wydawnictwo NERITON, Instytutu Historii PAN. Makarowicz, P. 2010. Trzciniecki krąg kulturowy – wspólnota pogranicza Wschodu i Zachodu Europy. Poznań, Wydawnictwo Poznańskie. Marková, K. 2007 On some aspects of distance exchange and inner Carpathian contacts. Long distance Trade in the Bronze Age and Early Iron Age, edited by J. Baron and I. Lasak. Studia Archeologiczne 40: 45-56. Minta-Tworzowska, D. 2013. Pamięć, ‘miejsca pamięci’ jako budujące tożsamość w ujęciu archeologii. Przegląd Archeologiczny 61: 33-50. Misztal, B.A. 2003. Theories of Social Remembering. Meidenhead, Philadelphia, Open University Press. Molak, J.E. 2009. Grupa nowocerekwiańska na tle kompleksu kultur Maďarovce-VěteřovBöheimkirchen. Kraków, unpublished master’s thesis, archive of the Institute of Archaeology, Jagiellonian University. Nora, P. 1984-1992 Les Lieux de mémoire, 3 volumes: v. 1 La République (1984), v. 2 La Nation (1986), v. 3 Les France (1992). Paris, Gallimard – Bibliothèque des Histoires. Nora, P. 1989. Between History and Memory: les lieux de mémoire. ‘Representations’ 26 (spring): 7–24. Orman, K. and P. Orman. 2015. Wielka Wojna na Jurze. Działania i cmentarze wojenne z roku 1914 na Wyżynie Krakowsko-Wieluńskiej i terenach przyległych. Kraków, Libron. Pałosz, J. 2012. Śmiercią złączeni, O cmentarzach z I wojny światowej na terenach Królestwa Polskiego administrowanych przez Austro-Węgry. Kraków, Libron. Read, J. D. 2001. Eyewitness Memory: Psychological Aspects. International Encyclopedia of the Social and

Behavioral Sciences, edited by N. J. Smelser and P. B. Baltes P. B. Amsterdam, Elsevier: 5217–5221. Ricoeur, P. 2004. Memory, history, forgetting. Chicago, The University of Chicago Press. Rowlands, M. 2007 The politics of identity in archaeology. The Archaeology of Identities: A Reader, edited by T. Insoll. London, Routlege: 59-72. Shlanger N. and J. Maříková-Kubková. 2008. On lieux de mémoire and other archaeological constructs: some preliminary considerations. Sites of memory between scientific research and collective representations, edited by J. Maříková-Kubková, N. Schlanger and S. Levin. Praha, Archeologický ústav AV ČR: 23-29 Točík, A. 1964. Opevnená osada doby bronzovej vo Veselom. Archaeologica Slovaca Fontes 5. Bratislava, Vydavatels̕tvo Slovenskej akadémie vied. Wawrzeniecki, M. 1908. Poszukiwania archeologiczne w Królestwie Polskim. Materiały AntropologicznoArcheologiczne i Etnograficzne t. 10: 46-98. Wawrzeniecki, M. 1911. Kurhan w Kowarach. Ziemia. Tygodnik Krajoznawczy Ilustrowany, 30 December 1911: 841-843. Wojenka, M. 2007. Prace archeologiczne na terenie zamku w Ojcowie w 2006 roku. Prądnik, prace i materiały Muzeum im. Prof. Władysława Szafera, 17: 218219. Wojtusik K. and A. Solarz. 2012. Proszowice - Boża Męka, available online at: http://www.24ikp.pl/skarby/ miejsca/inne/mce_proszowice_kurhany/art.php accessed 30.10.2017. Woźny, M. 2009. Działalność Mariana Wawrzenieckiego (1863-1943) w świetle listów do Włodzimierza Demetrykiewicza z lat 1900-1911. Materiały Archeologiczne 37: 153-175. Zalewska, B. 2015. Miejsca w pamięci. Stanowiska archeologiczne jako pola artykulacji pamięci w kontekście studiów i kategorii pamięcioznawczych. Miejsca pamięci - pradzieje, średniowiecze i współczesność, edited by B. Gediga, A. Grossman and W. Piotrowski W. Biskupin-Wrocław, Muzeum Archeologiczne Biskupinie, Polska Akademia Nauk Oddział we Wrocławiu: 61-77. Zalewska, B. 2016. Archaeological Sites as the Results of Material-Discursive Practices and the Phenomena of Their Becoming Causative Realms of Memory. Meetings at the borders. Studies dedicated to Professor Władysław Duczko, edited by J. Popielska-Grzybowska and J. Iwaszczuk. Pułtusk, Pułtusk Academy of Humanities: 259-269. Zarubeval, Y. 2018. Odzyskane korzenie (Recovered Roots). Antropologia pamięci. Zagadnienia i wybór tekstów, edited by P. Majewski and M. Napiórkowska. Warszawa, Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego: 403-415.

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Art, Social Memory and Relational Ontology in the Kimberley, North West Australia Martin Porr

Archaeology/Centre for Rock Art Research and Management, University of Western Australia ARC Centre of Excellence for Australian Biodiversity and Heritage, Monash University [email protected]

Yorro Yorro is for young people to read and learn about. Also it brings memories back to the old people, so we can pass it on to the young. Reminding is good. Daisy Utemorrah1 Introduction – Images, art and landscape in Aboriginal Australia1 The histories, philosophies and characteristics of Australian Aboriginal cultural traditions have fascinated and intrigued European researchers for a very long time. One crucial aspect in this context has been the special relationship that Australian Indigenous people apparently construct between memory, the past and the present. Certainly, one of the most influential notions in this context has been The Dreaming. It was first prominently put forward by W. E. H. Stanner in a famous essay originally published in 1953.2 The term was based on B. Spencer and F. Gillen’s3 ‘dream time’ or ‘dream times’. However, Stanner proposed the use of ‘The Dreaming’ or ‘Dreaming’, because these latter terms reflected more coherently their use by Aboriginal Australians across a wide range of complex meanings. The respective terms can describe a ‘sacred, heroic time of the indefinitely remote past’ but also a totem, a birthplace or the origin of a particular custom.4 Stanner argued for a specifically Australian Aboriginal philosophical understanding of the dynamics of existence in which temporal and spatial dimensions become interchangeable. He stated that ‘one cannot ‘fix’ The Dreaming in time: it was, and is, everywhen’.5 Based on long-term anthropological and collaborative research in all parts of Australia, the concept of Dreaming has been expanded and deepened in recent decades. Although its value is still accepted, it is no longer understood as a unified concept. It rather must be seen in the light of the variability of Aboriginal philosophies and lifeways. In the context of recent anthropological discussions, Australian philosophies seem to be expressions of relational ontologies that Quoted in Mowaljarlai and Malnic 1993, ix. Stanner, 1965. 3  Spencer and Gillen 1899. 4  Stanner, 1965: 270. 5  Stanner, 1965: 270; emphasis in original.

understand the world as an on-going creation in which everything is dynamic and in a process of becoming.6 Australian Aboriginal philosophies cannot be divorced from the experience and the enactment of landscape, from the engagement with Country, which is another recent term that is used by Indigenous Australians to describe their being in the world, in which everything is fundamentally constituted by and only acquires meaning and significance because of its spatialtemporal relationships. Within this framework of understanding, knowledge is always local and has a fundamentally spatial character and is therefore not only local in space but also in time. Knowledge is fundamentally attached to place and knowledge about a place can only be acquired through bodily engagement that is always spatially and temporally situated.7 With reference to Bakhtin’s ‘chronotopes’, Rose8 has argued that places consequently become locations in which knots of narrative are tied and untied. Places are constituted by levels of intersecting and interacting temporalities. Time and space are fashioned into specific social and symbolic configurations to acquire the status of everyday social knowledge. For example, James9 relates the words of Senior Elder Nganyinytja from the Anangu Pitjantjatjara people from the Western Desert (Central Australia) to explain that ‘the most important learning came from the Tjukurpa Creation Law stories told to her by her father and mother, grandfather and grandmother, uncles and aunts’. While these narratives provide explanations of fundamental aspects of existence, social rules and moral behaviour, there are also tjukurpa stories that relate to seemingly more recent and personal events.10 Both narratives are inscribed in Country and have equally marked and shaped the land. This orientation is reflected in the Holbraad and Pedersen 2017. James 2015. 8  Rose 2004: 37. 9  James 2015: 39. 10  See also e.g. Rumsey 1994.

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Martin Porr Australian Aboriginal context in the entanglement of Country, life and humanity:

experience of an individual is evaluated in the ongoing processes of actions and interactions that take place within socially-constituted frameworks of relevance. Individual memory is constructed within each individual person because of participation in social interactions and communication. The core of Assmann’s theory of social memory is his distinction between (short-term) ‘communicative’ memory and (long-term) ‘cultural’ memory.18 Memory is structured in a two-dimensional way. One dimension is provided by memory that is related and reproduced in social interactions on a continuous basis. The other dimension of social memory is always related to origins, myths and practices that are temporally situated such as rituals. Cultural memory is periodically reproduced, actively and consciously created and ‘artificially implemented’.19 It is a matter of institutionalized mnemonic techniques. In cultural memory, history is transformed into myth. Assmann20 suggests that the difference between communicative and cultural memory is the difference between the memory of everyday life and the memory of sacred times. It corresponds to the difference between ordinary and ceremonial time.

‘Country is the key, the matrix, the essential heart of life. It follows that much Aboriginal art, music, dance, philosophy, religion, ritual and daily activity has country as its focus or basis.’11 Below, I want to briefly discuss how these insights impact on an understanding of the relationship between social memory and the enactment of the landscape in Indigenous Australia and, more specifically, with reference to the Wanjina Wunggurr communities in the Kimberley, North West Australia. To do so, I want to return to the considerations of Jan Assmann that formed the basis of an earlier exploration of social memory in the context of Palaeolithic figurative representations.12 Memory, rock art and the enactment of landscape Recently, memory has become a popular theme in archaeological interpretation and inquiry. A range of monographs and edited volumes has been published on the subject with a focus on memorialisation, the collective construction of identity and the intersections between memory, visual culture and landscape.13 As mentioned above, here I want to reengage with ideas about social memory developed by Jan Assmann. Although I have discussed his ideas in the context of archaeological evidence before,14 I want to continue this exploration with a focus on Australian Indigenous evidence and a critical evaluation of Assmann’s understanding of the relationship between identity, landscape and monumentalisation. Assmann has been an important figure in the academic field of Egyptology for decades.15 Although he has made many highly original contributions, here I will mostly concentrate on Assmann’s ideas relating to the role of collective memory in the constitution of individual and communal identity and the relationships with material objects and practices. These latter aspects will also provide the main points of a critique of Assmann’s ideas related to the understanding of the construction of social memory in oral societies.

Communicative and cultural memory have different structures of participation as well as different temporalities. Social participation in communicative memory is diffuse. Most importantly, it is generally not restricted. It is acquired within the normal process of socialisation, in the acquisition of language and everyday practices.21 Access to cultural memory is, in contrast, always differentiated. It is socially restricted to a specific number of people that are especially introduced to this kind of memory. The position of cultural memory outside of everyday life corresponds to the position of its ‘carriers’ and keepers. Cultural memory must be learned, and their carriers must be actively educated. Assmann has argued that the stability of memory is achieved by the attachment of memories to material objects or structures. These can be called memory figures or mnemonic devices. Abstract ideas are given a materialized aspect and stable points of reference within the collective memory.22 According to WinthropYoung23 the main aspects of Assmann’s concepts derive much inspiration from the works of Halbwachs and Warburg. However, most importantly, they are a generalization of the distinctive bitemporality of Pharaonic Egyptian culture. In Egypt this bitemporality is reflected in a highly characteristic bimediality, the difference between stone (monuments) and clay

In his book The Cultural Memory, Assmann16 stresses that memory is always socially constituted. Although only individuals can have memories, they are collectively produced in interactions with other individuals and developed in the process of socialisation.17 Every Rose 1996: 11; see also Rumsey 1994: 121. Porr 2010. 13  Borić 2010; Jones 2007; Mills and Walker 2008; Renfrew, Gosden and DeMarrais 2004; Yoffee 2007. 14  Porr 2010. 15  Assmann 1997; 2000; 2003. 16  Assmann 2005. 17  Assmann 2005: 35-36. 11  12 

Winthrop-Young 2005: 107. Assmann 2005: 52. Assmann 2005: 53. 21  Assmann 2005: 53. 22  Assmann 2005: 38-39. 23  Winthrop-Young 2005: 120. 18  19  20 

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(houses) that extends to other aspects as well (e.g. hieroglyphic and non-hieroglyphic writing on stone and papyrus). Pyramids are certainly the ‘supreme example of this polarity’.24 Assmann’s different types of memory reflect the characteristic Egyptian ‘distinction between the quotidian and the monumental’, which is interpreted not merely as a particularly prominent example of the construction of collective memories, but is seen to ‘embody, anticipate, and define the very parameters of culture’.25 Consequently, the general characteristics and mechanisms of cultural and communicative memories should be applicable crossculturally.

discussion, I want to show that the idea of social memory can indeed provide a valuable framework to understand Aboriginal rock art and its relationship to the landscape. Assmann’s contributions can provide an important framework to describe not only mechanisms of discursive stability but also the role of material structures in these processes. Kimberley rock art and the relational philosophy of Country The Kimberley region in North West Australia is widely known because of one of the most complex and diverse records of art anywhere in the world.29 The region is also home to Indigenous cultural traditions that integrate aspects of so-called rock art into their ongoing cultural practices and philosophies. The most well-known of these relate to the North West and Central Kimberley and form the so-called Wanjina Wunggurr cultural bloc – although rock art is also a part of other Aboriginal groups’ culture in other parts of the Kimberley.30 Most recently, radiometric dating efforts have suggested that some rock art expressions in the Kimberley are at least 16,000 years and that Wanjina Wunggurr art is at least 5000 years old.31 These extraordinary findings not only draw attention to the great antiquity of the rock art in this region, but also to the survival of continuous Aboriginal cultural traditions over several thousand years.

According to Assmann26 the only technology to establish and reproduce cultural memory in oral societies is the celebration of periodic collective festivities and rituals. Collective occasions of co-presence are the only mechanisms to disseminate cultural memory and establish cultural coherence and group identity. It is certainly true that these elements are of great importance to an understanding of certain expressions of Aboriginal art. However, there also remain serious problems with this approach, especially with respect to the role of material objects and structures (especially landscape features) but also in relation to some general features of Australian Aboriginal societies and cultures. Assmann27 indeed includes references to Aboriginal contexts in his work. Unfortunately, he uses these only in a superficial and evolutionistic manner. He argues that Australian Aboriginal belief systems are representative of an early stage of cultural development, in which an original lack of distinction between the sacred and the profane order is preserved. Consequently, in Aboriginal Australia all aspects of everyday life are supposed to be directly modelled upon the actions of ancestral beings, from rituals to the ‘tying of laces’.28 Only in later stages of cultural development, festivities are becoming important dedicated occasions of a different order of time and (cultural) memory. There can be little doubt that these remarks point to some highly problematic evolutionary ideas in Assmann’s conceptions as well as a lack of understanding of the Australian evidence.

Since the 1930s, several authors have engaged with the many layers of meaning of Wanjina Wunggurr rock art and have ‘unequivocally documented the autochthonous nature of these paintings, while providing a wealth of information regarding the role they play in Wanjina Wunggurr culture’32. The section here will concentrate on aspects related to the ‘enactment of landscape’, the role of the art in the construction of a socially and culturally meaningful meshwork.33 The Wanjina Wunggurr cultural bloc is an expression of the wider Indigenous Australian beliefs that were outlined above. For the local Aboriginal Traditional Owners, the engagement with their Country is characterised by the belief in the creator ancestors of Wandjina (anthropomorphic beings also in animal form), Woongudd (the sacred life force Snake) and Gwion (in their various forms including representations of vegetation). Country emerges as a rich tapestry of tangible and intangible elements, which derive from actions of creator Beings who are in the past-presentfuture continuum of Lalai (or Larlan or Larlay). The latter are variants of the local Indigenous term for ‘Dreaming’,

As I will discuss below, in the context of one case study from North West Australia, different combinations of material expressions and rituals or general practical repetitions will be central mechanisms in the understanding of expressions of Aboriginal rock art as well as a more flexible understanding of ‘monuments’. This does not mean that Assmann’s distinctions are of no value. It rather shows that the distinctions must be seen much more fluid and permeable. In the following

Donaldson and Kenneally 2007; Layton 2010; Morwood 2002. Blundell 2003; Blundell and Woolagoodja 2005; 2012. Ross et al. 2016; Travers and Ross 2016. 32  Blundell and Woolagoodja 2012: 474. 33  Blundell 2003; Blundell and Woolagoodja 2005; 2012; Crawford 1968; Doring 2000; Mowaljarlai and Malnic 1993. 29 

Winthrop-Young 2005: 121. 25  Winthrop-Young 2005: 107, emphasis added. 26  Assmann 2005: 56-59. 27  E.g. Assmann 2005: 58. 28  Assmann 2005: 58. 24 

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Martin Porr ‘Dreamtime’ and/or ‘Aboriginal Law’. Members of the Wanjina Wunggurr community people speak of their Law/Dreaming as a framework for social order and engagement with the natural and supernatural worlds, within which patterns of governance, responsibilities, moral order, accountability and entitlements are framed. This framework is equally an esoteric body of sacred knowledge and infuses common and daily practice.34

the connection between people and Country becomes so close that they become interchangeable: ‘Men will refer to all women who belong to the dambina from which they receive a wife as their ‘wife’, and they will also call the country itself their ‘wife’. As the late David Mowaljarlai once told me: ‘It’s the land we’re married to’’.38 These relationships are also reflected in the moiety divisions within this society, which equally encompass people, places, plants, animals and so on. This system is called wunan in the Wanjina Wunggurr context and divides everything into two tribes, Wodoj and Djungun. It not only specifies various forms of exchange between them, it also has a spatial dimension that impacts the structuration and perception of the landscape:

Wanjina Wunggurr rock art is truly ‘an art of country’, one of the key elements through which the people of the respective Indigenous communities ‘construct a distinct cultural landscape as well as individual and group identities based on multiple connections to land’.35 Woongudd is credited with the creation of dry and flat land from the original great world ocean. Woongudd also created the first Wandjina, who transformed the featureless world, created and shaped culturally significant features. Wandjina are mostly anthropomorphic, both male and female; but they can also occur in animal form. Following a relational ontological logic, the respective rock art images are largely not regarded as representations of Wanjina or other spiritual beings. They are indeed those spiritual beings themselves:

‘In space, the clan countries (or dambina) of Djungun clans tend to be geographically adjacent to one another, as do the countries of clans associated with Wodoj, so that two large areas of land and water are recognised, […] Mamaladba contains the clan countries of the clans associated with Djungun, and Monadba those associated with Wodoj’39. Beyond the finer cultural details and complexities, this system of interrelatedness between people and places also determines people’s responsibilities for caring for and looking after Ancestral Land. This includes aspects that might be regarded as natural environmental management (e.g. regular burning of dry vegetation). But it also includes the protection and curation of rock art images and sites. As these places are all part of a mythological landscape of social relationships, it is the respective family group who has the related responsibilities and authority.

‘After completing their creative labours, the Wandjina went into the earth at a rock shelter – while the rock was still soft – leaving their ‘imprint’ as a painting. Or they transformed themselves into various rock formations and other features of the landscape, which like certain Wandjina sites, can be a source of spiritual danger for individuals not authorised to approach them’.36 The images are important links to the continuing relationship with Lalai, the ongoing evolution of the material and non-material world as well as a core element of Traditional Owners’ sense of self and their belonging to place. The Traditional Owners’ responses to Wandjina Woongudd images and the associated narratives remain important markers of a geospatially focused ontology that is characterized by a nonlinear appreciation of time. This understanding is reflective of a complex cultural geography that closely ties together people, space, time and the material environment. The landscape that the Wandjina are understood to have created and continue to create is divided into socalled dambina. The latter are patrilineal clan estates and are integral elements of Aboriginal identity.37 They mirror kinship terms and categories, and consequently people’s connections to these areas of land. In fact,

It was traditionally the responsibility of the oldest member of the local group who claimed descent from a particular Wandjina to retouch or refresh certain images. The activities of engagement with places and images, including retouching and repainting, were traditionally embedded in the complex interrelationships between people and places in the Kimberley. Blundell40 reports that her main collaborator during her fieldwork in the 1970s, Sam Woolagoodja, learned from his older relatives to look after Country and specific Wandjina in the first half of the 20th century. He subsequently followed the wunan to assume responsibility for ‘repainting the Wandjina at the rock art sites of certain clans whose populations had declined’. Based on his fieldwork in 1938, Lommel41 reported that one man, who took on the task of retouching the paintings, said:

Oobagooma et al. 2016. Blundell 2003: 159 36  Blundell 2003: 161 37  Blundell and Layton 1978.

Blundell 2003: 162. Blundell 2003: 163. 40  Blundell 2003: 166. 41  Lommel 1952: 14.

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‘Ich gehe jetzt, um mich zu erfrischen und zu stärken, ich bemale mich jetzt neu, damit es Regen gibt’ (I am going now to refresh and invigorate myself, I am now repainting myself so that there will be rain). In this case, the human person, place and Wandjina become interchangeable. Mythical time and the present collapse into each other. ‘Such men would fill their mouths with water and blow it over the painting in order to replicate the way the Wandjina had blown rain over the land during Lalai’.42 These observations further stress the need to critically assess the ontological nature of any categories that are used and explicated. Wandjina and human beings are relationally constituted, and Country plays an active and dynamic role in these relationships. There are no static elements involved in these relationships. Seemingly natural features also exhibit agency and can transform into each other. It is the ‘saturated air emanating from the sun-warmed rocks that gives a new life to the painted images’.43

relation to mythological narratives and creation stories that have relevance to the whole community. For example, Ngayanggananyi (Mount Trafalgar) is the place of the local origins of circumcision and is known as ‘the Mountain of Initiation’. Here, ‘Ancestral Beings first dug a trench around a mountain, so it was cut off from its surrounding stone matrix’. The respective initiation circle dance is, in turn, an emulation of the digging around the base of the mountain49. Social memory, Country, and the monuments of storied landscapes For virtually all Indigenous people and societies story is crucial for all aspects of life and existence50. Story in Aboriginal thought relates to a world view that is based on connection and relationship. It reflects a relational ontology that prioritizes process and relationship over essences. It stresses involvement over disassociation, dynamic specific development over classification51. In Australian Aboriginal contexts, narratives and stories are most often articulated spatially and mapped across Country.52 Learning stories in the Kimberley consequently means learning about Country, its history and significance and the relationships between Wandjina as they exist in their Home Country. Just as people therefore are connected in a fundamental way to places, so they are fundamentally connected to stories and narratives that form the fabric of Wanjina Wunggurr society. Just as people have responsibilities to look after Country, they have responsibilities to look after and preserve stories. In doing so, they preserve society and culture which is both embedded and embodied in ‘art’ and Country.53

These observations further illustrate the close bodily and experiential connections between people and Country. The different elements that can be identified and observed are fundamentally dynamic and can potentially be transformations of each other. In some contexts, places and people, people and paintings, become interchangeable and appear as different expressions of implicit materials or spiritual energies. The creation of identity of human beings is understood to be fundamentally and irreducibly relational. Their creation is bound to the spatio-temporal constitution of Country. Following Clifford,44 Blundell45 has stated that ‘identities are constituted in the contexts of people’s historically specific experiences of dwelling and travel’. These processes are necessarily negotiations between socially constituted persons and Country. Both people and places can be understood as constituted by mythic as well as personal or historic events. Rumsey46 gives the example of the rock shelter Ngegamorro Minjil Munganu47 in the Northern Kimberley near the King Edward River. Here, a small hole is said to have been created by a bolt of lightning when the Wunambal man Collier Banymorro was conceived. As a result, Collier was not only identified with the respective spirit from Ngegamorro, but rocks at this place are now being identified as ‘Collier’. These observations illustrate the dialectic between the individual and the communal, ‘a nice example of the fusion of mythic and historic modes, subject to shifting hierarchies of emphasis’ (Redmond)48. At the other end of this scale of social significance, places can be important within this landscape in

As mentioned above, Assmann54 argued that in non-literate societies cultural memory can only be reproduced and disseminated in communal ceremonies. The latter take place at certain points in time. Time is consequently divided into a ceremonial and an everyday time. In ceremonial time a link with the mythical and absolute past is established that gives meaning to the present and by rhythmically repeating the relevant rituals the rhythm of the world itself is preserved. In this respect, cultural memory is not separated from everyday life but is implicated in the fabric and structure of reality itself. Communicative and cultural memories relate to different dimensions of reality and different temporal rhythms. While only accessed at certain occasions, cultural memory constantly infuses everyday reality with meaning and

Blundell 2003: 164. Redmond 2005: 9459. 44  Clifford 1997. 45  Blundell 2003: 176. 46  Rumsey 1994: 123-124. 47  see also Mowaljarlai and Malnic 1993: 62-65. 48  Quoted in Rumsey 1994: 124. 42 

Redmond 2005: 9462. Cruikshanks 2005; Ingold 2011; Porr and Matthews 2016. Holbraad and Pedersen 2017; Strathern 1988. 52  James 2015; Milroy and Revell 2013; Rose 1996; 2004. 53  Oobagooma et al. 2016. 54  Assmann 2005.

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Martin Porr Therefore, the distinction between nature and culture needs to be reassessed in this context as well. Following the suggestions by Winkler,59 a revised and more flexible understanding of social memory can enhance our understanding of the dialectic relationships between people, memories, practices and monuments in the context of the cultural landscape of the North West Kimberley. Not only do people make, build and inscribe monuments and material objects, but also humans are subjected to inscription and deposition in these active engagements. Memories are deposited into humans through monuments just as memories are materially deposited by humans into the landscape.

significance.55 There is little doubt that these elements can clearly be connected to the considerations outlined above. Although it is not possible to provide greater detail here, communal rituals that take place at specific times play important roles in Aboriginal societies. They do indeed relate to mythical events and stories that can also be restricted to specific groups within society. As such, they link human existence to larger frames of significance and create communal identities. Following Assmann’s terminology, these processes are related to cultural memory However, problems exist with Assmann’s understanding of the role of material monuments in different societies. Winkler56 has drawn attention to the fact that Assmann’s ideas emphasise the separation between different types of memories and practices rather than allowing an examination of the systematic exchange between them. Assmann, consequently, dichotomizes cultures of writing and monumentality and cultures of oral traditions with an emphasis on ritual and repetition: ‘while writing cultures invest in material deposits and juxtapose the monumental duration of the writing medium to a transient temporality, oral cultures are vested in repetition and ritual’.57 Winkler himself proposes a model that is more flexible and specifically combines aspects of monumentality and repetition. The material durability of the monument creates a ‘centre of gravity’ for repetitions and forces repetitive acts to return in cyclical fashion to a describable and fixed point in space. To do so, the monument inscribes into human memories ‘the to-be-repeated pattern in the interval between two acts of repetition’.58

Conclusion In this paper, I have argued that Assmann’s general ideas about social memory can provide some valuable insights in relation to the Aboriginal enactment of landscape in the North West Kimberley, Australia. However, it is important to detach Assmann’s original ideas from his concentration on monumental architecture and highly stratified societies. In this way, they can be detached from some unfortunate connotations and their links to social evolutionist ideas. The North West Kimberley is indeed a landscape of memories and a landscape of monuments. Both have communal and individual dimensions that flow into and speak to each other. As I mentioned above, it seems that Assmann only had a relatively limited understanding of the Australian evidence and, hence, he rather saw it within a broad evolutionist framework in which differentiations in social memory depend on social stratification and a complex built environment. However, as I have tried to show above, some key elements of Assmann’s distinctions can be applied to the evidence from Northwest Australia, to a context of a hunter-gatherer society. These insights are consequently important to counter any tendencies to view human societies within a hierarchical framework of difference and historical development.

As I have demonstrated above, examples of almost all these processes can indeed be found in the context of Wanjina Wunggurr rock art in the North West Kimberley. The case study outlined above clearly demonstrates that the idea of monumentality must be revised in the context of an understanding of social memory in different societies. Monumentality needs to be detached from the idea of a built environment as it is usually understood in relation to the development of hierarchical civilisations. The rock art of the Kimberley fulfils all the features of Assmann’s understanding of the relationships between material monuments and cultural memory. The art forms focal points for repeated engagements with the landscape that are also connected to important communal narratives and memories. Furthermore, as the examples demonstrate above, even so-called natural features can acquire the features of monumental architecture and can acquire qualities related to Assmann’s memory figures.

The hugely complex system of meanings around the rock art in the Kimberley is indeed a testimony against any hierarchical schemes of thought. To fully understand the many layers of meaning of these images correctly and appropriately is certainly demanding. It also must be understood holistically and with reference to phenomenological and embodied elements of memory, perception and thought.60 The Indigenous philosophies of the Wandjina Wunggurr communities also integrate the idea that images are the focus of physical situations of inter-individual context creation and the establishment of meaning in processes of triangulation between material objects and human

Assmann 2005: 58-59. Winkler 2002. 57  Winkler 2002: 94. 58  Winkler 2002: 96. 55  56 

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Winkler 2002. See also Porr and Bell 2012.

Art, Social Memory and Relational Ontology in the Kimberley, North West Australia

producers and consumers. These relationships are best understood within a framework of relational ontology.

Blundell, V., K. Doohan, D. Vachon, M. Allbrock, M.A. Jebb, and J. Bornman (eds). 2017. Barddabardda Wodjenangorddee: We’re telling all of you. The creation, history and people of Dambimangaddee Country. Derby, Dambimangari Aboriginal Corporation. Blundell, V. and R. Layton. 1978. Marriage, myth and models of exchange in the West Kimberleys. Mankind 11: 231-245. Blundell, V. and D. Woolagoodja. 2005. Keeping the Wandjinas Fresh: Sam Woolagoodja and the Enduring Power of Lalai. Fremantle, Fremantle Arts Centre Press. Blundell, V. and D. Woolagoodja. 2012. Rock art, aboriginal culture, and identity: The Wandjina paintings of Northwest Australia. A companion to rock art, edited by P. Veth and J. McDonald. Chichester, Wiley-Blackwell: 472-488. Borić, D. (ed.). 2010. Archaeology and Memory. Oxford, Oxbow. Clifford, J. 1997. Routes. Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge (Mass.), Harvard University Press. Crawford, I. 1968. The Art of the Wandjina. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Cruikshanks, J. 2005. Do Glaciers Listen? Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters and Social Imagination. Vancouver, UBC Press. Donaldson, M. and K. Kenneally (eds). 2007. Rock Art of the Kimberley. Proceedings of the Kimberley Society Rock Art Seminar. Perth, Kimberley Society. Doring, J. (ed.). 2000. Gwion Gwion. Secret and Sacred Pathways of the Ngarinyin Aboriginal People of Australia. Köln, Könemann. Holbraad, M. and M.A. Pedersen. 2017. The Ontological Turn. An Anthropological Exposition. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Ingold, T. 2011. Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London, Routledge. James, D. 2015. Tjukurpa Time. Long History, Deep Time. Deepening Histories of Place, edited by In A. McGrath and M.A. Jebb. Canberra, ANU Press: 33-46. Jones, A. 2007. Memory and Material Culture. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Layton, R. 2010. Australian Rock Art: A New Synthesis. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Lommel, A. 1952. Die Unambal. Ein Stamm in NordwestAustralien. Hamburg, Hamburgisches Museum für Völkerkunde. Mills, B.J. and W.H. Walker (eds). 2008. Memory Work: Archaeologies of Material Practices. Santa Fe, School of Advanced Research Press. Milroy, J. and G. Revell. 2013. Aboriginal Story Systems: Remapping the West, Knowing Country, Sharing Space. Occasion: Interdisciplinary Studies in the Humanities 5: 1-24.

In relation to social memory, this is not a trivial assessment. As mentioned above, in the Aboriginal understanding, places, images and narratives are intimately connected to each other. They cannot be separated, which poses a problem in assessing the ontological status of memories that supposedly exist exclusively in the minds of human actors. On the one hand, Aboriginal informants insist that images and narratives cannot be removed from their respective places, but on the other hand, these stories and meanings must be preserved within the memories of people between and beyond physical interactions that take place in the landscape. This tension or dialectic cannot be resolved here. It requires further exploration. In the respective Aboriginal communities today, the mythological and cultural landscape that was described above is both real and material as well as an immaterial structuring principle. Even though people now rarely can visit the places of their ancestral connections, the landscape still provides the main source of identity. The country continues to structure people’s relationships even though the material engagement itself is today often severely disrupted. Aboriginal communities are trying to preserve their cultural knowledge in books.61 As expressed by Daisy Utemorrah in the introductory quote, books help people, who are divorced from their Ancestral Country, to remember.62 Books have now acquired the role of memory figures or mnemonic devices. Therefore, despite dramatic historical shifts and interruptions, the cultural landscape of the Wanjina Wunggurr community continues to be the product of a dialectic between people, their memories, and enactments. It exists beyond the material and the immaterial. References Assmann, J. (1997). Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Assmann, J. 2000. Religion und kulturelles Gedächtnis. München, C. H. Beck. Assmann, J. 2003. Die Mosaische Unterscheidung oder der Preis des Monotheismus. München, Hanser. Assmann, J. 2005. Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen. München, C. H. Beck. Blundell, V. 2003. The art of country: Aesthetics, place, and Aboriginal identity in north-west Australia. Disputed Territories: Land, Culture and Identity in Settler Societies, edited by D. Trigger and G. Griffiths. Hong Kong, Hong Kong University Press: 155-185. 61  62 

Blundell et al. 2017; Doring, 2000. Mowaljarlai and Malnic 1993, ix.

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Martin Porr Morwood, M. J. 2002. Visions from the Past: The Archaeology of Australian Aboriginal Rock Art. Crows Nest, Allen and Unwin. Mowaljarlai, D. and J. Malnic. 1993. Yorro Yorro Everything Standing up Alive. Spirit of the Kimberley. Broome, Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation. Oobagooma, J., L. Umbagai, K. Doohan, and M. Porr. 2016. Yooddooddoom: A narrative exploration of the camp and the sacred place, daily life, images, arranged stones and Lalai Beings. Hunter Gatherer Research 2(3): 345-374. Porr, M. 2010. Palaeolithic art as cultural memory. A case study of the Aurignacian art of Southwest Germany. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 20(1): 87-108. Porr, M. and H.R. Bell. 2012. ‘Rock-art’, ‘animism’ and two-way thinking: Towards a complementary epistemology in the understanding of material culture and ‘rock-art’ of hunting and gathering people. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 19: 161-205. Porr, M. and J.M. Matthews. 2016. Thinking through Story. Hunter Gatherer Research 2(3): 249-274. Redmond, A. 2005. Ungarinyin religion. Encyclopedia of Religion, edited by L. Jones, M. Eliade and C.J. Adams. Detroit, Macmillan Reference USA: 9458-9462. Renfrew, C., C. Gosden, and E. DeMarrais (eds). 2004. Substance, Memory, Display. Archaeology and Art. Cambridge, McDonald Institute for Archaeological Studies. Rose, D.B. 1996. Nourishing Terrains: Australian Aboriginal Views of Landscape and Wilderness. Canberra, Australian Heritage Commission.

Rose, D.B. 2004. Reports from a Wild Country. Ethics for Decolonisation. Sydney, University of New South Wales. Ross, J., K. Westaway, M. Travers, M. Morwood and J. Hayward. 2016. Into the Past: A step towards a robust Kimberley rock art chronology. PLoS ONE 11(8), e0161726. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0161726 Rumsey, A. 1994. The Dreaming, Human Agency and Inscriptive Practice. Oceania 65(2): 116-130. Spencer, W.B. and F.J. Gillen. 1899. The Native Tribes of Central Australia. London, Macmillan. Stanner, W.E.H. 1965. The Dreaming. Reader in Comparative Religion. An Anthropological Approach, edited by W.A. Lessa and E.Z. Vogt. New York, Harper and Row: 269-277. Strathern, M. 1988. The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melansia. Berkeley, University of California Press. Travers, M. and J. Ross. 2016. Continuity and change in the anthropomorphic figures of Australia’s northwest Kimberley. Australian Archaeology 82(2): 148-167. Winkler, H. 2002. Discourses, schemata, technology, monuments: Outline for a theory of cultural continuity. Configurations 10(1): 91-109. Winthrop-Young, G. 2005. Memories of the Nile: Egyptian Traumas and Communication Technologies in Jan Assmann’s Theory of Cultural Memory. New German Critique 96: 103-133. Yoffee, N. (ed.) 2007. Negotiating the Past in the Past. Identity, Memory, and Landscape in Archaeological Research. Tucson, The University of Arizona Press.

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Recursivity in Kimberley Rock Art Production, Western Australia Ana Paula Motta, Martin Porr, and Peter Veth University of Western Australia [email protected]

Introduction In this paper, we examine the issue of recursivity in rock art production within the context of Kimberley rock art. These themes will be explored with reference to the vast and well-documented superimpositions, overprinting and pigment removal episodes, which occur across most phases of art production from the terminal Pleistocene through to art expressions made during contact with European colonists.1 Why do some locales have evidence for multiple phases of art production while others only have a single phase represented on a panel in relative isolation? Are some of the art styles more likely to occur in palimpsest assemblages while others appear as single production events or motifs? While these ambitious questions cannot be exhaustively answered in this paper, here we flesh out a series of patterns and testable archaeological propositions within the context of a current Australian Research Council research project, Kimberley Visions: The origins of rock art style provinces in Northern Australia (LP 150100490). Kimberley Visions is focused on the vast Balanggarra Native Title Determination area in the remote northeast Kimberley. Research conducted by the project started in 2016 and focused on the variability of rock art and occupational records from the terminal Pleistocene to Holocene periods in three different catchments: Drysdale River, King George River, and Forrest River (Figure 1). The wider region has been inhabited from at least 50,000 BP by anatomically modern humans2 who, from current evidence, displayed an artistic and symbolic behaviour from c. 40,000 BP. Among the objects found are a rock slab with ochre traces at Carpenter’s Gap,3 Dentalium (Tusk shell) beads from necklaces at Riwi,4 and a Terminal Pleistocene grindstone with pigment traces at Drysdale 3,5 among the most relevant ones.

Ouzman et al. 2017; Veth et al. 2017. Balme et al. 2009; O’Connell and Allen 2015; Roberts et al. 1990; Tobler et al. 2017; Veth and O’Connor2013. 3  Maloney et al. 2018; O’Connor 1995. 4  Balme 2000; Balme et al. 2019. 5  See Figure 30 in Morwood and Hobbs 2000: 36.

Although contested, Kimberley art and its sequential arrangement has been under scrutiny by many avocational and professional rock art researchers, being those proposed by Walsh6 and Welch7 the most referenced ones. According to the authors, Kimberley rock art can be classified into six art periods: (i) Pecked Cupule Period; (ii) Irregular Infill Animal Period; (iii) Gwion Period; (iv) Static Polychrome Period; (v) Painted Hand Period; and (vi) Wanjina Period8. For the southern Kimberley, a European contact art period was later added by O’Connor et al.9 As its name indicates, the Pecked Cupule Period is characterised by human-made concavities on the surfaces of the rock panels, sometimes found in combination with grooves. The Irregular Animal Period has been described as containing numerous naturalistic animal depictions, sometimes accompanied by human representations. In contrast, the Gwion Period is known for its abundant and highly detailed human depictions, painted with a wide array of personal accoutrements and, less frequently, animal depictions. Following the Gwion Period, the Static Polychrome Period is characterised by schematised human depictions presenting a great variability in personal ornamentation and weaponry. The Painted Hand Period is abundant in hand-paintings filled with geometric designs, zoomorphic figures, and human depictions. Finally, the Wanjina Period has been described as containing Wanjina beings portrayed with halo-like headdresses, eyes, nose, and no mouth. They are believed to be Ancestral figures that played a role in the determination of clan’s territories, maintaining social order and creating social relationships among clan members, and replenishing natural resources.10 Animal depictions can also be found in this period. There have been efforts to date the Kimberley rock art relative sequence for the past three decades, but absolute dating brackets for all of the art periods are still needed. Overall, it is now accepted that Kimberley rock art was produced from the terminal Pleistocene continuing through to the present.11 Walsh 1994; 2000. Welch 1990; 1993. E.g. Walsh 1994; 2000; Welch 1993. 9  O’Connor et al. 2013. 10  Layton 1992: 33. 11  Aubert 2012; Morwood et al. 1994; Roberts et al. 1997; Ross et al.

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Figure 1. Map of the North-eastern Kimberley showing the three catchments in which the Kimberley Visions team is conducting research

In the case of the north-eastern Kimberley, many of these well-recognised art periods begin to show significant variation. For example, early Gwion figures are present and also lie further towards the Northern Territory border than previously mapped. Subsequent Static Polychrome figures show morphing that renders

some of them more like their Northern Territory counterparts, while Painted Hand-era art again suggests regional style variation. Wanjina headdress figures are present but in smaller numbers and they are referred to by different names by Traditional Owners.12 Further complicating this picture of geographic variance is

2016, Veth et al. 2017, Watchman 1997.

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Akerman 2016; Blundell and Woolagoodja 2005; Crawford 1986.

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the fact that later styles appear to be clades sharing common precursors as seen in the persistence of core attributes such as headdresses.13

curated and maintained through time. This is not to create a seamless narrative of transmission at either cultural or archaeological scales,22 rather it reifies the concept of ownership and inheritance of ‘Country’. As Morphy23 has elegantly argued, ‘rock art also provided a potential resource for the artists – an inventory of forms that could be drawn from if the conventions of the place and time allowed’.

With respect to the cultural importance of space and place it remains an intriguing question as to whether the complex and well-known ontologies linked to the Wanjina regenerative powers and monsoonal replenishment are tied up with Mid- to Late-Holocene sea level rise and stabilisation. Finally, do worldviews that express narratives of animal and natural-human origin have a longer history, finding expression in ancient plant/animal/human hybrid depictions14and seen most recently in the belief of totemic origins as recorded already by Elkin?15

During the last several decades, rock art and archaeological research have increasingly integrated informed components of Aboriginal symbolic practices both on and off the rocks.24 These developments have significantly transformed the character of the respective disciplines, providing new challenges to both interpretative schemes and approaches. The situation has contributed to an increase in studies that equally engage with the complex anthropological contexts of art (re)production, as well as the complexities of the material records.25 For these interactions to be properly understood new theoretical and methodological challenges have emerged. These challenges, however, demonstrate the richness and potential of the Australian situation to explore the applicability and suitability of different approaches and explanations at several levels.

Recursivity, ontology and Australian rock art research Traditionally, rock art research in Australia is located within Archaeology as its development is closely linked to the research and intellectual history of this discipline.16 For most of its research history, rock art has been studied primarily within an epistemological framework that emphasises spatial patterns and chronological stylistic schemes. In addition, questions surrounding the links between environmental changes and rock art expressions, and related forms of social organisation and information exchange continue to play an important role.17 It has been argued that rock art has often been ignored by social anthropologists in Australia because of the overwhelming richness and complexity of other forms of Aboriginal culture.18 In addition, the cultural link between living populations and early rock art has sometimes been argued to be discontinuous.19 In this sense, it is concluded that contemporary attitudes towards very old ‘rock art would have little relevance to its interpretation and significance at the time of its original production’.20 This understanding has been addressed in the past by classificatory over informed approaches towards rock art variability, contributing to a situation in which ethnographic information about rock art becomes less privileged.21 The critical issue here, however, is promoting the theoretical position that art does not become inert and locked within an ‘abandoned’ style repertoire or practice once executed; in effect entering a state of social disarticulation. In contrast, it clearly becomes part of an inscribed landscape which is both

It is in this sense that Morphy26outlines the approach whereby the related processes of production, consumption and engagement of rock art can be integrated, writing that, ‘Meticulous archaeological analysis of sequencing and evidence of retouching, combined with available ethnographic data, can provide insights into these complex cultural processes’. McDonald and Veth27 have argued for structured patterning between mythological tracks of the Western Desert Jukurr (or Dreaming, the anthropological term that has been given to the variable Australian Aboriginal philosophical understandings of the dynamics of existence, which are place-focused and integrate multiple temporalities)28 and production of rock art themes and form through time. They note there is a strong theoretical and practical basis to making linkages between rock art and the more widespread iterative and recursive elements of general art practice. Morphy29 defines iterative as the ‘repetitive element of art practice in which variations of a particular design or schema are replicated overtime or existing images are redefined or repainted’. Designs embedded in totemic narratives and geography provide ideological and

E.g. Travers and Ross 2016. Ouzman et al. 2017. Elkin 1932. 16  David and McNiven 2017; David et al. 2017; Jones and Wesley 2016; Layton 2010; Morwood 2002; McDonald and Veth 2012. 17  E.g. Brady and Bradley 2014; McDonald and Veth 2013b. 18  Taylor and Veth 2008. 19  Walsh 2000. 20  Brady et al. 2016: 28. 21  Although see Veth et al. 2018 13  14 

E.g. Barberena et al. 2017; Veth 2003. Morphy 2012: 295; see also Motta 2016. 24  See Morphy 1999; Taylor and Veth 2008. 25  See contributions in McDonald and Veth 2012. 26  Morphy 2012: 296. 27  McDonald and Veth 2013a. 28  See Stanner 1965. 29  Morphy 2012: 297. 22 

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Ana Paula Motta, Martin Porr, and Peter Veth symbolic skeins, if not embodying the Ancestral Being or actions themselves, with the replication and copying of design elements providing direct performative connections for custodians and their kin.30 Morphy31 argues further that ‘one of the things that connects artistic traditions over time is the recursive element of art practice, the fact that artists draw from the past both by way of memory of what they and others have produced before and with reference to archives and collections—to works of art conserved on rock surfaces…recursivity as an element of practice gives coherence and substance to the idea of tradition as linked in a dialogical relationship with human agency’.

knowledge and forms of representation.35 In this spirit, within rock art research, a recent engagement can be observed with the so-called ontological turn in anthropology that has helped to shape recent debates about the interpretation of cultural forms and expressions. Jones36 has argued that an engagement with ontology can be of crucial relevance to rock art research, because it allows understanding a range of key themes including the production of rock art images, their placement on the rock surface, their position in the landscape, and their relationship to site formation processes. The attachment to place and Country is one of the defining characteristics of Australian Aboriginal worldviews. Within this framework, images, language and stories cannot be easily removed from bodily engagement with a specific location. It follows that learning about anything is fundamentally connected to practice and the establishment of interaction and dynamic relationships between the person and the material world. Indigenous worldviews rest, to large extent, on accepting that knowledge can only be acquired through bodily, dynamic and material entanglements.37 In the context of the Aboriginal heritage of the Kimberley, these aspects have recently been explored in several case studies from the Western Kimberley. The publications reflect long-term collaborative work between Aboriginal knowledge holders and academic researchers.38 They focus on the connections between different types of evidence and their cultural significance that can vary for different observers. The analysis is consequently reflective of the place-focused and relational ontological orientation of Aboriginal knowledge systems. They foremost concentrate on local relationships and interconnections across the landscape. They tend to be opposed to archaeological approaches that rest on the temporal and spatial disentanglement of different classes of material culture and the development of chronological-stylistic sequences and regional comparisons. These studies have also been prepared with an awareness of the strengths and weaknesses of different knowledge systems and their ways of representation and communication. The publications consequently contain a greater number of images and photos as well as direct statements from Traditional knowledge holders that were made at the relevant place – emphasising the close connection between knowledge, place, ancestral and human beings.39

In the western Kimberley, the local understanding of Dreaming, Lailai, an ancient but continuing era of creation, sees expression in complex and combined motifs with creator Snake and Wanjina motifs. These and other panels are actively repainted as an ongoing Kimberley cultural practice of revitalisation.32 Art practice—which deploys similar iconography in a range of media (e.g. stone slabs, barks, linen, boab nuts and most recently acrylics) as well as rock art—reaffirms people’s custodianship of places, as part of a nexus of social rights and obligations that includes caring for nested sacred sites within clan estates. One of the main challenges for understanding these cultural configurations and practices through academic research certainly is the conceptualisation of the difference between storied (Aboriginal) knowledge and classificatory (Western/scientific) knowledge or the establishment of a framework that allows the assessment of their respective ontological characteristics.33 This is not a trivial endeavour because it potentially impacts a range of foundational notions of an understanding of human behaviour including time, space, agency, materiality and so forth. These elements are regularly highlighted whenever a serious and significant engagement with Traditional Owner’s views and perspectives is attempted.34 Currently, negotiations between these ontological positions are increasingly affecting archaeological practice. In the context of Indigenous archaeologies and the collaborative assessment of archaeological practice and interpretation, some significant and valuable developments can be observed. These range from a critical evaluation of the history of global archaeological practice to the development of collaborative research strategies and methodologies with Indigenous communities, and the integration of Indigenous 30  See Morphy 1991: 1994: 132 for a relevant discussion with reference to ritual action. 31  Morphy 2012: 297. 32  See discussion in O’Connor et al. 2008. 33  Ingold 2011: 141-176; Porr and Matthews 2016. 34  Porr and Bell 2012; McGrath and Jebb 2015 and references therein.

35  Bruchac et al. 2010; Hamilakis and Duke 2007; Liebmann and Rizvi 2008; Lydon and Rizvi, 2012; Munn 1973; Smith and Wobst, 2005. 36  Jones 2017. 37  Ingold 2000: 2011. 38  See Blundel et al. 2017a; Blundell 2017b; Doohan et al. 2016. 39  Porr 2018.

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DRY013 (PundawarManbur)

In the spirit of epistemological complementarity discussed above, Australian Aboriginal rock art presents a valuable arena within which to explore exactly those issues and to investigate processes of spatially and temporally specific engagements and interactions. These processes can generate patterns of continuity and discontinuity both in space as well as time. Following Morphy’s40 tenets for the recursive character of Aboriginal art (both inherited and contemporary), it seems fruitful to further explore the specific themes that were carefully chosen and later replicated within new compositions. These will include body parts, headdresses, in-fill themes and groupings and theoretically may hold the key to disentangling the cultural and symbolic transmission of ‘cladal motifs’ between style periods. Here we use the evolutionary term clade to provide a descriptor for rock art traditions which have their genesis and borrowings from pre-existing modes, as shown in recent correspondence analysis and other measures of inter-group similarities.41

This site is located within the Planigale Creek tributary of the Drysdale River and contains numerous motifs belonging to the Irregular Infill Animal (IIA), Gwion and Wanjina periods, as well as hand stencils and fingerprints. Most of the art is located in a main panel facing NW that measures 15m in length and 6m in height. This panel contains juxtapositions of these art periods, where different painting, repainting, and scratching events can be identified. The most prominent motif within the main panel is a large macropod classified as part of the Irregular Infill Period that presents transverse lines and a hatched in-fill pattern in its body, and a solid in-fill in its limbs and head (Figure 2A). Its hind-foot and forepaw have been scratched although it is hard to establish when this has happened (Figure 2 A2). The macropod has been later repainted in the Wanjina style with the addition of a bright red outline appearing to replicate the previous hatched pattern within its head. The eyes have been painted with a twisted forward perspective, causing both eyes to be visible in plan view, whereas its body has been painted in profile. Towards the right-hand side of this macropod, an unidentified motif (probably a yam; Figure 2 A1) has been repainted in the same fashion as the large macropod, which transforms the older yamlike motif into a macropod head as would be seen in plan view. Positioned below the large macropod are a group of flying foxes that exhibit systematic scratching and a flying fox has also been subsequently added to the original composition, visible by the change in pigment used. This added flying fox has been painted in a fine red outline with its head displaying more detailed features than the original composition. Even further below this composition to the right, a group of Gwion figures have their torso and head heavily scored (Figure 2B). It is interesting to note that these are the only Gwion figures exhibiting scratch marks across the entire panel. To the left of the panel (Figure 2C), two Gwion figures wearing tassels have been covered by Wanjina figures.

Recursivity in Kimberley rock art The following section explores the recursive character of Kimberley rock art at four locales found along the Drysdale and King George Rivers. As aforementioned, the study area is part of the Balanggarra Native Title determination, which covers 26,000 km2. This area covers coastal, inland and riverine catchments where a range of archaeological and rock art sites occur. Due to Kimberley’s monsoonal climate, fieldwork is conducted during the dry season (May to October), when weather is more stable and temperature lower.42 Palaeoenvironmental data shows that climate conditions in the past were fluctuating between periods of humidity with high precipitations (before c. 28,000 years BP), followed by an increase in aridity. During the Last Glacial Maximum, weather was cooler and more arid than today.43 As a result, the water volume decreased, leading to a reduction of the sea level by 125m compared to today.44 Consequently, archaeological and rock art sites located along the coastline are now under water. As such, Kimberley climate conditions had an impact on how past and contemporaneous populations – as well as researchers moved in and engaged with the landscape.

Overall, the superimposition sequence and scratching/ pigment removal practices in this case study are interpreted as deliberate actions connecting new depictions with (pre)existing ones. Some of the depicted themes are recurrent across the stylistic periods in this site. In this sense, some motifs were the focus of interest for both ‘old’ and ‘new’ artists working at this site, as seen in the recurrent characteristics of some animal themes. For example, the large macropod outline has been repainted in a manner that replicates the original design, whereby the hatched infill on the IIA macropod head was extended to the rest of the body during the Wanjina period.

The study area of Kimberley Visions demonstrates ancient superimpositions and overprinting, as well as pigment removal examples. The chosen case studies explore how past and contemporary artists engaged with different aspects of Kimberley’s art repertoire. Morphy 2012. See also May et al. 2017; Travers and Ross 2016. 42  O’Connor 1999: 15. 43  Williams et al. 2012; Williams et al. 2015. 44  Reeves et al. 2013; Yokoyama et al. 2001. 40  41 

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Figure 2.DRY013with detail of three panel sub-sections. (A) Shows the hatched macropod painted in IIA style conventions and later repainted in Wanjina style. (B) A group of Gwion figures with details of scratched surfaces, and (C) two Gwion figures superimposed by a Wanjina.

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The case of the scratched body parts of both animals and human figures has been previously interpreted as a case of defacement.45 In other words, the removal of the head and sometimes feet of previous depictions would have served sorcery purposes, although in this example different body parts were targeted. However, it has been noted that referring to this practice as ‘defacement’ may have unnecessarily negative connotations, 46 as in other parts of the world pigment removal was not a form of vandalism.47 On the contrary, it was most likely used for harnessing the potency of the art48 or incorporating it into ritual regenerative practices.49

3 is weathered and comprises scattered motifs, and often not easily identifiable. The art in locus 1 has been placed mainly on the ceiling and overhangs as well as several vertical walls. In terms of styles, the art can be attributed to IIA, Gwion, Static Polychrome, and Wanjina periods. The ceiling has a highly detailed large Wanjina-style crocodile painted in white and red, and placed adjacent to two macropods painted in IIA style. One of the macropods (Figure 4 B1) shows the characteristic irregular in-fill or transverse lines within its torso, with legs and ears painted in red. The other macropod (Figure 4 B2) is larger and has its head fully infilled with irregular strokes; however, the legs have not been painted with the same detail as the smaller macropod. Both figures have been repainted using a Wanjina-style convention by adding a red outline to the figures. The heads have been scratched and their original features modified. The main difference between the two examples relates to the first motif (4 B1) having its head painted in plan view, whereas the second motif (4 B2) has its head painted in profile, including the addition of eyes and a vertical line across its chest. This is a common convention of Wanjina figures.

DRY020 (White Crocodile) The site complex is located in the Drysdale River area and is composed of two loci, together measuring 25m in length. Our discussion focuses on locus 1, as it presents a rich sequence of superimpositions between IIA, Gwion, hand stencils, grass prints, and Wanjina motifs. The most prominent motif in locus 1 is a large Wanjina period crocodile painted in white with a red outline superimposing at least four anthropomorphs in IIA style and animal motifs (displayed in Figure 3B). Towards the left of the crocodile, there are other possible IIAPeriod animal and yam depictions, Gwion figures, hand stencils and macropod tracks, some of them showing scored and scratched marks. These elements also present superimposition relations, hence creating complex patterns in some parts of the panel. Figure 3 A1 portrays a group of three animal figures (identified from left to right as two macropods and a fish), each of them painted in a distinctive perspective. This group of figures exhibits scratching marks carefully placed on top of the upper portions of the motifs. To the left of this scene, we find three fishes painted with different dimensions (probably representing different species) showing evidence of pecking marks and pounding (Figure 3 A2). These marks do not seem to target the pigment of these previous depictions, although they do concentrate on the same sector of the panel. In sum, the panel represents a long sequence of superimposed figures with unique and repeated painting events of IIA figures across the entire panel, as well as repeated removal events over the panel.

With respect to the large crocodile, it has been placed on top of an array of Static Polychrome figures as well as several other unidentified animals. Different painting events can be identified, with the light red background ‘washing’ away and the darker red outline and white in-fill displaying a ‘fresh’ appearance. The crocodile does not cover the two macropods, and it is assumed its execution and specific location within this panel was planned to complement rather than overprint them. In this sense, both the macropod motifs and the Wanjina crocodile appear to be part of a new composition, where existing design elements and themes were reincorporated. KGR343 This final case study is located within the King George Falls escarpment and is composed of a south, central, and north loci. The art belongs to the IIA, Gwion and Wanjina periods. The central sector comprises a large over 20m wide rock shelter with an extensive overhang and prominent ceiling hosting multiple anthropomorphs and animals painted in Wanjina style; most of them are superimposed. The Wanjina depictions represent great variability in terms of overall chest and head decorations. Multiple painting events can be identified in this panel with some areas having more abundant superimpositions and repainting sequences (Figures 5A and 5B).

KGR062 The site complex is located on the escarpment of the King George River catchment, in a highly dense rock art area. From the three loci that compose the site, we discuss the art discussed in locus 1 (Figure 4), which is well preserved. The art found at loci 2 and

The northern sector of the site complex is composed of 23 separate panels with a high number (> 50) of Gwion motifs. Figure 5C illustrates a complex but clear

Walsh 2000: 15. Motta 2016: 2019 47  Hampson 2016: 233. 48  Hampson 2015: 186. 49  Roberts 2005. 45  46 

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Figure 3.DRY020 site. (A) To the right of panel, a group of three outlined figures with scratched marks carefully executed on their outline (A1), and to the left hand side of the panel the detail of a group of three fish with pounding and surface removal traces (A2). (B) Large white crocodile in Wanjina style superimposed over a group of existing IIA anthropomorphic figures.

superimposition sequence between IIA and Gwion figures (e.g. freshwater fish and a variety of tassel figures). At the centre of the panel two IIA macropods show evidence of being repainted in a light red/ orange pigment, although the precise sequencing is difficult to discern. This panel displays some clear superimposition relationships as well as evidence of how groups created later depictions based on existing

ones. In this particular case, the Gwion depictions have been added to a previous IIA scene thereby creating a new and deliberately complementary composition. Specifically, a horizontally oriented Gwion figure has been placed below the large central macropod with a larger Gwion positioned to its left, and finally a group of four smaller Gwion motifs (all probably dating to the same time period) placed to its right. 144

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Figure 4. KGR062 site with site map. (A) Shows a highly detailed Wanjina crocodile in white and red pigment overlying a Static Polychrome figure (A1). (B) Two macropods executed in IIA style, later modified and adapted into Wanjina style, with repeated scratch marks on their heads (B1 and B2).

Some final considerations

IIA style and later repainted in lighter colours, during an unknown episode/s, while their heads and limbs were scratched. By contrast, some Gwion figures do not show signs of repainting, but do contain traces of pigments being removed. Finally, it is well explored in the bibliography that Wanjina figures were regularly repainted and maintained.50 Wanjinas are believed to be Creation Beings and play a major role in establishing clan territories, maintaining social order, and creating social relationship among clan members.51 Named Wanjinas were seasonally repainted in order to ‘keep them fresh’ and to secure the replenishment of cultural and natural cycles and orders.52 Since each clan is believed to have descended from a Wanjina,53 it can be argued that repainting practices among past and contemporary Australian Aboriginal societies not only played a role in the replenishment and regeneration of resources, but was also a manifest way of re-establishing both ancestral and contemporary agency in the (re) creation of Country.54

While the analysis only focused on a limited number of rock art sites located across the north-eastern Kimberley, the selected case studies emphasize the recursive properties that Kimberley art contains. In these four case studies, the recursive properties of Kimberley rock art have been re-examined to identify how different groups engaged and interacted with their Country. The previous discussion shed light on how artists engaged with their past through the re-incorporation and modification of previous depictions contained in Kimberley landscape. As such, it can be suggested that artists working at different time periods in the Kimberley engaged differently with their past. In other words, some differences can be seen in how depictions of the IIA, Gwion, and Wanjina Periods were modified. Although most of the modification episodes are impossible to date, it is still possible to determine how specific designs and motifs were targeted. In this sense, IIA depictions were the subject of a series of modifications that seemed to use and reincorporate the existing design into the new one. DRY013, KGR062, and KGR343 all contain macropod depictions painted in

Akerman 2016. Akerman 2016; Layton 1992: 23. Blundell et al. 2017b; Clarke 1978; Crawford 1968; Elkin 1932; Love 1930; among others. 53  Blundell and Woolagoodja 2012: 474; Mowaljarlai et al. 1988: 692. 54  Motta 2016: 70. 50  51  52 

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Figure 5. KGR343 site complex. (A) and (B) showing the high variability of Wanjina styles in the eastern locus. (C) Examples of three panels from the northern locus with details of superimpositions between IIA and Gwion figures. Details of a repainting event over a small macropod.

To conclude, it has been observed that specific locales, sites and panels have often been intensively reused over time, in that previous depictions have been purposefully remobilised and reincorporated into new ones or treated as ‘complementary compositional narratives’. Analytically and conceptually, artists draw upon the repertoire of earlier images or artists, contributing to the continuity (and variance) of artistic forms and traditions. The exact characteristics of these continuities allow insights into the interplay between

motives, places, Country and individual as well as interpersonal and socially constructed agency. Rock art thus becomes the product of a dialogue between places and different generations of artists. In this dialogue, the distinction between past and present can be highlighted or erased through the enhancement or neglect of inherited art over space at the levels of motif, composition, panel, site, complex, and style province. To better understand the recursive nature of Kimberley rock art, we need to recognise and define the 146

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links between specific site locations and their overall place within the cultural and symbolic landscapes. This involves considering the ‘interactive nature of things and the symbolic matrix in which the thing exists’.55

in the Southern Kimberley, Western Australia. Archaeology in Oceania 54(1): 1-18. Barberena, R., McDonald, J., Mitchell, P.J. and Veth, P. 2017. Archaeological discontinuities in the southern hemisphere. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 46: 1-11. Blundell, V., Doohan, K., Vachon, D., Allbrook, M., Jebb, M.A. and Bornman, J. 2017a. Barddabardda Wodjenangorddee: We’re Telling All of You. Fremantle, Fremantle Press. Blundell, V., Woolagoodja, D., Oobagooma, J. and Umbagai, L. 2017b. Visiting Gonjorong’s Cave. The Oxford Handbook of the Archaeology and Anthropology of Rock Art, edited by B. David and I. McNiven. Oxford, Oxford University Press: 1–29. Blundell, V. and Woolagoodja, D. 2012. Rock Art, Aboriginal Culture, and Identity: The Wanjina Paintings of Northwest Australia. Companion to Rock Art, edited by J. McDonald and P. Veth. Oxford, Wiley-Blackwell: 294-305. Blundell, V., and Woolagoodja, D. 2005. Keeping the Wanjinas fresh: Sam Woolagoodja and the enduring power of Lalai. Fremantle, Fremantle Press. Brady, L.M. and Bradley, J.J. 2014. Images of relatedness: Patterning and cultural contexts in Yanyuwa rock art, Sir Edward Pelley islands, SW Gulf of Carpentaria, Northern Australia. Rock Art Research 31(2): 157-177. Brady, L. M., Bradley, J.J. and Kearney, A.J. 2016. Negotiating Yanyuwa rock art: Relational and affectual experiences in the southwest Gulf of Carpentaria, northern Australia. Current Anthropology 57(1): 28–52. Bruchac, M. M., S.M Hart, and Wobst, H.M. (eds) 2010. Indigenous Archaeologies: A Reader in Decolonization. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press. Clarke, J. 1978. Rock Patination and the Age of Aboriginal Engravings at Dampier, W.A. Perth, Department of Aboriginal Sites, Western Australian Museum. Crawford, I.M. 1968. The art of the Wandjina: Aboriginal cave paintings in Kimberley, Western Australia. Melbourne, Oxford University Press. David, B. and McNiven, I. 2017. Introduction: Towards an archaeology and anthropology of rock art. The Oxford Handbook of Archaeology and Rock Art, edited by B. David and I. McNiven. Oxford, Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oxfordhb/9780190607357.013.57 David, B., Taçon, P.S.C., Delannoy, J.J. and Geneste, J.M. (eds) 2017. The Archaeology of Rock Art in Western Arnhem Land, Australia. Canberra, ANU epress. Doohan, K., L. Umbagai, J. Oobagooma and Porr, M. 2016. Yooddooddoom: A narrative exploration of the camp and the sacred place, daily life, images, arranged stones and Lalai Beings. Hunter Gatherer Research 2(3): 345-374. Elkin, A.P. 1932. The Social Organisation of South Australian Tribes. Oceania 2: 44–73.

Significantly, many of the identifiers of style boundaries used in Western taxonomy unwind as the complex agency of groups who have deliberately reproduced specific attributes (such as headdresses, waist and arm band elaborations, and weaponry) within new human, animal and social style conventions becomes better theorised and understood. Acknowledgements We would like to thank Christian Horn, Gustav Wollentz, Gianpiero Di Maida, and Annette Haug for inviting us to participate in this volume. We extend our deep thanks and acknowledgement to Balanggarra Aboriginal Corporation for their ongoing support during fieldwork and for allowing us to share a small part of the art found in the north Kimberley, in particular Augustine Unhango and Ambrose Mungala Chalarimeri. We thank Sam Harper and Joc Schmiechen for liaising with senior Traditional Owners for the rights to reproduce images here. We are also thankful to the many volunteers, colleagues, researchers, and project partners that support the Kimberley Visions team in and out of the field. This research has been underwritten by the Australian Research Council Kimberley Visions: The Origins of Rock Art Style Provinces in Northern Australia (LP150100490) Project, The University of Western Australia, The University of Melbourne, Monash University, The Kimberley Foundation Australia, Dunkeld Pastoral Co. Pty. Ltd., the Kimberley Society Funding Grants for Research Projects, and the Forrest Research Foundation PhD Scholarship. References Akerman, K. 2016. Wandjina: Notes on some iconic ancestral beings of the northern Kimberley. Perth, Hesperian Press. Aubert, M. 2012. A review of rock art dating in the Kimberley, Western Australia. Journal of Archaeological Science 39: 573-577. Balme, J. 2000. Excavations Revealing 40,000 years of Occupation at Mimbi Caves, South Central Kimberley, Western Australia. Australian Archaeology 51: 1-5. Balme, J., Davidson, I., McDonald, J. Stern, N. and Veth, P.M. 2009. Symbolic behaviour and the peopling of the southern arc route to Australia. Quaternary International 202: 59-68. Balme, J., O’Connor, S., Maloney, T., Vannieuwenhuyse, D., Alpin, K. and Dilkes-Hall, I. E. 2019. Long term occupation on the edge of the desert: Riwi cave 55 

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An Archaeology of Reclaiming Memories – Possibilities and Pitfalls Gustav Wollentz

Nordic Centre of Heritage Learning and Creativity [email protected]

When archaeologists or other professionals engaging with heritage are discussing their purpose in society, it has become increasingly common to do so under the imperative that they can help reclaim memories and, in some way, give voices back to those who have been silenced in history.1 Within this process, archaeologists are particularly well-placed to uncover these memories because they mainly work with material that has been neglected and discarded, the mundane aspects of everyday life.2 This is especially poignant in the case of historical or contemporary archaeology3 since the memories ‘uncovered’ may be remembered by people still alive today, but, as I will present later, it may also be valid for prehistoric archaeology. This approach hopes to reinforce the relevance of archaeology, as a discipline, by recognizing its ethical4 and political5 implications. Through pluralizing voices and perspectives within and upon the past,6 archaeology thus becomes a tool for democratization in society. However, while I find an archaeology of reclaiming memories both important and necessary, I have also identified a set of pitfalls and assumptions that will be elaborated upon in this argumentative paper. This paper is written as a critical discussion paper in which I begin by outlining what I deem to form the main possibilities in an archaeology of reclaiming memories. Thereafter, I will outline three pitfalls and their underlying assumptions. Finally, I will summarize the argument and provide some suggestions. Possibilities within an archaeology of reclaiming memories Reclaiming memories through archaeology can be seen as a moral responsibility. This becomes increasingly relevant in the context of the emerging field of contemporary archaeology,7 for instance archaeological See for example Starzmann and Roby 2016; Kobiałka 2018. However, see Spivak 1988; González-Ruibal 2018: 105 for critical remarks regarding ‘the impossibility of hearing the subaltern’. 2  González-Ruibal 2008; 2014; Olsen 2012; Olsen and Pétursdóttir 2014. 3  González-Ruibal 2018. 4  Moshenska and González-Ruibal 2015. 5  McGuire 2008. 6  Ashworth et al. 2007. 7  See Journal of Contemporary Archaeology. https://journals. 1 

Places of Memory (Archaeopress 2020): 150–159

excavations of the recent past, especially those of mass graves where the relatives of those deceased may still be alive.8 However, relevance is not exclusively for contemporary archaeology. After all, as Reinhard Bernbeck and Susan Pollock evocatively phrased it in a recent theoretical debate in Antiquity: ‘we are convinced that the claims and desires of past people— especially those that were never fulfilled—remain open historical accusations directed towards those who did not allow their fulfilment to the present day.’9 Following this argument, an ethical archaeology recognizes the political dimensions of fieldwork and the potential importance in reclaiming memories, regardless of how far away in time the excavated incident may have occurred. After all, temporal distance does not in itself suggest a lack of political or social relevance. Nevertheless, archaeologists, historians and heritage professionals more generally have long actively constructed a ‘foreign country’ of the past as a place which is different because people do things differently there.10 In such a way, a gap is constructed between the present and the past that cannot be closed. Following this line of thought, temporal distance in itself equals difference. Indeed, the anthropologist Johannes Fabian recognized how distance itself, as an objective measurement of both temporal passing and spatial distance, has been equated with difference in anthropological practice within his volume Time and the Other: ‘Let us retain at this point that the temporal discourse of anthropology as it was formed decisively under the paradigm of evolutionism rested on a conception of Time that was not only secularized and naturalized but also thoroughly spatialized. Ever since, I shall argue, anthropology’s efforts to construct relations with its Other by means of temporal devices implied affirmation of difference as distance.’11

equinoxpub.com/index.php/JCA 8  See for instance Colaert 2016. 9  Bernbeck and Pollock 2018: 516; see also Pollock and Bernbeck 2014. 10  Lowenthal 1985. 11  Fabian 2014: 16.

An Archaeology of Reclaiming Memories – Possibilities and Pitfalls

The historian and geographer David Lowenthal famously argued that even though the past may be a foreign country in which people did things differently, the relics from the past should not be confined to such a space. As elegantly expressed by Lowenthal, ‘The past remains integral to us all, individually and collectively. We must concede the ancients their place, as I have argued. But their past is not simply back there, in a separate and foreign country; it is assimilated in ourselves, and resurrected into an ever-changing present.’12 Lowenthal states that the past is not dead. On the contrary, it permeates and saturates our every action and perception. It is impossible to consider an individual acting or even feeling without the influence of previous actions and previous feelings.13 What does such a realization imply for the boundaries between ‘then’ and ‘now’ and, by implication, between ‘us’ and ‘the Other’?

for example concerning memories.17 After all, there is a sense of ‘shared-ness’ in the human experience which may be beneficial to emphasize in order to move beyond cultural particularism and make heritage inclusive rather than exclusive.18 Ultimately, the argument here is that there is a potential to use an archaeology of reclaiming memories to challenge both temporal and spatial boundaries to induce emotional attachment that transcends ‘us’ and ‘the Other’.19 This does not suggest that we should project ourselves upon past people, which archaeologists often unwittingly do,20 but rather to move away from the process of ‘Othering’, which is simply another form of projection of how we see ourselves, or more specifically: how we do not see ourselves. The anthropologist Paola Filippucci brilliantly expressed the benefit of a focus on social memory21 in breaking down temporal borders:

In fact, archaeology as a provider of temporal distance14 has been regarded as having a use in disarming the politically loaded history of sites. For instance, as put forward by Mats Burström et al, when conducting archaeology at former missile sites in Cuba:

‘One of the potential strengths of the anthropological concept of social memory is precisely to chart a non-linear temporality, in which past and present are not discrete entities. As they remember, people ‘shuttle’ between past and present: so they tread a terrain in which the past is not totally past and by implication, the present not totally present.’22

‘Since archaeology is generally associated with deep time, it can be used to transform a recent and problematic history into a seemingly distant past. This transformation makes it possible to look at the crisis with new eyes.’15

I argue that the benefit of charting a non-linear temporality through an archaeology of reclaiming memories would not only be of ethical value, but be a potential resource for archaeological sites as a form of heritage. This is also relevant concerning the archaeology of the distant past. By studying the 1500 year-old massacre in the ring fort Sandby borg (Figure 1) on Öland23 as a form difficult heritage, I have argued elsewhere that by focusing on individuals and trying to make the past alive and tangible, as near and close at hand as possible, certain ideas and reflections can be triggered. For instance, concerning time, violence and the values of human lives. Through a focus on personal memories and life-biographies, I suggest that the site can receive a higher value as heritage, and induce deeper reflection beyond simply puzzle-solving.24 In the case of the brutal massacre of Sandby borg, the fact that

However, there are undoubtedly two sides to the coin, and it is debatable whether providing temporal distance is always beneficial. Temporal distance can be actively produced if the desire is to reduce the relevance and impact of a specific site of heritage. After all, people have less emotional involvement concerning the death of ‘the other’, but what if archaeology can challenge the very notion of the ‘Other’? Importantly, the ‘otherness’ of ‘others’ should not be accepted as a de facto category of analysis. Let us here draw upon the work of the social theorist Rogers Brubaker, and underline that just because we need to analyse common-sense mechanism of producing ‘otherness’, does not mean that we need or should accept the constructions and thus naturalize the mechanisms behind the process of ‘othering’.16 If we would do that, there is a risk that these mechanisms may appear as objective, which in turn may reproduce them. To put it simply, there is no reason to assume difference because of temporal distance itself, rather, it can also be insightful to focus on social and cultural processes that may be shared across space and time,

Goldhahn 2009; 2012. Holtorf 2017; 2018a. 19  See also Perry 2019 on the enchantment of the archaeological record. 20  Tringham 2019. 21  As opposed to a cultural memory, see Assmann 2008 for the distinction. 22  Filippucci 2010: 80. 23  Alfsdotter et al. 2018. 24  In my fieldwork, I noted that individuals often took on the role as archaeological detectives when initially asked about Sandby borg, and tried to solve what may have happened, especially concerning who committed the massacre and why it happened. It was indeed amazing to see such a high degree of interest in archaeology and the past among the people interviewed (see also Wollentz 2017b). 17  18 

Lowenthal 1985: 412. Lowenthal 1985: 185. 14  See here Buchli and Lucas 2001: 9-10. 15  Burström et al. 2009: 300. 16  Brubaker 2011: 9. 12  13 

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Figure 1. Sandby borg. Photo: Sebastian Jacobsson.

the fort was abandoned after the incident and never used again has posed considerable questions regarding memories of war and violence, especially concerning spatial taboos and memory practices in the landscape, that have even sparked a great deal of interest within the local community. Additionally, new myths and stories surrounding the fort have potentially been created through the very act of excavating it, often based on personal memories from the individuals who grew up around the site.25

memories are continuously made meaningful from the vantage point of the present. This does not mean that the past is being continuously remade or reconstructed. Rather, every attempt at infusing meaning into the past has to build upon previous experiences and memories, and the very material remains surrounding us. Indeed, the dialectic relationship between, on the one hand, memories reclaimed from the past and, on the other hand, memories recreated or affirmed in the present, further charts out a non-linear temporality.

It follows that two different types of memories can be reclaimed: the memories which are reclaimed from people of the past and the memories which may be (re)created or affirmed among the local population through the very practice of conducting archaeological excavations. However, these two types of memory are not to be seen as mutually exclusive. In fact, they often inform and constitute each other: as past memories are being reclaimed, so are new memories being born. After all, memories are not held inside material culture, i.e. contrary to the so-called ‘storage model’.26 Instead, past

With this elaboration, we can conclude that there lies a great deal of potential within an archaeology of reclaiming memories, both concerning the distant and the not-so-distant past. They can be illustrated through the following three points: 1) it can be regarded as a moral responsibility towards people in the past, and those affected in the present, and can thus be seen as a more ethical archaeology, 2) it can enrich the values of archaeological sites as heritage in the present by inducing a different modes of engagement towards the people of the past, and 3) it can form a way to challenge temporal and spatial distance and consequently the boundaries constructed between ‘then’ and ‘now,’ ‘here’

25  26 

See Wollentz 2017b for a more thorough analysis on Sandby borg. Trouillot 1995: 15.

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and ‘there’, and ‘us’ and ‘the Other,’ often forming a basis for cultural particularism and ethnical conflict and wars.27 However, a set of pitfalls can also be outlined, which will be elaborated upon in the following sections.

relates to what purpose and for whom archaeology should be a process of democratization. This dilemma has been recognized within more recent conventions on heritage. From an arguably essentialist outlook in the 1964 Venice Charter, where values were regarded as residing within the physical remains of the sites in question, towards a more context-dependent and relative approach in the 1994 Nara Charter, up until its revised and updated version Nara +20 in 2014, which emphasized how authenticity is also social and emotional.

The search for authenticity The first issue concerns a sometimes seemingly common-sense valuation between ‘authentic’ and ‘non-authentic’ memories.28 As expressed by Alfredo González-Ruibal explicitly in regards to the archaeology of the recent past [my italics]:

The issue I am having with distinguishing between ‘authentic’ and ‘non-authentic’ memories is fundamentally ontological in character in that it assumes that memories are carried within landscapes, simply waiting to be retrieved by the excavating archaeologists. In other words, memories are regarded as ‘found’ within landscapes of archaeological importance, rather than ‘created’ through archaeological practice.35 There is a major difference between these two approaches to memories in relation to archaeological fieldwork.36 Most importantly, seeing memories as locked within the fabric of heritage can be regarded as a return to a so-called Authorized Heritage Discourse (AHD), which forms the basis for how heritage management was established during the 19th century.37 Within the AHD, the inherent values of heritage were found and determined by the heritageexpert. Fortunately, more recent frameworks and conventions on heritage, such as Council of Europe’s Convention on the Value of Cultural Heritage for Society,38 are moving towards a more progressive and inclusive heritage management. For that very reason, an archaeology of reclaiming memories, which at its basis aims to constitute a democratic and bottom-up archaeology, also needs to recognize the shortcomings of an essentialist approach towards memories as inscribed within specific landscapes.

‘(…) the archaeology of contemporary past can provide alternative stories about recent events, but it can also – and it must – mediate the recent past in ways that make presence manifest and keep memory alive. This implies exploring other ways of engaging with the materiality of the contemporary world and working in the gray zone between revelation and concealment.’29 However, while such an approach is highly commendable in most cases of archaeological fieldwork, I recognize within it an assumption that risks leading archaeology in unintended directions. It lies in the idea that authentic memories are inherently present within material culture or specific landscapes, and that these authentic memories can be uncovered.30 These memories are somehow to be regarded as superior to altered memories. Drawing on Pierre Nora,31 GonzálezRuibal uses the word ‘aura’ to denote this, but it seems as if aura and authenticity are highly connected,32 as stated by González-Ruibal [my italics]: ‘Rescuing particular locales – a battlefield, a mass grave, or a prison – from oblivion is not enough. Archaeology has to guard against their trivialization and preserve their aura.’33 This raises a couple of interrelated questions: How do we discern authentic memories from nonauthentic memories, and importantly, from which moral standpoint can any archaeologist or heritage professional, presume that one memory is above another? Consequently, is it moral for the archaeologist to reclaim memories that are neither wanted nor useful for anyone in society? Is the memory, the landscape or the material culture itself our moral responsibility,34 or is it the people that are living within the landscapes and who are using the material culture within their everyday lives? When it comes down to it, this question

A priori valuations of remembering and forgetting The second issue concerns an a priori valuation between remembering as inherently positive and forgetting as inherently negative.39 Memory is often understood as endangered within heritage studies, while heritage is often approached as a medium to counter the fading of memories. There is an assumption underlying this common-sense approach, namely that the loss of memories is an inherently negative process;40 and that we forget elements of ourselves by forgetting elements

Brubaker 2004. For discussions on authenticity see for example Jones 2010; 2016; Holtorf 2013; 2017. 29  González-Ruibal 2008: 252, my emphasis. 30  Within this discussion see also Jones 2010; 2016; Holtorf 2013; 2017. 31  Nora 1989; Nora, 2001. 32  For another inlfuential discussion on aura and authenticity see Benjamin 2008. 33  González-Ruibal 2008: 258, my emphasis. 34  See Olsen 2010; Olsen et al. 2012. 27  28 

See Solli 2011 and the following discussion. See here Lucas 2001 for a revealing elaboration on archaeological fieldwork. 37  Smith 2006. 38  Council of Europe 2005. 39  See Wollentz 2019. 40  Connerton 2008. 35  36 

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Gustav Wollentz of our past. Nevertheless, forgetting can be an active and even a conscious process.41 Indeed, Paul Connerton has demonstrated that forgetting may be part of the active creation of who we are and who we want to be.42 Additionally, every single narrative constructed about the past includes silences.43 Therefore, one cannot maintain such an a priori valuation as a simplistic truth.44 When the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur explored the links between forgetting and forgiving, he argued for the possibility of a ‘happy forgetting’.45 Even though these ideas are not controversial, their implications are rarely discussed within an archaeology of reclaiming memories.46

that the local community may have different ways of approaching the past which archaeologists and heritage professionals have not considered. I do not mention this in order to dismiss the moral significance of reclaiming memories. However, a nuanced approach in dealing with and facing different perceptions and needs of memories within the local affected communities are always of utmost importance, as well as how to present and negotiate memories that are sensitive. Depending on how a certain memory is presented and negotiated, it can cause very different responses. The forward-oriented dimensions to remembering and forgetting

Within archaeology and heritage studies the loss of memories is most often studied in connection with politically top-down attempts at controlling, shaping and silencing specific narratives of the past.47 While there may be many reasons behind an agreed motivation to forget, they are often forced and can constitute a form of oppression to marginalized people.48 However, there is a risk involved if we assume that all memories are worth reclaiming and would lead to the empowerment of people without taking the local reasons behind a specific silence into consideration. To take it one step further: would that not be a top-down approach claiming to be bottom-up? As stated by Maria Theresia Starzmann [my italics]: ‘empowerment can result from various strategies of speaking, reclaiming, or even omitting memory.’49 This quote shows the significance in omitting memory, or in other words of forgetting, and that it can also be a source for empowerment. This is touched upon by Lore Colaert, in her ethnographic study of how the forensic turn affected collective memory after the Spanish Civil War. Here, she recognizes an ethical dilemma in how the forensic turn has caused the exhumations of mass graves to be equated with truth revelation:

The third and final issue raised concerns a lack of recognition of the forward-oriented dimensions of remembrance. There is a necessity of places that may be oriented towards the future, i.e places that are used in order to initiate discussions, activities or reflections concerning what the future may look like and how the future may be actively shaped through our present-day activities.51 As argued by the social anthropologist Stef Jansen: ‘To practically engage in a feasible home-making project with regard to a particular place (…) required an ability to invest it with at least some dimensions of a future, with some hope.’52 With future-oriented places I refer to places where individually constructed and unavoidably plural aspirations for the future explicitly play a role in how they are experienced and used. The pluralism of such places will make their heritage fluid and changeable. An emphasizes on plurality is important in order to distance it from top-down political attempts at employing the past to institutionalize a specific and one-sided view of the future. Such employments of the past constitute opposite attempts since they often serve to silence the plurality of perspectives within a community rather than opening them up for change and fluidity.53 Furthermore, there is not necessarily a clear-cut distinction between the past and the future in how places are experienced. Indeed, places of remembrance and places of looking forward are mutually constituted; many memorials include more or less explicit imperatives for the future, for instance through the hope of making a horrible incident never to occur again.54 It seems that in order for forgetting to ‘work’ a notion of truth and justice has to be satisfied leading to a sense of closure.55 Therefore, it is not a matter of looking towards the future instead of the past, but rather how the past, the present and the future can

‘the equation of mass graves with forgetting, and their exposure with truth revealing, does not adequately account for memory practices in Spain. In fact, to suggest that leaving the graves untouched indicates a lack of willingness to confront the past holds the risk of dismissing existing ways of remembering the past.’50 This quote reveals the danger in maintaining top-down assumptions about forgetting and remembering, and Forty and Küchler 1999. Connerton 2008; 2011: 51-82. Trouillot 1995. 44  See also Harrison 2012: 166-203 for a similar argument. 45  Ricoeur 2004: 412. 46  See here Wollentz 2018. 47  See for example Starzmann and Roby 2016. 48  See Anheier and Isar 2011. 49  Starzmann 2016: 19; my emphasis. 50  Colaert 2016: 349. 41  42  43 

See Högberg et al. 2017. Jansen 2009: 57. Trouillot 1995; Wertsch and Billingsley 2011. 54  Macdonald 2009: 95. 55  See, for example, Viejo Rose 2011: 150-195 discussion of the post Franco ‘Pact of Silence’ in Spain. 51  52  53 

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Figure 2. A ruin turned into a fascist-free zone in Mostar. Photo: Gustav Wollentz.

fieldwork in Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina, I found that the ruins from the 1992-1995 war, instead of being solely employed within memorial activities related to the war that caused them to stand in ruin, were also used in the purpose of future-oriented youth activism.59 By these forms of youth activism, the narratives of suffering and victimhood that may otherwise be generated through the ruins are challenged, and more progressive (forward-oriented) values and meanings are highlighted. Therefore, it should not be interpreted as attempts of forgetting the war through the use of ruins, but rather to be seen as attempts of moving forward from the war. This kind of practice is concerned with denying significance to negative narratives specifically related to these ruins as ruins, where they play a role within narratives of victimhood and suffering, towards more progressive values and meanings, such as values of anti-fascism (Figure 2).60 Indeed, the future-oriented dimensions of heritage and associated memories may be especially poignant in regards to archaeological fieldwork conducted within a post-war context. If a

be co-constituted and co-shaped within one and the same place. Furthermore, drawing on a substantial amount of literature focusing on nostalgia as a potentially forward-oriented basis for action56, I argue that specific memories may be directed towards the future. Therefore, an archaeology of reclaiming memories need to recognize more deeply these forward-oriented dimensions of memories. In her influential work on nostalgia, Svetlana Boym distinguishes between two forms of nostalgia, namely restorative and reflective. While the former puts emphasis on reclaiming a lost time, often through reconstruction, reflective nostalgia ‘is more concerned with historical and individual time, with the irrevocability of the past and human finitude. Reflection suggests new flexibility, not the reestablishment of stasis.’57 One poignant example concerns wartime ruins, which are a common focus within contemporary archaeology.58 When I conducted 56  Boym 2001; Petrović 2007; Palmberger 2008; 2016; Carabelli 2013; Maksimović 2017; Smith and Campbell 2017; Wollentz 2017a. 57  Boym 2001: 61. 58  Olsen and Pétursdóttir 2014; González-Ruibal 2018.

59  60 

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Wollentz 2019; see also Wollentz et al. 2019. See Wollentz 2019.

Gustav Wollentz consideration of the future-oriented dimensions of memories and heritage is not undertaken, there is a considerable risk that the full implication of the memories ‘reclaimed’ within contemporary society will not be grasped, leading to potentially unrecognized consequences of archaeological fieldwork warranting attention.

3.

Moving forward Within this paper I have argued that there is a great degree of potential within an archaeology of reclaiming memories, but I have also outlined some of the potential pitfalls. As I see it, the main benefit lies in how an archaeology of reclaiming memories can challenge temporal borders and in such a way create different modes of engagement with the people of the past. It is argued that this may constitute a more ethical archaeology and lend a greater value to archaeological landscapes as heritage in the present. Furthermore, by so doing, it may be able to challenge constructed boundaries between ‘here’ and ‘there’, ‘then’ and ‘now’ as well as ‘us’ and ‘the Other’. In such a way, a sense of a shared human experience can be emphasized over an exclusive one. However, for it to fully reach its potential in society, I argue that some of its pitfalls need to be acknowledged and overcome. These primarily concern: 1) Approaching ’authentic’ memories which are found within the physicality of archaeological landscapes as superior by default to what is deemed to constitute ‘altered’ memories, 2) An a priori assumption regarding remembering as inherently positive and forgetting as inherently negative, without taking the local reasons behind a specific silence into consideration, and 3) Neglecting the forward-oriented dimensions of remembering and forgetting.

Acknowledgements First of all, I want to thank Artur Ribeiro and Christian Horn for reading and commenting on the paper. I also would like to thank the reviewer for very helpful comments. I also would like to extend thank you to Marko Barišić and Damir Ugljen for crucial help during the fieldwork in Mostar, and to Cornelius Holtorf, Antonia Davidovic, Johannes Müller, Helena Victor, Paola Filippucci, Marie Louise Stig Sørensen, Milinda Hoo and Gianpiero Di Maida for helpful discussions and support. Parts of this paper are substantially reworked from the chapter ‘Conflicted memorials and the need to look forward. The interplay between remembering and forgetting in Mostar and on the Kosovo Field’, in ‘Memorials in the Aftermath of Armed Conflict - From History to Heritage’ at Palgrave Macmillan.

In order to move forward, I suggest the following steps: 1.

2.

61 

actors. It follows that the act of denying relevance to a specific narrative of the past and its associated memories, may be a source for personal empowerment. Memories always need to be seen as dynamic and in-movement, in which alterations to landscapes of archaeological importance are not to be seen as a failure and necessarily as a cause for attempts of reconstruction or conservation, but as an inevitable feature and as a possible positive value of the heritage in question.62 In such a way, change, in one way or the other, is an inevitable composition of memories and, by implication, in heritage.63 Seen in this light, an archaeology of reclaiming memories needs to be open to embrace the never-static aspects of remembrance as a potential resource, rather than fight it as a disturbance.

References

An avoidance of essentialist approaches towards inscribing memories within landscapes and their material culture, since such an endeavour will only legitimize the role of the expert and thus be counter-productive within a bottom up archaeology of reclaiming memories. Instead, I recommend seeing memories as produced and constantly negotiated through embodied (incorporated) practices.61 An avoidance of a priori assumptions concerning the need to remember and the need to forget. There is in each and every case, a necessity to situate the negotiation between remembering and forgetting within a historically specific context, in which various pasts and futures can be drawn upon or, as is equally important, denied relevance, through strategies of individual

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Places of memory takes a new look at spatialised practices of remembrance and its role in reshaping societies from prehistory to today, gathering researchers representing diverse but complementary fields of expertise. This diachronic outlook provides important insights into the great variety of human and social reactions examining memory, encompassing aspects of remembering, the loss of memory, reclaiming memories, and remembering things that may not have happened. The contributions to this volume expand upon Pierre Nora’s concept of lieux des memoire (places of memory) and the notion that memory is not just stored in these places but activated through human engagement. The volume presents a reflection on the creation of memories through the organisation and use of landscapes and spaces that explicitly considers the multiplicity of meanings of the past. Thus, social identities were created, reaffirmed, strengthened, and transformed through the founding, change, and reorganization of places and spaces of memory in the cultural landscape. Christian Horn is a researcher and lecturer at the Department for Historical Studies at the University of Gothenburg. His scholarship focuses on Scandinavian rock art and prehistoric conflict. He is the current research coordinator of the Swedish Rock Art Research Archives as well as an advisory board member. Currently, he develops Artificial Intelligence approaches to rock art in a project funded by Riksbankens Jubileumsfond (Sweden). This project includes conducting fieldwork at UNESCO world heritage site Tanum documenting rock art in 3D. He is a prolific writer in the fields of prehistoric conflict, rock art, and digital archaeology. Gustav Wollentz defended his PhD in the summer of 2018 at the Graduate School Human Development in Landscapes, Kiel University, Germany, focusing on the relationship between difficult heritage and temporalities. He received his Bachelor and Master degree in Archaeology from Linnaeus University in Sweden. He was previously (2012-2013) involved in a research project led by Cornelius Holtorf and Anders Högberg at Linnaeus University, where he studied future perspectives within heritage management. During a period in 2018 and 2019, he was hired within the AHRC-funded ‘Heritage Futures’ project to co-author a chapter on ‘Toxic heritage’. He is currently project leader/researcher at the Nordic Centre of Heritage Learning and Creativity. Gianpiero Di Maida, born in Palermo (Italy) in 1980, has completed his Ph.D. at CAU Kiel in 2018, defending a thesis on the Lateglacial rock and mobile art record of Sicily, Italy. This work, recently published, has been awarded with the Johanna Mestorf Price 2019. He is currently serving as the scientific manager of the DISAPALE project at the Neanderthal Museum. Annette Haug is professor for Classical Archaeology at the Christian-Albrechts-University Kiel. Her research interests concern visual culture studies on the one hand, questions of urban lifestyles and urban design on the other. After her habilitation in 2009 in Leipzig, Haug became Heisenberg fellow at the University in Munich (LMU). After receiving the professorship in Kiel in 2012 she became the co-coordinator of the graduate school ‘Human Development in Landscapes’. She has received an ERC Consolidator Grant for research into Decorative Systems in Pompeii and Herculaneum.

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