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The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture
Southern Illinois University Press www.siupress.com
ISBN 0-8093-3314-7 ISBN 978-0-8093-3314-1
The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture Edited by Jeb J. Card
Center for Archaeological Investigations
Occasional Paper No. 39
7/11/13 2:30 PM
The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture
Visiting Scholar Conference Volumes Processual and Postprocessual Archaeologies: Multiple Ways of Knowing the Past (Occasional Paper No. 10) edited by Robert W. Preucel Paleonutrition: The Diet and Health of Prehistoric Americans (Occasional Paper No. 22) edited by Kristin D. Sobolik Integrating Archaeological Demography: Multidisciplinary Approaches to Prehistoric Population (Occasional Paper No. 24) edited by Richard R. Paine Material Symbols: Culture and Economy in Prehistory (Occasional Paper No. 26) edited by John E. Robb Hierarchies in Action: Cui Bono? (Occasional Paper No. 27) edited by Michael W. Diehl Fleeting Identities: Perishable Material Culture in Archaeological Research (Occasional Paper No. 28) edited by Penelope Ballard Drooker The Dynamics of Power (Occasional Paper No. 30) edited by Maria O’Donovan Hunters and Gatherers in Theory and Archaeology (Occasional Paper No. 31) edited by George M. Crothers Biomolecular Archaeology: Genetic Approaches to the Past (Occasional Paper No. 32) edited by David M. Reed Leadership and Polity in Mississippian Society (Occasional Paper No. 33) edited by Brian M. Butler and Paul D. Welch The Archaeology of Food and Identity (Occasional Paper No. 34) edited by Katheryn C. Twiss The Durable House: House Society Models in Archaeology (Occasional Paper No. 35) edited by Robin A. Beck Jr. Religion, Archaeology, and the Material World (Occasional Paper No. 36) edited by Lars Fogelin The Archaeology of Anthropogenic Environments (Occasional Paper No. 37) edited by Rebecca M. Dean Human Variation in the Americas: The Integration of Archaeology and Biological Anthropology (Occasional Paper No. 38) edited by Benjamin M. Auerbach Making Senses of the Past: Toward a Sensory Archaeology (Occasional Paper No. 40) edited by Jo Day
The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture
Edited by Jeb J. Card
Center for Archaeological Investigations
Southern Illinois University Carbondale Occasional Paper No. 39
Southern Illinois University Press
Carbondale and Edwardsville
Copyright © 2013 by the Board of Trustees, Southern Illinois University All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, except as may be expressly permitted by the applicable copyright statutes or in writing by the publisher. Printed in the United States of America 16 15 14 13 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Annual Visiting Scholar Conference (26th : 2009 : Carbondale, Illinois) The archaeology of hybrid material culture / edited by Jeb J. Card. pages cm. — (Occasional paper ; no. 39) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8093-3314-1 (pbk. : alk paper) ISBN 0-8093-3314-7 (pbk. : alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-8093-3316-5 (ebook) ISBN 0-8093-3316-3 (ebook) 1. Material culture—History—Congresses. 2. Ethnoarchaeology—Congresses. 3. Cultural fusion—Congresses. 4. Ethnicity—Congresses. I. Card, Jeb J. II. Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. Center for Archaeological Investigations. III. Title. CC79.E85A55 2009 930.1—dc23 2013033512 Copyedited by Kathleen M. Kageff Production supervised by Mary Lou Wilshaw-Watts Designed and formatted by Linda Jorgensen Buhman, New Leaf Studio Printed by the authority of the State of Illinois. For information, write to the Center for Archaeological Investigations, Faner 3479, Mail Code 4527, Southern Illinois University, 1000 Faner Drive, Carbondale, IL 62901; phone (618) 453-5031; or visit us online at www.cai.siu.edu. The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.
1. Introduction Jeb J. Card 1 I.
Ceramic Change in Colonial Latin America and the Caribbean
Parsing Hybridity: Archaeologies of Amalgamation in SeventeenthCentury New Mexico Matthew Liebmann 25
Of Earth and Clay: Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic Mark W. Hauser 50
Continuity and Change in Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares Ann S. Cordell 80
Italianate Pipil Potters: Mesoamerican Transformation of Renaissance Material Culture in Early Spanish Colonial San Salvador Jeb J. Card 100 Worshipping with Hybrid Objects: Assessing Culture Contact through Use Context Melissa Chatfield 131 v
vi Contents II. Ethnicity and Material Culture in Latin America 7. Long-Term Patterns of Ethnogenesis in Indigenous Amazonia Jonathan D. Hill 165 8. Classic Maya Ceramic Hybridity in the Sibun Valley of Belize Eleanor Harrison-Buck, Ellen Spensley Moriarty, and Patricia A. McAnany 185 9. Hybrid Cultures . . . and Hybrid Peoples: Bioarchaeology of Genetic Change, Religious Architecture, and Burial Ritual in the Colonial Andes Haagen D. Klaus 207 10. A Change of Dress on the Coast of Peru: Technological and Material Hybridity in Colonial Peruvian Textiles Carrie Brezine 239 11. Hybridity, Identity, and Archaeological Practice Kathleen Deagan 260 III. Culture Contact and Transformation in Technological Style 12. The Châtelperronian: Hybrid Culture or Independent Innovation? Clare Tolmie 279 13. The Industrious Exiles: An Analysis of Flaked Glass Tools from the Leprosarium at Kalawao, Moloka‘i James L. Flexner and Colleen L. Morgan 295 14. Innovation and Identity: The Language and Reality of Prehistoric Imitation and Technological Change Catherine J. Frieman 318 15. Bones, Stones, and Metal Tools: Experiments in Middle Missouri Bone Working Janet Lynn Griffitts 342 16. “Style” in Crafting Hybrid Material Culture on the Fringes of Empire: An Example from the Native North American Midcontinent Kathleen L. Ehrhardt 364 IV. Materiality and Identity 17. The Kayenta Diaspora and Salado Meta-identity in the Late Precontact U.S. Southwest Jeffery J. Clark, Deborah L. Huntley, J. Brett Hill, and Patrick D. Lyons 399
Contents vii 18. Small Beginnings: Experimental Technologies and Implications for Hybridity Katherine Hayes 425 19. Set in Stone: On Hybrid Images and Social Relationships in Prehistoric and Roman Europe Christopher M. Roberts 449 20. Architectural Spaces and Hybrid Practices in Ancient Northern Mesopotamia Sevil Baltalı Tırpan 466 21. What, Where, and When Is Hybridity Stephen W. Silliman 486 Contributors
Figures 2-1. 2-2. 2-3. 2-4. 3-1. 3-2. 3-3. 3-4. 3-5. 3-6. 3-7. 4-1. 4-2. 4-3. 4-4. 4-5. 4-6. 4-7. 4-8. 4-9. 4-10. 4-11. 4-12. 4-13. 5-1.
Locations of sites discussed 33 Jemez Black-on-white chalice (18531/11) excavated at Giusewa (LA 679) 34 Figures incised in plaster of cavate M-100, Frijoles Canyon; Virgin kachina, with traditional Pueblo religious imagery that surrounds it 36 Santa Rosa de Lima, detail; Virgin of Guadalupe, detail; cavate M-100 Maria kachina figure; petroglyph, Cochiti Reservoir District; Jeddito Spattered sherd design 37 Map of West Indies and ceramics described in text 58 Selection of forms in which slipped and glazed Yabbas are found 61 Frequency of raw sherd count of the three types of ceramics over time using Port Royal ceramic collection; frequency over time of rim sherds of different forms of local ceramics from Port Royal 62 Regional locator map 64 Vessel shapes recovered at Cinnamon Bay 66 Sites surveyed by Kelly and Hauser 68 Ceramic recipes and their geographic coincidence in the eastern Caribbean based on principle of abundance 69 Apalachee colonowares from San Luis 82 Map showing Apalachee province and location of San Luis 82 Apalachee-style and colonoware pottery from Old Mobile 83 Old Mobile site plan showing structure locations and Indian House site 86 Grog size in San Luis and Old Mobile samples 89 Grog frequency in San Luis and Old Mobile samples 89 Relative iron content of San Luis and Old Mobile samples 89 Probable ethnic affiliation of colonoware potters at Old Mobile 90 Unusual Old Mobile vessel forms: double brim profile and lobed, painted pitcher 91 Comparison of red filmed pottery from San Luis and Old Mobile 93 Exterior surface finishing of San Luis and Old Mobile samples 94 Exterior surface color of San Luis and Old Mobile samples 94 Relative abundance of colonowares at San Luis and Old Mobile 96 Early sixteenth-century colonial settlements in Central America 102 viii
Figures ix 5-2. 5-3. 5-4. 5-5. 5-6. 5-7. 5-8. 5-9. 5-10. 5-11. 5-12. 5-13. 5-14. 5-15. 6-1. 6-2. 6-3. 6-4. 6-5. 6-6. 6-7. 6-8. 7-1. 7-2. 7-3. 7-4. 7-5. 8-1. 8-2.
Map of Ciudad Vieja with excavations through 2003 103 Cepeda Plato (Alvarado Group) hybrid plate, Ciudad Vieja 106 Ciudad Vieja Plate Project measurements and morphology schematic and photo of most complete hybrid plate in collection 106 Zone A forms 107 Zone B forms 107 Zone C forms 107 Zone D forms 108 Diagonal lines motif on Cepeda Plato plates and Villalta Red-onNatural–Cajete var. bowls, Ciudad Vieja 108 Motif on Cepeda Plato plates and motif on Villalta Red-on-Natural– Cantaro var. liquid transport vessels, Ciudad Vieja 109 Morisco and Italianate influence on plates at Ciudad Vieja: morisco-form plate and hybrid Italianate-style hybrid plates 111 Forms from Lessmann’s Italian majolica classification 111 Forms from Rackham’s Italian majolica classification 112 Examples from six plate B/C forms most commonly found at Ciudad Vieja 113 Seriation of Italian majolica 114 Map of Peru and Cuzco region 137 Examples of slipped indigenous sherds 141 Examples of slipped indigenous sherds in the Killke style 141 Examples of glazed sherds 141 Examples of colonial sherds with rough exteriors and slipped interiors 141 ESEM photomicrographs of initial vitrification and extensive vitrification 144 ESEM photomicrographs of continuous vitrification and continuous vitrification with fine pores 144 ESEM photomicrographs of continuous vitrification with moderate bloating pores and continuous vitrification with coarse bloating pores 144 Map showing locations of Arawakan language groups (fifteenth century) and locations of other major language groups (Carib, 168 Tupí, Gê, Pano, and Tukano) Map showing locations of contemporary Arawak-speaking groups 169 Map showing Arawakan and non-Arawakan language groups in northwestern Amazonia 170 Arawakan and non-Arawakan language groups in eastern Peru and Bolivia and in western Brazil 171 Map showing rise and fall of Arawak-speaking confederations along Rio Negro and upper Orinoco River during eighteenth century 177 Map of the Maya Lowlands showing location of the Sibun valley, Belize 188 Map of the Sibun valley showing sites discussed in text 190
x Figures 8-3. 8-4. 8-5. 8-6. 8-7.
Five chemical groups identified in INAA study 191 Belize Red: Belize Variety Pakal Na and Xunantunich 192 Distribution of Belize Red ceramics in the Sibun valley 193 Chemical groups for real and imitation Belize Red 194 Kik Group ceramics: Fat Polychrome and Indian Creek Polychrome 194 8-8. Distribution of Kik Group ceramics in the Belize and Sibun valleys 195 8-9. Chemical groups for Kik Group ceramics 196 8-10. Plan view of round structure from Pechtun Ha in the Sibun valley 198 9-1. The Lambayeque Valley Complex, with Mórrope and other principal sites highlighted 212 9-2. Plan view of the Chapel of San Pedro de Mórrope, with Unit 4 highlighted 216 9-3. Dental phenotype-derived estimations of genetic variation plotted against gene flow 217 9-4. Selected examples of colonial material culture from the Chapel of San Pedro de Mórrope 218 9-5. North- (front) and west-facing (side) views of the Chapel of San Pedro de Mórrope 220 9-6. Roof support and horcón configurations, Chapel of San Pedro de Mórrope 221 9-7. Stepped-pyramid altar at the Chapel of San Pedro de Mórrope during restoration 222 9-8. Burials at Mórrope highlighting hybrid mortuary practices, including north-south burial orientations and postinterment manipulations and removal of skulls and long bones 224 10-1. Location of Magdalena de Cao Viejo 244 10-2. Indigenous cotton cloth with warp-patterned bands excavated from Magdalena de Cao Viejo 247 10-3. Scrap of blue silk damask, an example of the kind of European fabrics found at colonial town of Magdalena de Cao Viejo 249 10-4. Cotton tunic with pattern bands in turned twill with anomaly in weave at one side that suggests automated weaving process 251 10-5. Waistband of woolen skirt showing gathers and facing of linen plainweave 251 10-6. Detail of inside of garment fragment showing outer fabric of coarse blue-green wool plainweave and lining of yellow and blue silk damask 252 10-7. Garment fragment of coarse brown woolen twill, with buttons of tightly rolled blue wool fabric 253 10-8. Spanish-style embroidery on Andean cotton plainweave 253 10-9. Two different striped cotton plainweave fabrics patched together with running stitch 254 10-10. Knitted cotton stocking 255
Figures xi 11-1.
Colonoware vessel combining European formal elements and local Native American (San Marcos) paste type, stamped decorative elements, and hand-built, low-fired production technology 11-2. Colonoware vessels combining European formal elements and both Caribbean and possibly Central American decorative traditions and forms (ca. 1520–1560) 11-3. Tonolá Bruñida ware 11-4. Example of cerámica criolla in use in Dominican Republic 11-5. Cerámica criolla from sixteenth-century Panamá La Vieja, Panamá 12-1. Europe circa 40,000 b.p., showing regional transitional industries 12-2. Europe circa 30,000 b.p., showing extent of Aurignacian and surviving Mousterian technologies 12-3. Example of Aurignacian pointe à basse fondue (split base point) from Abri Cellier, France 13-1. Map of Kalaupapa National Historical Park, with ahupua‘a boundaries and names 13-2. Flaked glass artifacts recovered from same stratigraphic context in domestic midden deposit in Kalawao 13-3. Flaked glass artifacts from Kalawao 13-4. Knapped glass bottle base “core” with evidence of percussion flaking 13-5. Peeling avocado during experimental archaeology with shard of glass, which resulted in formation of microfracturing on cutting edge 13-6. Green bottle-glass scraper recovered during ARPK field research 13-7. Glass blade recovered from ARPK_0055 Op. 3 13-8. Map of surface scatter at ARPK_0055 Op. 3 13-9. Peeling breadfruit with base scraper produced during experimental archaeology 13-10. Glass neck scrapers of type broken along vertical axis of bottle 14-1. Diagrammatic representation of three-tiered approach to examination and analysis of skeuomorphs 14-2. Jet spacer plate necklace and bracelet from Kinwhirrie, Kirriemuir, Angus 14-3. Gold lunula from Gwithian, Cornwall 14-4. Distribution of jet spacer beads/spacer bead necklaces with known find locations 14-5. Distribution of jet spacer beads/spacer bead necklaces with respect to major British rivers 14-6. Distribution of gold lunula with known find locations 15-1. Precontact scapula hoe from Tony Glas site 15-2. Postcontact scapula hoes from Deapolis site 15-3. Bone hoe typology 15-4. Metapodial fleshers from Bendish and Deapolis sites 15-5. “Flaked” cut bone scraper from Deapolis site
271 271 272 273 273 283 283 285 297 300 303 304 306 306 308 308 310 311 323 326 327 329 330 333 348 349 350 353 356
xii Figures 16-1.
Map of the Iliniwek Village (or Haas-Hagerman site [23CK116]) and locations of native groups with reference to major French installations (mid-to-late seventeenth through beginning of eighteenth century) 366 16-2. Location of the Iliniwek Village (23CK116) with study area contexts outlined 369 16-3. Examples of hybrid copper-base metal artifacts from excavated contexts in the Iliniwek Village 376 16-4. Distribution of copper-base metal in Structure 1 (longhouse) pit features 384 16-5. Distribution of copper-base metal in Structure 3 (small rebuilt ovate structure) pit features 384 17-1. Map of Kayenta migration routes and destination areas in eastern Arizona 401 17-2. Map of late precontact sites and districts in Lower (northern) San Pedro Valley 407 17-3. Kayenta enculturative markers: plan and profile of entrybox complex and interior of perforated plate 409 17-4. Late precontact ceremonial architecture: Kayenta kiva at Davis Ranch site in Lower San Pedro River Valley and Cline Terrace Platform Mound and surrounding wall in Tonto Basin 410 17-5. Gila Polychrome: Tonto Variety bowl used by Crown to illustrate horned and plumed serpent imagery on Roosevelt Red Ware 412 17-6. Known production areas of Roosevelt Red Ware and respective distribution in southern Arizona 414 17-7. Obsidian exchange spheres premigration (before a.d. 1300) and postmigration (after a.d. 1300) 415 18-1. Long Island Sound and southern New England tribal territories 430 18-2. Example of Shantok-type historic period pottery, rim castellation 433 18-3. Rim and upper portion of vessel with side handle recovered from F221 at Sylvester Manor 433 18-4. Sr/Rb readings (in ppm) for ceramics from Sylvester Manor, Fort Shantok, Fort Corchaug, and Mashantucket Pequot sites 435 18-5. Percent shell in total ceramic composition by point count and percentage of shell particles that are sized fine sand (.25 mm max.) or smaller 436 18-6. 20× XPL view of shell temper fragment showing decomposition at edges 438 18-7. 4× XPL view of oxidized margin with dark, organic-rich core and heat-damaged shell and 20× XPL view of calcite crystalline recomposition at void interiors 438 18-8. Prefired shell in lime mortar: 20× XPL view, showing bright crystals of reformed calcite in large pores and at fracture edges, marking decomposition; 10× XPL view, showing formation of interlayer pores and transversal cracking 439 19-1. Stone Knight from the Glauberg monument, Hesse, Germany 454
Tables xiii 19-2. 20-1. 20-2. 20-3. 20-4. 20-5. 20-6.
Relief of Three Matres from Ashcroft, Cirencester, United Kingdom Map showing location of Arslantepe and “local” and “Uruk” sites in Mesopotamia Arslantepe level VII, Building XXIX Arslantepe level VIA, Temple B Arslantepe level VIA temple and house architecture Arslantepe level VIA wall painting Uruk-style seals from Arslantepe and from Uruk
458 468 474 476 477 478 479
Tables 2-1. 3-1. 3-2. 4-1. 4-2. 4-3. 5-1. 5-2. 5-3. 5-4. 6-1. 6-2. 6-3. 13-1. 13-2. 15-1. 15-2. 15-3. 15-4. 16-1. 16-2. 16-3.
Definitions of synonyms for cultural mixture and resulting interpretations 43 Ethnohistoric references to pottery manufacture in the Caribbean 57 Ceramic change over time in Cinnamon Bay, St. John, Virgin Islands 64 Colonoware samples from San Luis and Old Mobile 84 Comparison of vessel forms 90 Comparison of brimmed vessel dimensions 91 Equivalent Italian majolica forms in Lessmann and Rackham systems 112 Plate forms in Ciudad Vieja study sample 113 Plates and bowls in Ciudad Vieja assemblages; rim sherds only 116 European influenced indigenous ceramics in the Americas 117 Stratigraphic comparison of vitrification of original and refired sherds 145 Cultural interaction matrix by artifact style and visibility 155 Culture contact inferred from pottery by period 157 Volcanic glass artifacts recovered during ARPK field research 301 Flaked glass recovered during archaeological excavations in Kalawao 305 Types of bison scapula hoes 350 Performance characteristics of scapula hoes 351 Degree of shaft modification of Deapolis metapodial fleshers 354 Performance characteristics of metapodial fleshers 355 Iliniwek Village study sample contexts 379 Iliniwek Village copper-base artifact distributions by study sample context 380 Iliniwek Village copper-base metal distribution across features by artifact type 382
Acknowledgments I wish to thank all the authors and researchers for their contributions to The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture. They answered a call to tackle a subject that by its nature can be difficult to pin down as one thing or another and did so with a diversity of data and ideas that nonetheless provides key elements in common. I particularly send thanks to Kathleen Deagan and Stephen W. Silliman for their considered and valuable discussions of the volume, which provide important insights into a set of works spanning the globe and tens of thousands of years. I am also grateful to the volume reviewers for their important observations and suggestions. I would like to thank the directors of the Center for Archaeological Investigations, Brian Butler and Mark J. Wagner, who supported this project to completion. Thanks are due as well to those at the Center and in the Department of Anthropology who gave substantive guidance and suggestions for the volume, including Izumi Shimada, Heather Lapham, Paul Welch, and Susan Ford. Mary Lou Wilshaw-Watts deserves special praise for her efforts and patience in shepherding the volume along and improving it through her expertise and work, as do Kathleen M. Kageff, who copyedited the volume, and Linda Buhman, who designed and typeset the pages and the cover. I would also like to thank the members of the Department of Anthropology as a whole for making me feel welcome during my time in Carbondale. The graduate students who were vital to making the Twenty-Sixth Visiting Scholar Conference, and as a result this volume, happen are Ayla Amadio, Meadow Campbell, Craig Kitchen, Eraina Nossa, Nate Meissner, and Robert Scott, and I thank them for their efforts. Other people at Southern Illinois University Carbondale who aided the conference and made it a success include Pat Eckert, Kim Goforth, and Kathy Lundeen. I would especially like to thank the Butler family for their gracious hosting of one of our contributors during the conference. Outside of the SIU Carbondale community, I also wish to thank Will Andrews, Bill Fowler, Roberto Gallardo, and the archaeological community in El Salvador for supporting my research that sparked the ideas leading to this volume. I also wish to thank my friends and colleagues at Tulane University and Miami University for their support during the development and creation of this project. And I thank my family for their well-wishes, aid, and support for this volume. xiv
Introduction Jeb J. Card
A minimalist but formal definition of hybrid material culture would be “the production of material objects incorporating elements of multiple existing stylistic or technological traditions.” Basic definitions similar to this statement are found (along with elaboration and criticism) in the discussion chapters, by Kathleen Deagan and Stephen Silliman, of this volume, though both discussants explore and critique the concept substantially. This volume was initially assembled with this minimalist, blended definition in mind. The goal was to provide archaeologists and other students of material culture with theoretical and concrete tools for investigating objects and architecture with discernible elements from multiple cultural influences. However, two basic and related problems emerge from the term “hybrid.” During the preparation for the 2009 Visiting Scholar conference that led up to this volume, it became clear that for some scholars, the term has strong biological associations with negative connotations when applied to people. Open to this concern, it became clear, however, that hybrid and hybridity are not alone in having undesired connotations. In conversing with anthropologists, archaeologists, and other specialists in cultural study prior to the conference, one pattern emerged strongly: There were nearly as many different choices of labels as there were researchers queried on the question of labels. And when a term or concept suggested by one scholar was mentioned to another, a whole new set of criticisms was often close at hand. This second problem is not that the term is too weighed down with unwelcome connotations but that it is too vague and not sufficiently distinct from other similar concepts. That it is a fairly simple term, and explaining what it is and why it should be used in place of other concepts, is a central theme of a number of chapters in this volume. Outside of scholarship, the basic word hybrid is so easily conventionally understood that it can be used to mass market automobiles and The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture, edited by Jeb J. Card. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Occasional Paper No. 39. © 2013 by the Board of Trustees, Southern Illinois University. All rights reserved. ISBN 978-0-8093-3314-1.
2 J. J. Card other consumer goods. Within historical and anthropological scholarship, the term is routinely grouped with a host of terms and concepts regarding the mixing, blending, transformation, or innovation of objects, institutions, identities, and cultures. Many of these other concepts (acculturation, skeuomorphism, syncretism, ethnogenesis, among others) suggested to complement hybrid emerge from the colonial experience and those who study it, and this emphasis is reflected in most of the chapters of this volume. A number of authors explicitly or implicitly note a relationship between this volume and the work done over a decade ago in the Visiting Scholar series on culture contact and colonialism (Cusick 1998). A common theme in many engagements with hybridity in a colonial context is the emergence of new identities and cultures reflecting elements of older cultural constructs. Creolization studies of the societies (Delle 2000) and borderlands of European colonies (Cusick 2000; Lightfoot and Martinez 1995) have increasingly focused on ethnogenesis, the creation of new cultures in a complex and multipolar web of interaction, discarding old unilineal ideas of replacement and resistance (see Wells 1999 for a similar diverse development on the borderlands of Roman Europe). Similar processes have occurred farther afield in time and space, and some of the same themes can emerge in a wide range of social and cultural interactions and transformations that may bear little resemblance to modern European colonialism (Gosden 2004). Recent work on colonization and hybridity in the Classic Mediterranean, a colonial situation distinct in many ways from modern European global colonialism, has influenced much of the research presented in this volume (Van Dommelen 2005). Different approaches emphasize different mechanisms, perspectives, and degrees and kinds of agency. Hybridity in some corners has acquired an association with postcolonial thought, with the idea that culture is inherently hybrid (Bhabha 1994). From this perspective, asserting dualistic frames—such as purity versus corruption, core versus periphery, and originals versus copies—has more to do with power (past and present) than with an actual understanding of the nature of culture. Here hybridity is subversive, undermining Eurocentric categories of race and culture based on power. The complex and multiagent construction of culture out of existing and novel elements, in spite of the hierarchical and exclusionary categories that colonial powers would apply, is a potentially important aspect of hybridity. Many of the authors in this volume find this narrower definition of hybridity not only to have its own merits but also to be vital in distinguishing hybridity as a meaningful concept distinct from syncretism, acculturation, transculturation, creolization, ethnogenesis, and others. Other contributors do not emphasize this subversive decentering aspect. This volume is not designed as a judgment between a broader or narrower definition of hybridity and includes cases and approaches that do not focus on ethnicity, colonialism, or postcolonialism. In the exploration of this question, however, numerous case studies and theoretical considerations do suggest an important explanatory power in the narrower definition derived from postcolonialism, but with a potentially wider field of use. Before introducing the organization of this volume, which includes discussion of some of the overarching themes appearing throughout the volume (the
Introduction 3 importance of local context in understanding hybridity, the relationship of materiality and identity, and the critical examination of the hybridity concept itself), I want to briefly examine one issue that played an important role in organizing the Visiting Scholar conference and volume: the archaeological practices of classification, cultural and material innovation, and hybridity.
Hybrid Material Culture and Archaeological Investigation While creolization, syncretism, and ethnogenesis have become fixtures of theoretical models of culture contact, colonialism, postcolonialism, and globalization methods and theory concerning the creation of a new material culture have been less visible. In practical terms, many models of assimilation, acculturation, or ethnogenesis are archaeologically operationalized by measuring the persistence or adoption of material culture traditions in the form of whole artifact classes. Patterns of persistence or adoption of artifact classes may be mapped against gendered activities, power, and ethnicity (Deagan 1998), taking into account variables of cultural geography (Charlton et al. 2005) and the pace of change (Gasco 2005). In many cases, these analyses of culture change are conducted utilizing classes of artifacts either imposed on the encounter from outside or in existence at the encounter point in advance of contact. Utilizing categories designed with an eye toward the external sources of stylistic or technological influence, and not for understanding the context where such influences become blended and transformed, can cause real analytical problems. A common practice is a simplistic association of classes of material culture with ethnic identities, comparing percentages of imported versus nonimported artifacts to determine degrees of cultural change, or directly associating artifacts combining elements of multiple stylistic traditions with people with blended ethnic identities or even genetic backgrounds. Schávelzon (1997:135–136) divides the pottery of colonial Buenos Aires into indigenous, mestizo, African, and European. This scheme is not literally tied to ethnicity, but the implication is difficult to escape. And in the discussion of mestizo wares, Schávelzon notes the confusing nature of these hybrid materials, grouping together pottery produced with indigenous technology and European style, or vice versa, or any number of other poorly understood variations, demonstrating the problematic and ambiguous nature of categorizing hybrid material culture. Farnsworth (1992) employs a more sophisticated version of this, measuring influence and material in mission California material culture to gauge the level of acculturation by indigenous neophytes at the mission. Not only does this approach generally bias toward oneway acculturation, but it also frames culture change as an impersonal abstract force rather than as a negotiated and complex one. Archaeological examination of the hybridization of material culture, of the complex history and interplay preceding the creation of an object with demonstrable inputs from multiple sources, is less common. One reason for this may be the lingering distaste for “diffusion” as an explanatory device, producing
4 J. J. Card minimal concern for the spread of artifacts or style in theoretical exploration of material culture evolution (Ames 1996:126). Traditional interpretations of hybrid material culture have also typically reflected issues in the study of European colonialism, such as the consumption desires of European settlers faced with limited transportation networks (Gámez Martínez 2003; Garcia-Arevalo 1990; Lister and Lister 1987; Vernon 1988) or religious conflict and conversion (Capone 2004).
Classification and Innovation The problems stemming from using preexisting artifact categories in contexts of cultural change point to a primary issue relevant to all the cases in this volume and one of the issues driving this volume, that of classification. Classifications or frames of reference for archaeologically studied artifacts are typically derived from the concepts of archaeological cultures, effectively homogenous groups of behaviors and resulting objects with a discrete time range, which make them useful for building regional chronologies, territorial maps, and networks of interaction (Willey and Phillips 1958). It would be tempting to write off the clash between temporally and spatially sensitive etic types and classifications (Ford 1954) and concern with emic meaning (Spaulding 1953), part of a long debate in archaeology (Spaulding 1954), and find for local context and meaning. The nature of hybridity does not make this a simple solution. It is by definition the incorporation, blending, adoption, or other form of mixing of discrete elements from different cultural sources, typically separated by a significant and notable spatial or cultural division. As seen in many of the chapters in this volume, identifying the source and nature of these elements is a major part of approaching hybrid materials. From this perspective, etic identifications of influence can be very important (doubly so given how difficult it may be to define precise points of culture contact in the “protohistoric” archaeological record). In turn, these distinct influences may or may not be vital to the meaning the objects had to those who produced and used them. This potential for ambiguity is an integral part of hybridity. Taking a page from postcolonial hybridity, if “ethnicity” is a contested, imposed, embraced, and malleable label for identities, the notion of homogenous groups with time and space parameters becomes problematic. If an object has elements in it that span across centuries and continents, how can it be easily labeled with a particular culture group identification? The maintenance of sushi, for example, as a distinctly Japanese symbol despite relying on ingredients obtained halfway around the world, or being prepared at any spot on the globe, involves a tremendous amount of expense and physical as well as intellectual labor (Bestor 2000). By contrast, many of the cases outlined in this text mirror chop suey, a concept with a confusing and contested nature and history that morphs to fit different contexts and that shapes and is shaped by concerns of identity and agency in both China and the United States (Liu 2009). The examination of identity starting with how material culture shapes identity, rather than with trying to sort material culture into externally imposed identities,
Introduction 5 subverts these rigid classifications and instead reveals a flow of things and the concepts that drive their production and use (Rowlands 2010:236–237). The issue that pushed me to look at the concept of hybridity was sixteenthcentury pottery produced by Central American Nahua-speaking Pipils (discussed in detail in Chapter 5). Most of their techniques were rooted in centuries of style and technology from the cultural region of Mesoamerica, but some aspects of their work were inspired by majolica made in Spain. These Spanish goods were actually being produced by locals emulating popular Italian fashions or by immigrants from Italy lured by market opportunities or government tax-break inducements (Lister and Lister 1987). Ironically, the Italian majolica industry was based on a glazing technology developed still earlier in Spain, where glazing techniques had, in turn, been imported from the East when Iberia was part of the Muslim world. That technology had been invented centuries earlier in southwest Asia, in an attempt to produce pottery superficially similar to Chinese porcelain, by potters who lacked the technology and materials required to make porcelain. The consumer desire that drove the development of this lusterware was instrumental in transforming actual Chinese porcelain. Southwest Asian consumers preferred blue decoration on their pottery, an aesthetic influenced by the geological distribution of cobalt. The importance of this market to Chinese potters and merchants led to the creation of blue-decorated porcelain, which became a staple element of porcelain design for centuries. What does an archaeologist do with such information? It is a complex and winding back-and-forth interplay of technology, style, raw material distribution, commerce, economic structure, ethnic and religious boundaries and strictures, and logistical barriers. In approaching materials like this, it becomes clear that, while there are several standard methods for analyzing material culture to define and organize discrete units of time and space, delineating innovation and influence isn’t as commonly discussed. That sort of question does not easily fit into the typical concerns we are asked to look for and, in turn, to ask of the archaeological record. Investigators trying to understand a complex mélange of influences in the creation of material culture often have to invent or modify idiosyncratic approaches to their data.
Material Culture Production, Change, and Hybrid Elements Hybrid material culture may require its students to move around or outside standard methodology. The act of doing so can pose deeper questions beyond a novel ceramic vessel or a curiously familiar but previously unseen architectural layout. The same concerns of categorization and perspective may be just as relevant to larger issues of cultural hybridity. The postcolonial emphasis on decentering produces the insight that much of culture is “hybrid.” Rapid or radical cultural changes resulting in hybridity and ethnogenesis, such as those occurring in colonial contexts, can highlight the importance of previously existing
6 J. J. Card influences, making the blended results more obviously blended. In an analogy to the origins of creolization studies in linguistics (Bickerton 1984; Dawdy 2000), by tracing individual aspects from multiple material traditions and how they combine to form a new whole, hybridization studies can be a key to understanding the mechanisms and pace of change, whether in a culture-contact situation or not. Rogers (1993) points out that adoption of new material culture, in the case of the Arikara, was primarily associated with nonutilitarian activities (adornment, worship, smoking), undermining the traditional notion (Foster 1960), that the qualities of the objects themselves were the important factors in whether they were adopted (Rogers 1990:9–11), and instead focusing on how they fit broader interests of the adopters, usually existing concerns or activities. Dietler (1998) describes a similar case in the relationship between colonial Greeks and Etruscans and indigenous societies of Early Iron Age France. Material culture objects and techniques adopted by those inland were part of feasting practices, specifically consumption of wine. This early selective pattern not only is similar to the selectivity among the Arikara but also does not support broad ideas of acculturation or Hellenization that might seem more appropriate for later periods and eventually the era of Roman conquest. In both cases, the cultural background and individual concerns of the adopter, and the specific context in which the potentially adopted material culture arrives (see the entanglement of Arikara perspectives on trade, exotic goods, and Europeans in Rogers 1990:50–61), can lead to diverse reactions (Rogers 1990:17–21). One of the most fascinating cases of archaeological examination of material-culture change and adoption is that of the “wild” Lacandon Maya. Famed for being a supposed living representative of the ancient Maya, Lacandon settlements included numerous industrially manufactured items (Palka 2005:183–193) obtained through other indigenous intermediaries. Without direct persistent contact with outsiders, the Lacandon had significant agency to choose and reject what they wanted (Palka 2005:217–218). The case of beads in eastern North America—where imported beads both informed an existing bead-use tradition and changed that tradition’s meaning and context until locally produced beads disappeared—demonstrates the importance of context and meaning (both precontact meaning and shifting meaning as a result of contact) (Turgeon 2004). Contrast this with the long-term connotations in the American Southwest of oppression linked to Spanish material culture and foodstuffs, demonstrated by the rejection of these goods during Pueblo revolt despite decades of use (Mills 2008; but see Liebmann, this volume, for the complex fate of Spanish imagery during the revolt). Previous creolization studies have utilized the idea of a cultural “grammar” for understanding the consumption of goods within a society containing multiple subcultures, where attributes of goods from one tradition may appeal due to similarity to those from another (Otto 1977; Wilkie 2000). This approach would be even more persuasive in application not only to consumer choice but also to the production of new material culture. Capone’s (2004) study of the Abó Pueblo mission pottery, which incorporates Spanish forms but maintains precontact tempering materials despite extra difficulty in obtaining them, perhaps due
Introduction 7 to a “symbolism of food consumption,” blends cultural meaning and detailed analysis of production. The methodology is reminiscent of several cases in this volume, including Cordell’s tracing of Florida Apalachee potting techniques (Chapter 4), Chatfield’s detection of firing experimentation in colonial Peru (Chapter 6), Harrison-Buck and colleagues’ study of the movement of Classic Maya potters away from desired ash sources (Chapter 8), and Katherine Hayes’s characterization of West African firing techniques in New York (Chapter 18). This last case is an example of one major field where this approach has been productive, the study of the African diaspora in the Americas. The recognition of West African roots in “colono” ceramics of the post-Columbian Caribbean and American Southeast has not just led to an “ethnic marker” but has sparked a paradigm shift in studying ethnicity in the American colonies and early United States, speaking to everyday domestic lifeways as well as to cognitive worldview and identity (Ferguson 1992; Meyers 1999). This topic is addressed in Chapters 3, 11, and 18 of this volume. The term colono was originally used in historical archaeology to describe non-European pottery in colonial American contexts, with little more attention given to it (Wheaton 2002). The multiple meanings, sometimes unexamined, of this term provide a prime example of the problems of classification. When used to refer to pottery of the African diaspora, colono may indicate continuity with prediasporic cultural practices and meanings. Cristophe Plain, a sixteenth-century ware from Puerto Real, Haiti, is considered a colonoware, but through a battery of tests, Smith (1995) demonstrates it bears little physical or stylistic resemblance to either Taino or European pottery and is interpreted as a sign of the increasing demographic importance of Africans in the colony. By contrast, Cordell’s analysis of Apalachee mission-era pottery (Chapter 4) and Card’s comparison (Chapter 5) of Pipil brimmed plates in early colonial El Salvador with other colono cases throughout the (primarily) Spanish empire in America are examples of the other major usage of this term: to refer to pottery in colonial American contexts, presumably made by indigenous potters but incorporating elements of European aesthetics or technology. One might be tempted to split the two uses of the term, until reading Hayes’s characterization studies (Chapter 18) in New York that not only show New World blending and West African continuity but also confront the issues of power and race represented by this hybrid pottery. The term simultaneously can mask important contextual differences while also pointing to useful parallels in different times and places. The act of dismantling and rebuilding methodology and theory for understanding hybrid material culture, methodology, and theory designed for studying supposedly more stable cultural units and entities raises the question of whether the phenomena on display in cases of “hybridity” are present in cultural change and innovation in general, not just in cases of culture contact or colonialism (a concept critiqued in Chapter 21). The importance of culture contact and colonialism would be that they produce rapid change, involving people and traditions from substantially distant areas of the globe, bringing into rapid contrast diverse elements that act as more visible indicators, or trace markers, which allow insight into behavior.
8 J. J. Card A similar principle informs a phenomenon discussed in Chapters 13 and 14 in this volume: skeuomorphic material culture, produced by the transfer or appearance of technology or concepts simultaneously in several physical media (stone, glass, metal, clay). The strong contrast of techniques, designs, and materials can make processes of innovation stand out more than they might otherwise. These markers can illustrate the production decisions made by artisans as they experiment with new styles or technologies. They can illustrate consumer choices in accepting, rejecting, or guiding the development of novel or conservative aspects of their daily lives. They can reflect shifts in identity subtly occurring with each generation or actively embraced for political purposes. The insights provided by skeuomorphic material culture illustrate the importance of one of the conscious choices made in the assembly of this volume. The following chapters mix highly technical papers on materials science or technological style with broader theoretical discussions of the concept of ethnicity, identity, and culture. At both ends of the spectrum, questioning classification and perspective allows for important insights into the production and innovation of material culture. A production-oriented approach (Lemonnier 1992) coupled with an emphasis on the adoption and modification of new aspects from different sources is a potentially powerful combination. This approach to hybrid material culture requires an in-depth understanding and examination of potential influences and sources for the creation of new traditions. Without tracing specific relationships, technologies, and stylistic attributes, such analysis can be fraught with danger (Fennell 2007). On the other hand, this level of detail can yield important information. Chronological information from one of the “donor” material traditions can be used to cross-date hybrid materials with a precision not possible using other means (Card, Chapter 5). Archaeological investigation can combine with documentary evidence to directly illuminate historical relationships (Hauser and DeCorse 2003). Variation in specific cases also provides critical insight into who created and consumed hybrid material culture, such as the relationship between forced resettlement and widespread indigenous adoption of modified serving vessels (Card 2007; Cordell 2002; Saunders 2000). The creation of hybrid material culture also emphasizes the choices of active participants. Agency has been invoked for explaining consumption choices involving multiple material traditions, typically for political purposes (Bollwerk 2006; Cheek 1997; Lightfoot and Martinez 1995; Rodríguez-Alegría 2005). But agency and cultural choice involve both producers and consumers in cases of material hybridization. Determining the rationale for creating a new whole out of existing parts is one of the most difficult aspects of investigating hybrid material culture. In some cases, a new source of raw material may become available (Ehr hardt 2005). The appeal may be for the foreign, the exotic, or perhaps a playful creativity of making the new (Beaudry 1984; Charlton et al. 1995). Alternatively, as discussed in several cases and summarized by Stephen W. Silliman in the last chapter of this volume, hybridity may appear to the outsider to emphasize the new but instead may be a method for continuing existing practices and traditions in changing circumstances. The appearance of new European aesthetic principles
Introduction 9 in Central Mexican figurines in the sixteenth century may be striking to the archaeologist and even reflect changing fashion in European clothing during the sixteenth century. Yet Evans (1998:345–348) demonstrates how Spanish-style figurines, ostensibly used in Christian household observances, are simply the most recent version of a millennium-or-more-old tradition of household figurines. The colonial figurines are distinct from the Aztec figurines, just as the Aztec figurines are distinct from those made during the heyday of Teotihuacan. Yet their use does not differ greatly, and in this classic syncretic case, “adoption” of new aspects of material culture cannot be disentangled from power and colonialism. Once again, local context is vitally important.
Organization of This Volume The selection of research to present at the Visiting Scholar conference is a complex interplay of individual perspective and the perception of the conference and volume topic in the archaeological community. The visiting scholar– editor of the subsequent volume might want to bring together scholars and data pertaining to problems close to his or her own research concerns. Simultaneously, a broader perspective of geography, specialty, and conceptuality would make the volume most useful to the widest audience and take advantage of the inclusion of different perspectives. This tension can be detected in the chapters of Occasional Paper No. 39. A special case study on ceramic change in colonial Latin America and the Caribbean (Part I) does reflect the interests of the editor, while providing a detailed example of the techniques and themes present in the larger volume. The additional emphasis on New World examples from North, South, and Central America (Part II) resulted from the open call for papers and also reflects the logistical realities of travel to the conference. The editor and the conference selection committee did try to broaden the scope of kinds of material culture as much as possible and, though ceramics are the focus of Part I and are present throughout various sections of the book, we hope that the inclusion of research on stone and glass tools, architecture, monumental sculpture, bone working, metallurgy, mortuary archaeology, bioarchaeology, and textiles achieves the broader utility aimed for by the volume. Part I, “Ceramic Change in Colonial Latin America and the Caribbean,” begins with an examination by Matthew Liebmann of hybridity and other concepts often mentioned in the same breath (including acculturation, creolization, or mestizaje). Liebmann finds that the key difference separating hybridity from these previous models is that hybridity is subversive. Taking a page from postcolonial thought, this subversive hybridity both addresses the issue of power differentials between people and cultures and suggests that cultures are not discrete pure entities but rather are continuously transforming and recombining. Liebmann demonstrates the transgressive aspect of hybridity and how it provides a perspective not available from other frames of cultural thought, through examples of material culture in the tumultuous Spanish colonial and Pueblo relationship in
10 J. J. Card New Mexico. Hybridity, Liebmann suggests, is a manner of viewing culture and human action, not a state or descriptor for a particular kind of culture. This view is a key concept that is echoed by other authors in this volume. The different approaches found in Part I highlight the expected importance of local context but also some larger patterns of interest. Mark W. Hauser (Chapter 3) points out the importance of local context for a class of material culture generally examined from the perspective of the African diaspora. The yabbas of Jamaica and the Caribbean are typically considered examples of African-influenced colonoware, a phenomenon found throughout the circum-Caribbean region and the subject of extensive research in the southeastern United States. Hauser’s research deconstructs the idea of a unified colonoware “type,” demonstrating substantial variation as a result of local historical trajectories. This mosaic of ceramic variation is not unique to the yabba, argues Hauser, but instead points to a larger flaw in normative archaeological taxonomies for material culture (a problem arguably more exacerbated in ceramic studies than in most other fields of archaeological study but by no means unique to it). Rather than a simple, if archaeologically useful, normative type, colonoware ceramics demonstrate that material culture in general must be understood from the perspective of flux resulting from localized agency and circumstances. Ann S. Cordell (Chapter 4) tracks the specific evidence and mechanisms of such local transformations in a different branch of what has been dubbed “colonoware,” this time regarding ceramic wares produced by indigenous potters in colonial Florida and Alabama. She begins by examining stylistic attributes and manufacturing techniques found in Apalachee ceramics in the missions of Florida, where potters blended European design elements with traditional concepts, techniques, and materials. The identification of these same attributes and techniques in turn-of-the-eighteenth-century Alabama, in conjunction with historical records of Apalachee migration due to conflict, tracks the transfer of potters and their techniques to the new community at Old Mobile. With this transfer, some new developments appear that are likely related to the polyethnic community at Old Mobile and the effect of migration and the changing political situation. The relationship between migration to a polyethnic community and hybridization of ceramic wares is also found in Chapter 5. Jeb J. Card’s examination of brimmed plates in contact-era Central America is made up of two distinct but related aspects. Card details a methodology for examining European influence on the form and style of indigenous ceramics. The comparison of such vessels with a previously archaeologically untapped database of information on European majolica allows for a refined chronology of indigenously produced vessels in the colonial New World that draw on majolica for inspiration. In the case of sixteenthcentury San Salvador, this method changes the previously accepted chronology of settlement with significant ramifications for indigenous production of pottery. Homogenization of ceramic manufacture, and comparison with other sites of ceramic hybridization in the Spanish Empire, suggests the reconfiguration of social identity in a polyethnic colonial context, similar to the phenomena found by Klaus (Chapter 9) and Cordell (Chapter 4).
Introduction 11 The Spanish colonial empire is also the subject of Melissa Chatfield’s research in Chapter 6. Chatfield examines a form of technological adaptation related to continuity during colonial transformations. Indigenous potters of Aqnapampa, Peru, appropriated technological, not stylistic, innovations from their European counterparts. Clay characterization identifies the adoption of new firing techniques and modification of these techniques to produce materials visually indistinguishable from pre-Hispanic pottery. Echoing Hauser’s emphasis (Chapter 3) on local decisions and circumstances, Chatfield finds that this reflects a deep Andean aesthetic principle emphasizing surface results in finished products. In this case involving religious suppression and upheaval, context of use is a more reliable indicator of change or continuity in identity and cultural interchange than modifications or adoptions of technique or style are. Part II, “Ethnicity and Material Culture in Latin America,” continues the focus on Latin America and the Caribbean but expands our perspective in several ways. Chapters in this volume cover a wider variety of material culture through a greater span of time and cultural contexts. The first chapter in this section also crosses disciplinary lines. Jonathan D. Hill (Chapter 7) emphasizes the ever-changing nature of culture, through an overview of ethnographic and archaeological research on ethnogenesis in Amazonia. Reviewing recent efforts and projects, Hill presents the complex picture of identity reinvention in Amazonia and shows how material culture, oral narratives, and written texts are creatively used to fashion and modify tradition and history. Diaspora is an important part of Amazonian ethnogenesis, and the dispersion of Arawakan people throughout the riverine systems of the Amazon region by colonial and other forces is intertwined with transformations in material culture, political hierarchy and action, and social identity. The role of diaspora, migration, and upheaval in hybridity and ethnogenesis appears in several chapters in this volume. Some of these examples involve the familiar impact of European colonialism and its reshuffling of people and identities, paralleling the “shatter zone” concept (a term, like hybridity, notably borrowed from outside archaeology, expanded on, and criticized for possible negative connotations) (Ethridge 2009:42–43n3). In Chapter 8, Eleanor HarrisonBuck, Ellen Spensley Moriarity, and Patricia A. McAnany provide an example where migration entangled with identity and material culture in an example that is neither European nor colonial. Stylistic and chemical characterization of Classic Maya pottery from Belize, and the introduction of new architectural forms from other regions of the Maya world, suggest migration during a period of political instability, resulting in new social and economic networks. Unlike many of the cases in this volume, these innovative responses to new conditions are not colonial in nature and do not have an apparent power differential to subvert but may instead involve the breakdown and reconfiguration of social boundaries and identities through resettlement and possibly intermarriage. Genetic and cultural hybridity are the centerpieces of Chapter 9 by Haagen D. Klaus. Though a recurring theme in this volume is to examine and avoid the biological connotations of the word hybrid, in its larger historical use, Klauss’s approach successfully blends changes in material culture and genetic diversity to
12 J. J. Card understand indigenous social networks and identity in a colonial context. Chapter 9 explores the relationship in colonial Peru between Muchik marriage patterns, identity, and mortuary practices through analysis of both material culture and gene flow. Increasing biological homogeneity is not viewed here as part of a traditional model of mestizaje but rather as the ethnogenesis of a new group purposely redefining itself during colonial transformation, distinct from a more politically (and biologically) divided pre-Hispanic Andean world. This redefinition and hybridization of identity, though marking a break from the late pre-Hispanic status quo, is not a new phenomenon in this region, and Klaus positions the colonial transformation as a new development in a pattern dating well back in Andean prehistory. Colonial Peru is also the scene of Chapter 10, on the interweaving of textile techniques and materials. Carrie Brezine takes advantage of the extraordinary preservation at Magdalena de Cao Viejo to identify the methods and products of European and Andean weavers coming together to form new creations. She details how technological differences underlie stylistic traditions and how new techniques began to be used to work unfamiliar materials, producing a colonial fashion distinct from that of either contemporary Europe or the recent pre-Hispanic past. The careful examination in this chapter of minute traces of technological style and material culture traditions serves as a valuable practical example (in the spirit of this book as toolkit) for the analysis of hybridity in material culture. Kathleen Deagan’s discussion of Parts I and II in Chapter 11 finds that while the various investigations present a diversity of subject matter and approach, most share certain themes. Hybridity when applied to material culture refers to “the integration of multiple and recognizably distinct antecedent material traditions,” blended together with some meaning of cultural exchange and creativity. Identity is not an inherent part of hybridity, but power relations and social contexts are. Many of the cases that Deagan comments on are from the colonial Americas. Power plays a role in many of these cases and must be taken into consideration. However, these and other examples do not support simplistic one-way vectors of transmission, with a more powerful, often “foreign,” group easily replacing “indigenous” culture and material with their own. Influence is far more complex, and in material culture, style and technology move and are moved in varied and surprising ways. Going further in this direction, Deagan confronts the concern not just of archaeological classification raised in several chapters but of the problems of working with normative classes of identity such as “indigenous” and “foreign.” Larger phenomena of history may be discernible on a broad scale, but identity and material culture are demonstrated in these cases to be necessarily understood with an eye toward local context. However, the importance of local context does not deny any meaning or interpretation at a larger scale. Deagan illustrates this with ceramica criolla, noting that, though various situations in the colonial Americas produced different forms of hybrid ceramics, one aspect is shared by all ceramica criolla. With time, these creative hybrids became normative and are not thought of by their present users as hybrid, but as their own. This same theme, of the hybrid becoming normative, of local agency and ownership despite far-flung influences, is found in virtually all the chapters in this volume. It undercuts one of the critiques leveled at the use of the word hybrid
Introduction 13 to refer to cultural matters: that there are no pure states or sources. The focus on hybridity in this volume does not deny this critique but rather embraces it. Case after case shows that the process of hybridization is key to a broad range of cultural constructions, and with time, specific blending within this process is smoothed out so that the creative innovation becomes conservative tradition to a later generation. Kathleen Deagan’s definition of hybrid material culture includes the phrase “recognizably distinct.” This important point supports Bhabha’s (1994) assertion that culture in general is hybrid, and viewing it through the perspective of hybridity, as Liebmann argues, can produce important insights. It is in these cases, where the sources and transformations are recognizable, that this important aspect of culture construction and change can be best studied. The second half of this volume expands further in time and space, as well as theme. Part III, “Culture Contact and Transformation in Technological Style,” has a focus on crafting and tool production and the relationship between culture contact, exchange, and technology. In Chapter 12, Clare Tolmie examines an important and controversial case far removed from the others in this volume, in both time and scope. For decades, the relationship between the indigenous (a provocative term central to the problems Tolmie examines) Neanderthals and the modern humans arriving in Europe has been cast and recast in relation to both the data coming out of the ground (and more recently, out of the genomes) and the changing sociopolitical relations in a modern world moving from late imperialism to a postcolonial present. One archaeological tool tradition tied to this “frontier” has been the Châtelperronian, argued to represent attempts by technologically inferior (and implied to be cognitively inferior) Neanderthals to copy and incorporate superior blade, ornamental, and other technologies carried into Europe by modern humans. Tolmie reexamines some of the evidence for chronology (to determine what kind of interaction, if any, modern humans had with Neanderthals), for Neanderthal tool technologies, and for the supposed uniqueness of modern human behaviors. She concludes that local and independent development of some of these technologies, made by both Neanderthal and modern human groups facing the same climatic stresses, explains the archaeological record better than an acculturation or exchange model. Though the social and perhaps even biological particulars of the Châtelperronian cases make it somewhat difficult to compare with the later cases in this volume, as possibly the earliest example of hybridity (or mistaken attribution of hybridity), it merits attention. The flaked glass tools of late nineteenth-century Hawaii are on the opposite end of the chronological spectrum from the tools of Paleolithic Europe and occur in an unquestionable historical context of culture contact and colonialism. Nonetheless, in Chapter 13, James L. Flexner and Colleen L. Morgan emphasize an unexpected element in how and why the quarantined inhabitants of the leprosarium at Kalawao turned imported glass bottles into a distinct tool industry. Volcanic glass had long been a raw material for tool production in Hawaii, but the inhabitants of the leprosarium at Kalawao produced a new and innovative set of tool forms, modeled on neither Hawaiian nor Euro-American examples, utilizing imported Euro-American bottles. The morphology of these tools suggests not only the impact of the institutional context and of the leprosarium (and
14 J. J. Card resulting limitations on obtaining raw materials) but also an embodied aspect of this new industry. Flexner and Morgan argue that distinct morphological attributes of the new tools were designed in response to the physical changes occurring in the bodies of people with Hansen’s disease, specifically changes in hand functionality. The detailed, context-specific analysis of apparent hybrid material culture required to unpack such a complex case illustrates some of the key themes running throughout this volume. The interplay of context and materiality is examined in a very different venue, Early Bronze Age Britain, by Catherine Frieman in Chapter 14. The focus of this chapter is skeuomorphism, the relationship and transfer of styles and techniques between different material media. Frieman unpicks the concept of skeuomorphism, which has played an important role in previous models of the Neolithic– Bronze Age transition, arguing that certain artifact classes represent attempts in stone or other material to emulate high-value imported metal objects. The particulars of necklaces made out of jet and other substances, previously assumed to be imitations of gold jewelry, suggest that once again local social context is king. Specific characteristics of the different materials, evidence and meaning of use, and deposition patterns suggest that the two artifact classes are not related in any manner suggesting simple imitation in either production or use. The last two chapters of Part III address seemingly similar subject matter, the introduction of European and Euro-American metal goods into the contactera midcontinental United States, but in very different manners. In Chapter 15, Janet Lynn Griffitts examines the technological impact of metal tools on Middle Missouri bone tool traditions. An object-oriented analysis of the methods for producing bone tools and their performance characteristics, as well as those of stone and metal tools used to alter bone, suggest a complex mosaic of adoption choices by indigenous crafters. This stands in stark contrast to the conventional wisdom that technologically superior metal tools quickly swept away bone and stone tools or that the presence of bone and stone tools suggests culturally conservative attitudes, while metal tools are an index of acculturation. Instead, the traces of metal tools on bone are signs of creative experimentation by Native American crafters on their own terms and reflect concerns with material production rather than social identity. Native midcontinental North American crafting and appropriation of EuroAmerican metal goods is also the subject of Chapter 16, by Kathleen Ehrhardt. She also identifies local appropriation and transformation of metal objects, on the terms of local crafters and consumers. The seventeenth-century Illinois craft transformed imported goods in a radical manner, trading for copper tools and implements and disassembling them into symbolically valuable objects conforming to a long-term technological and stylistic tradition. One factor emphasized by Ehrhardt is that the Iliniwek Village was on the fringes of the colonial world and that European trade goods were more common than contact with actual Europeans. Hybridity of material and technological traditions was occurring in a context affected by colonialism (refugees and displacement, disease, and other effects rode in advance of European explorers and settlers) but not under direct European control or in constant interaction with Europeans, Africans, or their
Introduction 15 American descendants. The innovations represented by a hybrid technological style provide more information about local micropolitical and -social developments than about colonialism or globalization. Identity, a key component of the questions of ethnogenesis and colonialism that have surfaced in a number of the chapters in this volume, is the theme of Part IV, “Materiality and Identity.” The first two chapters in this section continue our examination of North America, but in quite different geographical and historical contexts. In Chapter 17, Jeffery Clark and colleagues examine ethnogenesis in the precontact Southwest, investigating the creation of the Salado culture as a regional meta-identity. The case of the Kayenta diaspora shares a recurring theme found in a number of chapters in this volume: displacement and migration of refugees and the resulting changes to identity. Unlike most of the other cases we’ve examined, the Kayenta diaspora was the result of ecological conditions, not the effect of colonial disease and conflict. Clark and colleagues attack the problem of detecting migration and diasporic communities in the archaeological record. Diaspora by definition concerns people and phenomena that are not defined by place and, therefore, difficult to see and categorize with traditional settlement-pattern approaches. Low-visibility material patterns can indicate demographic realities, while highly symbolic material culture can indicate the coalescence of displaced peoples into new communities and institutions and the formation of a meta-identity to ease tensions arising from the interaction of people divided by previous identity. Another theme featured in this volume, the subversive aspect of hybridity, is also present in the Kayenta and Salado case, as demographically minority immigrants found opportunities in their diasporic identity that more place-based individuals and groups did not. Clark and colleagues’ modeling of diaspora and meta-identity proved popular during the conference and is an important contribution to the archaeological study of hybridity and ethnogenesis. The subversive aspect of hybridity is a major theme of Katherine Hayes’s examination of technological styles at seventeenth-century Sylvester Manor, New York (Chapter 18). Close materials characterization of firing techniques, tempering patterns, and other aspects of pottery production demonstrates interaction between native Manhanset and enslaved Africans, interaction not particularly reflected by the historical record, though inferred from political reactions by white settlers. These technological changes instead point to a denied history of connection, interaction, and integration of African American and native people, one that continues to play out in present federal and state tribal recognition policies and disputes. Hayes argues that hybridity of identity was not invisible to white political and economic elites and that the hardening of racial laws and categories was a deliberate attempt to divide and control people whose interaction (illustrated by both documentary evidence and technological exchanges and experimentation found in the archaeological record) was perceived as threatening. Hybrid technological styles and practices indicate interactions that are not imposed acculturation but attempts to live in spite of colonial pressures and categories. The last two cases in this volume focus on highly symbolic elite material culture meant for display, a distinct change from the everyday pottery of Sylvester
16 J. J. Card Manor or the Kayenta diaspora. In Chapter 19, Christopher M. Roberts deploys principles of iconology and representation on sculptures of the human form to understand the changing nature of interaction between northern Europeans and the Mediterranean world. The interplay between artisan and audience is the key to understanding the hybrid aspects of two sculptures: one from Iron Age Germany and the other from Roman Britain. Deliberately representing aspects of two broad, interacting, but distinct cultural areas is an attempt to communicate a message to the viewers of the sculpture. Yet at the same time, the artisan must have some idea of what the potential audience would understand of concepts and stylistic flourishes from two or more traditions. Both sculptures bridge the two worlds by referencing both of them, but how they do this indicates two very different audiences, with different identities and social needs. Local elite agency and changing values are also featured by Sevil Baltalı Tırpan in Chapter 20. She utilizes evidence from fourth millennium b.c.e. Arslantepe, in northern Mesopotamia, to demonstrate how “foreign” elements were chosen by artisans and elites to communicate and own a “local” identity, a pattern seen in a number of the cases in this volume. Arslantepe is part of the “Uruk expansion,” a series of sites in greater Mesopotamia showing influence from Uruk architecture and material culture. This has been characterized at times as possibly an early example of colonialism. Baltalı Tırpan suggests otherwise, citing not only a lack of evidence for coercion and control from a central core but also local agency in controlling identity. Uruk architectural and decorative concepts are blended with pre-Uruk local ideas and practices and executed in local materials and style. Innovative producers choose from different traditions in creating new identities and messages. This is particularly illustrated through diachronic change, a dimension not available in many of the cases in this volume. The theme of short-term and long-term change in understanding colonial transformations and encounters is one examined here and elsewhere (Silliman 2012), by our second discussant, Stephen W. Silliman. In Chapter 21, Silliman instead focuses on how archaeologists have utilized the term hybrid, what hybridity can mean for archaeology, and what it offers that other concepts do not. He finds that the creative incorporation of new materials and concepts resulting from the sustained interaction of people and material from different groups is integral to the use of the term hybrid by the researchers represented in this volume. This definition could apply to a number of concepts or terms (acculturation, syncretism, transculturation) previously utilized by archaeologists. Further, its relationship to broader issues of culture change and continuity is both intriguing and problematic. The concept of hybridity has no explanatory power if it is no different from general culture change. Nor is it of tremendous theoretical utility if it simply describes technological and stylistic adoptions and changes. Silliman articulates some of the most powerful critiques of hybridity: Are practices hybrid, or is that a label just for objects? Can people be hybrid? Does something stay forever a hybrid, or does it become a homogenous norm? Who decides any of this? These and other issues demonstrate the need for more vigorous theoretical consideration of the concept. Silliman does not propose a rigid model or an agenda for hybridity but does highlight important
Introduction 17 and powerful aspects of archaeological approaches to hybridity, examining it as a practice, emphasizing its decentering and subversive nature, and suggesting paths for future research.
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20 J. J. Card Palka, Joel 2005 Unconquered Lacandon Maya: Ethnohistory and Archaeology of Indigenous Culture Change. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Rodríguez-Alegría, Enrique 2005 Eating Like an Indian: Negotiating Social Relations in the Spanish Colonies. Current Anthropology 46:551–573. Rogers, J. Daniel 1990 Objects of Change: The Archaeology and History of Arikara Contact with Europeans. Smithsonian Series in Archaeological Inquiry. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, D.C. 1993 The Social and Material Implications of Culture Contact on the Northern Plains. In Ethnohistory and Archaeology: Approaches to Postcontact Change in the Americas, edited by J. Daniel Rogers and Samuel M. Wilson, pp. 73–88. Interdisciplinary Contributions to Archaeology. Plenum, New York. Rowlands, Michael 2010 Concluding Thoughts. In Material Connections in the Ancient Mediterranean: Mobility, Materiality, and Mediterranean Identities, edited by Peter van Dommelen and A. Bernard Knapp, pp. 233–247. Routledge, Abingdon, Oxon. Saunders, Rebecca 2000 Stability and Change in Guale Indian Pottery, a.d. 1300–1702. University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa. Schávelzon, Daniel 1997 Buenos Aires del Siglo XVI al XIX: Avances en arqueología historíca. In Approaches to the Historical Archaeology of Mexico, Central and South America, edited by Janine Gasco, Greg Charles Smith, and Patricia Fournier-García, pp. 133–138. The Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, Monograph No. 38. University of California, Los Angeles. Silliman, Stephen W. 2012 Between the Longue Durée and the Short Purée: Postcolonial Archaeologies of Indigenous History in Colonial North America. In Decolonizing Indigenous Histories: Exploring “Prehistoric/Colonial” Transitions in Archaeology, edited by Siobhan M. Hart, Maxine Oland, and Liam Frink, pp. 113–132. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Smith, Greg Charles 1995 Indians and Africans at Puerto Real: The Ceramic Evidence. In Puerto Real: The Archaeology of a Sixteenth-Century Spanish Town in Hispaniola, edited by Kathleen Deagan, pp. 335–374. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Spaulding, Albert C. 1953 Statistical Techniques for the Discovery of Artifact Types. American Antiquity 18:305–314. 1954 Reply to Ford. American Antiquity 19:391–393. Turgeon, Laurier 2004 Beads, Bodies and Regimes of Value: From France to North America, c. 1500–c. 1650. In The Archaeology of Contact in Settler Societies, edited by Tim Murray, pp. 19–47. New Directions in Archaeology. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. van Dommelen, Peter 2005 Colonial Interactions and Hybrid Practices. Phoenician and Carthaginian Settlement in the Ancient Mediterranean. In The Archaeology of Colonial Encounters: Comparative Perspectives, edited by Gil J. Stein, pp. 109–141. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe.
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I. Ceramic Change in Colonial Latin America and the Caribbean
Parsing Hybridity: Archaeologies of Amalgamation in SeventeenthCentury New Mexico Matthew Liebmann Abstract: In recent years, archaeologists have used the term hybridity with increasing frequency to describe and interpret amalgamated forms of material culture. But do postcolonial notions of hybridity (sensu Bhabha 1994; Hall 1990; Young 1995) differ in any meaningful ways from models of cultural mixture traditionally employed by anthropologists, such as syncretism, creolization, and acculturation? Or is this simply a matter of semantics, citation practices, and the adoption of trendy anthropological jargon by archaeologists? In this chapter, I consider the meanings associated with the concept of hybridity, exploring what this term offers for the archaeological interpretation of colonial encounters. In doing so, I compare and contrast hybridity with acculturation, syncretism, bricolage, creolization, and mestizaje in order to identify the subtly differing connotations of these concepts, as well as highlighting the contributions that postcolonial notions of hybridity offer for contemporary archaeology through a case study from the seventeenth-century Pueblos of the American Southwest. Mélange, hotch-potch, a bit of this and a bit of that is how newness enters the world. —Salman Rushdie, In Good Faith (1990:4)
Shortly after establishing permanent settlements in the Americas, Spanish colonial societies began to be faced with a multitude of new people and things that did not fit neatly into preconceived binary categories of “Old World” and “New World.” The mixing of Europeans and Americans that occurred after 1492 resulted in a wealth of new cultural practices, objects, and (most problematically) The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture, edited by Jeb J. Card. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Occasional Paper No. 39. © 2013 by the Board of Trustees, Southern Illinois University. All rights reserved. ISBN 978-0-8093-3314-1.
26 M. Liebmann individuals, all of which required novel classificatory schemes. In an attempt to make order out of the messy and complex realities of the colonial encounter, the residents of New Spain created an intricate system of classification that labeled persons according to their limpieza de sangre (purity of blood), based on the perceived biological identities of their parents. Offspring resulting from the union of a “pure-blooded” Spaniard and a Native American were labeled mestizos, those from an African and an Indian parent were called lobos, the union of a mestizo and a Native American begat a coyote, and so on. Scores of different categories were created between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries in an attempt to sort out the new racial admixtures that fell into the ambiguous interstices between colonizer and colonized (Dean and Leibsohn 2003:9). Further distinctions were made between Spaniards born in the Old World, known as peninsulares, and those born in the Americas, labeled criollos (Deagan 1983; Ewen 2000; Loren 2007:23). Just as the populace of colonial New Spain invented numerous labels in an attempt to come to grips with racial and ethnic admixture, so too have anthropologists coined a plethora of terms in the investigation of cultural amalgamation resulting from culture contact and colonization. Assimilation, acculturation, syncretism, bricolage, mestizaje, miscegenation, transculturation, and creolization are all concepts that have been employed by anthropologists over the past century to describe processes of cultural melding. In recent years, the term hybridity has been added to this list, inspired in large part by the writings of postcolonial scholars such as Homi Bhabha (1994), Stuart Hall (1990), and Robert Young (1995). Increasingly, archaeologists are using many of these terms interchangeably. But if acculturation, syncretism, creolization, and all the rest are deployed merely as synonyms to describe the same general process of intercultural amalgamation, the addition of yet another term to the list hardly contributes to an improved understanding of cultural change and exchange (van Dommelen 1997:309). So does hybridity describe or interpret blended cultural formations in any way that is significantly different from these previous models of cultural mixture? Or is its increasing popularity simply a matter of semantics, citation practices, and the adoption of trendy anthropological jargon by archaeologists? While all the aforementioned terms describe processes associated with cultural intermixture, each also has its own distinct etymology, and all were coined to describe subtly different situations in which signs and forms with differing histories were recombined (often in colonial settings). Although archaeologists employing these terms may be akin to the proverbial blind men feeling different parts of the same elephant, I think that there is some utility in identifying the differences between the trunk and the tail of the beast that is cultural mixture. In what follows I consider the meanings of the concept of hybridity, exploring what this term brings to the table regarding the archaeological interpretation of colonial encounters. I compare and contrast hybridity with some of the alternative terms that are commonly utilized in archaeology (and are frequently treated as synonyms): acculturation, syncretism, bricolage, creolization, and mestizaje. In so doing, I hope to identify the commonly accepted meanings and subtle, differing connotations of these concepts, as well as to highlight the contributions that postcolonial notions of hybridity might bring to the study of material culture.
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 27
Definitions and Debates At the most basic level, this discussion concerns how new things come into being. There are three primary means by which this process occurs: invention, divergence, or convergence. The first of these, invention, describes the creation of wholly original objects, styles, and technologies, whereby something is created anew from whole cloth. This process is probably the most rare of the three, with Edison’s invention of the lightbulb being a consummate example. More frequently, new things come into being through divergence (commonly termed evolution), whereby changes to an existing form through time result in the eventual creation of multiple separate types through splitting or branching. This process has been a major focus of archaeological research throughout the history of the discipline, the evolution of stone tools being the quintessential example. But this volume takes as its focus the third way in which new things enter the world: the combination or convergence of two or more existing forms to create something different. Although this process has historically received less attention from archaeologists than evolution/divergence, it is probably the most common of the three types. In recent years the term hybridity (or hybridization) has served as shorthand for this process, joining the plethora of other words that archaeologists have used over the past century to characterize “creation through recombination.” The concept of acculturation has the longest and possibly most controversial history of the aforementioned terms (Cusick 1998:127–132). In its early anthropological use, acculturation was defined as “those phenomena which result when groups of individuals having different cultures come into continuous firsthand contact, with subsequent changes in the original patterns of either or both groups” (Redfield et al. 1936:149). Although this original definition called for a neutral study of cultural contact and change, over time acculturation came to be closely associated with the loss of “traditional” (non-Western) cultural formations and the subsequent adoption of Euro-American technologies, values, and ways of life. Archaeological studies of acculturation have tended toward trait lists that attempted to measure the degree of acculturation in a social group through the amount of foreign (usually European) artifacts in indigenous assemblages (e.g., Quimby and Spoehr 1951; see Saunders 1998:417–418). In recent years, acculturation has fallen out of favor in archaeology due to its perceived association with unidirectional culture change and the subsequent lack of agency that such studies have typically allotted to subalterns (Armstrong 1998:379). In practice, the concept of acculturation has played a role in the “Othering” of nonWestern peoples (Said 1978), reducing colonized groups to simple, passive, subordinate, and receptive consumers of the cultural forms supplied by complex, active, dominant colonial masters who remain unchanged throughout this process (Lightfoot 1995:206; see Kroeber 1948:425–434). Furthermore, acculturation studies have typically omitted overt discussions of power relations (Howson 1990:84) and have generally neglected to account for the role of resistance in mediating cultural interactions (Cusick 1998:135). Finally, acculturation has frequently been
28 M. Liebmann viewed as a stage in the process of colonization that is completed when assimilation occurs. Yet this notion flies in the face of contemporary anthropological concepts, which view mixing not as a stage but as a constant and constituent element of all cultures (Sahlins 1994:389; Said 1993:xxv). For these reasons, the use of the acculturation concept has waned significantly among recent generations of anthropologists and archaeologists. By contrast, anthropologists seem to have conflicting opinions regarding the utility of the term syncretism in the characterization of cultural mixture. At its broadest, syncretism describes “the combination of elements from two or more different religious traditions within a specified [cultural] frame” (Stewart 1999:58). The unique attribute of syncretism (in comparison with the other terms under consideration here) is its typical focus on religion, although it has also been widely employed in the field of ethnomusicology. While this concept seems to enjoy general acceptance among anthropologists and archaeologists working in the Americas, many Africanists (often trained in British social anthropology) have eschewed its application, growing “increasingly uncomfortable with the s-word” over the past thirty years (Stewart 1999:46). This negative assessment is based on the notion that syncretism has pejorative connotations, deriding cultural mixture as undesirable, or that it presupposes a preexisting purity, conceiving of cultures as bounded wholes (the so-called billiard ball approach to culture contact [Cusick 1998:131]). For better or worse, studies of syncretism among colonized subalterns have heretofore far outnumbered studies of this phenomenon in colonizer/“dominant” populations, resulting in the popular notion that, like acculturation, syncretism tends to be a one-way street. Others point out that studies of syncretism tend to characterize the process as an amicable, cordial “making do”—a joining of two or more traditions in harmonious coexistence that often overlooks elements of discord, resistance, conflict, or mockery. In historical archaeology, where ethnically ambiguous forms of material culture have long been the subject of considerable debate (e.g., the origins of colonowares), scholars have commonly employed the concept of creolization to investigate cultural mixture (Dawdy 2000; Deagan 1983, 1996; Deetz 1996; Ferguson 1992; Loren 2005, 2008; Mouer 1993; Nassaney 2004, 2005). Borrowing its metaphor from linguistics, creolization denotes the recombination of shared lexical elements in a new grammar and syntax. In one of the earliest archaeological applications, Ferguson (1992:xlii) suggested that in processes of creolization, “material things are part of the lexicon of culture while the ways they were made, used, [and] perceived are part of the grammar.” In contrast to some of the aforementioned concepts, creolization studies have not relegated culture change exclusively to the realm of the colonized nor to that of the colonizer (Deetz 1996:213; Mouer 1993). Although its use is widespread today, the concept of creolization was coined to describe a very specific type of cultural emergence in which new forms were created out of a common cultural vocabulary (Palmie 2006:434–437).1 Most frequently, this process has been exemplified through the creation of new types in the Americas based on the recombination of various Old World forms— the development of a distinctive African American culture being the example par excellence (Mintz and Price 1992). In this way, creolization is particularly
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 29 appropriate for the examination of diasporic societies and identities, as well as the development of distinct colonial cultures in the Americas by expatriates and their descendants (Dawdy 2000:1; Deagan 1983, 1996; see Cusick 2000; Delle 2000; Ewen 2000). Central to the concept of creolization, then, is the factor of dislocation from a cultural homeland. In colonial New Spain, the term criollo was used in reference to people, animals, and plants indigenous to the Old World that were born (or germinated) in the New World. But the term itself did not necessarily carry a connotation either of power or of a lack thereof. Children of peninsulares (native-born Spaniards) or enslaved Africans born in the Americas were all known equally as criollos. Writing in the sixteenth century, the famous Inca-Spaniard mestizo Garcilasco de la Vega defined criollos as “los que ya no eran españoles, ni tampoco indigenas” (those that are no longer Spaniards, but were not Indians, either) (quoted in Stewart 1999:44). Yet considering its emphasis on diasporic populations, creolization is not a suitable concept for the investigation of all types of archaeological mixing. In many Native American contexts, for example, it seems confusing and contradictory to speak of “creolization” within groups that have no immediate connections to the Old World, as is the case with the Pueblos of the seventeenth century that I study.2 Similarly, the concept of mestizaje (the mixing of races) has been used to “explain unequal power relations in the Spanish colonial past and the emergence of a national identity that denies colonial racial hierarchy in the present” (Loren 2005:299). Scholars of Spanish colonial history and contemporary Latin American studies frequently speak of a distinctive mestizo culture that developed out of the marriage and interbreeding of Spaniards and Indians in the New World. But again, this concept seems misplaced when applied to Native American contexts in which a distinct indigenous identity was maintained in contrast to a developing criollo or mestizo culture, as is the case in colonial New Mexico. While studies of creolization and mestizaje have generally avoided some of the pitfalls that have plagued prior theories of cultural mixture, such as passive and unidirectional culture change, like these other concepts, both have at times been used uncritically as a simple gloss for cross-cultural exchange (see also discussions of transculturation, e.g., Ortiz 1947). This tends to negate the inequity and violence—both symbolic and corporeal—inherent in colonial encounters (Mullins and Paynter 2000), causing critics to accuse archaeological studies of these processes of focusing sanguinely on the seemingly benign elements of colonial life (Orser 2006:204–205; Singleton 1998:179). In an attempt to avoid the terminological baggage associated with some of these more widely employed concepts, others have advocated the adoption of Levi-Strauss’s (1966) concept of bricolage, which entails the creative recombination of cultural elements by individuals acting within a limited range of options. While Levi-Strauss’s original formulation conceived of actors working within a single, closed cultural system (Hénaff 1998:144–145), Jean Comaroff (1985) expanded bricolage to colonial contexts. In her superb study of Tshidi Zionism, Comaroff examined an intercultural situation that “condemns the dominated to reproduce the material and symbolic forms of a neocolonial system” (1985:261).
30 M. Liebmann In recent years bricolage has been adopted by a few archaeologists as an antidote against the myopic concentration on agency that characterizes much of contemporary archaeology, focusing instead on the limitations that social structures can place on cultural amalgamation. As Fennell (2007:31) notes, “In essence, the interdependence of individual agents and social structures . . . has been replaced by some analysts with a greater focus on individual agency and a disregard of stable structures.” Others have found the lack of agency inherent in the notion of bricolage limiting, particularly in decolonized contexts where colonial domination no longer applies (see Liebmann 2002:142).
Hybridity: Good to Think? What then does the concept of hybridity bring to the table that is not supplied by the plethora of alternatives detailed above? One answer would seem to be a dearth of baggage. As the most recent addition to the archaeological lexicon describing intercultural mixture, hybridity still sports a relatively unsullied veneer. It hasn’t yet had time to accrue many of the negative associations among archaeologists that commonly plague the alternatives, such as a lack of agency and unidirectionality. Nonetheless, although at first glance the hybridity approach may appear to be an easy way to sidestep these problems, its proponents should be forewarned: The concept of hybridity carries baggage all its own. At the same time, it also bears subtle connotations that can be valuable in the analysis of cultural amalgamation. But if the term continues to be used unreflexively as a simple gloss for any and all situations involving cultural mixture (as seems to be the trend in recent archaeological scholarship), it risks losing its interpretive purchase, becoming diluted to the point of banality. The Oxford English Dictionary defines hybrid (in part) as “anything derived from heterogeneous sources, or composed of different or incongruous elements.” Its origins can be found in the Latin word hibrida, denoting the offspring of a tame sow and a wild boar; it was also applied to the child of a free person and a slave. Thus from the beginning, the notion of hybridity was associated with the union of domesticated civilization and wild savagery. The term continued to have a checkered political history through the nineteenth century, when hybrid biological forms were thought to be weak and sterile, providing evidence that pure racial types were superior and not to be mixed (Young 1995:6–19). Over the course of the past century, however, genetic studies demonstrated hybrid species to be particularly fruitful and resilient, imbuing the term with more positive connotations (Stewart 1999:45). In postcolonial theory, hybridity commonly refers to the new transcultural forms produced through colonization that cannot be neatly classified into a single cultural or ethnic category (Liebmann 2008a:83). But this term does not connote benign and innocuous combinations of formerly separate entities. As used by postcolonial scholars, hybridity can imply disruption and a forcing together of unlike things (Young 1995:26), calling attention to disjunctions as well as conjunctions (Kapchan and Strong 1999:249). In the words of Bhabha:
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 31 [H]ybridization is not some happy, consensual mix of diverse cultures; it is the strategic, translational transfer of tone, value, signification, and position— a transfer of power—from an authoritative system of cultural hegemony to an emergent process of cultural relocation and reiteration that changes the very terms of interpretation and institutionalization, opening up contesting, opposing, innovative, “other” grounds of subject and object formation [Bhabha quoted in Seshadri-Crooks 2000:370].
In fact, some postcolonial scholars advocate restricting use of the term exclusively to situations of distinctly unbalanced power relations (Kuortti and Nyman 2007:2), serving to further emphasize the crucial element of power in hybrid cultural formations. Postcolonial hybridity further differs from the previously mentioned concepts through its stress on the profound ambivalence inherent in colonial situations, emphasizing the simultaneous desire for and repulsion from an object, person, or action (Young 1995:161). Additionally, it implies a reworking of previously existing elements rather than any simple combination of two (or more) distinct cultural forms (Bhabha 1994:110). Hybridity thus foregrounds the issues of power and inequity inherent in colonial societies, underscoring the empowering nature of hybrid forms, which often make space for anticolonial resistance through the challenging of binary categories. This emphasis on power can be traced through Bhabha’s writings back to the work of Mikhail Bakhtin (1982:358– 61), whose foundational use of the term hybridity stressed the unsettling and transfiguring capacity of these new cultural formations. In comparison, anthropological concepts such as acculturation, syncretism, creolization, and mestizaje have tended to cast cultural mixture in a more accommodating light (Khan 2007:653; Stewart 1999:48). These concepts have also been critiqued for representing cultures as bounded wholes, presuming a preexisting purity in the social formations that are later combined (Stewart 1999:40–41). The postcolonial application of hybridity addresses some of these limitations by emphasizing the fact that all cultures are mixtures (a point famously illustrated by Linton  more than seven decades ago) and rejecting the idea that any pure or essential cultures have ever existed (Said 1993:xxv). Hybridity also stresses the interdependence and mutual construction of colonizer and colonized, acknowledging the multidirectional ebb and flow of cultural influences in colonial contexts and encouraging a focus not on synchronic structures but on diachronic practices (Kapchan and Strong 1999:250). Based on these subtle differences, I think that the concept of hybridity as it has been used in contemporary postcolonial studies has the possibility to offer more than mere semantic variation to the investigation of cultural mixture. While I am leery to embrace yet another neologism in the already jargon-filled lexicon of archaeological theory, I think that hybridity does in fact have something to offer to the investigation of mixed forms of material culture and the study of “how newness enters the world” more generally. Through its explicit foregrounding of power and inequity, hybridity is a valuable theoretical lens that can enhance the investigation of the archaeology of cultural amalgamation.
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Maps and Territory: Issues of Classification But we have to keep in mind that hybridity is just that—a theoretical lens, not an ethnographic object in and of itself—just as acculturation, syncretism, creolization, and all the rest are theoretical lenses as well. As Gregory Bateson noted (1972:454–455), we have to be careful not to confuse the anthropological map with the territory. With this in mind, it might be useful to take a step back and reflect on the fact that the notion of hybridity—and indeed, cultural amalgamation itself—is fundamentally an issue of taxonomy. The classification of things into categories of “pure” versus “mixed” provides the basis for the notion of hybridity. Yet these categories are social constructs, not self-evident and naturally occurring types (Stross 1999:255). In other words, purity is in the eye of the beholder. Part of the problem we face in attempting to classify material culture as mixed or pure, or according to different types of mixture, stems from our own muddling of the exercise of classification. The frustration for many archaeologists with the use of terms such as hybridity is that the addition of another synonym to the list doesn’t necessarily improve our understandings of the past (particularly when the neologism is applied in a haphazard manner). The continued splitting of objects or cultural processes into ever more refined categories—syncretism versus creolization versus bricolage versus hybridity—eventually works against our ability to compare the phenomena of intercultural mixture across space and time. Here it is useful to keep in mind Geertz’s (1973) distinction between models of and models for. As a model that describes historical processes of cultural change (a “model of”), hybridity has not yet achieved its interpretive potential. The lack of consensus concerning what specifically defines hybridity and its continued use as a catchall term for cultural mixture more generally combine to render it toothless. Hybridity becomes an alluring but ultimately infertile notion when promiscuously applied (Holland and Eisenhart 1990:57). However, I would argue that hybridity’s current value can be found in its use as a “model for”—as an analytical tool that helps interpret, rather than describe, mixed material culture. That is, hybridity is a concept that is “good to think” (Levi-Strauss 1963:89). We can use the notion of postcolonial hybridity to see instances of cultural mixture in a new light, allowing us to explore the complexities and nuances of mixed material culture in new ways. To illustrate this point, I’ll now shine the differing lights of hybridity, acculturation, syncretism, and bricolage on two archaeological examples from seventeenth-century New Mexico (Figure 2-1).
The Chalice and the Kachina The first case I’d like to consider is a clear example of Spanish-Pueblo fusion, a stemmed ceramic chalice (Figure 2-2) that was found at the ancestral Jemez pueblo of Giusewa. The chalice is the vessel form used to hold the wine that becomes the blood of Christ in the celebration of the Catholic ritual of Eucharist. This particular chalice is an example of the indigenous Puebloan pottery style
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 33
Figure 2-1. Locations of sites discussed in this chapter. known as Jemez Black-on-white, a ceramic type that was manufactured from a.d. 1325 to 1680 in the Jemez province of northern New Mexico (Elliott 1994; Liebmann 2006, 2008b). The chalice was excavated in 1937 during archaeological investigations of the convento complex (priests’ quarters) of an early seventeenthcentury Franciscan mission at Giusewa (Reiter 1938:82; Toulouse 1937). Unfortunately, no details beyond the general location of its discovery are known, due to the absence of comprehensive excavation notes or records. The Pueblo village at which the chalice was found was established in the late a.d. 1400s and thrived for over a century prior to Spanish colonization. Giusewa
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Figure 2-2. Jemez Black-on-white chalice (18531/11) excavated at Giusewa (LA 679). (Photograph by David McNeece, courtesy of the Museum of Indian Arts and Culture/Laboratory of Anthropology, Museum of New Mexico.) was inhabited by Towa-speaking Pueblo people who identified themselves as ethnically Hemish (later transliterated as Jemez) to the Europeans they first encountered in 1541 (Hammond and Rey 1940:244). In September of 1598, a Franciscan priest established the first mission at Giusewa, and for the next 40 years the Spanish presence at the pueblo waxed and waned because of the rebellion and apostasy of its Jemez inhabitants (Liebmann 2006:147–151). By the late 1650s, the area was reported to be “despoblado” (uninhabited) (Scholes 1938:96) with its former residents resettled at a different mission village, their numbers thinned considerably as a result of epidemic diseases introduced by the Spaniards. The chalice was found among the ruins of the original convento complex, which was constructed and occupied by Fray Alonso de Lugo between 1598 and
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 35 1601 (Ivey 1991:131). This vessel can be securely dated to between 1598 and 1659, with the intrasite context suggesting that it is likely to have been manufactured, used, and discarded between 1598 and 1601. The fact that it was made in the Jemez Black-on-white style is not entirely surprising, as this pottery dominates the decorated ware assemblage at Giusewa (and indeed, all ancestral Jemez villages occupied between the late fourteenth century and 1680). Jemez Black-on-white comprises 94 percent of the decorated ceramic assemblage at Giusewa, spanning both the pre-Hispanic and early Colonial periods (Elliott 1991:80). The fusion of Christian form with a traditional Jemez ceramic type suggests that the artifact was commissioned by a friar (probably Fray Alonso himself), and manufactured by one of the women at Giusewa. The mixing of the two traditions is further evident in the decoration of the chalice, which combines the Pueblo convention of concentric lines encircling the upper register of the inside of the bowl with the Christian crosses that adorn the bottom of the bowl interior and the underside of the base.
The Virgin Kachina The second example of seventeenth-century Pueblo-Spanish fusion I’d like to consider comes from the cavates (rooms carved into stone cliffs) of Frijoles Canyon, located in what is known today as Bandelier National Monument (see Figure 2-1). Sometime following Spanish contact, a small group of people reoccupied the cavates in a remote and inaccessible area of the canyon known to archaeologists as Group M (Hendron 1943:ii–iv). Associated ceramics suggest that this reoccupation took place during the late seventeenth century, probably during the tumultuous Pueblo Revolt–Spanish reconquest era of 1680–1700 (Lieb mann 2002; Turney 1948:70). During that time the refugees carved figures into the plaster of a cavate room known as M-100.3 In addition to images of masked kachina figures and a traditional striped koshare (clown), this cavate contains one particularly curious figure that stands out from all the rest, bearing clear evidence of European influence (Figure 2-3). Incised into the plaster of the west wall of M-100, just above the remains of two metate bins, this icon displays Europeanstyle facial features (the eyes, eyebrows, and nose), as well as a halo or crown and a line encircling the face that may represent a veil, strongly resembling Spanish colonial depictions of Santa Maria (Figure 2-4). However, this is not a straightforward Catholic icon, either. Comparisons with kachina representations in rock art suggest that this seemingly Christian symbol has been infused with traditional Puebloan characteristics as well. Although the crown or halo may be illustrative of Spanish influence, similar points are also found adorning kachina masks, particularly in depictions of the sun kachina (Liebmann 2002:140; Schaafsma 1975:77) (see Figure 2-4). Furthermore, the concentric circle surrounding the face is a stylistic element found in both traditional Pueblo art and in Spanish colonial depictions of the Virgin. Finally, while the eyes and nose of this image are undoubtedly in the European style, the mouth is represented by a rectangle—a characteristic of kachina masks throughout the Pueblo world.
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Figure 2-3. Figures incised in plaster of cavate M-100, Frijoles Canyon; Virgin kachina (left), with the traditional Pueblo religious imagery that surrounds it (right). Assuming for the moment that the temporal identification I’ve made for this figure is correct, the appearance of a combined Pueblo-Catholic image during this era is particularly intriguing. The Pueblo Revolt of 1680 was inspired by a nativist and revivalist agenda propagated by the leaders of the uprising (Lieb mann 2006, 2008b; Liebmann and Preucel 2007). Following the revolt, these leaders encouraged the Pueblo peoples to purge their world of Spanish influence, particularly the remnants of Catholicism. The Puebloans sacked and destroyed mission facilities throughout New Mexico, executed priests and colonial settlers, and were reportedly prohibited even from uttering the names of Jesus Christ and Santa Maria. Violation of these prohibitions carried the sanction of death (Hackett and Shelby 1942, 2:233–253). Thus the production of a seemingly Christianinspired image under these overtly nativist conditions begs further explication. How then are we to make sense of these artifacts? Are they best understood as examples of acculturation? Syncretism? Bricolage? Creolization? Mestizaje? Or hybridity? Does it make a difference whether we choose one of these labels over another, or are all equally adequate? In what follows, I consider the different pictures of the past that result when we interpret these instances of Pueblo-Spanish fusion through the varied theoretical lenses of cultural mixture.
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 37
Figure 2-4. (A) Santa Rosa de Lima, detail; (B) Virgin of Guadalupe, detail; (C) cavate M-100 Maria kachina figure; (D) petroglyph, Cochiti Reservoir District (after Schaafsma 1975:77); (E) Jeddito Spattered sherd design (after Hays 1994:58).
Acculturation Examining the chalice as an example of acculturation immediately begs the question: Who is acculturating to whom? Does the manufacture of a Jemez Black-on-white vessel in this conspicuously foreign form document the adoption of Spanish culture by the people of Giusewa? Or does it represent a transformation on the part of the Franciscan priest who used it, as he became acculturated to life in the pueblo? Traditionally, acculturation studies have viewed objects such as this as markers of the adoption of European culture by Native Americans, documenting the “incorporation of outside ideas or technology within a generally persistent way of life” (Cusick 1998:128). According to this line of thought, we could view the chalice as an emblem of the acceptance of Christianity by the Jemez, with the technology of its production representing the continuity of Pueblo culture. However, to say that the mere presence of a chalice (or an entire mission church, for that matter) represents the acceptance of a new religion by the Jemez significantly overstates the case. Although the chalice was most likely produced by Jemez artisans, it was almost surely manufactured for a Spanish friar; because the chalice would have been used primarily (if not exclusively) by the priest himself, its ability to address acculturation on the indigenous side
38 M. Liebmann of the colonial equation is limited at best. Similarly, the notion that the chalice represents the acculturation of the priest is probably misleading; chalices have long been constructed from a variety of local materials (whether ceramic, metal, wood, or otherwise), so the fact that this particular cup happens to be made of Jemez Black-on-white speaks more to the locale of its production than to any change in the theology or cosmology of the Spanish friar who commissioned it. Alternatively, in the case of the cavate figure, we could apply the concept of acculturation in a rudimentary, quantitative manner in an attempt to calculate the degree of assimilation of the Pueblo people who occupied that cavate. (Personally I don’t find such analyses particularly enlightening. Here I carry out the exercise only to demonstrate one way in which acculturation has been applied to material culture in the past.) Out of the six total anthropomorphic figures that adorn the walls of cavate M-100, five are traditional Puebloan characters while only one displays European elements. Thus it could be argued that the people who lived in this cavate in the late seventeenth century were still 83 percent “traditional” and just 17 percent “acculturated.” Clearly this is an artificial and misleadingly precise calculation that may or may not bear any resemblance to the actual historical conditions of M-100’s occupation. It also overlooks the traditional Puebloan elements in the “European” figure, assuming it to be a straightforward indicator of Christian belief (a supposition I believe the context argues against, as I articulate below). In any case, the presence of European characteristics does document a modicum of acceptance or, at the very least, incorporation of formerly foreign concepts and artistic techniques into Pueblo life, serving as the most basic indicator of “acculturation”—but only if used in the straightforward sense of those changes that result from direct contact between social groups with previously disparate histories (after Redfield et al. 1936:149), a definition so broad as to be nearly devoid of any interpretive insight. Alternatively, these artifacts could be seen as markers of the various stages of Pueblo acculturation to Spanish social formations, with the chalice documenting the opening salvo in the battle for Jemez souls. As an artifact produced for and used primarily by the Spaniards, its ability to speak to the transformation of Jemez culture is limited, but the fact that the chalice is constructed in a traditional Jemez ceramic style does attest to the notion that Christianity had a foot in the door at Giusewa. The Virgin kachina figure, on the other hand, could be seen to represent a more advanced stage of acculturation, with Pueblo peoples here adopting elements of Christianity in a context wholly independent of direct Spanish control. Viewed in this light, the cavate figure documents an intermediate stage in the assimilation of the Pueblos, in which the artist (and the intended audience) has begun to accommodate some elements of Catholic doctrine, but without giving up his or her foundation in traditional Pueblo culture. Ultimately, the exercise of viewing the chalice and the cavate figure through the lens of acculturation yields limited results for improving our understandings of intercultural interactions during the seventeenth century in New Mexico. The basic problem is that material things do not represent the thought world in a simple one-to-one correlation; a change in material culture does not necessarily equate a change in cultural orientation or ideology (and vice versa; see Hodge
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 39 2005; Silliman 2009). Thus the fundamental goal of acculturation studies—the measurement of the degree of change in a given society—is difficult to realize, particularly when material culture is the medium through which change is being measured. For this reason, I find acculturation to be fundamentally dissatisfying for archaeological analyses. Fortunately, some of the alternative theoretical perspectives provide more useful fodder for the analysis of Pueblo-Spanish interactions in the seventeenth century.
Syncretism and Bricolage While acculturation studies have historically focused on gauging the extent of change in a particular social group, analyses employing syncretism and bricolage are typically less concerned with measurement and quantification and more concerned with documentation of the emergence of new cultural formations. The concepts of syncretism and (colonial) bricolage both concentrate attention on the novel types that develop out of the combination of previously discrete forms, rather than on a transition from “Native” to “Euro-American” or vice versa. For example, viewed through the lens of either syncretism or bricolage, both the chalice and the Virgin kachina figure could be seen to represent the development of a uniquely Puebloan form of Catholicism. In contrast to acculturation, both syncretism and bricolage focus on the development of a new, third form, rather than a transformation from one existing “culture” to another. Where syncretism and bricolage differ is in their emphasis on agency and structure, respectively. By characterizing either the chalice or the cavate figure as evidence of syncretism, we emphasize the creativity employed by active agents in the creation of these new types, stressing inventiveness and innovation. Studies of syncretism tend to be essentially optimistic about cultural mixture,4 viewing the creation of new syncretic forms as a constructive solution to the navigation of two (or more) seemingly opposed systems of belief. Bricolage, on the other hand, carries a slightly less optimistic tone, emphasizing the limitations that structures can place on people forced to negotiate between different cultural traditions. Seen in this light, the Pueblo makers of the chalice and the Virgin kachina figure were condemned to reproduce the signs of the colonizer, and these new forms are evidence of people forced to “make do” within a limited array of options. Yet while the emphasis on the creation of new forms supplied by both syncretism and bricolage is a welcome move away from the one-dimensional characterization of intercultural transfer offered by acculturation, there can be problems with each of these theoretical frameworks as well. The rose-colored lens of syncretism overlooks the power differentials inherent in the creation of these artifacts and as a result ignores both the reality of colonial domination and the possibility of resistance in their creation. Bricolage, while making room for investigations of repression and power, pays insufficient attention to intentionality and the historical contexts of production surrounding these artifacts. While the notion that an isolated friar was simply “making do” when he commissioned the Jemez Black-on-white chalice might be appropriate, the creator of the Virgin kachina was pointedly not living under the weight of the colonial yoke when
40 M. Liebmann this figure was created. Viewing the inhabitants of cavate M-100 as persons “condemned to reproduce the symbols of the colonial system” reinforces the construction of indigenous peoples as the Other, characterizing them as dupes and victims of false consciousness who lack the ability to think for themselves.
Creolization and Mestizaje Like syncretism and bricolage, both creolization and mestizaje highlight the creation of new cultural forms that result from the colonial encounter. But these analytical categories differ from syncretism and bricolage by focusing attention not on changes to native culture but on the Spanish side of the colonial equation (in the case of creolization) or by suggesting the development of a unique colonial culture (in the case of mestizaje). Creolization, as noted above, is defined by the creation of new forms out of a common cultural vocabulary in a situation of dislocation or diaspora. And while this concept has been stretched in recent years to apply to virtually any situation in the contemporary globalized world (Palmie 2006:434), I advocate restricting its use to situations more akin to this original context. In general it seems confusing, if not altogether incorrect, to speak of creolization among those Native Americans who were not significantly displaced by colonization, living in the same general locales for multiple generations before and after colonization (such as is the case with Giusewa and the cavates of Frijoles Canyon), and who had no immediate ties to Europe (as implied by the term criollo). Thus the concept of creolization seems to me not entirely appropriate for the analysis of seventeenthcentury Pueblo culture. The concept of creolization has, however, proven useful for analyzing the formation of a distinctive Spanish American colonial culture (Deagan 1983, 1996; Loren 2008). In this light, the chalice could be considered an artifact of creolization, with the friar who commissioned its production drawing on the cultural vocabulary of Iberian Catholicism (manifested in the form of the vessel) to create a distinctive example of the new Spanish American culture that was being forged in early seventeenth-century New Mexico. Similarly, mestizaje emphasizes the creation of new cultural formations and identities out of the union of Old World and New World peoples in the Spanish colonies. In the case of seventeenth-century New Mexico, the concept could be applied to investigate the novel creation of a distinct Northern Rio Grande culture that combined elements of Spanish, Pueblo, and Athabaskan (Apache and Navajo) social formations. But again, this concept seems slightly misplaced when applied to the analysis of Pueblo peoples, who maintained distinctive ethnic identities in contrast to the colonial Spaniards, Mexican Indians, enslaved and freed Africans, Genizaros, and other native peoples surrounding them throughout the seventeenth century (and down to the present day). Thus to apply mestizaje to the cavate figure blurs the line between Native American and Spanish American cultures in ways that homogenize the on-the-ground realities of seventeenthcentury ethnicity in New Mexico. Likewise, while the chalice could be construed as a material example of the newly developing Northern Rio Grande culture, this again seems to misrepresent the scale of cultural mixture during this period in
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 41 northern New Spain. Simply put, although New Mexico is often referred to as a “unique cultural mosaic,” it is not today, nor was it 400 years ago, a melting pot. Mestizaje implies the development of a single, unitary culture, but the fact remains that in the seventeenth century there were many different social groups, distinct ethnic identities, and dissimilar cultural formations among the peoples living in New Mexico.
Hybridity Finally, then, we come to hybridity. As noted above, hybridity can differ from the aforementioned concepts through an emphasis on resistance, mockery, and ambivalence. Whereas syncretism, creolization, and mestizaje celebrate the creative, generative energy of cultural mixture, hybridity shines a light on the subversive, counterhegemonic discourses inherent in mixed forms. At the same time, while colonial bricolage envisions colonized citizens as hapless victims condemned to reinscribe their own subjugation, hybridity emphasizes the agency of subalterns; in the words of Bhabha (1985:162), “hybridity mimics and mocks what it sees; it doesn’t only reflect it.” Viewed in this light, the Virgin kachina figure can be seen as an example of conscious hybridity that subverts Spanish colonial power. Because it is found in a context surrounded by traditional kachina imagery (and not by any additional Christian iconography), I argue that this figure is an example of the “Pueblofication” of Santa Maria, wherein the Virgin was made into a hybrid kachina in an example of Pueblo appropriation of Spanish colonial power (Liebmann 2002). This type of intentional hybridity is very different from syncretism or bricolage. Rather than emphasizing a symbiotic merger of cultural formations, conscious hybrids set elements of different cultures against each other in a conflictual structure, creating a dialectic space of contestation. The Virgin kachina documents the transgressive power of hybridity, jarringly bringing elements of Christianity together with Pueblo religion. It could be argued that in this case, the Virgin is being hijacked from the Spaniards to be brought into the Pueblo pantheon. This type of hybridity illustrates the limits of colonial dominance, where the discourse of colonial authority loses its unequivocal grasp and finds itself open to the interpretation of the colonized Other (Bhabha 1994:154–156). Furthermore, it illustrates the profound ambivalence generated in colonized peoples, the simultaneous appeal of and aversion to colonialism that has often been overlooked in romanticized accounts of anticolonial resistance (Abu-Lughod 1990). Shining the light of hybridity onto the chalice emphasizes the variety of ways this artifact may have been viewed by different people at Giusewa. While the friar and converted members of the congregation may indeed have seen the chalice as something more akin to our notions of syncretism, bricolage, or even acculturation, to others it may have represented something entirely different. Viewed through the lens of hybridity, the chalice becomes an object of ambivalence and mockery. The Jemez who were more hostile to Catholic evangelism may have seen the chalice as a sign of their newfound subjugation—an index of their pre-Hispanic freedom (embodied in the traditional pottery type) now lost
42 M. Liebmann to new forms of colonial repression. In the chalice, traditional Jemez culture is forced to bend to the Christian mold, a material embodiment of the Spanish colonial experience for the inhabitants of Giusewa. To others the chalice may have been an instrument of hybrid mockery, turning the tables on the friar through his use of a traditional type in a decidedly nontraditional manner—in a sense, forcing the Spaniard to bend to the will of the Jemez. Personally, I am not convinced that either of these interpretations is the best of the alternatives presented here for understanding the meanings embedded in and evoked by the chalice; nonetheless, the notion of postcolonial hybridity does provide novel perspectives on this object, challenging us to think through a range of new interpretive possibilities. As I hope these examples demonstrate, the concept of hybridity can in fact be useful for theorizing the ambiguous cultural formations that appear under colonialism, where the existence of both change through domination, and resistance to such change often occur at the same time (Werbner 1997:5). While postcolonial hybridity is not appropriate for the investigation of all instances of cultural amalgamation, it does provide a valuable lens through which we can reexamine some of our previous assumptions regarding colonial mixture. In doing so, hybridity forces us to see both “pure” and “impure” objects in new ways, ultimately providing us with a more nuanced and detailed picture of colonial pasts.
Conclusion In many ways, the introduction of hybridity into archaeological investigations of colonialism reiterates the contributions of previous examinations of cultural mixture. Like acculturation, hybridity stresses the pervasive power of colonial structures and highlights the disruptions imposed on indigenous social groups. The twin concepts of syncretism and bricolage overlap with Bakhtin’s (1982) notions of conscious and organic hybridity. And studies of creolization have previously emphasized the creativity inherent in cultural mixture, ascribing agency to people and social groups on multiple sides of the colonial encounter. Yet postcolonial concepts of hybridity do subtly offer a new emphasis to studies of colonial mixture. By foregrounding the dynamics of power inherent in amalgamated cultural formations, hybridity has the ability to investigate the pervasive and invasive extents of colonial domination as well as the transfigurative power and ambivalence manifested in hybrid transcripts of resistance. Table 2-1 lists the interpretive concepts reviewed in this chapter, along with simplified versions of the interpretations each offers concerning the material culture of seventeenth-century Pueblo-Spanish amalgamation. As this table demonstrates, hybridity is in fact something more than a new, trendy-sounding bit of jargon. It has the ability to generate novel analytical insights about objects we have long been accustomed to consider in other terms; it can also render more adequate descriptions of cultural configurations we are only beginning to examine. But if archaeologists continue to deploy the term hybridity in haphazard and unreflexive manners, the term will surely lose its interpretive power. To use hybridity as a catchall for cultural mixture is to defang it, rendering it toothless
Parsing Hybridity in Seventeenth-Century New Mexico 43 Table 2-1. Definitions of Synonyms for Cultural Mixture and Resulting Interpretations Term
Measuring transition from one cultural pattern to another; stage in assimilation
Evidence of the Pueblos becoming more Spanish/Catholic and less “traditional”
Emphasis on religion; active creation of new forms; positive connotations
Evidence of active, intentional creation of new type of Pueblo Catholicism by the Jemez
Emphasis on determining structures; forced production of new forms
Evidence that the Jemez were compelled to produce new type of Pueblo-Catholicism
Creation of new forms out of common cultural vocabulary in situations of forced relocation or diaspora
Evidence for the creation of a distinctive Spanish-American Catholicism by the friars
Novel creation of a unique culture that denies colonial racial hierarchy
Evidence for the creation of new “Northern Rio Grande culture” that combines elements of Spanish, Native American, and North African cultures
Stresses ambivalence, mockery, resistance, and agency; emphasizes disjuncture and forcing together of unlike things
Evidence of resistance, subversion, and ambivalence on the part of the Pueblos towards the Spaniards
and weak. In short, the creative, generative energy of syncretism is not the same thing as the subversive, counterhegemonic power of postcolonial hybridity; and as Khan (2007:654) notes, “treating it as the same clouds our understanding of the dynamics of culture, power, and change.” Because hybridity is often most apparent in the shared and transformed elements of material culture, archaeological studies of colonial hybridity stand uniquely qualified to contribute to postcolonial theory, providing a concrete basis for the questioning of what appears natural, complete, authentic, traditional, and pure in the social and cultural formations that developed in the wake of the European invasion of the Americas.
Notes 1. This is not to suggest that there is any unitary definition of creolization agreed on by all archaeologists (Ferguson 2000:5). Dawdy (2000:1) identifies three commonly utilized definitions: (1) the recombination of new elements within a
44 M. Liebmann conservative cultural grammar; (2) adaptation and development of a distinct colonial culture that does not necessarily result from ethnic and racial mixing; and (3) the blending of genetic and cultural traits within a plural population (emphasis in original). 2. However, the concept of creolization may be applicable to some cases of native ethnogenesis generated through colonization and dislocation, such as that of the Seminoles (Sturtevant 1971) and Genizaros in New Mexico (Ebright and Hendricks 2006). 3. As with all rock art (or more correctly in this case “plaster art”), dating these figures is a challenge. The terminus post quem for this cavate art is supplied by the image of a horse incised into the same [outermost] layer of plaster as the images in question, indicating a date after 1539. As for the terminus ante quem, I argue that these images were drawn during the late seventeenth-century occupation of the cavate—and not after its abandonment—based on their location on the walls. The figures in question are all located in a band 30 to 70 cm above the floor (i.e., at eye level for a person sitting or kneeling). By contrast, the post-seventeenth-century etchings, including modern graffiti and images drawn by itinerant Hispanic shepherds, tend to be located 120 cm above the floor or higher (i.e., in the field of vision of a person standing in the cavate). During the seventeenth-century occupation, people carved images at the lower level because they tended to sit or kneel in this room. After abandonment, visitors to the cavate tended to leave their marks while standing because they were not living in the room (and thus not kneeling or sitting). 4. Such studies tend to be essentially optimistic about cultural mixture, that is, when syncretism is not viewed as transgressive or heretical, as is often the view of practitioners of religious fundamentalism.
Acknowledgments Thanks to Jeb Card for the invitation to participate in the 2009 CAI Visiting Scholar Conference and to Rowan Flad, Jeff Quilter, Steve Silliman, and Kathy Deagan for helpful critiques and comments on earlier versions of this chapter that served to improve the final product greatly.
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Of Earth and Clay: Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic Mark W. Hauser Abstract: This paper offers an overview of ceramic traditions in the Caribbean associated with the African Diaspora. This pottery is not a single type or kind of ceramic but instead is highly variable. Bespeaking the complex and interwoven histories of Caribbean peoples, this pottery offers a different and unique set of lenses on the cultural experience of displaced, indentured, and enslaved peoples, the scales of their expression, and the historical forces that shaped them. In this chapter I (1) briefly position research on archaeological ceramics in a broader literature on creolization and empire; (2) discuss some of the taxonomic difficulties in describing Caribbean-made pottery; and (3) examine how pottery as an intercultural artifact exceeds normative classification.
Introduction In 1687, Hans Sloane, the physician and naturalist whose collections formed the basis of the British Museum, spent 15 months in English Jamaica. In his account of his time in Jamaica, he reports: On these Red Hills, four Miles from Town [Guanoboa], lived Mr. Barnes a Carpenter. . . . Half a Mile from his Plantation, ten years ago, he found a Cave in which lay a human Body’s Bones . . . the rest of the Cave was fill’d with Pots or Urns, wherein were Bones of Men and Children, the Pots were Oval, large, of redish dirty colour. . . . The Negroes had remov’d most of these Pots to boil their Meat in [Sloane 1707–1725:liv]. The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture, edited by Jeb J. Card. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Occasional Paper No. 39. © 2013 by the Board of Trustees, Southern Illinois University. All rights reserved. ISBN 978-0-8093-3314-1.
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 51 Sloane was referring to pottery made several centuries earlier by the indigenous Taino who had been decimated under Spanish rule before the English occupied Jamaica in 1655 (Sauer 1992; Taylor 1965). Sloane visited Jamaica only 32 years after the English had established their presence on the island. In the above account, these pottery traditions are presented as a curiosity described by an antiquarian, and like the flora and fauna presented in subsequent chapters of his natural history, such items became the foundation of the British National Museum. From the perspective of material culture, this extract suggests a reuse of pottery made several centuries earlier. Taken at face value, at its most functional reading, this account seems to indicate that there was a demand for cooking pots by enslaved laborers, a demand the archaeological and documentary records suggest was met by a technologically hybridized local ceramic tradition. While the details are unique to the specific circumstances of Jamaica, the emergence of local pottery traditions as a phenomenon of slavery and the African Diaspora is common. These pots are variously called the Yabba, the Monkey, the Pepperpot, the Pan, LeScuit, and Canari. They are the low-fired earthenware constituted in the African Atlantic. Their manufacture, distribution, and use have been used to explicate a range of hybrid practices and meanings. In this chapter I will argue that the concept of hybridity is useful in that it attends to variation and the very particularity of the context of production and distribution. As a device of classification or rubric of analysis, however, I will argue that creolization can fall prey to the same analytical pitfalls its use seeks to evade. Ceramics of the African Atlantic prove to be an excellent material to explore this issue. On the one hand, their genealogies of manufacture, the social and economic networks in which they were distributed, and the idioms through which people used them are circumscribed to particularities of context. On the other hand, they seem to be a common element of the material assemblage of the institution of slavery in the Atlantic world and therefore speak to emergent global processes.
Background The centrality of ceramics made and used by people of African descent in the Americas in scholarship on the African Diaspora cannot be overstated. Beginning with the important works of Robert Ferris Thompson (Flash of the Spirit in 1984) and Jon Vlach (The Afro-American Tradition in Decorative Arts in 1990), material culture has been seen as a way to embody cultural legacies of uprooted and displaced peoples. This examination has taken many forms, including the examination of the agency of slaves in an unfamiliar social, economic, and geographic landscape; the kinds of knowledge passed by Africans from one generation to the next in the context of slavery; and the presumed natal communities from which Africans in the Americas or their ancestors emerged. For archaeologists interested in this issue, material culture has been viewed as a product of human labor unintentionally discarded, left behind, and occasionally kept and passed on from generation to generation (Deetz 1996). As such, many
52 M. W. Hauser archaeologists studying the African diaspora have positioned theirs and the discipline’s intervention as one of recovering a material culture that is “democratic” in nature (Ferguson 1989, 1992) and that allows us to “provide new directions for delineating cultural connections [between Africa and the Americas]” (Posnansky 1984:199; see also 1983). In historical archaeology, there has been an effort to create a generalized category to identify and describe this body of material culture, colonoware. The term has also been used to infer social networks and reconstruct past meanings (Ferguson 1992). Colonoware as an idealized type, accentuating its characteristics of hybridized technologies, decorations, and forms, attends to describing variation in various manifestations across the Atlantic world. Here, implicitly, the concept of creolization has been used to explain the varied nature of colonial encounters in intimate settings of everyday life in the Americas. A danger emerges, however, when we as archaeologists view the classification of such artifacts as an end in itself (is it colonoware?) within a context we take for granted (capitalism). Instead we should consider these classifications as a point of departure for analysis of the kinds of social, economic, and political contexts in which the pottery was made, signified, and used. Such research follows suit from a tradition of anthropology wherein, rather than assuming the Middle Passage as a rupture in systems of knowledge and ways of doing things, it highlights that change. In this case, the eliding of cultural content is something that needs to be archaeologically demonstrated. Archaeologists cataloging, classifying, and analyzing this type of material have sought various explanatory devices to determine their makers (African vs. indigenous), explain their meaning (functional vs. symbolic), and assess their social and economic importance in the context of slave society (structure vs. agency). In many ways, the arguments proffered about these ceramics seem to reflect and be reminiscent of the Ford-Spaulding debate (Ford 1954; Spaulding 1954). Defining local ceramics recovered from contexts of slavery as colonoware or colonoIndian-ware could be read as the “prerogatives of the archaeologist” introducing a “semantic quagmire” (Spaulding 1954:391) or a method of determining the degree to “which people conform to the use of particular patterns in one time and one place, but nothing else” (Ford 1954:391). In light of the summaries of Deagan (this volume) and Ferguson (1980), it is interesting to note that in the debate about the origins of “colono” potters, a larger discussion initiated by Binford (1965), Fairbanks (1962), Noël Hume (1962), and South (1974) addressed the degree to which the pottery could speak to broader issues of colonization and creolization. Creolization has played a major role in the framing of research in the Caribbean basin, especially concerning diaspora. For archaeology, such a position leads away from conventional archaeological studies of creolization (see review by Gundaker 2000) to a sense of colonial identities (those of both colonized and colonizers) as emergent through the geographies of colonial relations. Such a position has been explored elsewhere in archaeologies of Roman Gaul and Britain (Gosden 2001:247; Jones 1997; Woolf 1997) and holds similarities to Homi Bhab ha’s suggestion that the “location” of any “culture” is not fixed, but “interstitial” in both time and space (1994:235). Given these factors, and the influences of European and Native American societies on historically enslaved American
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 53 and Caribbean societies, we cannot talk about a single diasporic African context that shaped the identity of African-descended populations in the Americas (DeCorse 1999:132, 135–137; Ferguson 1980, 1989, 1991, 1992:22; Hauser and Armstrong 1999:72; Hill 1987; Posnansky 1984). Study of the African Diaspora defies the simplistic equation of historical antecedents and modern-day expressions. In order to establish such links, archaeological inferences must take this complex multipolar variability into account and the entire range of material culture and multivariate meanings it produces. As Palmie (2006) has noted, the application of the creolization concept is not without its problems, both theoretical and taxonomic. The use of creolization to describe material culture produced with underlying grammar draws directly from linguistic creolization theory positing creole languages to be a mix of introduced vocabulary onto an existing grammatical framework. In North America, local ceramics recovered from colonial settings have been identified in Virginia, Florida, and the Carolinas with a range of forms, manufacturing techniques, and decoration between each region. Studies that focus on, or implicitly draw from, creolization can overestimate the degree to which archaeological inference based on description and distribution of objects can lead to underlying grammars unless there is “an independently preconceived ‘grammar’” (Palmie 2006:447). As Deagan has pointed out on numerous occasions, asymmetrical relations between colonizer and colonized, planter and enslaved, metropole and colony cannot be dismissed (Deagan 2003; see also Deagan and Cruxent 2002). Ceramics produced by and for women in the domestic contexts on the colonial frontier can give evidence to these assymetrical relationships associated with colonialism (Deagan this volume). The making of pottery and the cooking of food provide a potential for taking traditional ways of doing things and applying them in new contexts. That being said, cultural knowledge is displayed in the manufacture and use of ceramics. In Florida, where creole has connotations of locally born “Spaniards,” archaeologists have tried to make a distinction between old-world technologies made with new-world labor and materials (criollo ware) and new-world technologies attending to old-worlds tastes. This latter category utilizes new-world materials and labor and techniques such as open-pit firing and hand building (Deagan 1985, 1987, 1996; Domínguez 1980). Vessels of a variety of forms, with assumed concomitant functions, have been classified as colonoware. It is not uncommon to find locally hand-built ceramics associated with mission contexts utilizing forms and decorative techniques similar to those found in prehistoric contexts (Cordell this volume; Vernon and Cordell 1991). Regional variation in shape and decoration is assumed to have a host of causes, including the kinds of cultural frames informing the meaning and use of such wares, the social structures that enabled the production of such ceramics, and the vagaries of cultural borrowings and idiosyncratic choices made by potters during the manufacture of the ceramics. Continuity in practices, interactions, and tastes must be accounted for through interpretive frames, not only as a consequence of cultural inheritance, but also as an actively achieved strategy of indigenous communities, settlers, and slaves. Simply put, the asymmetric power relationships of colonialism and the uneven topography of its effects have to be accounted for.
54 M. W. Hauser In South Carolina, with the increased intensity of African slavery in the seventeenth century, a focus on colonoware requires that we complicate our notion of colonizer and colonized. Enslaved Africans were unwilling pioneers (in sensu Ferguson 1992) wrapped up in the asymmetrical relationships of the plantation economy. Although, in Florida, colonoware could safely assume an indigenous manufacture in the sixteenth century, seventeenth-century colonoware in Carolina requires an attention to interaction and process. Colonoware found mainly in South Carolina (Joyner 1984; Singleton 1991) was manufactured from the seventeenth to the early nineteenth century, with production reaching its apogee in the eighteenth century. Discarded ceramic sherds recovered from a range of urban and rural sites associated with Europeans, Africans, and Native Americans has led to multiple lines of inference about the ultimate production and distribution of these wares. The debate has focused on whether the ceramics were the product of efforts by enslaved peoples of African extraction reasserting technologies and decorative inventories in a completely new context or of efforts by remaining Native American communities making trade wares that copied forms that seemed to be in market demand (Ferguson 1980, 1989, 1991 2007a, 2007b; Garrow and Wheaton 1985; Mouer et al. 1999). Some general consensus has been achieved by relying on creolization as a metaphor for the mixing of cultures where new environmental constraints required adaptation on the part of the potters (Anthony 1986; Ferguson 1992; Garrow and Wheaton 1989; cf. Heite 2003). Ceramic materials recovered from the Chesapeake Bay have included utilitarian pottery and clay tobacco pipes. Dubbing it “Colono Indian Ware,” archaeologist Ivor Noël Hume (1962) argued that it is similar to pottery produced by Native American groups known as the Chickahominy, Mattaponi, Pamunkey, and Catawba: coiled earthenwares made of local clays incorporated vessel forms with flattened bases. Indeed colonowares are not exclusively restricted to nonEuropean production technology. Such transposition of type and form enabled many to talk about kinds of creolization and hybrid technologies of colonial encounters that are distinct from those processes under way in Florida or South Carolina (Deetz 1993, 1996; Ferguson 1992). European forms of colonoware such as plates, pipkins, teapots, and chamber pots are common in Virginia (Ferguson 1992: 44–48; Noël Hume 1962), but only after the 1680s (Deetz 1993). For Deetz and others, colonoware represents the emerging relationships of power associated with the growth of race-based slavery in Virginia, where slaves would have been forced through expediency to produce their own pottery incorporating shapes adopted from European ceramics. Joe Joseph (2005, 2007) and Chris Espenshade (2007a, 2007b) have begun to argue for market-based interpretations of colonowares in the American south. Focusing on collections from the last quarter of the eighteenth century, pottery made for market sale in areas like Charleston, South Carolina, may reflect attributes that are different from colonoware made for use on the plantations on which the potters lived. Such analyses lend interesting interpretations to the seemingly heterogeneous ceramic populations recovered from plantation-house yards, the standardized wares recovered from cities, the high concentrations of
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 55 x-marked pottery recovered from riverbanks (cf. Fennell 2007; Ferguson 1992), and the seemingly impossible division between Native American and Africanmade ceramics. So what is colonoware and how does one identify it? It is not identified by a paste or temper; rather it is a ceramic material that betrays the variegated nature of colonialism. In that sense, it is a hybrid material. However, the danger with labeling and creating a type called colonoware is that it can be an end to analysis rather than an introduction to the questions worth pursuing. Frederick Cooper warns about establishing causalities through an analysis of only a partial field of actors and agents, something he calls “leapfrogging legacies” (2005:17). Certainly cautioning against these leapfrogging legacies is as salient in the analysis of pottery as it is of texts (DeCorse 1999; Hauser and DeCorse 2003). By aggregating this variegated class of material culture into a single type, we belie the complex regionally informed interactions that brought about its use. This diversity speaks to the multiple forces shaping enslaved independent production of utensils such as colonoware—provisions in a slave society marked by inequality and insufficiencies. Most importantly, the diversity speaks to the different industries that the enslaved engaged in to meet the market demand for their wares, whether imported, grown, or manufactured.
Caribbean Complexities It is impossible to reduce the history or people of the Caribbean to a single system, history, or social organization. What can be said is that during the period immediately following contact with Columbus’s expeditions, huge demographic transformations took place—most notably the devastation of indigenous populations due to forced labor and disease and their subsequent replacement by enslaved Africans. With the exception of very few scholars in archaeology (Deagan 2004; Hume and Whitehead 1995; Wilson 1993) and in anthropology (Helms 1988), there have been two Caribbeans discussed in the scholarship: one dominated by migrant indigenes (enslaved Africans) and one dominated by indigenous migrants (the diverse and varied groups of peoples who migrated from mainland North, Central, and South America and who eventually met Columbus). The use of archaeology as a means of understanding the more recent and recorded past has followed a path rather typical of investigations of the past throughout the Americas. Archaeology began as a means to understand and interpret the prehistoric contexts of native peoples, using early historic sites and protohistoric contexts as a starting point (Keegan 1994; Rouse 1939, 1992). Likewise, ethnohistory of the period of contact was considered essential to interpretation of preconquest peoples (Rainey 1940; Rouse 1948a, 1948b; see overviews: Keegan 1992; Rouse 1992; Wilson 1993). In the case of the Caribbean, archaeologists focused on constructing definitive chronological sequences aimed at explaining the indigenous Taino and their predecessors. Not surprisingly, given the early interest in solving problems related to prehistory, archaeologists exploring these issues often adopted the prevalent
56 M. W. Hauser normative approach of the prehistorians. A classic example of the application of a normative approach and modal interpretation to the archaeology of the historic period is seen in early studies of colonial-era low-fired earthenware in the Caribbean (McKusick 1960; Vérin 1967; Victor 1949). Many scholars trained in preColumbian archaeology in the Caribbean began to encounter artifacts that did not fit expectations based on prehistoric ceramic series or European colonial-era imported wares. As did scholars working in North America, they struggled with wares that were closely associated with neither prehistoric nor European traditions and that did not fit directly with materials made in Africa. More fundamental problems lie in issues of change in the material assemblage such as the adoption by potters of forms, styles, and techniques through acculturation and assimilation. Taxonomies created in the pursuit of such hybrid analyses run the danger of promoting and reinforcing the idea that interactions within culture areas were stronger, occurred more often, and were more consequential than relations among culture areas, which tended to be dismissed as of minimal effect in the history and social processes of a particular group. Two basic unfounded assumptions of this approach were that (1) behavior is determined by cultural norms (i.e., there is no individual agency) and (2) cultures, not people, interact. A conclusion derived from these positions is that cultural expressions in each culture area developed in isolation or with perhaps limited and inconsequential contact. Today, on a handful of Caribbean islands (e.g., Jamaica, Martinique, Barbados, Antigua, Nevis, and St. Lucia), persons of African descent continue to manufacture earthenware pottery, somewhat loosely referred to by archaeologists as Afro-Caribbean pottery. These small-scale industries have always played an insignificant role in national economies and at present produce largely for the tourist market and are disappearing to varying degrees with a very limited chance for long-term survival (Table 3-1). Several of these industries have been ethnographically reported over the years, providing a baseline from which to examine the changing demands and pressures confronting local potteries. Diachronic studies of these industries permit charting changes as these industries decline and also provide a lens through which archaeologists can understand the ways local craft industries confront changing economic landscapes. Moreover, traditional, locally made earthenware is found on historical archaeological sites in the West Indies, and ethnographic knowledge about local industries helps guide the interpretation of the archaeological data. In order to document these industries, we can turn to visitors and anthropologists documenting potters in the twentieth century. There is a small body of ethnographic literature documenting female manufactured handmade pottery in the Caribbean (Ebanks 1984; Handler 1963; McKusick 1960; Merril 1958; Platzer 1979; Vérin 1961; Victor 1949; Vincentelli 2004). The methods with which women make this pottery vary from island to island, especially in formation techniques, organization of labor, and the clay-preparation process. Anthropologists revisiting these potters or their villages have noted a variety of reasons for changes in these methods (England 1994; Hauser 2008; Hauser and Handler 2009; Heath 1988; Hoffman and Bright 2004; Olwig 1990; Vincentelli 2004).
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 57 Table 3-1. Ethnohistoric References to Pottery Manufacture in the Caribbean Long Pestle
Mortar or Stone
Delan, St. Lucia
Hoffman et al. 2003
Women/ men help
Yes - 3’
Fentem 1961; Handler 1964
Modeling, no coiling, no molding
New Castle, Nevis
Grigsby 1962; Platzer 1979
Modeling, no coiling
Heath 1988; Merril 1958
1970– Women/ 1980 children help
Pestle used but not sure if long or short handled ?
Modeling Coiling and modeling Yes
Note: Compiled by Jerome Handler (Hauser and Handler 2009).
In the Caribbean, low-fired earthenware has been recovered from many archaeological contexts associated with the African Diaspora (Ahlman et al. 2010; Armstrong 1990; Gartley 1979; Hauser and Armstrong 1999; Heath 1988; Kelly et al. 2008; Magana 1999; Nicholson 1984, 1990; Petersen et al. 1999) (Figure 3-1). The particularities of locally produced pottery in the Caribbean inhibit broad categorical lumping. This variation manifests itself in the forms in which vessels were made by potters (see Kelly et al. 2008), the techniques of their manufacture (Hauser 2008), and the ultimate contexts of deposition (Ahlman et al. 2010). An examination of three archaeological assemblages (Jamaica, St. John, and Dominica) highlights the different ways in which archaeological assemblages containing ceramics of the African Atlantic are informed.
St. Ann’s Bay, Jamaica: At the Center of the English Periphery Groups identified by Irving Rouse as western Tainos occupied Jamaica as early as 800 a.d. (Keegan 2000). Jamaica was colonized by the Spanish after Columbus landed somewhere on the north coast in 1493, during his second voyage to the Caribbean. The Spanish mostly used the island as a provisioning station for fresh water, cured pork, and starchy bread for galleons on the journey
58 M. W. Hauser
Figure 3-1. Map of West Indies and ceramics described in text. between Spain and Panama (Cundall and Pietersz 1919). However, at Seville la Nueva, the Spanish experimented with sugarcane agriculture and processing. Woodward (2006a) highlights the lack of imported materials and the reliance on local indigenous production alongside that of European artisans to highlight the isolated nature of this settlement (Woodward 2006a:172). Both forced labor under the Spanish and diseases contracted from Europeans extinguished the populations of Tainos in the Greater Antilles. Many indigenes died in forced labor in the gold fields of Cuba and Hispaniola (Rouse 1992:157). Disease played a major role in the disappearance of Jamaica’s indigenous population (see Cook and Borah 1971; Kiple 1984; Kiple and Ornelas 1996). Africans were first brought to the island during the sixteenth century. In 1513, Juan de Esquivel requested that the king permit him to bring three enslaved Africans to Jamaica because of the lack of indigenous labor (Cundall and Pietersz 1919:1). Spain’s reliance on African labor grew in the sixteenth century, through the mechanism of the asiento (Knight 1990:63), drawing on a preexisting network of trade between Portugal and African polities (Rawley 1981). In 1655, an English force led by Admiral Penn and General Venables took control of what they considered an underutilized Spanish colony, and by the seventeenth century, Jamaica had become the Crown’s most valuable possession overseas (Taylor 1965). Staple products like cotton, indigo, and sugar produced in Jamaica and the rest of the British West Indian colonies placed Britain at the center of the world’s economy. The Seville estate—taking its name from the older Spanish settlement, Sevilla la Nueva, located within its boundaries—was a large sugar estate founded soon after the British took Jamaica in 1655 (Armstrong 1990,
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 59 1998, 1999). The plantation comprised some 2,500 acres consolidated in 1670 by Richard Hemming. Sugar was produced as a cash crop by an average of 275 enslaved laborers from its founding through the abolition of slavery in 1838. For some years following emancipation, Seville continued as a sugar plantation utilizing wage-labor tenants; in the late nineteenth century, production shifted first to bananas and finally to copra, which is derived from coconut palms. The population of the villages decreased dramatically with emancipation, but a small group of tenants continued to live on the estate until the mid-1880s. A cluster of sites, Maima, Seville la Nueva, and Seville Plantation, located just west of St. Ann’s Bay comprise a constellation of different occupations including Taino, Spanish, and English settlements (Armstrong and Kelly 1998; Woodward 1988, 2006b). Ceramics from these three sites reflect the history of settlement and conquest of the island. While the coincident occurrence of these ceramic traditions with changes in the occupants of St. Ann’s Bay seem to reinforce whole cultural interpretations, close examination reveals a complicated and hybrid set of interactions among the inhabitants. Ceramics associated with the western Taino in Jamaica are referred to as White Marl style Melliacan series ceramics. They are characterized as poorly decorated, fine-paste, low-fired ceramics. Decorative techniques include curvilinear incisions (Lee 1976, 1979, 1980). Diagnostic forms include round bowls (Woodward 2006b) and boat-shaped bowls (Woodward 2006b). During the sixteenth century, a very localized ceramic tradition, New Seville Ware, emerged in the area of St. Ann’s Bay (Woodward 2006b). This ceramic is hand built with a light brown paste and a friable, sandy texture. Fine quartz and micaceous particles comprise a large percentage of visible inclusions (Hauser 2008). The surface is generally polished and unslipped. In many ways the paste and manufacturing techniques bear a considerable degree of resemblance to preColumbian ceramics. One major difference is that these vessels have European forms (Woodward 2006b), demonstrating considerable similarity to the colonial process represented in ceramics from St. Augustine, Florida, and Williamsburg, Virginia. While such pottery demonstrates a hybridity of technology form and use, there is no direct evidence as to who manufactured the pottery. If we were to infer from observations made elsewhere in the sixteenth-century Spanish colonies, we could look to indigenous potters employing traditional techniques to make new forms. The archaeological record closely corresponds with the historical changes in the economic and political landscape of Jamaica. The Jamaican-made pottery associated with English occupation of the island has been described in archaeological contexts by several scholars, including Armstrong (1990), Ebanks (1984), Hauser (2008), Higman (1999), Mathewson (1972a, 1972b), Mayes (1972), Meyers (1999), Pasquariello (1995), and Reeves (1997). The ceramic type Yabba identified by the above authors is varied in manufacture, decorative inventory, and surface treatment. The classification of this pottery in a consistent framework proves to be challenging because Yabbas were ultimately not a single type or form of ceramic. Glazed Yabbas appear to be made in a tradition similar to that described as syncretic wares by Roderick Ebanks (1984). Breakage patterns in the sherds
60 M. W. Hauser indicate that the pots are coil made. Finger marks indicate that the pots are pulled even into a final form, and smoothed externally. These pots are relatively wellfired earthenware, and oral history seems to indicate the use of a kiln. However, the presence of coring and variability in coring suggest that firing temperatures and lengths were inconsistent. The paste is fine, relatively hard, and irregular in texture. The clay was on the whole well sorted and fires to yellowish red to gray. Coring is not common but, when present, commonly indicates an oxidizing environment. The paste contains fine subangular quartz and feldspar inclusions. Some occasional subangular large white limestone inclusions were noted and are visible through the glazed surface. Glazing is the diagnostic attribute. The glaze appears to be fluxed with lead. Because of the variable firing environments, the glaze varies from a clear yellowish color to an opaque emerald green. The glaze is commonly applied internally, but on certain forms, it is applied partially to the external rim of the pot. Less commonly, certain forms have a complete external glaze. Though produced in a variety of forms, such as open bowls and chamber pots, most vessels are restricted bowls with a slight carination toward the lip (Figure 3-2 and Figure 3-3). Slipped and/or burnished Yabbas are similar to those made by ethnographically described potters living in the vicinity of Spanishtown on Job Lane (Ebanks 1984; Hauser 2008; Vincentelli 2004). Like glazed Yabbas, these pots were coiled, pulled even into a final form, and smoothed externally. These pots were fired in an open pit. Along with ethnographic analogy, the paste displays evidence of highly variable environments, clouding, and coring, and were fired at a lower temperature than the glazed Yabbas. The clay is poorly sorted, coarse, relatively friable, hackly in texture, and fires to a yellowish red to yellowish brown. Coring is extremely common and indicates a reducing environment. As with glazed Yabbas, most inclusions are subangular quartz and feldspar but, at medium-size, are larger; occasional large subangular white limestone inclusions are visible through the slipped surface. A red to reddish brown hematite-bearing slip, often partially oxidized and clouded, is diagnostic of this type. Most vessels have this slip on the exterior, with only a few instances of an internal slip. On certain forms such as open bowls, the slip is commonly applied to the interior of the vessel. Slipped Yabbas were produced in a variety of forms, including vertical pots, everted pots, restricted bowls, and open bowls (see Figure 3-2). Untreated Yabbas are friable. The light brown clay is coarse and sandy, irregular in texture but well sorted (Hauser 2001). Coring is not common but, when present, typically indicates a reducing environment. The clay contains fine subangular quartz and mica inclusions. Unlike the types described above, these Yabbas were made into a relatively restricted range of forms including small everted and vertical pots or open and restricted bowls (see Figure 3-2). These three types of local ceramics are found in contexts associated with eighteenth-century Jamaica. The ceramics recovered from the Seville estate were probably made somewhere in the vicinity of either Spanishtown or Kingston on the south coast of Jamaica. The mechanisms through which they arrived in the house yards of enslaved laborers at Seville is unknown, but I have speculated
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 61
Figure 3-2. A selection of forms in which slipped and glazed Yabbas are found. elsewhere (Hauser 2008) that they constitute a residue of an informal economy orchestrated by enslaved African laborers in the context of this highly asymmetric slave society. Such hybrid economic practices not only highlight the ancillary ways in which Caribbean folk made money (though this is not insignificant) but also, more importantly, point to ways in which wider social networks were developed and reinforced through economic relationships. Simply put, these markets were not only island-based economic contingency plans but were also a counterpoint to the larger colonial economy. As such, we can think of creolization and hybridity operating not so much in the specific material forms of everyday life. Rather, we see hybridity emerging in the kinds of networks that linked disparate communities on the same island.
Betwixt and Between: Cinnamon Bay, St. John, Virgin Islands Undocumented European settlements, occupied before and between formal colonial occupations in the Caribbean during the seventeenth and eigh teenth centuries, remain a relatively little-studied topic. Though beyond the watchful eye of colonial structures and rules (and the resulting historical record), these settlements were central to the economic and social transformations of the region. One such settlement was Cinnamon Bay in St. John. The archaeological evidence dating to the last quarter of the seventeenth through the early eighteenth centuries suggests that in its early years, Cinnamon Bay functioned as a small-scale beachhead estate. Excavated by Douglas Armstrong and Mark Hauser between 1999 and 2001, it was located in close proximity to a pre-Columbian settlement excavated by Kenneth Wild (1999) of the National Park Service. The land was occupied informally by settlers as early as 1690, and it continued to be occupied throughout the colonial period until the 1830s (Armstrong et al. 2009). The site
Figure 3-3. Frequency of raw sherd count of the three types of ceramics over time using Port Royal ceramic collection; frequency over time of rim sherds of different forms of local ceramics from Port Royal (Fort Charles, St. Peter’s Church, Marx, Old Naval Dockyard collections).
62 M. W. Hauser
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 63 provided a venue to examine mixed maritime activities including cotton production and provisioning. Though undocumented as such, this type of setting also facilitated the array of informal commerce known by such terms as privateering and piracy. As such, it is the first definitive example of what was probably a more general pattern of undocumented settlements on the smaller islands of the Virgin Islands and Lesser Antilles (Figure 3-4). The hand-built ceramics recovered from historic contexts at Cinnamon Bay are a variable pottery somewhat difficult to distinguish from utilitarian earthenware recovered from the adjacent pre-Columbian archaeological site excavated by Kenneth Wild (1999). It is also similar in paste and composition to ceramics recovered by Kellar (2003) from a nearby colonial estate occupied in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Adrian estate, 3 km to the southwest. Some variation between earthenware recovered from Adrian and Cinnamon Bay estates and that from the pre-Columbian site (including differences in paste and temper) might enable classification of colonial and precolonial ceramics. Surface treatment and vessel form are far less easy to distinguish from that of the prehistoric wares. Because of the lack of diagnostic decorative and stylistic attributes, the major difference between the ceramics recovered from the colonial and precolonial occupations is context (Righter and Wild 2003) (Table 3-2). Of the 153 (n = 608) minimum vessels of local/regional earthenware, there were 140 minimum vessels (n = 584) of hand-built coarse earthenware recovered from all four loci associated with the Cinnamon Bay estate. The remainder were wheel-thrown ceramics of unknown provenance, but we suspect they are most likely Antillean in origin. We recorded three types of surface treatment for ceramics displaying properties of hand-built ceramics: type 1—burnished (n = 268), type 2—slipped (n = 129), and type 3—untreated (n = 187). As discussed below, the surface treatments are one of many attributes that enable sorting between the kinds of local coarse earthenware. The paste of slipped and burnished coarse earthenware is variable, with textures ranging from fine to irregular to hackly. They have an irregular texture with angular white feldspar and subrounded quartz inclusions. The inclusions are fine-sand-size (approximately 1 mm to .5mm in size). There are some larger black (possibly volcanic rock) inclusions. There is variability in paste color ranging from dark brown (mni = 2) to red brown (mni = 22) to light brown (mni = 19) to buff (mni = 3). Slipped earthenware is a highly varied earthenware that shares some typological characteristics with type 1 ceramics. The primary distinguishing characteristic is a red slip with no burnishing. The earthenware was highly variable in texture and paste color. These ceramics’ paste texture was primarily fine or irregular, with a few examples of hackly texture. Included in the paste were fine-sand subrounded and angular feldspar inclusions. The paste ranged in color from light brownish red (mni = 2) to light brown (mni = 28) to reddish brown (mni = 13). Untreated earthenware contained a variably colored paste that ranged on the—Munsell scale from light brown to reddish brown. There seemed to be two groups of untreated earthenware. The first group has a fine light-brown matrix texture and contains micaceous inclusions. The paste of the second group was
64 M. W. Hauser
Figure 3-4. Regional locator map (after Hauser and Armstrong 2012). Table 3-2. Ceramic Change over Time in Cinnamon Bay, St. John, Virgin Islands
Pre-1734 1734–1775 1776–1819 Post-1819
5 4 3 1
1 2 1 13
2 1 2 15
0 1 8 16
1 0 0 5
Pre-1734 1734–1775 1776–1819 Post-1819
9 8 7 6
5 4 9 2
1 8 3 1
2 4 5 5
1 1 1 3
Pre-1734 1776–1819 Post-1819
12 11 10
1 9 1
0 4 3
0 4 4
0 0 0
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 65 either hackly or irregular. The ceramic was tempered with apparent shell and fine-grained rounded quartz sand. Thirty-four rim sherds were recorded and described in the following forms: open bowls (average diameter = 18.875 cm; SD 5.249 cm), restricted bowls (average diameter = 16.875 cm; SD 3.283 cm), ollas, griddles, and everted pots (average diameter = 17 cm; SD 1.67 cm). For the most part, the ceramics found represent fairly common utilitarian forms—including everted pots, inverted pots, open bowls, restricted bowls, and storage vessels— found at most archaeological sites associated with the enslaved on St. John or Jamaica. What remains fairly remarkable about the assemblage is the presence of an olla, or boat-shaped bowl, in the earliest contexts of the site. These forms have not been found on any sites associated with historic populations of the African Diaspora (Hauser and DeCorse 2003). They were distinguished from restricted orifice bowls through corner rim sherds and sidewalls with little curvature in the rim. None of the pieces showed any evidence of adornos or decorative inventory associated with pre-Columbian populations. By the nineteenth century, these ollas disappeared from the archaeological assemblage (Figure 3-5). The presence of low-fired hand-built earthenware on archaeological sites associated with plantation agriculture is not a new phenomenon. What is significant about the presence of these earthenwares is the similarity in some characteristics of these earthenwares to pre-Columbian analogues and their association with tightly dated archaeological contexts. The majority of the hand-built earthenware was recovered from nineteenth- and late eighteenth-century contexts. Earthenware recovered from these contexts is indistinguishable in paste and composition from earthenware recovered from early eighteenth-century contexts. Presence of these earthenwares in later contexts along with similarity to earthenware from earlier contexts demonstrates the continuity in manufacturing with known historic contexts. The anomalous data come from the presence of ollas in the earlier contexts. This form, normally associated with prehistoric sites, was found only in type 1 hand-built earthenware. While there is some potential that this type represents a previously undescribed creole form like those recovered from the French Antilles (Delawarde 1937; England 1994; McKusick 1960; Vérin 1967; Victor 1949), it is possible that these forms represent hybrid techniques and uses learned from potters who made the ceramics recovered from earlier contexts. What is also important, however, is the fact that diagnostic attributes such as adornos, and other typical zoomorphic figurines present in abundance on the pre-Columbian phase of the site (Righter and Wild 2003:16), are completely absent from the ceramic assemblage. This trend might indicate the development of a local earthenware tradition over time, which is in part derived from influences learned locally from indigenous populations. Unlike on Jamaica, where there is a clear correspondence between shifts in the material record and changes in the political landscape, Cinnamon Bay presents a context in which there is a possibility that knowledge of how to make and decorate pottery may have passed from the precolonial indigenous inhabitants to enslaved laborers making expedient utilitarian earthenware.
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Figure 3-5. Vessel shapes recovered at Cinnamon Bay.
Colonies Without Frontiers—Dominica Unlike for Jamaica and the Virgin Islands, the ceramic chronology of Dominica is less studied and poorly known, and the variegated history of colonization leaves no clear historical divisions, such as the shift from Spanish to British rule found in Jamaica. Indeed local chronologies are amalgamations of different studies conducted in Guadeloupe, Dominica, Martinique, and St. Lucia. Until recently, archaeologists generalized the early contact-era population as “Carib” without solid evidence from well-defined archaeological contexts. This masked the social and cultural diversity of indigenous groups both on and between islands (Allaire 1977). A more recent paper highlights the potential dangers in such an approach (Hoffman and Bright 2004). In this descriptive discussion of archaeological and ethnographic examples of pottery recovered and recorded on St. Lucia, the authors highlight the varied technological choices made by potters there over the past millennia, while at the same time trying to studiously avoid the “IslandCarib problem” or the “Afro-Caribbean debate.” However, in studiously avoiding these issues, the question of interaction between these groups is not engaged, and therefore it is impossible to assess the issue of knowledge transmission. The archaeological taxonomy of pottery in Dominica defies ascription to a particular “problem” or “debate.” In a visit to Dominica in 1965, Jerome Handler made three observations: There was no pottery industry in existence (see also Delwarde 1937; Taylor 1938:140; Thomas 1953); the clay coal pots were being supplanted by iron and aluminum pots; and clay goblets (called canari) were imported, probably from Barbados (Ober 1913). As it turns out, in the case of Dominica, the “Island-Carib problem” and the “Afro-Caribbean debate” are actually one
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 67 in the same. Fredrick Ober noted that Island Caribs did make their own pottery in 1880 (1913:361), an observation echoed 80 years later by Leon Thomas (1953). Both Taylor (1938:140) and Delwarde (1937) suggest that people of African extraction were making pottery 30 years previous but using “Carib” technology. Contemporary observers and later scholars assumed a broad “Island-Carib” ethnic group, valid throughout the Windward islands, when approaching Dominica (Lenik 2010). This has been extended to an assumption that a homogenous pottery type will apply to the island (or perhaps a part of it, i.e., the “north”). However, the people and potsherds after 1492 prove to be more heterogeneous than many presume. In Steven Lenik’s (2010) excavations at Grand Bay estate, in seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century contexts, he has recovered griddle fragments, possible preliminary evidence of the persistence of Amerindian food preparation methods in 1747 to ca. 1763. Ongoing (Figure 3-6) archaeological testing and excavations on colonial-period sites in Dominica have shed light on the complicated nature of pottery classification in Dominica (Hauser and Armstrong 2012; Kelly et al. 2008). In this project, Hauser and Kelly collected ceramics from a variety of sites—including potteries, habitations, and urban contexts in Guadeloupe, Dominica, St. Martin, and St. Lucia—in order to create a local ceramic chronology and establish broad trends in compositional characteristics. The first ceramic type, a thick-walled, wheel-thrown earthenware, is related to the industrial processing of sugar and is shown in this contemporary illustration (Figure 3-7). The paste is coarse and orange-red and contains large grog, limestone, and detrital inclusions. The surfaces are untreated. Forms include drip jars and sugar cones, both related to sugar processing. The second type of ceramic (Figure 3-7) is a utilitarian ware associated with household cooking and serving. These thin-walled vessels were also wheelthrown. The reddish brown coarse paste contains felspathic detrital inclusions and limestone. A third type of ceramic is smoothed and treated with a red slip, and cores indicative of an oxidizing environment are present on the majority of this type. Kelly and colleagues first identified these ceramics at Trois Ilet in Martinique and have since recorded their presence on numerous sites (Kelly et al. 2008). With both type 1 (industrial ceramics) and type 2 (Troise Ilet ceramics), variation in paste, texture, and visible inclusion makeup is associated with specific kilns where the pottery was collected from the surface. These ceramics have also been recovered in archaeological excavations at La Mahaudière and Grande Pointe by Kelly and salvaged from construction sites in Basse Terre and St. Martin by the DRAC in 2005. The third ceramic type is a hand-built ceramic similar to those described by Lyn-Rose Beuze (1990) in her ethnographic description of the potter Madame Trime in the commune of St. Anne in Martinique. This is a coil-made, thick-walled ceramic. Surfaces are evened and smoothed using a scraper and a rag (Beuze 1990) and were both slipped and burnished. Highly variable cores and the presence of surface clouding indicate that the ceramics were fired in an oxidizing and relatively uncontrolled environment, probably an open pit (Rye 1981:116). Seven forms of this type are identified by Vérin (1961) using créole nomenclature including “terrine” (terrine), “canari” (cooking pot), “tesson” (coal pot), “kastol,” “le leshwit”
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Figure 3-6. Sites surveyed by Kelly and Hauser (Kelly, Hauser, Descantes, and Glascock 2008). (fish poacher), “krish” (monkey jar), “jé” (jar), “shodie” (pan), “plate,” and “potaflé” (flowerpot). An eighth form described by Madame Trime is the Coco Nèg’ (Beuze 1990:42–43). Ceramics recovered from Dominica (Figure 3-7), specifically the industrial wares recovered from Landoff, Capucin, Woodford Hill, and Toucari, are similar in chemical composition to ceramics recovered from the kiln sites of Grande Baie (Martinique), Le Saintes (Guadeloupe), Trois Rivières, Basse Terre (Guadeloupe), Grande Anse, and Trois Ilets (Martinique) (group 3). With the exception of the Trois Ilets material, all these ceramics are likely to be manufactured in Guadeloupe. One recipe (group 1) appears to have been used for industrial ceramics recovered from Woodford Hill, Landoff, and Everton. A significant amount of domestic wheel-thrown ceramics recovered from Grand Baie, Chateau du Buc (Martinique), and Landoff have the same ceramic recipe. It should be noted, however, that domestic wheel-thrown ceramics recovered from Woodford Hill, Ilet Chancel (Martinique), and Crève Cœur (Martinique) emerge from a second recipe (group 2) and that domestic wheel-thrown ceramics from Bois Cotlette, Tartane, and BB02 (St. Lucia) emerge from a third recipe (group 4). Finally, all of the coil-made ceramics recovered from Bois Cotlette appear to have a very similar chemical characteristic to ceramics recovered from BB02 and Pointe Petite Poterie
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 69
Figure 3-7. Ceramic recipes and their geographic coincidence in the eastern Caribbean based on the principle of abundance. (Martinique) (group 6). Visually similar coil-made ceramics recovered from Indian River (Dominica) and Woodford Hill have chemical characteristics like the industrial pottery from Basse Terre. These data suggest that Dominica most likely did not produce much in the way of its own ceramics and imported all three types in the course of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Within the context of specific plantations, these ceramics can illustrate the kinds of variegated networks of economic and social interactions that occurred between planters and enslaved laborers, enslaved laborers on different plantations, laborers working in urban and those working in rural settings, and laborers from different islands. I have been testing a site in southern Dominica called Bois Cotlette, an estate established by French settlers in the 1750s, at least a decade before official colonization of the island in 1763 by the British. The settlers were essentially squatting on land that belonged to Carib Indians by international treaty. The settlers brought with them enslaved laborers who worked the land in its earliest articulation as a coffee estate. With the takeover of the island by the British, the plantation shifted to sugar production, which was eventually replaced by lime-tree cultivation in the mid-nineteenth century. Using five recipes established by Kelly and Hauser (Hauser 2011; Kelly et al. 2008; ) for historic ceramics in the eastern Caribbean, it appears that the techniques in the ceramic assemblage, and perhaps the inhabitants, at Bois Cotlette
70 M. W. Hauser came from everywhere but Dominica. While some cannot be ascribed to a particular ceramic recipe, it appears that some ceramics had recipes similar to those that I believe were made in either Martinique or Guadeloupe. While results are preliminary and restricted to the last quarter of the eighteenth century, there is an incongruity between colonial boundaries and economic interaction, and material culture can be a durable expression of these sometimes-unwritten interactions (Hauser 2011).
Conclusion In this chapter I have shown how three traditions of ceramics detail the different ways in which interaction was experienced in the Caribbean during the eighteenth century. The move from attempting to identify these ceramics as solely the product of one group or another to emphasizing the colonial and creole roots and routes of these materials (Ferguson 1992) has been a welcome turn in that it insists on the examination of variation (Hauser and DeCorse 2003). Here regional variation in shape and decoration is assumed to have a host of causes, including the cultural frames informing the meaning and use of such wares, the social structures that enabled the production of such ceramics, and the vagaries of cultural borrowings and idiosyncratic choices made by potters during the manufacture of the ceramics (Deagan 1993; Ferguson 1992). These earthenwares seem to be a prevalent, or at least consistently recoverable, form of material culture on sites associated with slavery in the seventeenthto nineteenth-century Atlantic world. But a superficial similarity to many of these ceramics hides specific histories of influence, production, and use that can be quite unique. Comparative analyses that focus on reportedly “like” material in different parts of the Atlantic, the Americas, and the Caribbean touched and affected by the Atlantic slave trade instead highlight the idiosyncrasies of these ceramic traditions (DeCorse 1999). The range of pottery traditions categorized “colonoware” is not a single ware, just a useful device for archaeologists to categorize ceramics emergent in parts of the Atlantic world with direct or indirect exposure to European colonization. On the other hand, the seeming ubiquity of this phenomenon potentially speaks to a kind of change that is temporally if not socially meaningful. This phenomenon should discourage archaeologists from reifying ceramics as inert containers of identity or economic rationale, but instead it should prompt them to understand these earthenwares as strategic elements in human choices and interactions. More important, it should also warn us not to assume a single ceramic chronology or taxonomy for a given island or region. It bespeaks of how normative approaches adopted unintentionally through the application of taxonomies can steer our analysis in directions that belie variation that existed both within settlements and between colonies. In this chapter I have made the simple point that a reliance on metaphor, rather than analogy, can have the unintended consequences of introducing
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 71 anachronism into our analysis of past places. Cases I describe here introduce modern constructions of hybridity and creolization into places where such ideas might not have existed. Hybridity is a powerful metaphor for mobility and recontextualization. Beyond a description of mobile peoples (see Hall 1999 for critique), and mapping putative translations of material culture (see Palmie 2006 for critique), the intellectual project of anthropology of the African Diaspora has centered around two interventions. On the one hand, it has been a corrective project, wherein the politics of the present has necessarily shaped question formation and theoretical framing. On the other hand, it has been an empirical project, in that it attempts to write into the past and present a real material history for people of African descent throughout the globe. Yet, I share Faye Harrison’s concern that diaspora as a concept can quickly lose its analytical potential by becoming a metaphor for transnational migrations (Harrison 2006:384), allowing us to lose sight of the politics of displacement (Clifford 1994). The regional landscapes of the Caribbean have a material record of displacement and dispossession of people of African, First Peoples’, and European extraction. So what kinds of theoretical apparatus should we use? Left unchallenged, the analysis of settlements within this region might lead to assumptions about the categorization of their inhabitants and the configuration of their relationships.
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78 M. W. Hauser Rouse, Irving 1939 Prehistory in Haiti: A Study in Method. Publications in Anthropology No. 21. Yale University Press, New Haven. 1948a The Arawak. In The Circum-Caribbean Tribes, edited by Julian H. Steward, pp. 507–546. Handbook of South American Indians, Vol. 4. Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 143, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. 1948b The Carib. The Circum-Caribbean Tribes, edited by Julian H. Steward, pp. 547– 565. Handbook of South American Indians, Vol. 4. Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 143, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C. 1992 The Tainos: Rise and Decline of the People Who Greeted Columbus. Yale University Press, New Haven. Rye, Owen S. 1981 Pottery Technology: Principles and Reconstruction. Taraxacum, Washington, D.C. Sauer, Carl O. 1992  The Early Spanish Main. University of California Press, Berkeley. Saunders, Rebecca 1998 Forced Relocation, Power Relations, and Culture Contact in the Missions of La Florida. In Studies in Culture Contact: Interaction, Culture Change, and Archaeology, edited by James Cusick, pp. 402–429. Occasional Paper No. 25. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. Singleton, Theresa A. 1991 The Archaeology of Slave Life. In Before Freedom Came: African-American Life in the Antebellum South, edited by Edward D. C. Campbell and Kym S. Rice, pp. 155– 175. Museum of the Confederacy, Richmond, Virginia. Sloane, Hans S. A Voyage to the Islands Madera, Barbadoes, Nieves, St. Christophers and Ja1707–1725 maica; with the Natural History. B. M., London. South, Stanley 1974 Palmetto Parapets: Exploratory Archaeology at Fort Maultrie, South Carolina, 38CH50. South Carolina Institute of Archaeology and Anthropology, Columbia, South Carolina. Spaulding, Allan C. 1954 Reply to Ford. American Antiquity 19:391–393. Taylor, Douglas M. 1938 The Caribs of Dominica. Bulletin 119, U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, D.C. Taylor, S. A. G. 1965 The Western Design: An Account of Cromwell’s Expedition to the Caribbean. Institute of Jamaica, Kingston. Thomas, Leon 1953 La Dominique et les derniers Caraibes insulaires. Les Cahiers d’Outre-Mer, Paris. Thompson, Robert F. 1984 Flash of the Spirit: African and Afro-American Art and Philosophy. Vintage, New York. Vérin, Pierre 1961 Les Caraïbes à Sainte Lucie depuis les contacts coloniaux. Nieuwe West-Indische Gids 41:66–82. 1967 Quelques aspects de la culture matérialle de la région de Choiseul (Ile de Sainte-Lucie, Antilles) [Some aspects of material culture from the region of Choisel (Saint Lucia, British West Indies)]. Journal de la Société des Américanistes 56(2):460–494.
Caribbean Ceramics in the African Atlantic 79 Vernon, Richard, and Ann S. Cordell 1991 A Distribution and Technological Study of Apalachee Colono-Ware from San Luis de Talimali. Florida Anthropologist 44:316–327. Victor, Pierre E. 1949 La poterie de Ste Anne, Martinique. Bulletin agricole 10:1–54. Fort de France, Martinique. Vincentelli, Moira 2004 Women Potters: Transforming Traditions. Rutgers University Press, New Brunswick, New Jersey. Vlach, Jon M. 1990 The Afro-American Tradition in Decorative Arts. Brown Thrasher, Athens, Georgia. Wild, Kenneth 1999 Investigations of a “Caney” at Cinnamon Bay, St. John, and Social Ideology in the Virgin Islands as Reflected in Pre-Columbian Ceramics. Proceedings of the Congress of the International Association Caribbean Archaeology 18(2):301–310. Grenada. Wilson, Samuel M. 1993 The Cultural Mosaic of the Prehistoric Caribbean. In The Meeting of Two Worlds: Europe and the Americas, 1492–1650, edited by Warwick Bray, pp. 37–66. Proceedings of the British Academy 81, Oxford University Press, Oxford. Woodward, Robyn P. 1988 The Charles Cotter Collection: A Study of the Ceramic and Faunal Remains. Unpublished master’s thesis, Institute of Nautical Archaeology, Texas A&M University, College Station. 2006a Taino Ceramics from Post-Contact Jamaica. In The Earliest Inhabitants: The Dynamics of the Jamaican Taino, edited by Lesley-Gail Atkinson, pp. 161–174. University of the West Indies Press, Kingston, Jamaica. 2006b Medieval Legacies: The Industrial Archaeology of an Early Sixteenth Century Sugar Mill at Sevilla la Nueva, Jamaica. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Vancouver. Woolf, Gavin 1997 Beyond Romans and Natives. World Archaeology 28:339–350.
4. Continuity and Change in Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares
Ann S. Cordell Abstract: Colonowares from Mission San Luis, Florida, are examples of “hybrid material culture.” This pottery consists of plain and red-painted pottery made in European vessel shapes by Apalachee potters between 1650 and 1704. It is presumed that this pottery was made at the direct instigation of Spaniards to supplement scarce imported tablewares. Traditional Apalachee-style pottery and colonowares have also been recovered from Old Mobile in French colonial Louisiana. Similarities in style, vessel forms, tempering practices, and many aspects of manufacturing technology between San Luis and Old Mobile support the premise that Apalachee refugees, who migrated to Old Mobile from San Luis in 1704, made the traditional Apalachee-style pottery and most colonowares at Old Mobile. Changes appear to reflect the new cultural milieu at Old Mobile, which included French and Canadian colonists and local and refugee Indian groups. The results are consistent with expectations for continuity and change in traditional pottery made by societies undergoing relocation and/or colonization.
As with several other studies of hybrid material culture in this volume, the present study focuses on ceramic artifacts made and used subsequent to European contact and colonization in the New World (for example, Card; Chatfield; Hayes, this volume). Colonowares of the Apalachee province of seventeenthcentury Spanish Florida may be considered examples of hybrid material culture. This pottery, also known as “copy wares” (Vernon 1988:76) or “mission ware” The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture, edited by Jeb J. Card. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Occasional Paper No. 39. © 2013 by the Board of Trustees, Southern Illinois University. All rights reserved. ISBN 978-0-8093-3314-1.
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 81 (Deagan 1990a:239), consists of plain and red-painted pottery (Figure 4-1) made in European vessel shapes by Apalachee potters using traditional materials and techniques (Hann and McEwan 1998; Vernon 1988; Vernon and Cordell 1993). It is presumed that this pottery was made at the instigation of Spaniards to supplement imported Hispanic-tradition tablewares that may have been in short supply (Deagan 1990b:308; Shapiro and McEwan 1992:50–53; Vernon 1988). Thus, Apalachee colonowares at San Luis are hybrid products of transculturation that show elaboration or syncretization, in which newly introduced European vessel shapes provided the inspiration for vessels made by Apalachee potters using traditional materials and methods. Vessel form distinguishes this pottery from most other colonowares from British colonial sites and Spanish colonial Hispaniola (Deagan 1990a:239; Hauser, this volume; Vernon 1988:79); however, comparable hybrid wares were made by indigenous potters at the sixteenth-century Spanish colonial site of Ciudad Vieja, San Salvador (Card, this volume). The present case study stands in marked contrast to Chatfield’s contribution (this volume), wherein she discusses new paste recipes that were adapted to newly introduced firing technology in the manufacture of traditional vessel forms and decorative styles. Previous studies of Apalachee pottery from Mission San Luis de Apalachee (Figure 4-2), in present-day Tallahassee, Florida, document the extent of technological similarity between colonowares and traditional Apalachee pottery (Vernon and Cordell 1993). San Luis (now reconstructed as a living history village and National Historic Landmark [http://www.missionsanluis.org/]) was the administrative center of mission activity in Apalachee Province from 1656 to 1704 (McEwan 1991:36–37). Colonoware manufacture at San Luis became an established component of Apalachee ceramic technology during the seventeenth century. Production scale may have approached that of a household industry (Sinopoli 1991:99), with potters assumed to have been Apalachee women (see Hann 1988:246), whereas the users or consumers at the mission were Spanish colonists, soldiers, and perhaps some high-status Apalachees (McEwan 1992:38). Interest in San Luis colonowares was rekindled by the recovery of Apalacheestyle stamped pottery and colonoware brimmed vessels (Figure 4-3) and pitchers at the French colonial site of Old Mobile, near present-day Mobile, Alabama (Cordell 2001a, 2002a; Silvia Mueller 1991; Waselkov 1991, 2002). Refugees from Apalachee Province migrated to Old Mobile in 1704 (Hann 1988:305–306). Given that San Luis residents are known to have been among the émigrés, it is likely that the very same potters made some of the pottery from both sites. The recovery of this pottery at Old Mobile provided an exceptional opportunity to document continuity and change in Apalachee pottery manufacture in general and colonowares in particular. In this chapter I discuss Apalachee colonowares from seventeenth-century San Luis and from eighteenth-century Old Mobile in terms of continuity and change in Apalachee colonoware ceramic technology. The samples are compared in terms of four fields of variation: paste, vessel form, decorative style, and manufacturing technology. These criteria are considered most useful for documenting continuity and change in pottery assemblages (Rice 1987: 464–465).
82 A. S. Cordell
Figure 4-1. Apalachee colonowares from San Luis. (Compiled from photos provided courtesy of Mission San Luis.)
Figure 4-2. Map showing Apalachee Province and location of San Luis. (Adapted from McEwan 1992:Figure 1.)
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 83
Figure 4-3. Apalachee-style and colonoware pottery from Old Mobile. (Compiled from photos provided by the Center for Archaeological Studies, University of South Alabama.) Low-resolution microscopy was used to identify aplastics and to estimate particle size and relative abundance. All observations were made on fresh breaks and/or edges of sherds freshly cut with a lapidary saw. Fragments of most samples were refired in an electric furnace to determine relative iron oxide content (see Beck 2006) and to equalize the basis for comparison between samples. Petrographic data were also obtained from thin sections of several Old Mobile and San Luis samples and one fired briquette of local Mobile clay. (See Cordell [2001a:7, 59–65] for more details of the analysis.)
Colonoware Pottery at Mission San Luis Colonowares from San Luis consist of plain and Mission Red Filmed categories, subsuming zoned red-painted and red-slipped varieties (Vernon 1988; Vernon and Cordell 1993). At San Luis, colonowares make up about 10 percent of the aboriginal pottery found in most Hispanic contexts and less than 2 percent of pottery in predominantly Apalachee contexts (McEwan 1992:13, 15, 24, 29; Vernon and Cordell 1993:421). The San Luis colonoware sample discussed here (Table 4-1) consists of 82 sherds, including 55 from Spanish village contexts and 27 from Apalachee contexts (Cordell 2001a; Vernon and Cordell 1993). Apalachee pottery from San Luis, including colonowares, is tempered with grog (crushed potsherds). Fine to medium (Wentworth scale) quartz sand is also
84 A. S. Cordell Table 4-1. The San Luis and Old Mobile Colonoware Samples San Luis Sample (8LE4)
Old Mobile Sample (1MB94)
Colonoware sample n = 82
Colonoware sample n = 129
Mission Red Filmed n = 29 zoned red painted n = 20 red slipped n = 9
Red Filmed n = 64 zoned red painted n = 34 red slipped n = 30
Plain colonoware n = 53
Plain colonoware n = 52
(Traditional Apalachee pottery n = 311)
Other n = 13 (w/Apalachee style characteristics)
Indian House Sample (1MB147) Colonoware n = 23
common. Mica is present in some sherds and is considered a natural constituent of some clays. Six grog-tempered paste categories, two of which are micaceous, were defined during the course of analysis (Cordell 2002b). Most traditional Apalachee pottery at San Luis is characterized by coarse to very coarse grog tempering (Cordell 2001a:21). Grog temper is finer and less abundant in the colonowares, especially Mission Red Filmed, than in most traditional Apalachee pottery (Cordell 2001a:21, 38). Less than 10 percent of traditional Apalachee vessels and plain colonowares are made of micaceous clays, but over one-third of Mission Red Filmed pottery has micaceous paste. The nonmicaceous pottery is assumed to have been locally made, based on its abundance in both Spanish and Apalachee contexts at San Luis (McEwan 1992:38). Local manufacture is supported by the presence of nearby nonmicaceous clays (Cordell 2001b) and by a possible pottery production area adjacent to the chief’s house (Cordell 1993). The micaceous pottery is considered nonlocal to San Luis and perhaps nonlocal to the Apalachee province (Vernon and Cordell 1993:427–428). Experimental refirings, or oxidation analysis (Beck 2006) indicate that clays with low to moderate iron oxides (primarily nonmicaceous) were used to make most of the pottery, but clays very low in iron oxides (micaceous and nonmicaceous) were used for making some traditional Apalachee pottery and colonowares, especially Mission Red Filmed (Vernon and Cordell 1993:428–429). Typical colonoware vessel forms at San Luis include brimmed vessels (plates and bowls) with foot-ring bases, cups, pitchers, and storage jars with handles (Vernon 1988:77). The San Luis sample also includes candlestick holders and a rim fragment mimicking a Middle style olive-jar neck (Cordell 2001a:31; Goggin 1960). More recently, long-handled skillet forms have been recovered (Figure 4-1; Bonnie McEwan, personal communication 2012). Foot-ring and footed bases as well as large, thick handles are absent from traditional Apalachee pottery at San Luis (Vernon 1988:77–78). The brimmed plates and dishes are only slightly smaller on average than their seventeenth-century Spanish majolica counterparts
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 85 (Vernon 1988:78), suggesting that Apalachee potters compensated for shrinkage characteristics of the potting clays in copying sizes of European plates and dishes. San Luis colonowares might be considered “high visibility” artifacts by Clark et al. (this volume). Although San Luis colonowares exhibit traditional Apalachee ceramic technology, some characteristics indicate that more time and effort were expended in their manufacture. Colonowares were more likely to be burnished (Cordell 2001a:26, 42), and vessel walls are generally thinner, especially in Mission Red Filmed (Vernon and Cordell 1993:429–431). Surface colors are less variable in colonowares than in traditional Apalachee pottery, indicating intentional efforts to control conditions of firing. Mission Red Filmed vessels were fired in at least partially oxidizing conditions, while some plain colonowares were at least partially reduced (Vernon and Cordell 1993:431). This evidence does not suggest kiln firing or other precise control methods, but Mission Red Filmed wares were likely exposed to the air toward the end of firing to enhance color development and reduce fire clouding (see discussion in Rice 1987:158). No such efforts are apparent for most of the plain colonowares, and it is possible that some may have been purposely smudged (see discussion in Rice 1987:158).
Old Mobile Colonoware Sample Once thought absent or very sparse in French colonial sites in the vicinity of Mobile Bay (Hunter 1985:102–103), colonoware is now known to have been present, along with traditional Apalachee pottery, in some quantity from the excavations at Old Mobile (Cordell 2001a, 2002a; Waselkov 2002). The sample of Old Mobile colonowares in this study consists of 129 partial vessels or vessel lots, including plain and red-filmed surface treatments, and 13 vessels with combinations of traditional Apalachee decorative and European vessel form characteristics (see Table 4-1), a combination rarely seen at San Luis. The vessel lots from within Old Mobile (1MB94) come from five excavated French-style structures (Figure 4-4). Construction methods, artifact assemblages, and historic documents indicate that these structures include part of the seminary complex, a blacksmith’s forge, a presumed tavern, and two houses occupied by French colonists (Waselkov 1999, 2002). Additional colonoware vessels were recovered from a contemporaneous aboriginal structure excavated along the northwest periphery of the site (see Figure 4-4, upper left) (Silvia 2000). This structure, referred to as the Indian House site (1MB147), was built in the local Mobilian style but may have included an Apalachee occupant on the basis of relative abundance of Apalachee-style pottery and colonowares (Silvia 2000:302, 2002:30). Expectations for change in Old Mobile colonowares were articulated by considering the ethnographic literature regarding continuity and change in traditional pottery making in societies immersed in culture contact situations. “Elaboration” and “simplification” are among the principal trends observed for pottery made in contact situations (Rice 1987:452–454). Additions, substitutions, and
86 A. S. Cordell
Figure 4-4. Old Mobile site plan showing structure locations and Indian House site. (Courtesy of the Center for Archaeological Studies, University of South Alabama.) recombinations that result in new elements within decorative, formal, and technological categories may be subsumed under the trend “elaboration,” also referred to as “innovation” and “syncretization” (Rice 1987:452). Hybridization would also fall into this category. “Simplification” subsumes deletions or loss of variation within pottery categories and typically is manifest as reduced steps in manufacture, especially in surface finishing and decorating (e.g., Cusick 1989:152–157; Rice 1987:454). When compared to traditional Apalachee pottery, Apalachee colonowares at San Luis exhibit elaboration in vessel forms, in style, and in aspects of manufacturing technology. European vessel shapes were an addition to traditional Apalachee forms. The zoned red-painted decorations were a stylistic elaboration, an addition to the Apalachee decorative repertoire. The high incidence of burnished surfaces, which required more time and effort to produce, may be considered a form of elaboration but not a technological addition. The efforts to affect the fired color of the pottery may or may not be considered a technological addition, as the practice was probably not unknown to Apalachee potters. Further changes would not be unexpected in colonowares at Old Mobile.
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 87 Ethnographic studies also indicate that there will be conservatism in certain fundamental manufacturing and tempering practices, especially in utilitarian pottery, owing to a variety of factors: adherence to traditional standards of pottery making, preference for familiar motor habits, adherence to traditional diets, and use of traditional clay resources (e.g., Charlton 1976; Foster 1962, 1965; Nicklin 1971; Reina and Hill 1978; Rice 1984, 1987:460, 462–463). Relocation and adaptation to a new “ceramic environment,” with an unfamiliar range of available ceramic resources—clays and tempers (Rice 1987:314–315)—presents the obvious exception to this generalization. Thus, the most obvious change that can be expected of Apalachee colonoware pottery at Old Mobile is the use of new clay resources, although traditional tempering practices may stay the same. The new social environment facing refugee Apalachees at Old Mobile included French and Canadian colonists, local Indian groups such as the Mobilians and Tomés, enslaved individuals from tribes such as the Chitimachas and Alabamas, and Chato or Chacato refugees from northwest Florida (Silvia 2002). The diversity of pottery recovered from Old Mobile reflects the multiethnic character of this French colonial settlement (Silvia 2002:27; Waselkov 1991, 1999). This settlement might be considered a “coalescent community” by Clark et al. (this volume). Apalachee refugees suffered severe population losses from disease during their stay in the Mobile area (Hann 1988:306–308). Thus, changes in Apalacheemade colonowares at Old Mobile may reflect the difficult circumstances of life as refugees, as well as multiethnic interactions and adaptation to new resources. Although it deals with a precolonial example of migration and hybridity, the concepts presented by Clark et al. (this volume) may be be applicable to the situation of Apalachee immigrants adapting to the diverse cultural milieu that was eighteenth-century French colonial Old Mobile.
Colonoware Pottery at Old Mobile and Comparisons to Mission San Luis The following comparisons of Old Mobile and San Luis colonowares are summarized from previous discussions (Cordell 2001a:30–45, 2002a:47–51). The predominant aplastics in the Old Mobile sample are grog or sherd temper and quartz sand (Cordell 2001a). Very fine to fine quartz sand is abundant in most of the grog-tempered paste categories, and mica and ferric concretions are frequent constituents in most samples. Shell temper and crushed bone are present in several cases. In some instances, the shell is probably the fortuitous result of including local Mobilian shell-tempered pottery among sherds crushed for temper. Crushed bone may be temper in a few cases, but infrequency in most cases indicates its presence resulted from incidental incorporation of organic debris during manufacture. Eight grog-tempered, one grog-and-shell-tempered, and four shell-tempered paste categories were identified in the Old Mobile colonoware assemblage, and most, regardless of gross temper, represent local Mobile manufactures (Cordell 2001a:37–38). This conclusion is based on their similarity to local Mobile clay
88 A. S. Cordell resources or on the presence of grog and other inclusions that can be related to these local clays or to the local shell-tempered Mobilian wares. Although two traditional Apalachee-style vessels at Old Mobile were likely manufactured in Apalachee Province, all the colonoware vessels appear to have been made locally (Cordell 2001a:22, 38). Fine to coarse grog temper is predominant in Old Mobile plain colonowares as at San Luis (Figures 4-5a and 4-5b). The San Luis pattern of finer grog tempering in red-filmed versus plain wares is also observed in the Old Mobile sample (Figures 4-5a and 4-5b). Grog temper is generally more abundant in San Luis plain colonowares than in most Old Mobile specimens (Figures 4-6a and 4-6b). The differences are statistically significant but can probably be attributed to the temper requirements of the new clay sources. Many of the Old Mobile colonowares are more finely textured than San Luis pottery in terms of the frequency and size of quartz sand (Cordell 2001a:37, 39), and the Old Mobile sample exhibits a wider range of iron oxide contents. Such differences are likewise attributable to the characteristics of the new clay sources used at Old Mobile. Yet, Old Mobile red-filmed vessels are predominantly white firing, consistent with the pattern for Mission Red Filmed pottery at San Luis (Figures 4-7a and 4-7b). Continuity between traditional Apalachee-style pottery from San Luis and Old Mobile (Cordell 2001a:29–30, 45–46, 2002a:47, 51) supports the premise that Apalachee refugees made the traditional Apalachee-style pottery and most of the colonowares at Old Mobile (Figure 4-8). Seven colonoware vessels are actually shell tempered and were most likely made by local Mobilian potters (Cordell 2001a: 45, 47). These vessels would probably be categorized as part of the eighteenthcentury Port Dauphin complex (Fuller and Brown 1993:10), as colonoware forms are not reported in descriptions of earlier local pottery traditions (e.g., Fuller and Stowe 1983). A larger number (35 percent) of colonowares (all brimmed vessels) from the Indian House site were probably also made by local Mobilian potters (Silvia 2000:251). These shell-tempered colonowares most likely reflect interaction between Mobilian and refugee Apalachee potters rather than, or perhaps in addition to, accommodation to French colonists’ demands for tablewares and serving vessels. Some of the colonowares with frequent bone inclusions along with grog and shell temper may have been made by nonlocal Choctaws or enslaved Chitimachas who were also present at Old Mobile (Cordell 2001a:46–47). Common vessel forms in Old Mobile colonowares include brimmed vessels with footed and foot-ring bases, footed pitchers or jugs with strap and loop handles, and possibly candleholders (Table 4-2). Except for the absence of longhandled skillets, this range of forms is comparable to that observed at San Luis. Still, there are some interesting differences. Two brimmed vessels from Old Mobile have two corner points in profile (Figure 4-9a). No such “double brim” vessels have been encountered at San Luis. Old Mobile pitchers are sometimes lobed, grooved, or fluted, with red stripes painted in the grooves (Figure 4-9b; also see Waselkov 2002:Plate 1 for color photograph), a combination of traits that is also not observed at San Luis. Brimmed forms are predominant in the Old Mobile assemblage, accounting for 65 percent of red-filmed vessels and 81 percent of plain colonoware vessels
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 89
Figures 4-5a and 4-5b. Grog size in San Luis and Old Mobile samples.
Figures 4-6a and 4-6b. Grog frequency in San Luis and Old Mobile samples.
Figures 4-7a and 4-7b. Relative iron content of San Luis and Old Mobile samples.
90 A. S. Cordell
Figure 4-8. Probable ethnic affiliation of colonoware potters at Old Mobile. Table 4-2. Comparison of Vessel Forms Site/ Pottery Category San Luis Mission Red Filmed Plain Old Mobile Red Filmed Plain w/ Apalachee style Indian House Total Count
UID Cup/Mug Other Brimmed Pitchers Grooved Grooved Small Candle or UID Total Vessels and Jars Pitchers or Ridged Bowls holder Forms Count
(Table 4-2). Over 80 percent of San Luis Mission Red Filmed vessels are brimmed, but only 19 percent of plain colonowares in the sample are brimmed. The proportion of possible brimmed forms for plain colonowares in the larger sample recovered at San Luis from broadscale testing of the site may be closer to about 50 percent (Shapiro 1987:122, 124, 189), which is still considerably lower than the 80 percent observed in the Old Mobile sample. Brimmed vessels are also prominent at the Indian House site (see Table 4-2) (Silvia 2000:249, 251). Old Mobile brimmed vessels have slightly thicker vessel walls, thinner rims, thicker bases and foot-rings, smaller base diameters, and larger mouth diameters than brimmed vessels from San Luis (Table 4-3). Yet, only the differences in mean
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 91
Figure 4-9. Unusual Old Mobile vessel forms: (a) double brim profile and (b) lobed, painted pitcher. (Photograph courtesy of the Center for Archaeological Studies, University of South Alabama.) Table 4-3. Comparison of Brimmed Colonoware Mean Vessel Dimensions
Diameter (cm) Mouth
t = 2.3253 df = 112 p < .05 for difference in mean body thickness t = 3.0389 df = 96 p < .005 for difference in mean rim thickness t = 2.0454 df = 56 p < .05 for difference in mean mouth diameter
rim and vessel wall thickness and mouth diameter are statistically significant. Brimmed vessels at Indian House are also larger than brimmed vessels at San Luis. It is not certain whether larger sizes were made intentionally or if the size difference (average 3 cm) might be attributed to differences in shrinkage characteristics of the new clay sources. Regardless, the mouth diameters are considerably larger than their European counterparts at Old Mobile (Silvia 2000:138). Perhaps the generally larger size of brimmed vessels at Old Mobile and the Indian House was a compromise between desire for European-style tableware and traditional communal dining customs (Silvia 2000:138). Old Mobile colonowares show a decline in foot-ring bases in favor of simpler footed bases (Cordell 2001a:34, 36), which may indicate a reduction in time
92 A. S. Cordell and effort in manufacture. Alternatively this may reflect inspiration from French material culture, as early eighteenth-century French brimmed plates and bowls typically lack foot rings (Barton 1981; Genet 1980). Old Mobile colonowares show an increase in strap handles at the expense of the loop handles predominant at San Luis (Cordell 2001a:36; Vernon 1988:77). Zoned red-painted designs, typically bounded by incised lines, occur on interiors of San Luis Mission Red Filmed brimmed vessels and exteriors of nonbrimmed forms (Figure 4-10a). A similar pattern is observed in the Old Mobile sample, but without incising (Figure 4-10b). Painted designs on brimmed vessels in the San Luis sample are more varied than those on Old Mobile vessels. The San Luis designs include pendant bars and pendant triangles as well as more complex designs, usually curvilinear, not present on Old Mobile samples. A subset of 13 vessels in the Old Mobile sample combine European vessel forms with complicated stamping or with impressed, ticked, or folded/pinched rims characteristic of traditional Apalachee pottery style (Cordell 2001a:Table 34). Red-striped fluted or grooved pitchers also have Apalachee features. Two such vessels have a single row of punctations encircling their inflection points (Figure 4-9b; see close-up in Cordell 2001a:Figure 13). The rims are apparently not folded, but the location and spacing of these punctations are reminiscent of some of the Apalachee-style folded/pinched rim impressions. This colonoware subset is otherwise consistent with traditional Apalachee pottery in many respects, including grog size, vessel thickness, and surface finishing (Cordell 2001a:48) but was not observed at San Luis. Burnished surfaces dominate San Luis colonowares, especially Mission Red Filmed. The Old Mobile colonowares show a decline in the quality of burnishing, with most vessels being well finished with a nonyielding tool, but with no luster imparted (Figures 4-11a and 4-11b). Extensive dark coring is predominant in both assemblages (Cordell 2001a: 43), but the Old Mobile samples show more variable surface colors (Figures 4-12a and 4-12b). The San Luis pattern of well-oxidized red-filmed and poorly oxidized plain colonowares is not apparent in the Old Mobile samples. This does not necessarily mean that the Old Mobile samples were more poorly fired than San Luis pottery, but there are no indications of efforts to control or affect firing conditions or color development in the Old Mobile sample.
Continuity and Change in Apalachee Colonowares All of these comparisons have shown that differences from the San Luis sample are indeed pronounced in the colonoware of Old Mobile (Cordell 2001a:47–48). Elaboration is evident in the “double brim” vessels with two corner points and the red-striped fluted pitchers. The subset with Apalachee stylistic traits shows further syncretization or hybridization of Apalachee ceramic styles and European vessel forms. Vessel forms exhibit simplification with the loss of longhandled skillets. Zoned red-painted brimmed vessels exhibit simplification with the elimination of incising as a step in final finishing and reduction in complexity
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 93
Figure 4-10. Comparison of red filmed pottery from (a) San Luis and (b) Old Mobile. (Photograph of San Luis samples by Pat Payne; Old Mobile image compiled from photographs provided courtesy of the Center for Archaeological Studies, University of South Alabama.)
94 A. S. Cordell
Figures 4-11a and 4-11b. Exterior surface finishing of San Luis and Old Mobile samples.
Figures 4-12a and 4-12b. Exterior surface color of San Luis and Old Mobile samples. of painted designs. Simplification is also evident in reduction of burnishing, in the apparent lack of effort to control firing atmosphere, and in the decline in foot-ring bases in favor of simpler footed bases. Other changes include new clay sources, a smattering of new if perhaps incidental tempers, a switch to strap handles from loop handles, and changes in thickness and size of brimmed vessels (perhaps related to the properties of the new clays). But strong continuity in manufacture is evident in most vessel forms, in fundamental tempering practices, and in preference for using white-firing clays to make red-filmed colonowares. The subset of colonowares with Apalachee stylistic traits shows general continuity with traditional Apalachee pottery in grog size, vessel dimensions, and surface finishing.
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 95 With respect to the four fields of variation considered in this study, the most obvious and drastic change was the use of new clay sources. The fields of vessel form and decoration or style are next in terms of extent of change, manifesting both elaboration and simplification. Aspects of manufacturing technology showed the least obvious change, manifesting simplification: decline in burnishing and elimination of efforts to affect fired color of the pottery. These simplifications indicate reductions in time and effort expended in manufacture. The apparent reduction in quality of the pottery may have been an issue of aesthetics, not serviceability, however. The changes in colonowares at Old Mobile indicate that standards for colonoware manufacture, which may have been regulated by the Spaniards at San Luis, were relaxed at Old Mobile. Technological changes suggest moves to expedite or streamline the manufacturing process. The introduction of French formal standards may also be indicated. Alternatively, or perhaps additionally, these changes may reflect the Apalachees’ growing preference for simpler brimmed vessels. The hybridity in decoration and form seems to indicate free artistic expression and choices made by the potters themselves, with no outside regulation. The embellishment of European forms with Apalachee decorative elements reinforces the Apalachee affiliation with the pottery. It also indicates an attenuation of the functional or social separation between traditional Apalachee pottery and colonowares. One aspect of colonoware manufacture at Old Mobile that was not anticipated was the dramatic increase in relative abundance of colonowares at the site. Colonowares make up 32 percent of vessels recovered from the five Old Mobile structures (Cordell 2001a:1, 30) and 21 percent of vessels from the Indian House site (Silvia 2000:251, 310). These percentages are considerably higher than the 2 percent to 10 percent figures observed at San Luis (Figure 4-13). Although the five Old Mobile structures were French in terms of architecture and historical documents, it is apparent that Apalachee refugees furnished numerous pottery containers, especially colonowares, used at these structures. The relative abundance of colonowares at Old Mobile and their presence at the Indian House site, potentially home to at least one Apalachee, indicate that refugee Apalachees were also making this pottery for their own use (Silvia 2000:352, 2002:32). The Apalachees’ apparent preference for brimmed vessels and other colonoware forms at Old Mobile probably began prior to their arrival, on the basis of relative abundance of colonowares at possible high-status Apalachee residences at San Luis (McEwan 1992:38). High-status Apalachee from San Luis are known to have been among the émigrés at Old Mobile (Hann 1988:305–306). Escalation of Apalachee colonoware pottery production at Old Mobile is probably related to accommodating the tableware needs of the French colonists and perhaps other resident Indian groups, as well as Apalachees’ preferences for colonoware forms. We know little of this process from historical records, which provide only vague references to Indian pottery manufacture and its probable exchange for European goods (Silvia 2002:28–29). The supply of Native American pottery for exchange is thought to have been provided through household industry manufacture by multiple
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Figure 4-13. Relative abundance of colonowares at San Luis and Old Mobile. native ethnic groups on the basis of diversity of pottery recovered at Old Mobile (Silvia 2002:28–29). The observed simplifications in manufacture of Apalachee colonowares may have been to expedite manufacture to meet the apparent increased demand for the pottery containers. The abundance of Apalachee colonowares and presence of some most likely made by local Mobilians and other refugee or enslaved groups and the abundance of local Mobilian colonowares at the Indian House site (Silvia 2000) may be evidence of the emergence of a “meta identity” for Apalachees and other groups in the community (see Clark et al., this volume). Other traditional Apalachee surface treatments and grog tempering do not appear to have survived further migration to central Louisiana later in the eighteenth century (Cordell 2002a:52–53; Hunter 1985). In closing, the pottery assemblages at San Luis and Old Mobile have provided a remarkable opportunity to document both continuity and change in Apalachee colonoware pottery manufacture. The pattern of the results is in fact consistent with expectations for continuity and change in traditional pottery made in societies undergoing relocation and/or colonization. Given the relative abundance of colonowares and hybridization with traditional surface and rim treatments, it seems likely that colonoware pottery manufacture had become even more of an integral part of a new Apalachee ceramic tradition at Old Mobile, a testament to Apalachee resilience under the challenging circumstances of displacement and relocation.
Acknowledgments I would like to thank Dr. Jeb Card for the invitation to participate in his symposium and contribute to this volume. I am grateful to Dr. Bonnie Mc Ewan (San Luis Archaeological and Historic Site) and Dr. Greg Waselkov (Center for Archaeological Studies, University of South Alabama) for the opportunity and funding to study their respective collections of pottery from San Luis and Old Mobile. This paper has benefited from constructive criticism from Drs. Prudence Rice, Bonnie McEwan, Gregory Waselkov, Kathleen Deagan, Jeb Card, and other contributors to and reviewers of this volume. Photocomposition of Figures 4-1, 4-3, and 4-10 by Pat Payne, Gainesville, Florida, [email protected].
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References Barton, Ian W. 1981 Coarse Earthenwares from the Fortress of Louisburg. History and Archaeology 55:3–74. Beck, Margaret E. 2006 Linking Finished Ceramics to Raw Materials: Oxidized Color Groups for Lowland Desert Clays. Kiva 72:93–118. Charlton, Thomas H. 1976 Contemporary Central Mexican Ceramics: A View from the Paste. Man 11:517– 525. Cordell, Ann S. 1993 Identification of a Pottery Production Area at San Luis de Talimali, Florida. Paper presented at the 50th Annual Meeting of the Southeastern Archaeological Conference, Raleigh, North Carolina. 2001a Continuity and Change in Apalachee Pottery Manufacture. Archaeological Monograph, No. 9. Center for Archaeological Studies, University of South Alabama, Mobile. 2001b Report on the Investigation of Daub Construction Materials from San Luis de Talimali. Prepared for Dr. Bonnie McEwan, Mission San Luis de Talimali, Tallahassee, Florida. 2002a Continuity and Change in Apalachee Pottery Manufacture. Historical Archaeology 36(1):36–54. 2002b Traditional Apalachee Ceramic Technology at Mission San Luis de Talimali, Florida. Paper presented at the 59th Annual Meeting of the Southeastern Archaeological Conference, Biloxi, Mississippi. Cusick, James G. 1989 Change in Pottery as a Reflection of Social Change: A Study of Taino Pottery before and after Contact at the Site of En Bas Saline, Haiti. Unpublished master’s thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Florida, Gainesville. Deagan, Kathleen A. 1990a Sixteenth-Century Spanish-American Colonization in the Southeastern United States and the Caribbean. In Columbian Consequences: 2. Archaeological and Historical Perspectives on the Spanish Borderlands East, edited by David Hurst Thomas, pp. 225–250. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, D.C. 1990b Accommodation and Resistance: The Process and Impact of Spanish Colonization in the Southeast. In Columbian Consequences: 2. Archaeological and Historical Perspectives on the Spanish Borderlands East, edited by David Hurst Thomas, pp. 297– 314. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, D.C. Foster, George M. 1962 Traditional Cultures and the Impact of Technological Change. Harper & Brothers, New York. 1965 The Sociology of Pottery: Questions and Hypotheses Arising from Contemporary Mexican Work. In Ceramics and Man, edited by Frederick R. Matson, pp. 43–61. Aldine, Chicago. Fuller, Richard S., and Ian W. Brown 1993 Archaeological Phases and Complexes of the Mobile Basin and Alabama Gulf Coast from 1200 b.c. to the Historic Period. Gulf Coast Survey, University of Alabama Museum of Natural History, Tuscaloosa.
98 A. S. Cordell Fuller, Richard S., and Noel R. Stowe 1983 A Proposed Typology for the Late Shell Tempered Ceramics in the Mobile Bay/ Mobile–Tensaw Delta Region. In Archaeology in Southwestern Alabama, edited by Caleb B. Curren Jr., pp. 45–93. Alabama–Tombigbee Regional Commission, Camden, Alabama. Genet, Nicole 1980 Les Collections archeologiques de la Place Royale: la faience. La Collection Patrimoines, Dossier 45. Ministere des Affaires Culturelles de Quebec, Quebec, Canada. Goggin, John M. 1960 The Spanish Olive Jar: An Introductory Study. Yale University Publications in Anthropology, No. 62. Yale University Press, New Haven, Connecticut. Hann, John H. 1988 Apalachee: Land between the Rivers. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Hann, John H., and Bonnie G. McEwan 1998 The Apalachee Indians and Mission San Luis. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Hunter, Donald G. 1985 The Apalachee on Red River, 1763–1834: An Ethnohistory and Summary of Archaeological Testing at the Zimmerman Hill Site, Rapides Parish, Louisiana. Louisiana Archaeology Society, New Orleans. McEwan, Bonnie G. 1991 San Luis de Talimali: The Archaeology of Spanish-Indian Relations at a Florida Mission. Historical Archaeology 25(3):36–60. 1992 Archaeology of the Apalachee Village at San Luis de Talimali. Florida Archaeological Reports No. 28. Florida Bureau of Archaeological Research, Tallahassee. Nicklin, Keith 1971 Stability and Innovation in Pottery Manufacture. World Archaeology 3:13–48. Reina, Rubin E., and Robert M. Hill II 1978 The Traditional Pottery of Guatemala. University of Texas Press, Austin. Rice, Prudence M. 1984 Change and Conservatism in Pottery-Producing Systems. In The Many Dimensions of Pottery: Ceramics in Archaeology and Anthropology, edited by Sander E. van der Leeuw and Alison C. Pritchard, pp. 231–293. Institute for Pre- and Proto-history, University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam. 1987 Pottery Analysis: A Sourcebook. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Shapiro, Gary 1987 Archaeology at San Luis: Broad-Scale Testing, 1984–85. Florida Archaeology 3. Florida Bureau of Archaeological Research, Tallahassee. Shapiro, Gary, and Bonnie G. McEwan 1992 Archaeology at San Luis: Pt. 1. The Apalachee Council House. Florida Archaeology 6. Florida Bureau of Archaeological Research, Tallahassee. Silvia, Diane E. 2000 Indian and French Interaction in Colonial Louisiana during the Early Eighteenth Century. Ph.D. dissertation, Tulane University, New Orleans, Louisiana. University Microfilms International, Ann Arbor. 2002 Native American and French Cultural Dynamics on the Gulf Coast. In “French Colonial Archaeology at Old Mobile: Selected Studies,” edited by Gregory A. Wasel kov. Historical Archaeology 36(1):26–35. Silvia Mueller, Diane 1991 Containers: Aboriginal Ceramics. In Archaeology at the French Colonial Site of Old
Early Eighteenth-Century Apalachee Colonowares 99 Mobile (Phase I: 1989–1991), edited by Gregory A. Waselkov, pp. 115–131. Anthropological Monograph I. University of South Alabama, Mobile. Sinopoli, Carla A. 1991 Approaches to Archaeological Ceramics. Plenum, New York. Vernon, Richard 1988 Seventeenth-Century Apalachee Colono-Ware as a Reflection of Demography, Economics, and Acculturation. Historical Archaeology 22(1):76–82. Vernon, Richard, and Ann S. Cordell 1993 A Distributional and Technological Study of Apalachee Colono-Ware from San Luis de Talimali. In The Spanish Mission of La Florida, edited by Bonnie G. McEwan, pp. 418–441. University Press of Florida, Gainesville. Waselkov, Gregory A. 1991 Archaeology at the French Colonial Site of Old Mobile (Phase I: 1989–1991). Anthropological Monograph I. University of South Alabama, Mobile. 1999 Old Mobile Archaeology. Archaeology Booklet 1. University of South Alabama, Mobile. 2002 French Colonial Archaeology at Old Mobile: An Introduction. In “French Colonial Archaeology at Old Mobile: Selected Studies,” edited by Gregory A. Waselkov. Historical Archaeology 36(1):3–12.
Italianate Pipil Potters: Mesoamerican Transformation of Renaissance Material Culture in Early Spanish Colonial San Salvador Jeb J. Card Abstract: Brimmed plates were the primary serving vessel of the early to midsixteenth-century Spanish colonial villa of San Salvador, today the archaeological site of Ciudad Vieja, El Salvador. Nahua Pipil artisans produced and decorated these vessels in traditional fashion but incorporated plate forms from the Renaissance Mediterranean world. Fads, fashions, demographic change, and political upheaval that affected Old World material culture were reflected and reproduced by indigenous artisans of the New World. During the Spanish Conquest and the Early Spanish Colonial era in the Americas, Italian aesthetic influences were spreading throughout western Europe and into its colonies, as Renaissance artistry became highly valued. Italian painters utilized majolica vessels as canvases for brilliantly colored scenes from antiquity and myth. Valued as art objects, these painted vessels also provide information on form and chronology applicable to more mundane majolica vessels and, in turn, to nonmajolica copies of these vessels, allowing for detailed chronology through cross-dating for the first crucial decades of European global colonization. In the Ciudad Vieja case, this method calls into question the length and nature of the occupation of the Early Colonial settlement. A longer occupation, compared with other evidence of ceramic change in the Ciudad Vieja ceramic assemblage, suggests changes in population and social dynamics within San Salvador and potential evidence for nascent ethnogenesis within the colonial hierarchy. The distribution of these vessels, combined with other aspects of traditional pottery production within San Salvador, suggests substantial adoption of these new hybrid vessels by indigenous consumers and demonstrates parallels with other newly created communities of displaced migrants and refugees.
The Archaeology of Hybrid Material Culture, edited by Jeb J. Card. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Occasional Paper No. 39. © 2013 by the Board of Trustees, Southern Illinois University. All rights reserved. ISBN 978-0-8093-3314-1.
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Introduction Tin-glazed majolica ceramics have a deep lineage spanning centuries across Eurasia and were a substantial part of European material culture from the mid-fifteenth century to the early eighteenth century, a time period of great interest to students of European colonial expansion and the origins of the modern world. In addition to use in everyday contexts, majolica vessels were used as canvases by Renaissance Italian painters, who turned serving ware into status symbols for display. They found the glossy and stable surfaces of these vessels, especially the open flat surfaces of plates, to be ideal for intricate and colorful scenes from history and mythology. Art historical study of these paintings has cataloged and described thousands of majolica vessels, providing vessel morphology information tangential to the primary interest in the paintings. More mundane majolica was a valuable serving vessel in European colonial settlements, especially in the Spanish Empire. Form and other attributes of majolica plates influenced potters in areas contacted, conquered, and colonized by these early modern European empires. The following analysis provides a chronology of Italianate majolica morphology, placing within it a major collection of nonmajolica vessels with forms based on majolica, from a colonial town in early to mid-sixteenth-century Central America. These data on Italianate majolica have not previously been used by archaeologists of the colonial Americas, especially not to understand influences on indigenous ceramic traditions. This technique produces more information on the breadth of European imports at Ciudad Vieja (in modern El Salvador) than do the actual fragments of majolica. The resulting findings suggest that the historical record for the early villa of San Salvador needs to be revised, roughly doubling the length of the documented occupation, with major ramifications for social changes in the community. Within the revised chronology, changes in ceramic production may indicate the maturation and enculturation of a second generation of residents, with social networks and identity tied more to their birth community than the origin place of their parents and to the transformations occurring in the Spanish colonial system.
San Salvador and the Conquest of Central America Spanish and Mesoamerican forces commanded by Pedro de Alvarado began the conquest of northern Central America in 1524, establishing the villa (town) of San Salvador in the Pipil province of Cuscatlán in 1525 (Barón Castro 1996:38–40). Native resistance forced the Spaniards to abandon the town the following year. In 1528, a larger force of Spaniards and their Mesoamerican allies founded the second villa of San Salvador, the ruins of which are known today as Ciudad Vieja (Barón Castro 1996:86–91). Ciudad Vieja is located 32 km northeast of modern San Salvador, in the Cuscatlán Department of El Salvador (Figure 5-1). It was founded apart from existing indigenous settlements (Card
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Figure 5-1. Early sixteenth-century colonial settlements in Central America (courtesy http://d-maps.com/carte.php?lib=central_america_map&num_ car=1393&lang=en). 2007:577–583), unusual in the Spanish Empire, in a “no-man’s land” between the homelands of the Cuscatlán Pipils to the south and west, the Lenca to the north, and the Poton Lenca and the Choluteca to the east. The closest settlement would have been Xochitototl (today Suchitoto), 10 km to the north (Barón Castro 1996:39; Burgos 1999:13–16). San Salvador served as a base for the pacification of Central America (Barón Castro 1996:106–110), as well as a bulwark against incursions by rival Spanish adventurers (Barón Castro 1996:152–163). The economic basis of the town was forced labor, either through encomienda grants to the town’s vecinos or through slaving. In 1545, a time when these practices were coming to an end (Sherman 1983), San Salvador was given the new title of ciudad (city) and permission to move to its current location. From the historical perspective, early San Salvador seems transitory. But it was intended to be a permanent settlement. The town council required Spanish settlers to practice any useful craft skills they possessed, reflected in the discovery of two iron forges (Báron Castro 1996:133; Fowler 2011a; Fowler, ed. 2011). Significant labor was expended to carefully plan the streets (Figure 5-2), housing lots, and large structures with heavy stone foundations, solid walls, and ceramic roof tiles and floor tiles, perhaps to satisfy the requirement that encomenderos have permanent houses of stone and brick (Kramer 1994:12; Sherman 1979:94–96 for discussion of labor in the next San Salvador). Some structures also had more
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Figure 5-2. Map of Ciudad Vieja. All operations excavated through 2003 are noted (map and most operation notes created by Conard Hamilton; 3D1 and 3D2 added by author). elaborate ornamentation, including carved stone column bases, pebble-mosaic floors, color-patterned ceramic floor tiles, and glazed roof tile. The recorded Spanish population varied between 50–70 vecinos during its first decade, with 44 encomenderos in 1545 (Sherman 1979:348). Inside Spanish households we would expect from eight to ten, and up to eighty, indigenous personal servants, or naborías. They traveled and lived in an individual Spaniard’s entourage and served as middlemen for dealing with locals in tasks such as tribute collection (Newson 1987:100; Sherman 1979:102–111). Several hundred slaves were freed from San Salvadoran ownership in 1548, though some of those were not resident in the city (Barón Castro 1996:61; Lardé y Larín 2000:194; Sherman 1979:71–73, 148). Residents of the town were given encomienda rights to approximately 12,000 laborers in Cuscatlán, some of whom likely provided labor services within San Salvador for months at a time (Kramer 1994:7–8; Sherman 1979:314, 324, 348). Local Pipils and other indigenous people may have lived in San Salvador as wives, especially in the early years of conquest and colonization (Herrerra 2007:129–130; Lardé y Larín 2000:194–195, 260–261), concubines (Herrerra 2007:137–139; Sherman 1979:305–306), itinerant laborers (Sherman 1979:96), apprentices, craftspeople, and nurses (Sherman 1979:323). Sons of native nobility may have been educated in the duties of church assistants, as they were in contemporary Gracias a Dios in Honduras, following a royal decree in 1537 (Sherman 1979:272).
104 J. J. Card The Spanish invaders were outnumbered by conquistadores mejicanos, Meso americans who aided the Spaniards in conquering new lands, in some cases involuntarily while in others to extend the influence of home communities in Mexico or Guatemala or to obtain rights and privileges for themselves and their descendants (Barón Castro 1996:66; Escalante Arce 2001:20–21; Lardé y Larín 2000: 53; Matthew 2004, 2007). They were the majority of Alvarado’s conquest army when it left Mexico and were joined by additional Mesoamerican troops along the way. Three hundred troops from Xoconosco were part of the first San Salvador, but less than half returned to Guatemala alive the following year (Matthew 2007:107–108). Particularly relevant for Ciudad Vieja were the six to seven thousand Mexican troops led to Guatemala by Jorge de Alvarado in 1527 when the push to reoccupy San Salvador began. These newcomers came from Tlaxcala, Quauhquechollan, Cholula, Coyoacan, Oaxaca, and other locales. Another force included sixty Mixtecs in the retinue of San Salvador vecino and artillerist Diego de Usagre (Lardé y Larín 2000:192–193). San Salvador would have been the second largest home for the ten to twelve thousand Mexican soldiers who fought in the conquest of Central America, as well as some noncombatants who followed as settlers (Matthew 2004:78–86, 2007). With the transfer of San Salvador granted in 1545, satellite communities of different ethnic groups from throughout Mesoamerica were founded in the hills around the new city (Escalante Arce 2001:119– 121; Lardé y Larín 2000:280–282).
Archaeological Investigation The villa of San Salvador is one of the more archaeologically accessible sites from the Spanish Conquest and subsequent Early Colonial era, covered by farm fields instead of a modern urban center. The last two decades have seen intensive archaeological research and heritage management at the site, including preservation and investigation by the Academia Salvadoreña de la Historia (Escalante Arce 2002), the Spanish government, and El Salvador’s Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y el Arte, now the Secretaria de Cultura (Erquicia Cruz 2004). The most comprehensive investigation has been the Proyecto Arqueológico Ciudad Vieja (PACV), directed by Dr. William R. Fowler Jr. (Fowler, ed. 2011). From 1996 to 2005, the PACV included topographic mapping and surface collection (Fowler and Timmons 2011; Hamilton et al. 2011; Timmons 1998), geophysical survey (Fowler, Estrada-Belli, and Kvamme 2011), and extensive horizontal exposure of 15 partial or full structures (Figure 5-2) as well as additional nonstructure testing (Fowler, ed. 2011). Included in these excavations are 3D2, a possible commercial area and food vendor or tavern (Card 2007:482–589; Fowler 2011b; Fowler and Card 2007; Fowler et al. 2007), 6F1, the likely home of a high-status Spanish encomendero (Card 2007:520–526, 555–556, 562; Gallardo Mejía 2004, 2011), domestic and food preparation contexts in structures 6F3 and 6F4 (Card 2011; Fowler, Timmons, and West 2011; Scott 2011), and 2F1, a likely indigenous-led household with no European material culture other than a few iron nails (Card 2007; Hamilton 2011). All excavated structures were associated with brimmed plates.
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Ceramics The primary ceramic group (Alvarado) at the site, 96 percent of all ceramic vessel remains, includes utilitarian and red-on-buff types very similar to those associated in El Salvador and Guatemala with the Nahua people collectively known as the Pipil (Card 2007:175–199, 205–212, 216–217; compare with Beaudry 1983:175–176; Bove 2002:187–188; Haberland 1964; Kosakowsky et al. 2000:210, 213, Figure 14; Sampeck 2007; Sharer 1978:60, Figure 30e1–3; Urban 1993:43–44, Figure 6.6). Other minor ceramic groups of note at the site include Bermudez, a finely sorted, red-slipped ware used primarily to make bowls and brimmed plates (Card 2007:225–229), and Gutierrez, a type of polished gray bowl that may be related to bowls from Oaxaca, or even originate in Oaxaca, home to the only conquistadores mejicanos identified by origin at Ciudad Vieja (Card 2007:230–236). The most distinctive difference between the Ciudad Vieja ceramic assemblage and those of other Pipil sites is the preponderance of brimmed serving plates with forms derived from European majolica (Figure 5-3). A total of 582 plate fragments or partial plates were analyzed from the Ciudad Vieja collection. The brimmed plate form was divided into four zones, labeled A–D (Figure 5-4). Zone A consists of the lip of the vessel, classified into one of twenty-two different form categories by profile (Figure 5-5).1 Zone B is the brim, or ala, of a plate consisting of the area between, but not including, the lip and the arista (the “corner” where the brim meets the well) and was classified into thirteen profile categories (Figure 5-6). Despite the expectation that the angle of the brim might dictate the size of a vessel, orifice diameter does not significantly correlate with brim form. Zone C consists of the somewhat vertical zone between the brim and the base of the plate, referred to here as the arista (Lister and Lister 1975:18), with nineteen form categories (Figure 5-7). Zone D is the base of the vessel, a section difficult to identify on its own as part of a plate, and with only nine form categories (Figure 5-8). In comparison with published information on majolica, the brim (Zone B) and the arista (Zone C) yield the clearest results and can be easily identified (lip morphology is not well-represented in the literature, and large fragments with the brim and base are rare) and form the basis of the comparisons below. The wide brims of Ciudad Vieja plates were the primary field for red-painted geometric designs. Roughly a third of plates feature parallel diagonal lines combined with other geometric motifs while a smaller number have a more complex design also found on the necks of liquid transport jugs (Figure 5-10). The diagonal line motif is an adaptation to flat plates of geometric designs found on Postclassic and Conquest-era Pipil bowls (Sampeck 2007:353–359, 397–402, Figures 5-2, 5-3, 5-4; Verhagen 1997:Figure 7.1), including those at Ciudad Vieja (Figure 5-9). A smaller number were partially or completely slipped with a monochrome red. Notably, all five of the morisco-style plates were red slipped, setting these forms apart from the overwhelmingly buff or red-on-buff Italianate plates. There is no sign of European influence in the painted designs. Technologically the Ciudad Vieja hybrid plates are purely indigenous, with no evidence of wheel throwing or glazing. Flat-brim plates (form B9) were distinct
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Figure 5-3. Cepeda Plato (Alvarado Group) hybrid plate, Ciu dad Vieja.
Figure 5-4. Ciudad Vieja Plate Project measurements and morphology schematic and photo of most complete hybrid plate in the collection (plate profile drawing by Francisco Galdamez, annotations by author).
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Figure 5-5. Zone A forms.
Figure 5-6. Zone B forms.
Figure 5-7. Zone C forms.
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Figure 5-8. Zone D forms.
Figure 5-9. Diagonal lines motif on (a) Cepeda Plato plates and (b) Villalta Red-on-Natural–Cajete var. bowls, Ciudad Vieja. in being more likely to be polished and have more finely sorted tempering than deeper plates and bowls with steeply angled brims (Card 2007:173–174, Table 6.9), but whether this was a technical or stylistic concern is unclear. Regarding the difference between bowls and brimmed plates, it should be remembered that Ciudad Vieja was not occupied prior to 1525, and probably not until 1528, other than as evidenced by an ephemeral trace of Terminal Classic materials from centuries before the main occupation. Therefore, all bowls at the site are in essence “protohistoric” or of the conquest/colonial era. Examples of painted design and profile of Ciudad Vieja bowls can be seen in Figure 5-9. However, stylistic comparison between these plates and bowls, as an index of colonial transformation, is problematic as all these vessels are from a colonial occupation. Furthermore, while the Ciudad Vieja ceramic assemblage may have been initially produced by potters originating in various communities (discussed below), at
Italianate Pipil Potters 109
Figure 5-10. (a) Motif on Cepeda Plato plates and (b) motif on Villalta Redon-Natural–Cantaro var. liquid transport vessels, Ciudad Vieja. this time the identity of those specific communities is unknown. This leaves us with a broader regional comparison with Late Postclassic materials at other sites. The citations in the previous paragraph to Inez Verhagen’s analysis at Caluco and Kathryn Sampeck’s pottery sequence (the Ciudad Vieja assemblage includes one or possibly two fragments identifiable as Catalina Red-on-White from Sampeck’s sequence, while Alvarado materials are more broadly similar to protohistoric Teshcal pottery from this sequence) from the Rio Ceniza valley, both in western El Salvador, provide the best documented comparative materials.
Majolica and Copywares The antecedents to the Ciudad Vieja plates were the Pipil bowl tradition and the Spanish and Italian tin-glazed majolica tradition. Majolica is one of several terms used to describe pottery fired with a tin-based opaque glaze. Iraqi potters in Basra and Samarra, who were influenced by Chinese porcelain, began creating opaque white glazes in the eighth century (Watson 2004:37). The technology spread across the Muslim world and beyond until lusterwares, the predecessors of majolica, were produced in Moorish Spain by the eleventh century and
110 J. J. Card in Italy by the thirteenth (Carnegy 1993:12; Lister and Lister 1987; Pleguezuelo 2003:26–27; Poole 1997). Contemporary with Spain’s exploration of the Atlantic and conflict with indigenous American states, Italian Renaissance potters and painters were producing highly valued majolica and were lured by governments to work outside Italy (Carnegy 1993:36, 60; Wilson 1987:164). Italian potters and technology began arriving in Seville in the sixteenth century, and by the middle of the century, Italian-style plates were an important product of Andalusia (Pleguezuelo and Pilar Lafuente 1995:237–240). The vast majority of Ciudad Vieja plates are similar to the thin-walled brimmed plates of the Italian tradition. Only five of the plates resemble the thicker bowl-shaped nonbrimmed morisco tradition deriving from medieval Muslim Spanish potters and as noted above are marked by being red slipped in part or whole (Figure 5-11, compare with Lister and Lister 1982: Figure 4.3 h–j, 4.23 h–j). Spanish-produced majolica in the Italianate tradition is less common than morisco wares in the Americas during the early and midsixteenth century but is present in Mexico City by roughly 1530 (Deagan 1987; Lister and Lister 1982), and two fragments of Italianate Sevilla Blue-on-White were identified at Ciudad Vieja. Italian majolica plates painted with elaborate polychrome scenes, known as stile bello (“beautiful style”) and istoriato (“story-painted”), have been preserved and studied in museum and private collections by art historians (Carnegy 1993: 31; Coutts 2001:19–22). Using the data from seven published museum catalogs (Hess 2002; Lessmann 1979; Liverani and Reggi 1976; Poole 1997; Rackham 1977; Rasmussen 1989; Watson 1986), I seriated the forms of 1,306 Italian majolica plates, using the WinBASP analytical suite (Scollar 1994). Dating of these vessels is based on a mix of stylistic and historical information. In the case of stylistic evidence, a central date was assigned from the date range provided in the texts. Two systems (Lessmann 1979; Rackham 1977) for classifying Italian majolica morphology are used in nearly all published sources (Figures 5-12 and 5-13). For my analysis I combined categories where form was redundant between the two systems, privileging the Rackham system due to its wider use (Table 5-1). In the minority of cases where the actual vessel profile was published (Hess 2002; Poole 1997), I classified those vessels into the Rackham or Lessmann systems. I assigned forms from these systems to the Ciudad Vieja nonmajolica plates and compared them with the majolica seriation. The totals are listed in Table 5-2, and the six most common B/C forms are illustrated in Figure 5-14. Just over half of all the identifiable locally produced plate forms at Ciudad Vieja correspond to a group of plates with flat to slightly curved brims. This group appears in the early 1500s and chronologically centers on the 1520s to 1540s (Figure 5-15), matching the historically documented occupation of the second villa of San Salvador of 1528 to 1545. The majolica models for this group are largely associated with the potters of Urbino, Italy (Watson 1986:24–27). One very popular form from this time that is not reproduced at Ciudad Vieja is Rackham Form 14, a simple bowl with a pedestal foot, typically decorated with the portraits of young women and known as coppe d’amore, “love dishes” (Poole 1997:297–298).
Italianate Pipil Potters 111
Figure 5-11. Morisco and Italianate influence on plates at Ciudad Vieja: (a) morisco-form plate and (b) hybrid Italianate-style hybrid plates.
Figure 5-12. Forms from Lessmann’s (1979:586–587) Italian majolica classification (courtesy Herzog Anton Ulrich-Museum).
112 J. J. Card
Figure 5-13. Forms from Rackham’s (1977:456–457) Italian majolica classification (courtesy of the Victoria and Albert Museum). Table 5-1. Equivalent Italian Majolica Forms in Lessmann and Rackham Systems Lessmann Form
L5 L10 L11
L16 L17 L18 L21
R14 R14 R14
R3 no foot
The remaining 48 percent of the identifiable plates are more varied in form and belong to one of two chronological categories. About 35 percent of all identifiable forms (Lessmann forms 2, 4, 8) existed in Italy during the documented San Salvador occupation but were more popular after 1545. The remaining 13 percent of identifiable forms originated either in the mid-1540s (Lessmann form 3) or completely postdate 1545 and were primarily in use in the third quarter of the sixteenth century (Lessmann form 7). These forms either occur only after the San Salvador transfer was granted or are so close to 1545 that it is unlikely they
Italianate Pipil Potters 113
Figure 5-14. Examples from the six plate B/C forms most commonly found at Ciu dad Vieja (as listed in Table 5-2): (a) Plate P28, Rackham form 10; (b) Plate P12, Lessmann form 8; (c) Plate P256, Less mann form 4; (d) Plate P187, Rackham form 2; (e) Plate P174, Lessman form 3; (f) Plate P219, Lessman form 9. Table 5-2. Plate Forms in Ciudad Vieja Study Sample Form
Lessmann 8 Rackham 2
Lessmann 2 Morisco
Rackham 11 Rackham 5
11 5 4 3 3 1
6.0 2.7 2.2 1.6 1.6 0.5
could have reached Central America before transfer was granted. These forms indicate that majolica vessels continued to be imported to Ciudad Vieja and their forms copied by indigenous potters into the 1550s and possibly the 1560s. The archaeological evidence does support abandonment, at least of ceramic imports, before the 1570s, as there are no fragments of Ming porcelain or ring-necked olive jars at Ciudad Vieja (Card 2007:549–553). The form of the locally produced brimmed plates of Ciudad Vieja was very sensitive, with minimal time lag, to changes in European material culture. The
Figure 5-15. Seriation of Italian majolica. Ciudad Vieja forms marked with profile and occurrences. Perpendicular rectangle indicates historically documented Villa of San Salvador occupation, at odds with presence of plate forms Lessman 3 and 7 (prepared with BASP [Scollar 1994]).
114 J. J. Card
Italianate Pipil Potters 115 trendy Italianate wares are represented not just by one form but by a suite of flat-brimmed forms. The variety of forms closely related to en vogue wares in Europe suggests that indigenous potters had contact with a substantial quantity of majolica originals imported into San Salvador. The actual number of majolica fragments found at Ciudad Vieja is miniscule (23 total out of over 44,000 pieces of pottery, with only five or six examples reliably from Italianate vessels), suggesting that the valuable imported originals may have been carefully curated. Only a small percentage of Ciudad Vieja plates are copies of morisco majolica plates. This disparity alone suggests the value of carefully examining copywares for their influences.
Plate and Copyware Usage With a few notable exceptions, Ciudad Vieja ceramics are very similar to those of other Postclassic assemblages in El Salvador. The presence of Gutierrez Polished Gray bowls, reminiscent of gray tripod bowls from Postclassic Oaxaca and Tehuantepec, parallels the documented presence of Mixtec conquistadores in San Salvador (Card 2007:230–236). A small number of European transport, service, and sanitary vessels were imported into Ciudad Vieja. But the serving plates, introducing European form and design into a Mesoamerican technological and aesthetic style, are the largest postinvasion change. They are the primary serving vessel at Ciudad Vieja, overall accounting for 17 percent of vessels at the site (by rim sherd count), and are found associated with every structure, making up 9 to 29 percent of individual assemblages (Table 5-3). The incorporation of European ceramic attributes into indigenous potting traditions has been documented at numerous colonial sites in the Americas, especially in the former Spanish Empire. But compared with these other cases, Ciudad Vieja is unusual in having what appears to be substantial indigenous adoption. Structure 2F1 on the southeastern margin of town was likely the residence of an indigenous household (Card 2007:Chapter 7), without Spanish architecture or material culture, and with evidence for textile production by indigenous women (Hamilton 2009:357–359, 2011). And yet this structure shows the second-highest use of locally produced brimmed plates, with low usage of bowls. Plates outnumber bowls in three-quarters of excavated structures, and the ratio of occurrence is generally inverse. Painted designs on plates are very similar to those on bowls and, combined with the inverse relationship, might suggest that they filled a similar category of use, with plates replacing bowls to at least some degree. Indigenous use of copywares is not the expected pattern found at most colonial sites (Table 5-4). Scarcity of European goods has been cited as a reason for the Spanish use of indigenous ceramics and for the creation of copywares for Spanish use (Vernon 1988:79). Mexico City provides a particularly intriguing case, with documentary evidence of Spanish and criollo colonists ordering and using hybrid pottery for aesthetic reasons, possibly even including the development of a criollo Mexican identity (Charlton and Fournier 2010). Limited quantities of ceramics were imported to the Americas, and with a rare early exception at
116 J. J. Card Table 5-3. Plates and Bowls in Ciudad Vieja Assemblages; Rim Sherds Only Structure
Plate % of Assemblage
Serving Bowl % of Assemblage
Plates % of Serving ware
Spanish architecture; two sets of floor tile; more olive jars
No Spanish ceramics or architecture; textile production; likely indigenous household
Spanish architecture; iron forge; midden deposit may be postabandonment
Spanish architecture; no roof tile; metate equipped kitchen; trash midden
Spanish architecture; earthen oven, metate; buried in early colonial terrace
Spanish architecture; iron forge; kitchen midden; possible commercial center and tavern
Spanish architecture; mosaic floor; carved column bases
La Isabella (Deagan and Cruxent 2002:54, 149–152), Spanish potters did not begin extensive production in the New World until closer to the middle of the sixteenth century (Deagan 1987; Goggin 1960, 1968; Lister and Lister 1975, 1982, 1987; Marken 1994; Pleguezuelo 2003; Pleguezuelo and Pilar Lafuente 1995). A typical case is that of the seventeenth-century missions among the Apalachee in Florida. Apalachee potters produced small numbers of Spanish-influenced vessels, which were mostly found in association with Hispanic structures and contexts. Hybrid wares made up less than 1 percent of the assemblage at the Spanish presidio Santa María de Galve, less than 2 percent of indigenous contexts at the Apalachee mission site of San Luis in Florida, but 10 percent of Hispanic contexts at San Luis (Bense and Wilson 2003:174; Cordell 2002:47–51; Vernon 1988:79–80; Vernon and Cordell 1991).
Hybrid Ware Attributes
Pitchers, jug, brimmed plates (66% of hybrid vessels), handled cup, ring bases (on decline). Surface treatment, decoration slipping, and plate forms more variable than in Florida. Plates larger than European counterparts, suggesting communal serving.
Brimmed-plates, few ring bases. Plate forms close to European models. Traditional red painted designs.
Ciudad Vieja, El Salvador
Pitchers, brimmed plates, cups, ring bases. Plates red-slipped, completely or in zones marked by incision.
Brimmed plates (8% of assemblage), handled cup. Red slipping on hybrid and nonhybrid forms.
Brimmed red-slipped plates, bowls, pitchers. Distinct temper in plates.
San Luis, Florida
Dog River, Alabama
St. Catherines Island, Georgia
Substantial European use of hybrids
Brimmed red-slipped plates (19% of assemblage), bowls, pitchers. Ring bases, possible olive jar-style necks.
Santa María, Amelia Island, Florida
Major indigenous use of hybrids
Seventeenth-century Guale mission sites, preexisting settlements.
Saunders 2000, 2009
Silvia 2000 Eighteenth-century French site, numerous European goods, possible warehouse.
Spanish town 1528–1545/1570, not previously inhabited. Pipil and Mexican indigenous inhabitants. Primary serving vessel, 17% site wide.
Boyd et al. 1951; Smith 1948; Vernon 1988
Cordell 2002; Silvia 2000
Eighteenth-century multiethnic refugee site. Apalachee brought hybrid tradition (32% of assemblage) from Florida, perhaps adopted by some Mobilian potters. Brimmed bowls 18% of assemblage at indigenous house with substantial European goods.
Seventeenth-century Apalachee mission site. Hybrids 2% of indigenous assemblage, 10% of Spanish assemblage.
Saunders 2000, 2009
Late seventeenth-century multiethnic refugee mission site.
Table 5-4. European Influenced Indigenous Ceramics in the Americas
Hybrid Ware Attributes
Therrien et al. 2002
Zeitlin and Thomas 1997
Charlton and Fournier 2010; Iñañez et al. 2010; Lister and Lister 1982; RodríguezAlegría 2002; RodríguezAlegría et al. 2003
Highland indigenous settlements, Spanish convent for the glazed wares after ca. 1650. Twentieth-century Yucatec village, traditional female potters. Postclassic Zapotec and later resettled site (into eighteenth century), possibly multiethnic. Sixteenth-century capital city, preexisting Nahua city of Tenochtitlán.
European-style plates. Some wheelthrown glazed vessels with red-painted indigenous designs.
Brimmed ring-base bowls and cups, copies of porcelain. Cream-slipped, inscribed with red paint.
Ring base bowls, candeleros, smallnecked bottles. More oxidized paste. Wheel-throwing.
Various hybrids appear alongside European-tradition pottery and vibrant modified Aztec wares. Glazed indigenous pottery. Some brimmed plates in Aztec Red Ware. White-slipped sgrafitto-decorated lead glazed Indigena Ware used in city, produced in western Mexico.
Mama, Yucatán, Mexico
Santa Cruz, Tehuantepec, Mexico
Ortega and Fondeur de Ortega 1978
Brimmed plates include copy of raised boss in well
El Yayal, Cuba
Arawak potters in Spanish town, 1492– 1562 (decline after 1525).
Preexisting Taino village, significant Spanish material culture.
Bottles, goblets, bowls, and jars. Sgraffito, red designs on white slip, kiln firing, some wheel-throwing.
Concepción de la Vega, Dominican Republic
Substantial hybrid tradition, level of use unknown
Table 5-4 (continued)
Spanish town, Guarani inhabitants
Pitchers, scallop-edged plates and bowls.
Plain or red-slipped. Sporadic wheelthrowing and Spanish forms.
Caluco, El Salvador
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Pitchers. Glazed ladle censer
Mission San Gregorio de Abó, New Mexico
Hybrids present, level of use unknown
Pipil cacao town, late sixteenth to early seventeenth century
Brimmed plates 2% of mixed prehistoric/ historic assemblage.
Bottle Creek, Alabama
Capital city, new settlement. Hybrid pottery possibly from late sixteenth century.
Seventeenth-century Tompiro mission site
Luján Muñoz 1975
Bense and Wilson 2003
Spanish fort and village. Indigenous population small but varied (incl. Mexican women). Refugee site for Apalachee 1704–1719.
Hybrid brimmed plates minimal (