The Oxford Handbook of Light in Archaeology 9780198788218, 0198788215

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The Oxford Handbook of

LIGHT IN ARCHAEOLOGY

The Oxford Handbook of

LIGHT IN ARCHAEOLOGY Edited by

C O STA S PA PA D O P OU L O S and

HO L L EY   M OY E S

1

3 Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Oxford University Press 2022 The moral rights of the authors‌have been asserted First Edition published in 2022 Impression: 1 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2021940232 ISBN 978–​0–​19–​878821–​8 DOI: 10.1093/oxfordhb/9780198788218.001.0001 Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

Contents ix xxi

List of Contributors List of Illustrations

1. Illuminating Sensory Archaeologies Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes

1

PA RT I   DA R K N E S S 2. Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto

19

3. The Role of Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice Efrosyni Boutsikas

43

4. Constructing the Invisible: Light and Darkness in the Topography of Hades Athanassia Zografou

64

5. Darkness and the Imagination: The Role of Environment in the Development of Spiritual Beliefs Holley Moyes, Lillian Rigoli, Stephanie Huette, Daniel R. Montello, Teenie Matlock, and Michael J. Spivey 6. Illuminating Time: The Visibility of Temporality in Prehistory Gail Higginbottom and Vincent Mom

85

105

PA RT I I   L IG H T I N M Y T H , R I T UA L , A N D C O SM OL O G Y 7. Rediscovering the Winter Solstice Alignment at Newgrange, Ireland Robert Hensey 8. Light and Shadow Effects in Megalithic Monuments in the Iberian Peninsula A. César González-​García

141

164

vi  Contents

9. Sunlight, Divination, and the Dead in Aegean Ritual Tradition Lucy Goodison

185

10. Illuminating Triangulations: Moonlight and the Mississippian World Timothy R. Pauketat

207

11. The Chacoan World: Light and Shadow, Stone and Sky Ruth M. Van Dyke

225

12. Animate Shadows of Bears and Giants Kevin Conti and William Walker

244

PA RT I I I   L IG H T I N S AC R E D A RC H I T E C T U R E 13. The Beautiful Face of Ra: The Role of Sunlight in the Architecture of Ancient Egypt Giulio Magli

267

14. The Handling of Light: Its Effect on Form and Space in the Greek Temple and the Byzantine Church Iakovos Potamianos

284

15. In Visible Presence: The Role of Light in Shaping Religious Atmospheres Mikkel Bille and Tim Flohr Sørensen

303

16. Lighting in Muslim and Christian Religious Buildings: A Comparative Study Maria Sardi and Ioannis Motsianos

325

PA RT I V   T H E M E A N I N G OF L IG H T 17. Prehistoric Light in the Air: Celestial Symbols of the Bronze Age Emília Pásztor

355

18. Phenomenology of Light: The Glitter of Salvation in Bessarion’s Cross Bissera V. Pentcheva

374

19. Τhe Light of the Flame: Use and Symbolism of Light and Lighting Devices in Traditional Greek Culture Eleni Bintsi

393

Contents   vii

20. Encountering Photoamulets and the Use of Apotropaic Light in Late Antiquity Eric C. Lapp

415

PA RT V   L IG H T I N P R I VAT E , D OM E S T IC , A N D WOR K I N G E N V I RON M E N T S 21. Visibility, Privacy, and Missing Windows: Lighting Domestic Space in Ancient Mesopotamia Mary Shepperson

439

22. Lighting the Good Life: The Role of Light in the Aristocratic Housing System during Late Antiquity Jean-​Philippe  Carrié

458

23. Thirty Days of Night: The Role of Light and Shadow in Inuit Architecture, North of the Arctic Circle Peter Dawson and Richard Levy

473

24. Household Consumption of Artificial Light at Pompeii David G. Griffiths 25. Industrializing Light: The Development and Deployment of Artificial Lighting in Early Factories Ian West

500

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PA RT V I   SI M U L AT ION S A N D R E C ON ST RU C T ION S OF L IG H T 26. Materializing Light, Making Worlds: Optical Image Projection within the Megalithic Passage Tombs of Britain and Ireland Aaron Watson and Ronnie Scott 27. Light and Dark in Prehistoric Malta Simon Stoddart, Caroline Malone, Michael Anderson, and Robert Barratt 28. The Eleusinian Projector: The Hierophant’s Optical Method of Conjuring the Goddess Matt Gatton

541 560

583

viii  Contents

29. Reconstructing Artificial Light in Ancient Greece Dorina Moullou and Frangiskos V. Topalis 30. Lighting in Reconstructed Contexts: Experiential Archaeology with Pyrotechnologies Dragoş Gheorghiu 31. Çatalhöyük: A Study of Light and Darkness—​A Photo-​essay Eva Bosch

604

628 646

PA RT V I I   L IG H T I N OB J E C T C U R AT ION A N D K N OW L E D G E P RODU C T ION 32. Light and its Interaction with Antiquities and Works of Art: A Conservator’s Perspective Eleni Kotoula 33. Lighting and Museum Exhibits Malcolm Innes

671 693

34. Modalities of Meaning: Light and Shadow in Archaeological Images 714 Nessa Leibhammer Afterword: On Light Tim Ingold

737

Index

745

List of Contributors

Michael Anderson  is Professor in Classics at San Francisco State University, USA, and is a specialist in the interpretation of spatial-​visual analysis, particularly in the Roman world. He received his PhD, on the house in Pompeii, in 2004 from the University of Cambridge, UK, and is director of the Via Consolare Project at Pompeii. His publications are focused on digital and computing technology and its application to archaeology and classical scholarship, especially 3D reconstruction, data capture, and geographical information systems (GIS) analysis; Roman material culture, art, architecture, and primary fieldwork, specializing in Pompeii, Herculaneum, Rome, and Ostia; and ancient daily life, analysis of domestic space, the city, commerce and the arts in classical literature and the material record. Robert Barratt  was a graduate student at the University of Cambridge, UK, and is now a graduate student at Queen’s Belfast, UK, working on the deployment of 3D visualisation as a research tool, currently focused on the Brochtorff Xaghra Circle and temples on the island of Malta. He is a graduate of the University of Cardiff, with wide experience in fieldwork, including on the island of Malta. He is experienced in the use of digital photography for 3D modelling as well as other forms of 3D digital reconstruction. Mikkel Bille  has a PhD in Anthropology from University College London, UK, where he studied material culture and heritage among the Bedouin in the Middle East. He is currently working on a comparative project on the introduction of energy-​saving lighting technologies in Denmark and Jordan with reference to orchestrations of atmosphere and environmental ethics and consumption. Eleni Bintsi  has studied History and Archaeology (BA) and Museology (MA) at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, Greece, and she is the director of the Folklife and Ethnological Museum of Macedonia–​Thrace (FEMM-​Th) in Thessaloniki. Her responsibilities cover acquisitions, collection management, exhibition curation, research, and publications. Eleni was the curator on behalf of FEMM-​Th of the temporary exhibition ‘Light on Light: An Illuminating Story’ concerning the history of artificial lighting from antiquity to the present day. She was also co-​editor of the catalogue and the guide that accompanied the exhibition, which was presented by FEMM-​Th in collaboration with the Museum of Byzantine Culture, in Thessaloniki and Athens. Eva Bosch  is a painter, lecturer in the history of art, and a researcher into prehistoric art. She was born in 1952 in Barcelona. In 1973, she fled the upheavals of Franco’s regime to settle in the UK. She splits her time between field research and her studios in London and Barcelona. She holds an MA in fine art painting from the Royal College of Art in London, where she was granted an award to study at the Rijksakademie van Beeldende Kunsten in Amsterdam. She has given numerous lectures, has exhibited her work in the UK and abroad, and has

x   List of Contributors won the Pollock Krasner Award. She has had residencies in Italy, France, Spain, and Taiwan, while in 2007 she collaborated with Ian Hodder at the Catalhöyük research project, where she studied frescoes and reliefs, as well as the experience and perception of sound, light, and shadow. At present she is the lead artist of the project Aşıklı Science and Art. Together with 15 other artists, she is working towards an exhibition that aims to present the work of the archaeologists excavating at the Neolithic settlement of Aşıklı Höyük. Efrosyni Boutsikas  is a Senior Lecturer in Classical Archaeology at the University of Kent, UK, and a member of the Council of the International Society for Archaeoastronomy in Culture (ISAAC). Her research focuses on ancient Greek religious experience, memory, myth, and the role of time and space in ritual performance. She has written and co-​authored papers on the role of astronomy and catasterism myths in shaping ancient religious festival experience and ritual practice. More recently, her research has also extended to the study of ancient experience of landscapes associated with mythical narratives. She is involved in international collaborations in Spain, Italy, Denmark, and Greece, and has directed funded research projects in Greece, Cyprus, Sicily, and Turkey. Efrosyni is a co-director of the University of Kent’s Interdisciplinary Centre in Spatial Studies (KISS) and the author of The Cosmos in Ancient Greek Religious Experience: Sacred Space, Memory, and Cognition (Cambridge University Press, 2020) and a co-​ editor of Advancing Cultural Astronomy: Studies in Honour of Clive Ruggles (Springer, 2021). Jean-​Philippe Carrié  specializes in late antique archaeology and history. His interest in the study of both aristocratic housing techniques and the architecture of power gave him the opportunity to consider the basis of the archaeology of light used for purposes of self-​ representation by the Roman and non-​Roman elite at the end of the Roman Empire. Besides his teaching commitments for several universities, his activity as a field archaeologist has taken him regularly to France, Italy, and most recently Egypt on various field operations, mostly devoted to architectural archaeology. Kevin Conti  is an archaeologist who resides in southeastern Utah, USA. He received his MA in Anthropology from New Mexico State University. His interests include rock art, Native American history, and parallels between Mesoamerican and Pueblo mythology and religion. Peter Dawson  is a Professor in the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology at the University of Calgary, Canada, and a Research Associate at the Arctic Institute of North America. He has conducted archaeological fieldwork in the Canadian Arctic for over 20 years. His research interests include the digital preservation of polar heritage at risk, 3D visualization of archaeological data, and the archaeology of the Kivalliq District of Nunavut. His work has been published in such journals as Journal of Archaeological Science, Journal of Field Archaeology, World Archaeology, IEEE Computer Graphics, and Journal of Social Archaeology. Matt Gatton  is an artist and scholar based in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He holds a BA from the University of Louisville, USA, and an MFA from the University of the Philippines. He was a lecturer at De La Salle University, USA. Gatton specializes in the aesthetic and ritual uses of physical light in built spaces during prehistory and antiquity, with particular emphasis on the phenomenon of the camera obscura. He has written on the origins of art for the Festschrift of Oxford art historian Martin Kemp. Gatton’s groundbreaking work on optical distortions

List of Contributors    xi at Lascaux and his Bayesian statistical analysis of Palaeolithic images were published in the Journal of Applied Mathematics. He has lectured at the Institute of Archaeology at Oxford among others. A large arts festival in Belgium was themed on Gatton’s art writings, which were also presented by Neil de Grasse Tyson on National Geographic’s ‘Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey’. Dragoş Gheorghiu is an anthropologist and experimental archaeologist whose studies focus on the process of cognition, material culture, and art. Alongside archaeological experiments, he uses visual metaphors to augment the archaeological imagination and studies the experientiality of the performers. His recent research is concerned with the problem of immersion in re-​enactments and in reconstructed contexts in augmented and mixed reality. He is Secretary of the UISPP Commission ‘Neolithic Civilizations of the Mediterranean and Europe’, member of EAA and UAP (Association of Professional Artists in Romania), and Paul Mellon Fellow at CASVA, National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC. A. César González-​ García is an astronomer (with a PhD in Astronomy from the University of Groningen, Netherlands) working on Cultural Astronomy at the Institute of Heritage Sciences (Incipit), of the Spanish National Research Council (CSIC) in Santiago de Compostela, Spain. His research encompasses a wide range of themes from the Megalithic phenomenon to classic Mediterranean cultures and medieval churches. One of his main research topics deals with Megalithic monuments and their possible astronomical relationships throughout Europe and the Mediterranean. He has carried out field research in The Netherlands, Germany, Bulgaria, Jordan, and Spain, writing several essays and articles on this subject. He has also developed a novel line of investigation by introducing cluster analysis techniques to the investigation of the orientation of these monuments. He is currently President of the European Society for Astronomy in Culture (SEAC). Lucy Goodison is an archaeologist who has been a Leverhulme Research Fellow, an Honorary Research Fellow of University College London, and a Phyllis and Eileen Gibbs Travelling Research Fellow of Newnham College, Cambridge. Her publications include Death, Women and the Sun (1989); (co-​edited with C. Morris) Ancient Goddesses: the Myths and the Evidence (1998); and (with C. Guarita) A New Catalogue of the Mesara-​Type Tombs (2005). Her work on sunrise alignments at Bronze Age sites such as the Mesara-​type tombs and the Knossos Palace has raised new questions about perceptions of light: challenging previous ideas about religious belief, it has suggested a new, somatic agenda for discourse about prehistoric Aegean ritual. David Griffiths  is Senior Project Officer at Northern Archaeological Associates Ltd, Co. Durham, UK. His doctoral research assessed the social and economic significance of the consumption of artificial light at Pompeii, testing the hypothesis that a reliable and affordable supply of fuel and lighting equipment was a major constituent in Roman urban living. David works as ceramics specialist on research projects in Italy and the UK: the Anglo-​ American Project in Pompeii (University of Bradford and University of Oxford), the Vagnari Vicus and Cemetery Projects, Puglia (University of Sheffield, UK, and McMaster University, Canada), the Roman Villa at San Felice, Puglia (St Mary’s University, Canada), and Slack Roman Fort and Vicus, West Yorkshire, UK. He is co-​director of the Pompeii Post-​excavation Project.

xii   List of Contributors Robert Hensey  is an Irish archaeologist and author of First Light: The Origins of Newgrange (2015) and co-​editor of The Archaeology of Darkness (2016). His research is primarily focused on the monuments and societies of the northwest European Neolithic, with particular reference to Irish passage tomb chronology, art and ritual. Currently, with partners, he is involved in the Human Population Dynamics project at Carrowkeel, Co. Sligo, Ireland, a multifaceted study which includes osteological analysis, radiometric dating, and isotopic analyses of a significant bone assemblage from the Carrowkeel passage tombs. Other ongoing research includes assisting with the biography of megalithic art at Millin Bay, Northern Ireland, a collaborative project with the University of Edinburgh, using new photogrammetry-​based methods to facilitate an in-​depth study of the megalithic art from the highly decorated monument at Millin Bay, Co. Down. Gail Higginbottom  is currently a Marie Curie Research Fellow @Incipit, CSIC in Santiago de Compostela, Spain, working on a project entitled ‘SHoW: SHARED WORLDS’, revealing prehistoric shared worlds along Europe’s Atlantic façade. Other significant research includes ‘The World Ends Here, the World Begins Here:  Bronze Age Megalithic Monuments in Western Scotland’, covering the standing stones of Argyll, Mull, Tiree, and Coll and their possible ‘representation’ of shared values, as well as ‘Origins of Standing Stone Astronomy in Britain’. She is a cultural landscape archaeologist and theorist researching monuments, landscapes, astronomy, depositional behaviour. and the belief systems of ‘prehistoric’ peoples. She implements geographical information systems and mathematically oriented approaches and applies interpretive analyses. Essentially, her work highlights the fluidity between that which is made and that which is natural in the creation of ‘worlds’ by prehistoric peoples. Stephanie Huette  is an Associate Professor in Psychology at the University of Memphis and an affiliate of the Institute for Intelligent Systems, the University’s interdisciplinary research centre. She is also an affiliate faculty member of the University of California, Merced’s Center for Climate Change Communication. Her current research centres on language processing, and on how real-​world contexts affect our understanding of meaning in the moment, and over longer timescales. She has published work in scientific journals on linguistic negation, grammatical processing, eye movements, hand movements, and gestures, as well as visual processing. Tim Ingold  is Professor Emeritus of Social Anthropology at the University of Aberdeen, Scotland, and a Fellow of the British Academy and the Royal Society of Edinburgh. Following 25 years at the University of Manchester, UK, Ingold moved in 1999 to Aberdeen, where he established the UK’s newest Department of Anthropology. He has carried out ethnographic fieldwork among Saami and Finnish people in Lapland, and has written on environment, technology and social organization in the circumpolar North, the role of animals in human society, human ecology, and evolutionary theory. In more recent work, he has explored the links between environmental perception and skilled practice. Ingold is currently writing on issues on the interface between anthropology, archaeology, art and architecture. He is the author of The Perception of the Environment (2000), Lines (2007), Being Alive (2011), Making (2013), The Life of Lines (2015), Anthropology and/​as Education (2017), Anthropology: Why It Matters (2018), and Correspondences (2020).

List of Contributors    xiii Malcolm Innes  is a Senior Lecturer and Reader in Lighting Design at Edinburgh Napier University, Scotland, exploring his practical experience of light through design-​ led experiments and research practice. Malcolm’s passion for light developed whilst studying tapestry at Edinburgh College of Art. His fascination with the perception of brightness at museum light levels was born out of 20 years lighting exhibitions for clients such as National Galleries of Scotland, National Museums of Scotland, and the V&A Museum. His empirical experience of illuminating sensitive exhibits has shown that there is often a disconnect between how we measure light and the human visual experience of low-​light environments, such as museum displays. His book, Lighting for Interior Design, published by Laurence King (2012), is a treatise on how to create illuminated environments using creative design thinking, rather than relying on number-​based lighting calculations that tend to produce flat and lifeless spaces. Eleni Kotoula  is a conservator of antiquities and works of art, and holds a PhD from the University of Southampton, UK. In her research thesis she evaluated the application of digital technology in the conservation of artefacts by proposing alternative digital methodologies for examination and conservation. She is currently a Lead Digital Research Facilitator at the University of Edinburgh. She has worked as conservator of antiquities and works of art, and has participated in research projects. She has held positions at the Archaeological Computing Research Group at the University of Southampton, the American School of Classical Studies in Athens, the Hellenic Ministry of Culture, and the National Hellenic Research Foundation–​Institute of Historical Research, Yale University, the University of Central Lancashire, and the University of Lincoln, UK. She has been involved in radiation and lighting accelerated ageing experimental projects on conservation materials. Her research and publications are focused on computational imaging applications in conservation and development of alternative conservation treatment approaches, managing conservation science data and integrating it with imaging data. Eric C. Lapp  received his PhD in Religion from Duke University, USA. He further studied at the University of Cologne, Germany, as a Fulbright Scholar. He is a lychnologist with a particular interest in the archaeometric analysis of ancient clay lamps. Over the years, he has participated on archaeological excavations in the United States, England, Israel, and Jordan. A former fellow of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens and the American Schools of Oriental Research, he has travelled extensively around the Mediterranean and Middle East to explore evidence for pagan and monotheistic light use in late antiquity. Nessa Leibhammer  is an independent researcher, writer, and curator with a particular interest in material culture approached from an interdisciplinary position. After studying architecture at the University of Cape Town, South Africa, Leibhammer completed a degree in Fine Arts at the University of the Witwatersrand. Her Master’s degree in Precolonial Studies took her to the Neolithic site of Catalhöyük in Turkey, where she explored how archaeologists create and present knowledge about the past through pictographic imaging in both public and academic domains. Leibhammer was an honorary research fellow at the Institute of African Studies at the University of Cambridge, UK, in 2012/​13, and currently holds the position of honorary research fellow at the Archive and Public Culture Research Initiative at the University of Cape Town.

xiv   List of Contributors Stefanie Leluschko completed her PhD in the Department of Archaeology, Durham University, UK, researching hand stencils in Upper Palaeolithic cave art. She took a BA in Archaeology at the University of Marburg, Germany (2008–​11), before reading for an MA in Archaeology at Durham University (2012–​13). Richard Levy  is Professor of Planning and Urban Design at the University of Calgary, Canada. He also serves as Director of Computing for the Faculty of Environmental Design, and is Adjunct Professor in the Department of Computer Science. Dr Levy is a founding member of the Virtual Reality Lab, and is a Co-​Director of the Computational Media Design program at the University of Calgary. He has worked extensively with Dawson on a variety of projects over the past decade, including the 3D laser scanning of Fort Conger, a heritage site of national and international significance on northeastern Ellesmere Island in the Canadian High Arctic, and designing computer games that simulate nineteenth-​century polar science. Giulio Magli is Full Professor of Archaeoastronomy and head of the Department of Mathematics at the Politecnico of Milan, Italy. His research activity first developed in relativistic astrophysics, but for many years he has focused on archaeoastronomy, with a special interest in the relationship between architecture, landscape, and astronomical lore of ancient cultures, especially among the ancient Egyptians but also among the Incas, in Asia and in the Mediterranean. As well as several papers, he has published Architecture, Astronomy and Sacred Landscape in Ancient Egypt (Cambridge University Press, 2013), Archaeoastronomy: Introduction to the Science of Stars and Stones (Springer, 2017), and Sacred Landscapes of Imperial China (Springer, 2020). He was one of the authors of the UNESCO document on astronomical heritage, and has conducted archaeological survey missions on Pre-​Nuragic Sardinia and Egypt. Caroline Malone  is Professor of Prehistory at Queen’s University Belfast, Northern Ireland, and the Principal Investigator of the ERC-​funded FRAGSUS project (2013–​18). She has worked in Malta since 1983, including fieldwork at a number of key sites (Brochtorff Xaghra Circle, Santa Verna, Tac Cawla, and Kordin). Her posts have included museums (Avebury and the British Museum), multi-​tasking ritual specialist (the posts of proctor and senior tutor at the University of Cambridge), the inspectorate of English Heritage, and academic positions at Bristol and Cambridge as well as Belfast. Her publications range widely over the Mediterranean and British Isles, focused on the Neolithic and Bronze Age. Teenie Matlock  is the McClatchy Chair of Communications and Founding Faculty in the Cognitive and Information Sciences Program at the University of California, Merced, USA, and the Founding Director of the Center for Climate Communication. She is also Affiliate Faculty with the Institute of Cognitive and Information Sciences at UC Berkeley. She has published over 75 articles, including a number of articles on metaphorical language and reasoning. Her main areas of expertise include semantics, metaphor, spatial language, political language, and gesture. She is Associate Editor of the journal Cognitive Linguistics, and serves on the Cognitive Science Society governing board. She is a standing member of the National Institutes of Health’s Language and Communication study section. Vincent Mom,  after his PhD thesis in physics (‘The Structure of Molten Polymers’, Leiden University, The Netherlands, 1982), worked on several large infrastructural IT projects in banking (ATM networks) and industry (logistic systems). For 12 years he was director of

List of Contributors    xv R&D at an international software company. From 1998 he began to developing special-​ purpose software in the area of cultural heritage (digital archives, shape recognition). In 2015 he joined Gail Higginbottom to support her ‘Standing Stones’ research project. Daniel R. Montello  is Professor of Geography and Affiliated Professor of Psychological and Brain Sciences at the University of California, Santa Barbara, USA, where he has been on the faculty since 1992. His educational background is in environmental, cognitive, and developmental psychology. His research is in the areas of spatial, environmental, and geographic perception, cognition, affect, and behaviour. Dan has published over 100 articles and chapters concerning spatial cognition, cognition in geography and cartography, behavioral geography, environmental psychology, and geographic information science. He has also co-​ authored or edited seven books, including Handbook of Behavioral and Cognitive Geography (Elgar, 2018) and Space in Mind: Concepts for Spatial Learning and Education (MIT Press, 2014) (co-​edited with Karl Grossner and Donald G. Janelle). He currently co-​edits the academic journal Spatial Cognition and Computation. Ioannis Motsianos, a native of Thessaloniki, Greece, has been an archaeologist at the Museum of Byzantine Culture, Thessaloniki, since 1995. His PhD dissertation at the University of Thessaly, ‘Joyful Light: The Artificial Lighting in Byzantium’ (in Greek; Volos, 2011), treats the evolution of artificial lighting during the Byzantine and post-​Byzantine periods. Motsianos has written extensively on the evolution of artificial lighting during these periods, authoring more than ten papers in scientific journals. He was the lead organizer of ‘Lighting in Byzantium’, 4th International ILA Round-​Table, October 2011, in Thessaloniki, and of the exhibition ‘Light on Light: An Illuminating Story’, Thessaloniki, October 2011–​ June 2012. He is also the co-​editor of the exhibition catalogue Light on Light: An Illuminating Story (2011) and the collective volume Glass, Wax and Metal Lighting Technologies in Late Antique, Byzantine and Medieval Times Archaeopress, 2019). Since 2003 he has been an active member of the International Lychnological Association, and from 2009 a member of its governing committee. Dorina Moullou  is a Senior Archaeologist at the Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports and an Adjunct Professor at the School of Applied Arts of the Hellenic Open University and Sustainable Design. She completed her Master’s and PhD degrees at the University of Crete, Greece, researching artificial illumination in Greek antiquity. She is the author of two books (one forthcoming) and several papers regarding artificial lighting in ancient Greece. Her research interests, apart from the study of lighting devices and of illumination in antiquity, include the investigation of everyday life and the crafts and technology of the ancient world, as well as the application of modern tools and ICT in archaeological fieldwork, research, and interpretation, along with the protection of cultural heritage. From 2013 to 2018 she was the National Coordinator and National Contact Point of Greece for the European Heritage Label. Holley Moyes  is a Professor of Anthropology and Heritage Studies and Affiliate Faculty in the Cognitive and Information Sciences department at the University of California, Merced, USA. Her main area of expertise is the archaeology of religion and she is particularly interested in ritual spaces. Although most of her fieldwork is conducted in ancient Maya ritual cave sites in Belize, Central America, her broader interests encompass cross-​cultural ritual cave use. She has published over 40 journal articles and book chapters on the subject of

xvi   List of Contributors caves, and her 2012 volume, Sacred Darkness: A Global Perspective on the Ritual Use of Caves, won a 2013 Choice Award for Outstanding Academic Title. Costas Papadopoulos  is an Assistant Professor in Digital Humanities and Culture Studies at Maastricht University, The Netherlands. His work has its roots in ethnography, archaeology, digital humanities, and museum and cultural studies. It aims to advance understandings of the experience and perception of heritage; engage with debates on the role of interactive research in digital humanities; explore ways to build epistemological frameworks for multimodal research; and integrate Arts into STE(A)M learning via sociallyengaged research by facilitating digital literacy and creative thinking. Most of his research has focused on digital applications in archaeology and heritage, with a particular emphasis on 3D visualization. He is Principal Investigator of PURE3D, which is developing an infrastructure for the publication and preservation of 3D scholarship. Emília Pásztor  is an archaeologist specializing in European prehistory. She graduated in Astronomy at ELTE, Budapest, Hungary, and is a dedicated researcher of Bronze Age sky lore and a consistent promoter of archaeoastronomy. She has conducted fieldworks in several parts of Europe and Asia. She is a founding member of the research team ‘Investigation of Neolithic Rondels’ at the Hungarian National Museum that also aims at archaeo-​ astronomical investigation of the monuments. She organized an international exhibition on ‘The Archaeology of Light’, and is the editor and co-​editor of six books and author of more than 70 research papers. Timothy R. Pauketat is Director of ISAS (Illinois State Archaeology Survey) at the University of Illinois Urbana–​Champaign, USA. He is interested in the broad relationships between history and humanity, materiality and agency, affect and ontology, and religion and urbanism. His focus is on North America, and his concerns range from local historical ones, particularly in the central Mississippi valley, to pan-​American and big-​historical themes, especially as they involve Mesoamerican–​Southwestern–​Mississippi valley connections. He has conducted most of his field research at and around the American Indian city of Cahokia or related complexes, having held posts at the University of Oklahoma, the State University of New York (Buffalo), and the University of Illinois. Bissera V. Pentcheva  is Professor of Medieval Art at Stanford University, USA; her work focuses on Byzantine image theory, aesthetics, phenomenology, and acoustics. She has published three books with Penn State University Press:  Icons and Power:  The Mother of God in Byzantium (2006); The Sensual Icon: Space, Ritual, and the Senses in Byzantium (2010); and Hagia Sophia: Sound, Space and Spirit in Byzantium (2017). She has edited two volumes: Aural Architecture in Byzantium: Music, Acoustics, and Ritual (Ashgate, 2018) and Icons of Sound: Architecture, Music and Imagination in Medieval Art (Routledge, 2020). Her articles have appeared in The Art Bulletin, Gesta, Critical Inquiry, Performance Research International, and Res: Journal of Anthropology and Aesthetics. Paul Pettitt  is Professor of Archaeology in the Department of Archaeology of Durham University, UK. He has degrees from the universities of Birmingham, London, and Cambridge. Prior to his current appointment he was Senior Archaeologist in the Oxford Radiocarbon Accelerator Unit, Research Fellow and Tutor in Archaeology and Anthropology at Keble College, Oxford; and Lecturer, Senior Lecturer, and Reader at the

List of Contributors    xvii University of Sheffield. He specializes in the archaeology of the European Middle and Upper Palaeolithic, with a particular interest in the origins of art and mortuary activity. Iakovos Potamianos  is currently Dean of the Faculty of Fine Arts and a Professor in the School of Drama, Aristotle University of Thessaloniki (AUTH), Greece. He received a Master’s in Architecture from AUTH, a Master’s in Architecture from California Polytechnic State University in San Luis Obispo, USA, and a PhD in Architecture from the University of Michigan, USA. He is a registered architect in Greece and the USA. He has taught architectural design and history and theory of architecture in three American and three Greek universities. He has served as Director of the Master's Program in Lighting Design of the Hellenic Open University. His work focuses on architectural design, design teaching systems, issues of space and form, and relations between philosophy, perception, and poetics. He has studied the lighting system of Byzantine churches for over two decades Lillian Rigoli  holds a BSc in Cognitive and Information Sciences from the University of California, Merced, USA, and an MA in Experimental Psychology from the University of Cincinnati, USA. She is currently a PhD student at Macquarie University in Sydney, Australia, in the Department of Psychology. Her research investigates multi-​agent behavioural dynamics during cooperative and competitive tasks, and the interaction between artificial agents and humans. Takashi Sakamoto completed his PhD at the Department of Archaeology, Durham University, UK, researching how Upper Palaeolithic cave art situates a viewer in its wider environment, based on affordance theory and modern installation art. He has a BA in Art Direction from Osaka University of Arts, Japan (2007). He subsequently received an MA in Archaeology at Durham University (2014). Maria Sardi  holds a BA in Art History and Archaeology from the University of Athens, Greece, and an MA and PhD in Art History and Archaeology from SOAS, University of London, UK. She has worked as curatorial team member and guidebook contributor for the Benaki Museum, Athens, and has also contributed to the electronic database of the museum’s Byzantine, Coptic, Islamic, and Chinese collections. She worked as curatorial team member and exhibition catalogue contributor for the exhibition ‘Light on Light: An Illuminating Story’, Thessaloniki, Greece (2011–​12). She organized the interdisciplinary colloquium ‘Lux in Tenebris: Artificial Lighting from Antiquity to the Present’ at the Benaki Museum (2012). She has taught history of Islamic art for the Postgraduate Diploma in Asian Art at SOAS, London, and at the Athens School of Fine Arts, Greece. Her publications include the articles, ‘Late Mamluk Metalwork in the Benaki Museum’, (2003), ‘Lighting in the Islamic World’ (2011), ‘Weaving for the Hajj under the Mamluks’ (2013), and the ‘Le livre comme cadeau diplomatique dans l’Islam médiéval’ (forthcoming). Ronnie Scott  is an artist who graduated from Glasgow School of Art, Scotland, in 1966. He became Principal Teacher of Art and Design at Nairn Academy, Scotland, in 1978, and in 2007 completed an MA in Archaeology at Aberdeen University. While studying for his degree, Ronnie explored the visual character of Neolithic and Bronze Age monuments and landscape through fieldwork, painting, and photography, focusing upon a four-​year investigation into the experience of light within the Clava Cairns near Inverness. He has worked in Orkney and across the Scottish mainland for GUARD and the National Trust for Scotland,

xviii   List of Contributors collaborated with numerous Reading University field projects, and directed his own excavations at prehistoric cairns near Nairn. Mary Shepperson  is a British archaeologist specializing in the ancient Near East. She is currently a lecturer in the School of Architecture at the University of Liverpool, UK. She completed her undergraduate degree at the University of Cambridge and Master’s and doctoral degrees at University College London, UK. She has worked on field projects throughout the Middle East, including as site archaeologist for the citadel of Erbil in Iraqi Kurdistan, as senior archaeologist at the sites of Tell Khaiber and Charax Spasinou in southern Iraq, and at the site of Gurga Chiya in Iraqi Kurdistan. She has extensive fieldwork experience throughout the region, having excavated in Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Turkey, Egypt, Sudan, and Georgia, as well as several years as a commercial archaeologist in the UK. Her doctoral thesis examined the effect of regional sunlight conditions on the development of Mesopotamian urban architecture and was published as a book, Sunlight and Shade in the First Cities, in 2017. Tim Flohr Sørensen is Associate Professor of Contemporary Archaeology and Archaeological Theory at the University of Copenhagen, Denmark. He holds a PhD from Aarhus University (2010), and he has worked at the University of Cambridge, UK (2010–​ 12), at Aarhus University (2012–​14), and at the University of Copenhagen (since 2014). In addition to light and atmosphere, his research has focused on cemeteries, movement, and affect in ancient and modern Denmark. He currently studies archaeological epistemology, ruination, erasure, and abandoned or forgotten objects. Since 2019 he has been the director of The Hub for Speculative Fabulations upon Incidental Observations, which is an informal collective of archaeologists and anthropologists, working critically and creatively with rogue methodologies. Within this framework, Tim carried out the collecting and exhibition experiment ‘Insignificants’ (2019–​20), exploring the epistemological and aesthetic potentials of trifles with little or no cultural-​historical significance. Michael J. Spivey  has been a Professor of Cognitive Science at University of California, Merced, USA, since 2008. He is a recipient of Sigma Xi’s William Procter Prize for Scientific Achievement, and several teaching awards. He has published over 100 journal articles and book chapters in a variety of subfields within cognitive science, showing evidence that a mind is the combined result of activity in the brain, the body, and the environment. His dynamical-​systems account of perception and cognition is detailed in his books, The Continuity of Mind (Oxford University Press, 2006) and Who You Are (MIT Press, 2020). Simon Stoddart  is a Reader in Prehistory at the University of Cambridge, UK, and a fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge. His career had previously taken him to the British School at Rome and the universities of Michigan, York, Oxford, and Bristol. His work in Malta started in 1987 and has included fieldwork (Brochtorff Xaghra Circle, Ggantija, Santa Verna, In Nuffara, Tac Cawla, and Kordin) and 3D visualization. He has undertaken fieldwork widely in Italy on multi-​period projects in Umbria, Lazio, and Sicily. His publications cover themes that range across the Etruscans, Celts, the Mediterranean Bronze Age and Iron Age, landscapes, and state formation. Frangiskos V. Topalis teaches the course of lighting and photometry at the National Technical University of Athens, Greece, and is Director of the Lighting Laboratory. He has

List of Contributors    xix delivered numerous papers in international conferences regarding photometry and lighting systems, and has published more than 200 papers in academic journals, book chapters, and conference proceedings. He is also the author of two books on illumination techniques and lighting technology. He has coordinated more than 50 projects in the field of photometry and lighting, and has organized various seminars and conferences. He is a representative of Greece in the Lux Europa Association and a member of the Balkan Light Committee. Ruth M. Van Dyke is Professor of Anthropology at Binghamton University (State University of New York), USA. She is the author of The Chaco Experience (2007), senior editor of Archaeologies of Memory (with Sue Alcock, 2003), senior editor of The Greater Chaco Landscape (with Carrie Heitman, 2021), editor or co-​editor of three additional books, and author of approximately 50 articles and chapters on the archaeology of the ancient southwest United States. Her archaeological research employs phenomenological and other spatial methods to investigate memory, materiality, ideology, visual experience, pilgrimage, ritual, and power in the Chacoan past. William H. Walker  is Professor of Anthropology at New Mexico State University, where he has taught since 1996. His research and publications focus on archaeological study of ritual and religion, including ritual deposits, ritual violence, cannibalism, and the study of object agency. He has participated in archaeological fieldwork in ancestral Iroquois sites in New York State, ancestral Hopi pueblos in Arizona, pueblo villages in southwestern New Mexico, and Inka and pre-​Inca towns in Northwest Argentina. Aaron Watson is an Interpretation and Engagement Manager at Kilmartin Museum, Scotland, and an Honorary Fellow in Archaeology at Durham University, UK. Since completing a doctorate in 2000, he has researched Neolithic and Bronze Age monuments across Britain and Ireland, including fieldwork projects at rock art sites, stone circles, and chambered cairns. He has investigated the acoustic properties of ancient architecture, and uses creative approaches, including photography and film, to explore and communicate the multisensory experience of prehistoric sites. Ian West  trained as a chartered engineer in the 1970s, and worked in the British gas industry for 30 years before leaving in 2002 to study for a Master’s degree in Industrial Archaeology at the University of Birmingham’s Ironbridge Institute. He subsequently completed a PhD at the University of Leicester, and this article draws on his doctoral research into the impact of artificial lighting in early factories. Since 2008 he has worked on a project based at the University of Leicester’s School of Archaeology and Ancient History, studying the deployment of technology in country houses and its effect on their inhabitants. The results of this work appeared in the book, Technology in the Country House, published in 2016. He lives in the Ironbridge Gorge and is co-​editor of the journal Industrial Archaeology Review. Athanassia Zografou  is an Associate Professor of Ancient Greek Philology at the University of Ioannina, Greece. She has also taught, and delivered invited lectures in Paris (École pratique des hautes études, École des hautes études en sciences sociales) and Geneva (Department of Antiquity Studies). She has been a Visiting Fellow at Seeger Center (Princeton University, USA, fall semester, 2018–​19). She is a member of CIERGA (International Center for the Study of Ancient Greek Religion, Liège), AnHiMA (Anthropology and History of the Ancient Worlds, Paris), and CIEH (International Center of Homeric Studies, Grenoble), and

xx   List of Contributors a member of the editorial committee of the journal Mètis. Anthropologie des mondes grecs anciens. Her scientific interests lie in the field of ancient Greek polytheism, and more specifically in the study of legendary relics, sacrificial and purification rituals, curse tablets, and ‘magical’ recipes. She has published three books: Chemins d’Hécate. Portes, routes, carrefours et autres figures de l’entre-​deux (Liège, 2010), Papyrus magiques grecs. Le mot et le rite. Autour des rites sacrificiels (Ioannina, 2013), and Des dieux maniables. Hécate et Cronos dans les papyrus magiques grecs (Paris, 2016) and co-​edited (with A. Gartziou-​Tatti) the volume Des dieux et des plantes. Monde végétal et religion en Grèce ancienne (Liège, 2019), as well as many papers in peer-​reviewed journals in French, English, and Greek.

List of Illustrations

Figures 2.1. Distinction between topics of conversation during daytime activities and by firelight among the Ju/​’Huansi of southern Africa. 2.2. Number of European Palaeolithic sites with reliable evidence of controlled light production. 2.3. Lamp made from concavity in broken stalactite. 2.4. Open-​air hearth from the Late Magdalenian Level IV40, Sector 36 of Pincevent, France.

20 23 27

2.5. The ‘Bison Man’ (shadow) of El Castillo cave (Cantabria, Spain).

28 33

2.6. One of many hand stencils from El Castillo cave (Cantabria, Spain) produced by projecting liquid pigment at a hand placed against the cave wall.

34

3.1. Distribution of 58 Greek temple orientations classed either as ‘chthonic’ or ‘ouranic’.

47

3.2. Votive relief to Artemis Locheia/​Eileithyia, Achinos (PE 1041), third century bce. 3.3. View of oracle of the dead at Cape Tainaro. 3.4. Didyma Temple of Apollo, north passage to temple’s interior. 3.5. Didyma, Temple of Apollo, south passage from temple’s internal courtyard. 3.6. Klaros, Temple of Apollo, subterranean structures. 6.1. The greater region that the project covers in western Scotland, and the case-​ study area. 6.2. Three 360° landscapes surrounding the site of Lochbuie. 6.3. The dominant peak in the northwest at the summer solstice at the time of, and after, the sunset at the circle of Lochbuie.

50 56 57 58 59 107 108

6.5. Shared midnight skies and lighting at sites across the iIle of Mull.

115 116 117

6.6. What can be seen around the entire horizon from the centre Lochbuie stone circle at the winter solstice during 1500 bc from 0:00 to 7:00 a.m.

122

6.7. Southern cardinal positions of the moon and sun at different times of day at the winter solstice.

127

6.8. What can be seen around the entire horizon from the centre Lochbuie stone circle at the winter solstice during 1500 bc from 8:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.

128

6.9. What can be seen around the entire horizon from the centre Lochbuie stone circle at the winter solstice during 1500 bc from 4:40 p.m to 8:15 p.m.

129

6.4. Back-​glow around the horizon at Lochbuie from midnight.

xxii   List of Illustrations 6.10. Close-​up of the in situ standing stone at Ardalanish, Isle of Mull in Argyll and Bute, embedded with quartz. 7.1. Newgrange in 1962 before excavation and restoration. 7.2. The roof-​box and passage in the course of reconstruction. 7.3. The restored roof-​box and decorated lintel. 7.4. Post-​reconstruction changes to the roof-​box. 7.5. Outer section of the passage with proposed free-​standing extension. 7.6. Passage of winter solstice light through the roof-​box, bisecting the passage roof slabs. 7.7. Interior of the roof-​box. 8.1. (a) Mnajdra lower temple. (b) Equinox sunrise illuminates the interior of the Maltese Megalithic temple of Mnajdra. 8.2. Anta Grande do Zambujeiro, Portugal. 8.3. The tholos of Huerta Montero in Almendralejo has its corridor oriented towards sunrise at the winter solstice.

132 142 143 143 145 146 147 149 167 170

8.6. The corridor of the Viera dolmen and the inner chamber of the Romeral tholos.

171 173 175 177

8.7. The central area of the Barbanza necropolis.

180

9.1. Alignment of the moment of dawn with the entrance of Mesara-​type tomb Kaloi Limenes I at the ‘times of the dead’

187

9.2. The ‘throne’ in the ‘Throne Room’ of the Knossos Palace at the moment of dawn soon after the winter solstice.

188

9.3. (a) Diagram of the Knossos Palace ‘Throne Room’ showing architectural irregularities that facilitate the midsummer and equinox dawn alignments. (b) At the moment of summer solstice dawn, a ray of light penetrates to the inner wall of the ‘Lustral Basin’ of the Knossos ‘Throne Rooom’, creating a spotlight effect on any person or object caught in the beam.

190

9.4 (a) Odysseus consulting Teiresias on Apulian-​style krater. (b) Hermes holding kerykeion calls out bearded head from the ground on Italian ringstone, late Roman Republic.

194

8.4. Corridor of the La Pastora tholos in Valencina de la Concepcion. 8.5 The Cueva de Menga dolmen.

9.5 (a) Oracle of Orpheus on hydria of Polygnotus group. (b) Oracle of Orpheus on Attic bowl of Ruvo artist. 9.6 Plan of Porti tomb ‘Pi’.

197 199

9.7 (a.) Radiant symbol on steatite sealstone from Porti. (b) Animal heads with radiant symbol on steatite prism seal from Mesara-​type tomb Platanos B. (c) Female figure (?) kneading a mixture on terracotta model from Mesara-​type tomb Kamilari A. (d) ‘Dancing women’ with arms raised to radiant symbol on steatite prism seal from north-​central Crete. (e) Skull in vessel from Archanes cemetery. (f) Ecstatic dance on steatite sealstone from Mesara-​type tomb Platanos B. (g) Seated ‘ancestors’ on terracotta model from Mesara-​type tomb Kamilari A. Heraklion Museum. (h) Detail from Ayia Triadha sarcophagus, taken as showing the deceased in front of his tomb.

201

List of Illustrations    xxiii 10.1. Setting sun and opposing sun dogs, i.e. parhelia, above east-​central Illinois. 10.2. Entanglement of a wayfaring organism with a celestial pathway. 10.3. Perception and association as triangulation. 10.4. Palimpsest of bundles and bundle transfers through across space and through two iterations of time. 10.5. LiDAR plan view of the Emerald site acropolis. 10.6. Plan of Emerald, Angel, Trempealeau, and Cahokia, c.1050–​1100 ce. 11.1. Mt Taylor, looking northwest, January 2013. 11.2. Pueblo Bonito, looking southeast, from the north rim of Chaco Canyon, September 2013.

209 210 211 212 215 216 227

11.3. Fajada Butte, looking west, July 2010.

229 231

11.4. Full moonrise on the major lunar standstill at Chimney Rock, 26 December 2004.

233

11.5. Sunlight and shadow inside the ruins of the great house of Pueblo Bonito in Chaco Canyon, June 2011.

236 11.6. Inside the reconstructed great kiva at the outlier of Aztec West, September 2013. 237 12.1. View of small rock shelter, showing large anthropomorphic face on the right side of the west entrance. 12.2. The Spirit Bear. 12.3. Materialization of Shadow Bear. 12.4. Bear paw petroglyph tagged by light dagger. 12.5. Shadow performance of the Twin War Gods. 12.6. Light dagger interaction with crescent and dot. 12.7. Shadow performance of Elder and Younger War Gods. 13.1. Giza, summer solstice. 13.2. Silhouette of the Sphinx between the two main pyramids, photographed at summer solstice. 13.3. Karnak, winter solstice. 13.4. Abu Simbel, the innermost chapel of the temple of Ramesses II. 13.5. Karnak, the hypostile hall. 13.6. Abydos, Light and shadow effects in the hypostile hall of the temple of Seti I. 14.1. Parthenon. 14.2. Doric column. 14.3. Schematic plans and sections, Greek temple, Roman basilica, and Byzantine church. 14.4. Anthemius’ ellipsoidal reflector. 14.5. Computer model of Hagia Sophia original dome. 14.6. Hagia Sophia cross-​section.

251 253 254 255 256 257 258 270 271 273 275 277 278 286 287 290 293 294 295

xxiv   List of Illustrations 15.1. Interior of Tveje Merløse church, view to the east towards the altar. 15.2. Interior of Hørning church, view to the east towards the altar. 15.3. Interior of Bagsværd church. 15.4. Interior of Skæring church. 15.5. ‘Devotional candelabrum’ in the Resurrection Church, Albertslund. 16.1. Copper alloy chandelier (polycandelon), sixth century. 16.2. Copper alloy cross with rings for holding lamps, fifth–​seventh centuries, Thessaloniki. 16.3. Use of a candle during the reading of the Gospel in a wall painting in the Church of the Saviour, Thessaloniki, fourteenth century. 16.4. Glass mosque lamp with gold and enamelled decoration. 16.5. Glass spherical lamp-​fitting with gold and enamelled decoration, Egypt or Syria, fourteenth century. 16.6. Brass candlestick with inlaid silver decoration.

304 306 312 313 318 330 331 333 338 339 341

16.7. Descent of the Holy Spirit upon the Apostles, icon.

344

17.1. Corona around the moon.

357 359 359 362 365 368

17.2. Cross-​in-​circle halo display and sundogs 17.3. Sun pillar. 17.4. Saami shaman drum. 17.5. Pendants of the Bronze Age Carpathian Basin. 17.6. The sun bark symbol and a complex halo display. 17.7. Classic Vučedol Culture pot with the possible depiction of four sundogs and the rhombus sun in the middle.

18.6. Deposition and Lamentation, Lectionary.

370 376 377 378 382 384 387

18.7. Deposition and Lamentation, Lectionary.

388

19.1. Spout lamps of the FEMM-​Th collection.

19.4. A floating-​wick oil lamp.

398 400 402 403

19.5. The allegory of death in the form of a naked, winged young man, burning out the torch of life–​–​tombstone in Chalkida, old cemetery.

406

18.1. Cross of Eirēnē Palailogina, mid-​fourteenth century. 18.2. Cross of Eirēnē Palailogina, mid-​fourteenth century. 18.3. Cross of Eirēnē Palailogina, mid-​fourteenth century. 18.4. Crucifixion and Baptism as illustration to Psalm 73, Khludov Psalter. 18.5. Tunic with Dionysian Ornament, fifth century.

19.2.

Multi-​spouted brass lucerna table lamp.

19.3. Metal cases for hanging floating-​wick oil lamps.

19.6. Another allegory of death burning out the torch of life, carved on a tombstone in Chalkida, old cemetery. 408

List of Illustrations    xxv 19.7. A tombstone at the old cemetery in Chalkida representing a hand pouring oil into an archaic oil lamp. 20.1. A mirror plaque with a gabled architectural façade, probably from Israel. 20.2. Photoamulets: clay lampettes from Tomb 148, Thessaloniki. 20.3. Photoamulets: lamp-​shaped pendant fashioned in blue glass, Italy; two pendants in the form of lamps in green glass, Egypt.

409 418 421

20.4. A glass token or amulet with a menorah image, reportedly from Israel.

424 425

20.5. A Hellenistic sketch of a lit glass bowl lamp on top of an altar and a bust of the resurrected deceased wearing a skullcap, Marissa, Israel.

428

20.6. Apotropaic medical instrument with an image of the healing god Sminthian Apollo represented as a mouse, Asia Minor.

21.5. Houses with a second rank of rooms along one side of the courtyard.

429 441 443 444 446 448

21.6. Three houses at Ur which demonstrate the isolation of domestic chapels from doorway light.

449

21.7. Houses at Ur analysed with their chapel rooms modelled as roofed and un-​ roofed.

451

21.8. Houses at Ur demonstrating the doorway lighting provided to living rooms when domestic chapels are modelled as un-​roofed.

453

21.1. House XXV at Tell Asmar. 21.2. House XLVIII and House L at Khafajah. 21.3. House XLVII and House XXVII at Khafajah. 21.4. No. 5 Quiet Street at Ur.

22.1. The circular room with open oculus, closed oculus, and rectangular entrance hall.

22.6. Geography of sites equipped with a central hearth.

464 465 465 466 468 469

22.7. Chronology of sites equipped with a monumental fireplace in a central position.

470

23.1. Computer reconstruction of the exterior and interior of a Thule whalebone house.

478

23.2. Computer reconstruction of the exterior and interior of an Inuvialuit sod house from archaeological data.

480

23.3. Lighting study showing how the placement of light affects perceptions of the Inuvialuit sod house interior.

484

23.4. Illuminance maps of the interior of an Inuvialuit sod house, and showing illuminated floor plan of Inuvialuit sod house.

488

22.2. Sites probably equipped with domed oculi. 22.3. Chronology of villas probably fitted with domed oculi. 22.4. Geography of sites probably equipped with oculi. 22.5. The sites of Lürken, Mayen I, and Park Street.

xxvi   List of Illustrations 23.5. GIS model showing artefact distributions as a function of lamp placement/​ luminance, and distribution of hide working and sewing artefacts as a function of lamp placement/​luminance.

491

23.6. Cumulative frequency histogram showing how the frequency of hide working and sewing artefacts increases with luminance. (b) Inverse square intensity relationship from a point source of light. 492 23.7. Robustness of the relationship between luminance and the frequency of hide working/​sewing artefacts. 24.1. Roman lamp. 24.2. Lighting equipment at Casa della Ara Massima. 24.3. Lighting equipment at House I 10,8 24.4. Lighting equipment at Casa del Principe di Napoli. 24.5. Lighting equipment at Casa del Fabbro. 24.6. Lighting equipment at Casa degli Amanti. 24.7. Llghting equipment at Casa di Julius Polybius. 24.8. Lighting equipment at Casa del Menandro. 25.1. Late eighteenth-​century Argand oil lamp excavated at New Lanark Mills. 25.2. Lumbhole Mill, Kettleshulme, Cheshire. 25.3. Gas works plant built by Samuel Clegg in 1809 for Ackerman’s Print Works, The Strand, London. 25.4. Remains of D-​shaped retorts and retort benches, Shaw Lodge Mill, Halifax. 25.5. Strutts’ Mills, Belper, Derbyshire. 25.6. Cotton spinning in a factory attic (possibly Holmes Mill, Clitheroe, Lancashire), c.1834. 26.1. The location of the main passage tombs mentioned in the text. 26.2. Fieldwork at Bryn Celli Ddu, Anglesey. 26.3. Fieldwork at Cuween Hill, Orkney. 26.4. Animating optical projections. 26.5. Fieldwork at Wideford Hill, Orkney. 26.6. Fieldwork at Vinquoy Hill. 26.7. Fieldwork at the Dwarfie Stane, Orkney. 27.1. The frequency of sunlight according to the month in the island of Malta. 27.2. Access to the principal prehistoric monuments of Malta. 27.3. View from within the Ggantija temple towards the entrance. 27.4. The relative visibility of space in the memory monument of Ggantija. 27.5. Idealized model of the distribution of light and dark in a prehistoric Maltese memory monument.

494 501 506 507 508 510 511 513 515 524 526 528 529 533 534 542 544 545 546 548 549 550 563 569 571 572

27.6. Tentative reconstruction of the Ghajnsielem Road house.

573 574

27.7. A tentative landscape cosmology of light.

576

List of Illustrations    xxvii

588

28.1.

The climax of the rites of Eleusis was the appearance of the goddess in or as light.

28.2.

Painted clay heads of female figurines unearthed from the sanctuary of Eleusis and dating from the late fourth or early third century bce.

28.3.

Schematic of the experiment space.

28.4.

Mock anaktoron with figurine.

28.5.

Mock telesterion with the image of the figurine projected onto the far wall.

28.6.

Proposed operation for the manufacture of the appearance of the goddess.

589 592 592 594 596

28.7.

Floor plans of the Pisistratan, Cimonian, and Periclean versions of the telesterion.

598

29.1.

A selection of spouted and floating-​wick lamps used for the experiments, as well as loumini wicks.

29.2.

Some of the torches used for the experiments.

29.3.

Light intensity distributions of floating-​wick lamps.

29.4.

Light intensity distributions of spouted lamps.

29.5.

Light intensity distributions of torches and candles.

612 613 614 615 615

30.1a. Before dawn. Stirring the melted glass in the cauldron inside the glass furnace. 30.1b. 30.2a. 30.2b. 30.3a. 30.3b. 30.4a.

634 First light. Smoky glass furnace in the shadow of the roof of the workshop. 634 Early morning. Preparing the glass to be blown. 635 Early morning. Visible flames in the shadow. 636 Midday. Preparing the glass to be blown. 636 Late afternoon. Lighted furnaces by the sun. 637 Twilight. Very visible flames of the ceramic kiln (left) and glass furnace (centre). 638

30.4b. Twilight. The last light of the sunset reflected on the wall and costumes of the performers.

638

30.5.

The workshop lighted by a fire positioned in front of the furnace for metal casting.

639

31.1.

27 July 2007, 08.31 hours. Light against the west wall of the Experimental House

648

31.2.

Above a trench that was dug for the construction of the north shelter; north area.

31.3.

Digital reproduction of the Experimental House.

31.4.

Experimental House in Çatalhöyük, Turkey.

31.5.

The journey of the beam of light inside the Experimental House.

31.6.

Shadows of a young woman walking down the steps to the Experimental House.

31.7.

Human shadows taken at several locations.

31.8.

8 July 2007, 16.00 hours; 8 July 2007, 12.00 hours.

31.9. 5 August 2007, 12.30–​13.00 hours. 31.10. 4 August 2007, 16.42 hours.

649 650 651 652 653 655 656 657 658

xxviii   List of Illustrations 31.11. 25 July 2007, 12.00 hours; 31 August 2007, 16.00 hours; 2 August 2007, 18.02 hours. 31.12. The effect of sun on a mortar on the roof of the Experimental House. 31.13. 1–​15 August 2007. 31.14. 17 July 2007, 16.30 hours; 29 July 2007, 10.02 hours. 31.15. 27 July 2007, 10.34 hours. 32.1.

Wall painting fragment Z42.

32.2.

Alabaster alabastron B61.

32.3.

Glass alabastron Δ32.

32.4. RTI visualization of details from pelikes H2 and Γ1. 32.5.

Gold gilded leaf from a wreath.

32.6. Gold coin, reverse, Δ2. 32.7.

Incised ivory plaque fragment E7a.

32.8. Glass-​mounted Derveni papyrus fragment. 33.1.

Iona Abbey Museum, Island of Iona.

33.2.

Iona Abbey Museum, Island of Iona.

33.3.

Maeshowe Neolithic Chambered Cairn, Orkney World Heritage Site.

33.4. Maeshowe Dragon, Maeshowe Neolithic Chambered Cairn, Orkney World Heritage Site. 33.5.

Skara Brae Visitor Centre Museum, Orkney.

33.6. Bishop’s effigy from Elgin Cathedral. 34.1.

Images of the ‘mother goddess’ before reconstruction.

34.2. First line drawings of the ‘mother goddess’. 34.3. Wall 93, Building 2, Space 117. 34.4. Wall 66, Building 2, Space 117. 34.5. Wall 66, Building 2, Space 117. 34.6. Wall 66, Building 2, Space 117.

659 660 663 664 665 677 678 679 681 682 683 684 685 699 700 702 703 705 709 722 724 728 729 730 730

Tables 2.1. Selected early archaeological evidence of artificial light production prior to the Middle Palaeolithic. 21.1. Shading for key figures. 23.1. Recommended light levels for generalized tasks. 24.1. Lighting equipment from ten Pompeian households. 29.1. Technical characteristics and photometric properties of floating-​wick lamps. 29.2. Technical characteristics and photometric properties of spouted lamps. 29.3. Technical characteristics and photometric properties of torches. 29.4. Technical characteristics and photometric properties of candles. 29.5. Technical characteristics and photometric properties of hearths.

24 443 489 505 616

617 618 618 619

chapter 1

Il lum inating Se ns ory Archaeol o g i e s Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes Perceptions of light Light has a fundamental role to play in our perception of the world. Although it is typically associated with our sense of sight, light in itself extends beyond vision. Fundamentally, light (or its absence) is about the senses; although immaterial, its colour, intensity, and distribution, materialize our experience within different environments (Ingold 2000: 265), mediating interactions between people and things, and shaping human physiognomy and psychology. As our perceptual abilities are rarely stimulated by only one sense and our independent sensory systems coordinate to create worlds of perception (Gibson 1950: 12; Taylor et al. 1973: 261), light dictates how our senses—​and not only the five senses recognised by the Western sensorium—​formulate a synaesthetic experience of our environment—​ temperature, balance, space, time, movement, to name but a few. In addition, it is not only the physical stimuli that construct worlds of perception, but also our input based on past experiences (Charest 2009). In other words, our perception is an amalgamation of sensory learning and intuition (Gibson 1950: 10–​16). Ancient philosophers, such as Empedocles (c.490–​430 bce) and Plato (c.424–​347 bce), as well as the mathematician Euclid (c.325–​265 bce) had suggested that vision is possible due to particles of light, or a kind of fire according to Plato, shooting out of the eyes. This idea was challenged in the tenth century by Al-​Haitham (Alhazen), but remained dominant until the seventeenth century. It was Olaus Roemer, Christiaan Huygens, and Isaac Newton who wrote about the nature of light, and challenged the established idea of how light interacts with vision. They argued that there is sight because of light reaching our eyes, after being emitted from a light source and reflected off the features in the environment (Wade 1999: 9–​ 25). This means that particles of light that bounce on an object, reach our eyes and consequently our brain, which in turn deciphers the object’s individual components, including location, movement, form, colour, and texture. The dominant paradigm in twentieth-​century perceptual research was introduced by Hermann Helmholtz (1924–​5): empiricism. Empirical approaches to perception are based

2    Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes on the notion that in order to formulate an accurate perception of the world, direct sensory stimuli are inadequate, and therefore, unconscious, constructive, and inferential processes, based on our previous stimuli, memory etc. intervene in the process. Helmholtz’s indirect theory of perception was further elaborated by Richard Gregory (1974; 1980) in what is known as hypothesis theory, according to which sensorial stimuli trigger a series of hypotheses to make sense of the world. Objecting to indirect perception, the American psychologist James Gibson developed the ecological approach to perception (Gibson 1979), according to which we need to consider the complexity of the real environment; this cannot be done based on classical optical science. Gibson’s basis for his theory of direct perception is that we perceive the world because of light—​travelling from different sources and surfaces and in different directions. ‘Direct’, however, does not mean that perception is immediate or simple but that it is informed by the environment of the perceiver. In other words, perception is external to the observer, in that objects can be perceived based on their properties without any aid from unconscious and constructive processes (cf. Helmholtz 1924–​5; Gregory 1974; 1980). In Gibson’s ecological theory, information in the environment in which organisms live is as important to understanding perception as the individuals who perceive it, while perceptual mechanisms are also guided by how these organisms are culturally accustomed to move and interact with(in) that environment. Gibson’s theory is also built around two fundamental concepts: invariants, i.e. ‘non-​change that persists during change’ (Gibson 1966: 201), and affordances, i.e. ‘what [objects] furnish, for good or ill, that is, what they afford the observer’ (Gibson 1971). Following from Gibson, David Marr argued that vision is an information-​processing task organized in different stages, and attempted to move beyond the phenomenology of perception by developing formal processes for testing and describing it. According to Marr (1982), visual perception can be understood in three levels: computational theory; representation and algorithm; and, hardware implementation.

Archaeologies of and with light Natural or artificial lightscapes orchestrate antitheses in uses and experiences of space—​e.g. public and private, interior and exterior, work and leisure, sacred and domestic, material and spiritual—​and in turn, these influence how people construct and negotiate their identities, form social relationships, and attribute meaning to (im)material practices. Ultimately, our use and understanding of light is culturally mediated, thus changing symbolism and meaning in different spatial, social, cultural, and temporal contexts. In our modern world, light, especially artificial, is ubiquitous. It is emitted from almost all devices we use; televisions, microwaves, mobile phones, and personal computers, in different colours, intensities, and wavelengths. Excessive amounts of artificially generated, misdirected outdoor light can be typically observed in urban and built-​up areas, and disrupt the ecosystems that human and animal populations inhabit. At the same time, our experiential distance from societies of the past, especially given that their experience and perception of their world was largely dependent on natural and flame (mostly flickering) light, makes it difficult to (re)construct the impact of light upon their everyday lives.

Illuminating Sensory Archaeologies    3 Archaeological practice seeks to analyse the material culture of past societies, by examining the interaction between people and things within space. Since light is the crucial factor that mediated this relationship, understanding its principles should be a fundamental pursuit in archaeology. However, light only leaves indirect evidence in the archaeological record, since it cannot be seen (Gibson 1979: 54), touched, or measured, in comparison, for example, to a piece of pottery. As a result, light cannot be analysed or easily interpreted; and even in cases where analyses of illumination are possible, we mostly rely on modern, Western conceptions of light and its significance in facilitating tasks and activities. On the other hand, light assumes material qualities when, for example, we excavate a hearth, recover clay lamps, or unearth a structure with doors, lightwells, and windows; thus, the immaterial light gives substance to a place by constructing multisensorial and affective experiences for the people using that place. Therefore, defining the ways in which light is perceived and environments are experienced can help to explain not only functional use, but also illumination’s impact at a social, cultural, and artistic level. Light is a crucial factor in the examination of archaeologically defined environments, since it is closely related to functions and activities and can significantly contribute to the identification of use and meaning of finds, buildings, and landscapes. Although addressing illumination’s impact on sensory experience and perception is vital in archaeological interpretations, it remains largely neglected or under-​exploited in archaeological reasoning. This may also be because of the ways we are accustomed to recording fieldwork and excavation data in an attempt to capture a distant, pseudo-​objective, decontextualized, timeless, and lightless record: from single-​context sheets and monophonic fieldnotes to photographs that exclude background noise (one of which is light) and highly conventionalized, flat, linear, and colourless drawings and Harris matrices. Discourses of light in archaeology have focused on religion and rituals, possibly because of the wealth of documentation from a diverse range of sources, such as literature and iconography, as well as from architectural remains. Studying light in cultures where no written or oral accounts exist becomes more complicated, since the archaeological evidence and any related sources are rarely adequate for understanding the diversity of the past. The latter factor may also be the reason why there is an increasing amount of literature that attempts to deal with the experience and perception of different environments in the form of computer simulations of light. A significant amount of work has also been carried out on the artefacts used for artificial illumination in different spatial and temporal contexts, even though these are often focused on typologies and the composition of catalogues, rather than on their use and underlying meaning. On the other hand, the field of archaeoastronomy (see e.g. Ruggles 2014) has extensively explored light in relation to orientations, alignments, and celestial bodies and events (e.g. solstices, equinoxes) in the context of the astronomical significance of archaeological sites. The Oxford Handbook of Light in Archaeology is part of a growing literature that engages with archaeologies of the senses. Christopher Tilley’s seminal works A Phenomenology of Landscape (1994) and The Materiality of Stone (2004) paved the way for problematizing the mediated human sensorium, while Yannis Hamilakis et al. (2002), in their Thinking through the Body: Archaeologies of Corporeality, emphasized the cultural meaning of the human body and the past as a lived, sensual experience. Problematization of the senses and critiques of the ocularcentric nature of archaeological scholarship follow a similar path to, and have been influenced by, research in anthropology, in particular the work of David Howes and

4    Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes Constance Classen of the Centre for Sensory Studies at Concordia University (see e.g. Classen 1993; 2012; Howes 2003; 2005; 2013; Howes and Classen 2014). Hamilakis, in his seminal work Archaeology and the Senses (2013: 203), has called for a paradigm shift in archaeological research and practice in which sensoriality is not only a tool among many others that archaeologists utilize but a more holistic approach that will change how different facets of archaeology—​from fieldwork to publication—​are practiced. He has also highlighted that emphasis ‘should not be on individual senses but on the field of sensoriality and on the affective and mnemonic flows it engenders’ (p.14). It is indeed true that many attempts to integrate senses in archaeological reasoning and interpretation have focused on individual senses—​and mostly the five recognized by our Western sensorium. Characteristic examples are Steve Mills’s Auditory Archaeology (2014), Pye’s The Power of Touch (2007), and Routledge’s book series ‘The Senses in Antiquity’ (edited by Bradley and Butler, 2014–​18), each volume dealing with one of the five senses—​although one of the volumes, by Butler and Purves (2014), also deals with synaesthesia. To this we could add a large number of article-​length scholarship that treats senses as elements that influence experience, perception, and sense-​making in isolation and/​or as a matter of exterior stimuli and interior cognitive processing. Although we are also in favour of more holistic approaches to sensoriality, we believe that since this is still an approach (or even subfield) in the making, any attempt to integrate a sensorial vocabulary in archaeological theory and method can only benefit the development of dialogue and critique. To this end, several thematic studies from different parts of the world and in different contexts, in the form of monographs (Skeates 2010; Classen 2017) or edited volumes (Fahlander and Kjellström 2010; Day 2013; Pellini et al. 2015; Betts 2017; Skeates and Day 2019; Schellenberg and Krüger 2019), have also delved into and reflected upon sensory archaeologies, essentially moving from an archaeology of the senses to an archaeology with the senses. Attempting to escape from the Western sensorium, and especially the focus on vision and sight that have dominated archaeological analyses and interpretation, several scholars have approached sensoriality more holistically, for example, by considering emotion (Tarlow 2000; 2012; Harris and Sørensen 2010), affect (Hamilakis 2013; 2017; Krmpotich and Somerville 2016), and memory (van Dyke and Alcock 2003; Jones 2007) in different facets of archaeological research and practice, including walking (Ingold and Vergunst 2008), photo-​ethnography (Hamilakis and Ifantidis 2016), and multimodal digital interpretations (Papadopoulos et al. 2019). In this growing literature which considers senses in archaeology in a much broader spectrum, we also ought to highlight recent attempts to integrate the concept of the atmosphere (Sørensen 2015; also see Sumartojo and Pink 2018—​i.e. ‘minute sensory transmissions, occurring through materially-​affective frictions between body and environment’ (Sørensen 2015: 71), as a way to provide a more fluid and dynamic approach to sensory engagement by including bodily movements, memory, evocation, and imagination. Although light is by default considered an element of vision (or, better, as the element that enables vision), we believe that embedding light in archaeological and anthropological research and practice provides a holistic approach for problematizing sensory experience and perception. Light, or the lack thereof, and its by-​products, including shadow and shading, become stimuli that activate sensory, affective, and empathetic experiences, evoke feelings and memories, and enable us to explore the impact of light on spaces, forms, events, behaviours, and relationships among people and things. Light and its (natural or intentional)

Illuminating Sensory Archaeologies    5 interplay with materials, textures, and surfaces triggers our body to respond both kinaesthetically and synaesthetically, by hindering or enhancing performance, mood, emotions, and cognition, and often blurring the boundaries between the material and the immaterial or the real and the fictional. This volume treats light—​either natural or artificial—​like any other object that we encounter in archaeology. We argue that light can be studied and analysed based on the same parameters that we use, for example, when studying an assemblage of pottery: typology, composition, colour, texture, volume, use, and chronology. Light may enter through different openings or pass through building and structures, therefore taking different shapes, sizes, and volumes; it may be produced by different fuels, devices, and celestial bodies, thus having different colours and intensities, being soft or unstable, fragile and flickering, erratic or static; its texture may change when, for example, it illuminates a dusty room or a pool of water, and it may amplify or smooth the texture of different surfaces, and create or eliminate shadows. We should also see light not only in terms of the radiation emitted by a source but also in terms of its chemical composition and reaction with different substances (i.e. combustion; also see ‘Afterword: On Light’), especially given the prominent role of flame light until very recently in our societies. Light unfolds experiences and cannot be seen separately from smells, sounds, balance, time, intoxication, temperature, bodily movements, and performance. Therefore, we need to interrogate its qualities and affordances in different contexts and (im)material environments; explore its design and manipulation; and understand its elusive properties: How can light be consumed, transmitted, shared, perceived, divided, captured, depicted, and illustrated, but also be smelled, heard, touched, and tasted? In our view, light has causal powers, and is thus fundamental in the archaeology of and with the senses.

Research on light: coming of age When this volume was first commissioned, research on light was to a large extent limited to article-​length scholarship which explored light in particular contexts, mostly related to religion and ritual (Weightman 1996; Goodison 2001; Antonakaki 2007; Nesbitt 2012), as evidenced in archaeological material, ancient literature, and iconography. Several monographs also delved into these subjects (James 1996; Potamianos 2000; Parisinou 2000; Kapstein 2004; Christopoulos et al. 2010). Matthew Kapstein (2004), for example, in ‘The Presence of Light: Divine Radiance and Religious Experience’, examines light in religions as an expression of ideologies, knowledge, and experience in the context of theology, politics, and religious art. Similarly, Eva Parisinou, in The Light of the Gods. The Role of Light in Archaic and Classical Greek Cult, 2000), focuses on the role, meaning, and symbolisms of light, lamps, and torches in cult as evidenced in gods’ representation in art as well as descriptions in literary sources. Menelaos Christopoulos et al., in ‘Light and Darkness in Ancient Greek Myth and Religion’ (2010), examine aspects of light and darkness in ancient Greek myth and religion through literature and iconography. Research on illumination has very much focused on flame light, for example lamps (see e.g. Furley 1981; Lapp 1997; Loffreda 2001; Gheorghiu and Nash 2007; Motsianos and Bintsi 2011; Moullou 2010; Motsianos 2011; Strong 2018), and has often been treated as a matter of

6    Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes object typologies without delving into experience, perception, the social role and meaning of flame light, or its impact on living beings and the environment. Light has also been extensively explored in the field of archaeoastronomy in relation to orientations, celestial bodies, and events (Ruggles 2014; Henty and Brown 2019; Boutsikas 2020), while there is not much research that attempts to more holistically map light onto sensory experience (see e.g. Bille and Sørensen 2007; Shepperson 2017). Due to the elusive nature of light, especially in archaeological contexts, combined with our experiential distance as well as temporal and spatial changes, a substantial amount of work has focused on physical (Gheorghiu 2009; Moullou et al. 2012) or computational (re)constructions and simulations of light and light sources (Devlin and Chalmers 2001; Chalmers 2002; Devlin et al. 2002; Roussos and Chalmers 2003; Sundstedt et al. 2004; Zányi 2007; Dawson et al. 2007; Kider et al. 2009; Callet and Dumazet 2010; Papadopoulos and Earl 2009; 2014; Papadopoulos 2010; Papadopoulos and Sakellarakis 2013; Papadopoulos et al. 2015; Saleri 2020). Prior to the work by Dawson et al. (2007), most of this work was driven by computer science and questions about software and hardware capabilities to predict and replicate physical reality, rather than by the potential of the methods to enhance archaeological interpretations. In recent years, there has been an increasing interest in rethinking light in arts, humanities, and social sciences. Three recent monographs, by the literary scholar Alice Barnaby (2016), the cultural geographer Tim Edensor (2017), and the anthropologist Mikkel Bille (2019), offer alternative readings of illumination, light, shadow, and darkness (and of their interplay) as dynamic and fluid media that influence sensory experience and bodily perception, and convey cultural meaning. Barnaby, in her Light Touches: Cultural Practices of Illumination, 1800–​1900, explores the history and meaning of light in the nineteenth century as a mediator in experimentation and imaginative enquiry through different cultural practices, ranging from fashion to interior design and from public art galleries to urban illumination. Edensor, in his From Light to Dark: Daylight, Illumination, and Gloom, takes an empirical approach to human–​environment engagement and interaction in relation to light, particularly exploring abuses of artificial light, materializations of power, and creative approaches to infusing spaces with sensoriality and affectivity, while problematizing the sensual and affective affordances of darkness in relation to its spatial and temporal contexts. Finally, Bille, in his Homely Atmospheres and Lighting Technologies in Denmark: Living with Light, investigates light in relation to the sensory politics and atmospheric communities of Danish sociocultural practices. Several edited collections have explored darkness as a stimulus to our senses and as the means to better understand space, place, experience, time, atmospheres, and engagement. The Archaeology of Darkness (Dowd and Hensey 2016) explores human (inter)action in the context of darkness via several case studies, mostly from Britain and Ireland and with a focus on cave environments, as well as examples from Italy, the Arctic, and Easter Island, in order to highlight spatial and temporal distinctions. Archaeology of the Night: Life after Dark in the Ancient World by Gonlin and Nowel (2017) criticizes the daytime bias in archaeological and anthropological research, and reconsiders the archaeological record in diverse contexts, ranging from Rome and Oman to Scandinavia, Mesoamerica, and Peru, essentially reimagining tasks, activities, and performances through the lens of the night. In such a way, this volume advances the discussions concerning archaeologies of and with light, and provides a novel theoretical and methodological framework within which to approach

Illuminating Sensory Archaeologies    7 the sensoriality of night. Dunn and Edensor, in Rethinking Darkness: Cultures, Histories, Practices’ (2021), further problematize sensory experiences, cultural practices, and creative engagements with darkness without taking the typical binary position regarding light, thus providing a theoretical and methodological toolkit for the arts, humanities, and social sciences to revisit the dark.

This volume Drawing from epigraphical accounts, historical sources, artefacts and artworks, architectural remains, experimental, artistic, and creative approaches, physical (re)constructions, and digital simulations, this volume takes a case study approach to show how diverse spatial and temporal contexts can advance archaeologies of light and with light. The volume is divided into seven thematic sections, each of which explores how light enables or hinders interactions, materializes and is materialized, animates and illuminates, accentuates and shadows, generates symbols, meanings, and systems, creates beliefs and phenomena, transforms rituals and traditions, structures spaces, and shapes atmospheres. As light permeates different facets of everyday life, diverse practices, and architectures, and can be studied via varied theoretical and methodological approaches, the parts of the book present a certain degree of overlap. For example, a digital simulation and (re)construction of light (Part VI) in a cave environment could also be presented in Part I on darkness and Part V on light in private, domestic, and working environments. For this reason, the parts of this book should not be seen as clear thematic or methodological divisions; chapters have been assigned to the most relevant section, based on their focus in terms of their context and methodological approach.

Part I: Darkness The first part of the book, ‘Darkness’, includes five essays that problematize the absence of light in different environments and in relation to perceptions and cultural meanings. Paul Pettitt and Holley Moyes and their colleagues write about human perception in low light conditions. Pettitt et al. focus on how humans perceived palaeolithic art based on different forms of light, and in turn how performances of light shaped art experience. Moyes et al. discuss the effect of the natural environment on the human mind, particularly exploring cave environments and their role in shaping transcendental and imaginary thinking. Efrosyni Boutsikas and Athanassia Zografou explore different shades of darkness as evidenced in Greek myth and cult performances, and discuss how it shapes memories, triggers emotions, and choreographs interactions with architectural elements and landscape features. Lastly, Gail Higginbottom and Vincent Mom investigate how the interplay between light and darkness through celestial phenomena and astronomical events influence the creation of monuments and enable the experience of concepts of time. All five chapters highlight the physicality of the experience, including embodied and emotive performance brought about by light and its different shades.

8    Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes

Part II: Light in Myth, Ritual, and Cosmology Part II includes six essays on the role of light and its byproducts in diverse spatial and temporal contexts, ranging from prehistoric tombs in the Aegean, Ireland, and Iberia to the pre-​Columbian Mississippi River valley, and rock art sites in the Puebloan American Southwest, and a pilgrimage centre in the Chaco Canyon. More specifically, Robert Hensey, César González-​García, and Lucy Goodison explore light in the context of prehistoric burial architecture. Hensey explores Newgrange and revisits established interpretations of the so-​called roof box by drawing from folk tradition, mythology, and archaeology. González-​García investigates the interplay of light and shadow in various Megalithic monuments in the Iberian Peninsula and its connection to architectural design, decoration, and use. Lucy Goodison discusses burial sites in Minoan Crete, particularly exploring the connection of sunlight with divination and the dead, embedding ritual practice in a somatic frame. Kevin Conti and William Walker investigate the performance of light and shadow in Pueblo rock art sites to produce anthropomorphic and zoomorphic imagery related to mythological traditions. Ruth M. Van Dyke discusses Chacoan worldviews as defined by a series of antitheses that light creates. Timothy Pauketat also investigates cosmologies in the Mississippian Cahokia as mediated by the moon and moonlight, and discusses the co-​ mediation of moonlight and human history.

Part III: Light in Sacred Architecture This section includes four chapters that explore the role of architecture in creating lightscapes and light performances, and in turn how light shapes religious practice, experience, and atmospheres. Giulio Magli discusses light and architecture by taking an archaeoastronomical approach. Using as case studies the sacred architecture at Giza, Karnak, Abu Simbel, and Amarna, the chapter discusses how the architectural design enabled hierophanies and how these were perceived and experienced. Iakovos Potamianos explores how architectural design conditions the handling and symbolism of natural light in the classical Greek and Byzantine sacred architecture, attempting to establish relationships between the two both in terms of aesthetics, belief systems, and experience. Mikkel Bille and Tim Flohr Sørensen discuss the sensory and affective qualities of light in Danish Lutheran Evangelical churches, and reflect on the often-​drawn distinctions between light as matter and light as metaphor. Lastly, Maria Sardi and Ioannis Motsianos draw from historical sources to present a comparative study that traces the similarities and differences, as well as motivations, in deploying certain lighting technologies between Byzantine Christian churches and Islamic religious buildings.

Part IV: The Meaning of Light Part IV comprises four chapters which take different perspectives to problematize the social and cultural constructions of illumination’s symbolism and meaning, and how they are represented in objects ranging from Bronze Age pottery to twentieth-​century lamps. Emília

Illuminating Sensory Archaeologies    9 Pásztor writes about atmospheric phenomena and how these have been represented (and by which symbols) in Bronze Age artefacts. By looking at prehistoric iconography and both solar and lunar celestial phenomena, this chapter explores the semantic value of decorative motifs and symbols and how they may have represented cosmological beliefs. Bissera V. Pentcheva takes a phenomenological perspective in the study of medieval art by focusing on the Bessarion Cross and using Heidegger’s condition of nearness to argue that the glitter of gold and its liquescence enable the merging of the spiritual and the sensorial in a temporal and kinesthetic performance. Eleni Bintsi looks at flame light, lighting devices, and their symbolism in pre-​industrial Greek culture. Drawing not only from artefacts but also from oral traditions, myths, and sayings, she examines social and cultural constructions of artificial illumination. Lastly, Eric C. Lapp explores the symbolic meaning and the apotropaic powers of photoamulets from Israel, Jordan, Syria, and Egypt, and their use in different burial contexts. The chapter also demonstrates the amuletic link between object function and the images portrayed on them.

Part V: Light in Private, Domestic, and Working Environments Part V explores light in different, mostly domestic contexts, and problematizes its social, cultural, aesthetic, and cultic functions. The five chapters provide critical reflections on the role of light in demarcating space and its uses, signifying social status and power, structuring domestic order, and manifesting antitheses, such as private and public, access and privacy, as well as daily and nocturnal tasks. Mary Shepperson examines Mesopotamian domestic spaces and discusses design decisions to manipulate and often limit sunlight through only doorways, as a way to assign different uses to these spaces—​ from private to business—​as well as to provide better living conditions. Jean-​Philippe Carrié discusses aristocratic housing in late antiquity, exploring the use of natural and artificial light not only as an aesthetic element but also as a structuring feature of space and as a social filter that conveyed rank and superiority. Peter Dawson and Richard Levy investigate how flame light might have influenced the perception and organization of Inuit dwellings in the Arctic and Antarctic regions. By using a series of computer simulations of illumination (also see Part VI), they explore functional, aesthetic, and symbolic uses of light, and discuss how light structured everyday activities in periods of extended darkness in the outside. David Griffiths presents a comparative contextual analysis of artificial light as evidenced by the unearthing of lamps and lanterns in ten Pompeian households in 79 ce. By exploring the spatial distribution and concentration of lighting devices, Griffiths discusses social and private areas and times of the day as well as nocturnal activities, and the use of light to demonstrate power and status. The last chapter of the part, by Ian West, explores artificial illumination in the context of industrialization, and particularly within the early factories in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. West discusses how the need for sufficient illumination after daylight hours played a key role in the development of gas lighting, and in turn how the latter contributed to cultural and social change, including literacy and entertainment.

10    Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes

Part VI: Simulations and (Re)constructions of Light Part VI includes six chapters that deploy diverse approaches to the study of light, including the physical (re)construction of illumination phenomena, experiments with lighting devices and optical projections, and computational simulations of light. Aaron Watson and Ronnie Scott present examples of optical projections from Neolithic passage tombs in Wales and Scotland, and interpret these in the context of theatrically choreographed rituals, sensory experiences, and cosmology. Simon Stoddart and colleagues discuss light in Neolithic Malta, and how prehistoric communities might have perceived the interplay of light and dark. By deploying digital reconstructions and computer simulations of light, they also problematize to what extent computational tools in conjunction with our modern thinking can provide insights into prehistoric experience and perception. Matt Gatton investigates the role of light in the Mysteries of Eleusis in ancient Greece. By combining epigraphical accounts and archaeological information in the form of artefacts and architectural remains to design and perform a series of experiments, Gatton tests the feasibility of an Eleusinian projector as a means to create a spectacle of light in which the goddess appeared to the initiates in the dark temple. Dorina Moullou and Frangiskos V. Topalis explore domestic nocturnal activities performed under artificial light in ancient Greece. Conducting a series of experiments in which light sources, such as lamps and torches, were (re)constructed, they discuss the optical properties and performance of different lighting devices and their efficacy in relation to domestic tasks and colour perception. Dragoș Gheorghiu focuses on pyrotechnologies as a field and methodological approach that enables the examination of light in the context of sensory and synaesthetic experience and perception. By exploring different diurnal and nocturnal stages of illumination in a (re)constructed Roman farm, Gheorghiu presents his sensorial experience and argues for the value of experiential approaches in the study of illumination. This part closes with a photo-​essay by Eva Bosch, who presents a combination of ethnography and artistic imagination as a way to look at the interplay of light and shadow in the Neolithic site of Çatalhöyük, Turkey.

Part VII: Light in Object Curation and Knowledge Production The last part of the volume explores the role of light in curating objects as well as in using light as the means to portray and/​or produce knowledge. Eleni Kotoula explores the interaction of light with object surfaces and provides a conservator’s perspective by applying Reflectance Transformation Imaging to a wide variety of materials and artefact types from the Derveni cemetery in Macedonia, Greece, to investigate how light can contribute to artefact analysis, conservation, and dissemination. Malcolm Innes discusses light as an interpretive medium in museum exhibitions and explores design choices and the impact that they have on objects and collections in terms of viewing conditions, as well as illumination’s potential to restore exhibits virtually. Lastly, Nessa Leibhammer discusses the use of light and shadow in archaeological images, and problematizes their conceptual, metaphysical, and phenomenological power. Drawing from illustrations produced for Çatalhöyük, Turkey, and discussing them in the context of archaeological representation, Leibhammer argues for the need to approach illustration in a more reflexive manner, being conscious of the conventions employed, their context, and the authority they carry.

Illuminating Sensory Archaeologies    11 The book closes with an Afterword ‘On Light’ by Tim Ingold, who comments on the 33 substantive chapters of the volume and reflects on the role of light and dark as a constitutive element of the things we see around us.

Conclusion This introduction is not meant to provide an exhaustive review of the literature concerning the archaeology of the senses and light in archaeology, since each of the chapters in this volume includes a comprehensive list of literature on the topics covered and further readings. It is our hope that this volume will be thought of as an invitation to continue research into this important topic. It is a testament to the influence of the qualities of light or the lack thereof in human cognitive, emotive, and physical experience. Light not only affects visual perceptions but also triggers and activates other sensory perceptions. Archaeologies of and with light should be seen in concert with archaeologies of and with the senses.

Acknowledgements This book would not have been possible without the contributions of authors fascinated by light, as well as of many others who provided encouragement and support from the beginning of this endeavour. We would very much like to thank Graeme Earl for providing input and support at the first stages of this book. Special thanks go to those who helped with their advice, encouragement, and recommendations, as well as to those anonymous readers who reviewed chapters in various stages of development. We are particularly indebted to Angelos Boufalis, for his insightful comments and suggestions that improved both individual chapters as well as the coherency of the volume. A special thanks also go to families and friends who always provide support in their own unique ways. Last but not least, we thank all copy-​editors for their professional work and those at Oxford University Press who entrusted us with this book and provided support when needed: Clare Kennedy, Jenny King, Celine Louasli, Charlotte Loveridge, Hilary O’Shea, Will Richards, and Annie Rose.

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14    Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes Kider, J., R. Fletcher, N. Yu, R. Holod, A. Chalmers, and N. Badler. 2009. Recreating early Islamic glass lamp lighting. In Proceedings of the 10th VAST International Symposium on Virtual Reality, Archaeology and Cultural Heritage, ed. K. Debattista, C. Perlingieri, D. Pitzalis, and S. Spina, 33–​40. Aire-​la-​Ville: Eurographics. Krmpotich, C., and A. Somerville. 2016. Affective presence: the metonymical catalogue. Museum Anthropology 39(2): 178–​91. Lapp, E. C. 1997. The Archaeology of Light: The Cultural Significance of the Oil Lamp from Palestine. PhD dissertation, Duke University. Loffreda, S. 2001. Light and Life: Ancient Christian Oil Lamps of the Holy Land. Studium Biblicum Franciscanum Museum. Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press. Marr, D. 1982. Vision: A Computational Investigation into the Human Representation and Processing of Visual Information. New York: W. H. Freeman. Mills, S. 2014. Auditory Archaeology: Understanding Sound and Hearing in the Past. Abingdon: Routledge. Motsianos, I. 2011. Phos Ilaron: O Technitos Fotismos sto Byzantio. PhD dissertation. University of Thessaly. Motsianos, I., and E. Bintsi. 2011. Light on Light: An Illuminating Story. Thessaloniki: Folklife and Ethnological Museum of Macedonia-​Thrace. Moullou, D. 2010. Technitos Iotismos stin Archaia Ellada. PhD dissertation, University of Crete. Moullou, D., N. Bisketzis, C. Tselonis, D. Egglezos, O. Filippopoulou, and F. V. Topalis. 2012. Methods and tools for the study of artificial illumination in antiquity. In Proceedings of 2nd Archaeological Research and New Technologies Conference, 21-​23 October 2010, 107–​114. Nesbitt, C. 2012. Shaping the sacred: light and the experience of worship in Middle Byzantine churches. Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 36: 139–​ 60. http://​dx.doi.org/​10.1179/​ 0307013112Z.0000000009 Papadopoulos, C. 2010. Illuminating the burials in the Aegean Bronze Age: natural and artificial light in a mortuary context. In CAA 2009: UK Chapter of Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology, ed. A. T. Wilson, 67–​74. Oxford: Archaeopress. Papadopoulos, C., and G. Earl. 2009. Structural and lighting models for the Minoan cemetery at Phourni, Crete. in Proceedings of the 10th VAST International Symposium on Virtual Reality, Archaeology and Cultural Heritage, ed. K. Debattista, C. Perlingieri, D. Pitzalis, and S. Spina. 57–​64. Aire-​la-​Ville: Eurographics. http://​doi: 10.2312/​VAST/​VAST09/​057-​064 Papadopoulos, C., and G. Earl. 2014. Formal three-​dimensional computational analyses of archaeological spaces. In Spatial Analysis and Social Spaces: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Interpretation of Prehistoric Built Environments, ed. E. Paliou, U. Lieberwirth, and S. Polla, 135–​65. Berlin: de Gruyter. Papadopoulos, C., Y. Hamilakis, and N. Kyparissi-​Apostolika. 2015. Light in a neolithic dwelling: Building 1 at Koutroulou Magoula (Greece). Antiquity 89(347): 1034–​50. Papadopoulos, C., Y. Hamilakis, N. Kyparissi-​Apostolika, and M. Díaz-​Guardamino. 2019. Digital sensoriality: the Neolithic figurines from Koutroulou Magoula, Greece. Cambridge Archaeological Journal 29(4): 625–​52. Papadopoulos, C., and Y. Sakellarakis. 2013. Virtual windows to the past: reconstructing the ‘ceramics workshop’ at Zominthos, Crete. In CAA 2010: Proceedings of Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology, ed. J. Melero, P. Cano, and J. Revelles, 47–​54. Oxford: Archaeopress. Parisinou, E. 2000. The Light of the Gods: The Role of Light in Archaic and Classical Greek Cult. London: Duckworth.

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Pa rt I

DA R K N E S S

chapter 2

L ight, Hum an Evolu t i on, an d the Pal a e ol i t h i c Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto . . . the shadows of man and beast flickered huge like ancestral ghosts, which since the days of the caves have haunted the corners of fantasy, but which the electric light has killed. Laurie Lee (1969), As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning.

Introduction For most of us in the modern world, where bright light is ubiquitous, it is almost impossible to imagine the profound darkness experienced by our preindustrial ancestors. In an age where a single casino in Las Vegas—​the brightest place in the world—​projects the equivalent light of 40 billion Palaeolithic lamps into space for the single purpose of advertisement (Bogard 2013: 19), our experiential distance from prehistoric communities could not be greater. In the modern world, communication through visible symbols is taken for granted, and in palaeoanthropology it is usually assumed to be a defining characteristic of Homo sapiens. For human sight, secondary light sources are of particular significance, and for much of human existence the main source of artificial light has been the naked flame: torches (‘brands’), lamps fuelled by fats, and hearths (fireplaces) that burned wood, bone, or other fuels (de Beaune 1984; 1987a, b, 2002; Harten 1997). These forms of artificial light production evolved during the Palaeolithic, and the light they created—​and its absence—​continue to be of critical adaptive use to humans (see particularly Moyes et al. this volume). In palaeoanthropology, most discussion on the evolution of the controlled use of fire has focused on the advantages of heating/​cooking food to energy budgets and, ultimately, to endocranial evolution (e.g. Carmody and Wrangham 2009), or on the usefulness of warmth provision for human dispersal into northern latitudes and survival in cold climates (e.g. Roebroeks and Villa 2011). Less attention has been paid to the benefits offered by the extension of (fire) light into the realm of darkness and therefore the lengthening of the

20    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto productive day. A notable exception is the study by Wiessner (2014) contrasting daytime and evening (fireside) talk among the Ju/​’Hoansi ‘bushmen’ of southern Africa. As with any means of light production, the artificial extension of light turns economically unproductive time (darkness) into valuable socializing time. Wiessner found clear differences between conversations that occurred as tasks were performed during the day (which focused on economic matters and gossip relating to social organization) and fireside talks at night (stories and ceremonies, relating instead to the wider functioning of social institutions and to the role of imagination in metasocietal organization: see Figure 2.1). It is easy to see how the additional information exchange facilitated by such ‘night talk’ (Morris 2011) and the imagination unleashed by it must have played an important role in the evolution of social relations and even higher-​order theories of mind and products of the imagination. No wonder that we all like fireside stories. One can therefore expect the extension of artificial light production over the course of human evolution to have had profoundly important effects on social evolution, as well as on the evolution of the imagination and thus on ritual and belief systems. Given that it is now agreed that a ‘symbolic capacity’ is perhaps the defining characteristic of

Daylight subjects Inter-ethnic

Stories Land-rights

Complaint Joking Economic

Firelight subjects

Land Economic

Inter-ethnic Myth

Complaint

Stories

Figure 2.1.   Distinction between topics of conversation during daytime activities (top) and by firelight (bottom) among the Ju/​’Huansi of southern Africa. Redrawn from Wiessner 2014.

Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic    21 anatomically modern humans (Homo sapiens), we survey here the contribution of light to the realm of art and ritual.

Light and human colour vision: physics and physiology Vision is our primary sense; 80–​90 per cent of information about our surroundings derives from the eye (Griefahn 1996, cited in Pastoors and Weniger 2011: 381), and one can therefore define humans as visuocentric beings. Our vision conveys locational and numerical information about objects in our environment, and visual information contains details about these objects, such as shape, movement, and colour (Burnham et al., 1963). Thus, we can distinguish objects from each other. None of this would be possible without natural or artificial light. Old-​world primates including humans, chimpanzees, and gorillas possess highly developed trichromatic colour vision (i.e. facilitated by three distinct types of cone photoreceptors in the retina: Conway 2009). Because of this, humans experience the world as an abundance of colour, and the colour of objects conveys information about them that can be considered to have been evolutionarily advantageous. Without colour, for example, it would be difficult to discern ripe from unripe fruit, edible leaves from dead ones, or prey animals from the background landscape. Objects do not, however, ‘possess’ their own colours as material features; colours are simply reflections of light on the object’s surface. Light is an electromagnetic wave, with a length of 106m to 10-​14m. The wavelength of light that we perceive as ‘colour’ forms only a limited part of the entire wave range, between 400nm (nm = 10-​7m) and 700nm. Within this range colour forms a spectrum of ‘pure colours’ represented by the rainbow; from violet (400–​450nm), blue (450–​500nm), green (500–​540nm), yellow (540–​590nm), orange (590–​650nm) to red (650–​700nm). At each end of the visible spectrum follows an invisible wavelength (ultraviolet next to violet: infrared next to red). The surface characteristics of an object will determine its perceived colour; if, for example, the surface of an object reflects the wavelength of 500–​540 nm, the object is perceived as green, and if 650–​700nm, red. Surfaces that reflect ranges between 400 and 700nm appear white; those that absorb all ranges become black (Zollinger 1999). Although the type and level of illumination will affect the hue, saturation, and brightness of colours, these changes in the magnitude of colour perception will not prevent the identification of basic colours, which remain constant (Jameson and Hurvich 1989, 7). There seems to be a general consensus that human females can perceive a wider range of colours than males (e.g. Bimler et al. 2004; Rodriguez-​Carmona et al. 2008; Panchal et al. 2012). This is attributable to sexual dimorphism: the gene responsible for cones with longer wavelengths (red-​ green) is carried in the X chromosome), and as females possess a double X chromosome, they are more sensitive to colour (Panchal et al. 2012). Guilford and Smith (1959) suggested that females have less tolerance for achromatic (black-​grey, literally ‘without colour’) vision than males, and a preference for colour vision. Further support for this is suggested by the fact that females have a larger vocabulary with which to express colour (Bimler et al. 2004). Furthermore, Panchal et al. (2012: 181) associate gender differences in colour preference (male = blue, female = red) with this inequality of photoreceptors.

22    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto Although the range of electromagnetic wavelength responsible for colour is narrow, our vision can perceive at least 1.7 million colours through the combination of hue (the spectrum of colour noted above), lightness (the degree of achromatic colour which forms a gradation whose one end is white and the other end is black), and saturation (the dimensional scale which represents a distance between hue and a certain point on achromatic gradation between white and black: Morovic et al. 2012). A myriad of variation exists (Shepard 1992; Burnham et al. 1963). Once our eyes capture light by visual receptors, retinal ganglion cells process signals and transmit them to the brain’s visual cortex via the Lateral Geniculate Nucleus (LGN) (Conway 2009). Cones on the surface of the retina are responsible for trichromatic colour perception. By contrast, rods react to light levels and become active especially when light is scarce, but have no sensitivity to colour. Particularly pertinent to activities in deep caves, rods detect a wide range of luminance levels (from 0.001 lx (equivalent to a moonless clear night sky) to 100,000 lx (direct sunlight)). In daylight, cones process visual information of colour (photopic vision); as light levels fail, rods combine with cones (Mesopic vision) and the ability to detect colours begins to fail; and with darkness we can only obtain visual information from rods (Scotopic vision), at which point it is impossible to discern colour. Vision by rods comprises different intensities of light; i.e. a monochromatic vision of black and white (Pastoors and Weniger 2011). Rods can adjust to a broad luminance range, but the time required for adaptation significantly differs: rods complete adjustment to high luminance levels in 1–​1.5 seconds, but require 20–​40 minutes in darkness as every astronomer knows (Pastoors and Weniger 2011). We will discuss below how Upper Palaeolithic ‘cave art’ can be seen as rod-​adapted.

Evolution of light production: the control of fire Humans evolved as diurnal mammals, in a highly seasonal adaptive niche (e.g. Foley 1987), within which daily activities such as foraging would be limited by the availability of daylight. Without the means of light production, subsistence-​related activities (hunting and gathering) and many other tasks would cease when light levels precluded cone vision. Establishing the time by which control over the production and management of fire appeared, rather than being simply harnessed opportunistically from natural occurrences, is critical to establishing the potentially huge role that regular controlled use of fire could have played in human behavioural and cognitive evolution. The circadian rhythms of Homo sapiens have been altered by artificial light to the extent that the human ‘waking day’ is almost double that of most primates (Gowlett and Wrangham 2013). Establishing the earliest appearance is a difficult task, however. As wood ash disperses quickly through wind and bioturbation on both open-​air and cave/​rockshelter sites, the main source of evidence for controlled use of fire, at least until the excavation of simple hollows to set fires or the use of stones to line hearths from the Middle Palaeolithic, tends to be fire-​reddened (oxidized) sediment and burnt bones, which themselves can be subject to taphonomic alteration. It is no surprise, therefore, that the date of the earliest convincing evidence for controlled use of fire (Table 2. 1) is debated, as in some cases one cannot on the basis of this evidence distinguish between natural fires and deliberate pyrotechnology. Natural fires can spread as ‘wildfire’ (e.g. grass, forest, and peat fires), and through volcanism or lightning strikes. A broad interpretation sees controlled use of fire by early hominins in Africa occurring by

Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic    23 25 20 15 10 5 0

>400 ka BP

400–300 ka BP

300–240 ka BP

240–190 ka BP

190–120 ka BP

120–80 ka BP

80–60 ka BP

60–29 ka BP

Figure 2.2.   Number of European Palaeolithic sites per 10ka with reliable evidence of controlled light production, by Marine Isotope Stage. Redrawn from Roebroeks and Villa 2011.

~1.6 million years ago, although the evidence is hardly abundant (Brown et al. 2009; Gowlett and Wrangham 2013). The evidence increases in quantity and clarity from around 400 ka bp (Roebroeks and Villa 2011) which may mark a qualitative change in human pyrotechnology, possibly relating to the regular construction of ‘home bases’ (Rolland 2004). In Europe, however, the number of sites with reliable evidence of light production remains remarkably low until the beginning of the Upper Pleistocene around 120 ka bp, from which time only do hearths become relatively abundant in the Middle and subsequent Upper Palaeolithic (Table 2. 1 and Figure 2.2). The repeated construction of hearths and spatial patterning of artefacts indicative of activities organized around fires from 120 ka bp certainly shows how controlled use of fire was a ubiquitous part of Neanderthal behaviour. In the Mousterian rock shelter of Les Canalettes (southeast France), both wood and lignite (coal) were used for fuel around 73,500 ± 5000 (TL) bp (Théry-​Parisot and Meignen 2000), the lignite apparently transported to the site from sources 8–​10km distant. Experimental replication of coal and lignite hearths demonstrated that coal fires incorporating lignite had on average a longer burning time, making its inclusion a useful way to produce relatively high heat for longer durations than for hearth consisting solely of wood (Théry-​Parisot 1998). In terms of light production, however, the flames produced by the wood were essential, as lignite is more suited to producing heat and thus to cooking (Théry-​Parisot 1998). The ubiquity of light production and varied constructions of hearths and curation of materials in the European Middle Palaeolithic (see Roebroeks and Villa 2011) can be taken to indicate that Neanderthals at least (and subsequently Homo sapiens) had extended ‘waking days’, along with the social and perhaps cognitive benefits deriving from this additional socializing time. Evidence of repeated construction of hearths relating to short-​term occupations by Neanderthals derives from Middle Palaeolithic layers of 60–​40 ka bp age in Kebara Cave, Israel (Bar-​Yosef et al. 1992, 1996; Bar-​Yosef and Meigen 2007; Berna and Goldberg 2008; Albert and Weiner 2001; Albert et al. 2007, 2012). Several combustion features were recovered from more than 4m depth of deposits (Meignen et al. 1989, 2001, 2007). Here,

24    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto Table 2. 1. Selected early archaeological evidence of artificial light production prior to the Middle Palaeolithic. Only examples for which a plausible (if not unequivocal) argument for controlled use of fire rather than natural fire have been included. For more detailed discussion see Gowlett and Wrangham (2013) for Africa, and Roebroeks and Villa (2011) for Europe (and references therein). Age

Site/​cultural association

Evidence

~1.6 ma bp

FxJj20E and FxJj20M, Koobi Fora, Kenya

Fire-​reddened (oxidized) Harris and Isaac (1997) patches of sediment and Bellomo and Kean (1997) thermally altered stone

~1.4 ma bp

GnJi 1/​6E, Chesowanja, Kenya

Small lumps of heat-​ reddened sediment

~1 ma–​0.6 bp (biostratigraphy suggests the earlier end of this range)

Member 3, Swartkrans, Cutmarked bones with South Africa evidence of being burnt at high temperature

Pickering (2012)Herries et al. (2009)

~1 ma bp

Wonderwerk Cave, South Africa

Repeated evidence of wood ash and burnt bone

Matmon et al. (2012)

~790 ka bp and younger

Gesher Benot Yaàqov, Israel (Acheulian)

Clusters of burnt artefacts indicate locations of hearths; wood, bark, and grains burnt

Goren-​Inbar et al. (2004)

~400 ka bp

Kalambo Falls, Zambia

Repeated occurrences Clark (2001) of burnt sediment and artefacts including burnt oval patch

~400 ka bp

Beeches Pit, England

Burnt artefacts, fire-​ reddened sediment

Gowlett (2006)

~400–​300 ka bp

Terra Amata, France

Charcoal, burnt lithics

Roebroeks and Villa (2011)

~400–​300 ka bp

La Cotte de Saint Brelade, Jersey

Burnt bone possibly used Callow et al. (1986) as fuel

~400–​300 ka bp

Schöningen, Germany

Heated flints and charred wood including one artifact; possible hearth remnants

~250–​150 ka BP

Maastricht-​Belvedere, The Netherlands

Discrete clusters of Stapert (2007)Roebroeks charcoal and heated flint and Villa (2011)

~250–​200 ka bp

La Cotte de Saint Brelade, Jersey

Burnt bone possibly used Callow et al. (1986) as fuel

References

Gowlett et al. (1981)

Richter 2008Schiegl and Thieme (2008)

Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic    25 various plant materials such as leaves were used to start fires, the latter represented by wood or herbaceous ash and phytoliths (Schiegl et al. 1994; 1996). Concentrations of the latter reveal the dominance of wood for fuel (Karkanas et al. 2000, Albert et al. 1999, 2012).

Lighting the darkness: upper Palaeolithic activity in deep caves In a survey of this nature, one should not forget that a number of sites with Upper Palaeolithic art in daylit situations exist (e.g. Foz Côa, Portugal, and Domingo García, Spain: Baptista and Fernandes 2007; Ripoll López and Municio González 1999). In such situations one might assume that art became visible or invisible depending on the position of the sun, and in this sense had an animated ‘life’ connected with the diurnal cycle. In caves, however, the contrast between light and dark, particularly gradations from daylight to twilight to darkness, is the most profound of a number of sensory experiences that were exploited from at least the Early Upper Palaeolithic onwards (Arias and Ontañon 2012; Bergsvik and Skeates 2012; Bjerck 2012). In terms of ‘decorated’ caves, artistic effort was occasionally focused in outer chambers where daylight penetrated; these may thus be considered to be transitional in a luminary sense, and include the painted bison, horses, and deer of the famous late Upper Palaeolithic (Middle Magdalenian) ‘polychrome ceiling’ of Altamira, which was intended to be viewed from the chamber’s entrance. The artist would have worked with their back to natural light (Pérez-​Seoane 1999), but would nevertheless have required some artificial light, which may have been provided by marrowfat bone lamps found beneath the painted panels (Pérez-​Seoane 1999: 68). Similarly, it has been suggested that Lascaux’s Great Hall of the Bulls would have been bathed in a crepuscular light at dawn and dusk (Geneste et al. 2004). Most examples of parietal art, however, are located deep in caves; surviving examples of Upper Palaeolithic rock art in open-​air situations are, however, geographically disparate (e.g. Bahn 1995; Ripoll López and Municio González 1999; Alcolea-​González and Balbín Behrmann 2007; Baptista and Fernandes 2007; Balbín Behrmann and Bueno Ramírez 2009; Aubry et al. 2014), suggesting that it was originally common. This, and the survival of low-​relief carving and engraving in shallow rock shelters, reveals that Upper Palaeolithic rock art was probably common in both open-​air and enclosed contexts, and that the modern bias in favour of deep cave art results from the erosion of art in open-​air situations. Clearly, the lack of natural light at least did not preclude activities in deep caves. These perpetually dark areas can only be explored with the use of mobile artificial light, which took the form either of simple torches or brands—​ bundles of branches for which indirect evidence occurs in the form of torch wipes (mouchage du torche—​charcoal stubbings on cave walls) from the early Mid Upper Palaeolithic—​and simple stone ‘bowl’ lamps for which there is some evidence from the Early Upper Palaeolithic, although most examples derive from Mid and Late Upper Palaeolithic contexts (de Beaune 1987a, b). In each case these small light sources give off about 10 watts/​1850 kelvin of light, the equivalent of a small candle or sunset/​sunrise, or even lower (Delluc and Delluc 2009). In Ardales Cave (Málaga, Spain), lamps were made from concavities in small, broken blocks of stalactite and stone as well as atop stalagmite columns (Cantalejo et al. 2014, and Figure 2.3). The active zone of a stone lamp consists of either a concave bowl or a flat surface, which can be distinguished from similar artefacts of differing function (such as plant or pigment

26    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto processing stones) through the presence of carbonized residues (Allain 1965). The former (referred to by de Beaune 1987a, b as ‘closed system’ lamps) are most numerous; flat surface (‘open system’) lamps were presumably used only opportunistically or when suitable bowl forms were unavailable, as has been observed in Arctic ethnography (Hough 1898). De Beaune (1987a, b) identified 169 definite/​probable and a further 133 possible examples of European Upper Palaeolithic lamps. This is an extremely low number, which suggests that they were precious commodities that were carefully curated and reused, and presumably explains why lamps can be conspicuously absent or rare even in vast ‘decorated’ galleries such as Niaux, Rouffignac, and Les Trois Frères (de Beune 1987b). Of de Beaune’s (1987a, b) whole sample, definite examples appear in the Mid Upper Palaeolithic (Gravettian: e.g. at Laugerie Haute, Dordogne) but are rare; only a few possible examples are known from the Early Upper Palaeolithic (Aurignacian), while the overwhelming majority date to the Late Upper Palaeolithic (Magdalenian). Of some 285 with a provenance, most derive from either the Aquitaine Basin (60 per cent) such as in Lascaux (Glory 1961; Delluc and Delluc 1979) and La Mouthe (Roussot 1969/​1970) or the Pyrenees (15 per cent), with only rare examples occurring outside France (Germany, Spain, Czech Republic). 71 per cent of de Beaune’s sample derived from sites that would be day-​ lit (rockshelters, shallow caves, open-​air sites), where they presumably functioned at night. By contrast, only 19.5 per cent derived from perpetually dark caves; amongst the Mid Upper Palaeolithic art of the caves of the Quercy (France), for example, only a single stalagmite block lamp was recovered from Pech-​Merle and a single stone form from Cougnac (Lorblanchet 2010: 26, 259). This rarity may be due either to the infrequency of visits to the depths of these caves, or to the fact that many lamps would be removed from the caves as they would be required to light the users’ exit. Clearly these would have been important objects, and perhaps their careful curation and long use-​lives best explains their rarity. Almost all lamps were made on natural stone blocks or slabs—​usually limestone—​although the only two known highly sculpted examples (from Lascaux) were carved from sandstone (Glory 1961). Around 130 limestone ‘flakes’ bearing traces of charcoal were found in Lascaux, for example, dating to the Solutrean or Early Magdalenian (~20,000 cal bp). There is some evidence that lamps were created out of a wider-​purpose stone bowl ‘template’. Twenty fragments of bowls, almost all of sandstone, were recovered from the Magdalenian open-​air site of Rocher de la Caille (Loire, France: de Beaune 2003). Although most lack use wear or traces of burning, the variability of their form and dimensions suggest that they had several functions, among which at least three seemed to have served as lamps (de Beaune 2003). In some cases a complex use-​life of bowls/​lamps can be demonstrated, such as an apparent lack of association between the functioning of a lamp and the decoration it bears on both sides from the Grotte de la Mairie à Teyjat, Dordogne, France (Beaune et al. 1988), or the sequential maintenance of the burning zone, engraving of images on both sides, breakage and reworking on an example from La Madeleine, Dordogne (Tosello 1989). A naturally hollow limestone slab from the Late Magdalenian of the Grotte du Courbet (Tarn, France) bears an engraved female figure of Gönnersdorf type (Welte and Cook 1992; cf. Bosinski et al. 2001). Although it is unclear whether the slab served as a lamp, it suggests some connection between bowl slabs and this widespread Magdalenian symbol. Experiments by Peyrony (1918) and Delluc and Delluc (1979) demonstrated that small lamps can be successfully set on any rocky base as long as enough contact is allowed between the fuel and the wick that the latter can absorb enough fuel to burn. Residue analysis of lamps

Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic    27

Figure 2.3.   Lamp made from concavity in broken stalactite. One of several from Ardales Cave (Málaga, Spain). Photo courtesy of Pedro Cantalejo (see Cantalejo et al. 2014).

indicates the use of animal fatty acids (probably of suidae or bovidae) for fuels. Evidence for wicks is less abundant, although conifer, juniper, and grass wicks have been identified (Delluc and Delluc 1979; de Beaune 1987a, b). Within caves, lamps were often left at entrances, along walls, and at other points assumed to be navigationally important or perhaps that served as the focus of artistic or other activity. Occasionally they were located close to combustion zones (spreads of charcoal and/​or rubified sediment), possibly indicating that they were fuelled and lit at hearths, were used to light hearths, or that after use lamps were returned to activity areas that were within the static light of hearths. In Ardales Cave (Málaga, Spain), hand stencils were created near to stalagmite columns, parts of which had been broken to facilitate the manufacture of lamps (Cantalejo et al. 2014: 120). This, at least, suggests a degree of ad hoc manufacture, use, and discard of lamps (see Figure 2.3). Similar associations are found in the decorated galleries of nearby Cueva de Nerja, where fixed light sources were set on the top of small stalagmites (either natural or modified), in natural concavities on the floor, on boulders or flowstones, and on truncated stalagmites, all apparently used to provide light during image creation (given their proximity to the cave’s parietal art). In areas more difficult to access, portable lamps were fixed along the route (Medina et al. 2012). It is difficult to identify the presence of torches, given their ephemeral and perishable nature. Small fragments of wood charcoal scattered around the floors of numerous caves may have dropped from them (Lorblanchet 2010: 433); fragments thought to derive from a pinewood torch were recovered from the floor of Niaux Cave’s Réseau Clastres (Clottes 1993: 55). Pine and other naturally resinous woods were desirable; otherwise resins or tinder would have to be added to the branches (see Moullou and Topalis this volume). Indirect ‘torch wipes’—​traces of the revivification of torches by stubbing against a cave wall—​also suggest their presence, e.g. in the Grotte Chauvet (Ardèche, France), where they have been dated to ~28 ka uncal bp (Valladas et al. 2005), although it can be difficult to distinguish between a charcoal torch wipe and a deliberate ‘sign’.

28    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto Although lamps and torches could be set down and thus become fixed in place, hearths were by their nature non-​portable. In domestic settings there is evidence for considerable maintenance and reuse of hearths, attesting to their continued importance while sites were occupied, such as at the Late Upper Palaeolithic camp of Étiolles, France (Olive et al. 2004). Ritual activities seem to have involved a pyrotechnological aspect from at least the Mid Upper Palaeolithic; a strong spatial association between ceramic animal figurines and hearths can be identified in the Pavlovian of the Czech Republic and surrounding region, which may suggest an importance of firelight in their ritual use (Verpoorte 2001: 97). In decorated caves, fires could be lit simply on the cave floor (e.g. Chauvet, Fontanet, Enlène), in natural concavities (e.g. Le Portel), or constructed within circles of small stones (e.g. La Vache) (Clottes 2010). A number of spatial associations between hearths and art exist, and place light and art in wider contexts. In Le Moulin Laguenay Cave (Corrèze, France), a hearth was lit beneath early Mid Upper Palaeolithic hand stencils around which stalactites were manufactured into beads (Mélard et al. 2010). A similar association with hand stencils has also been noted at Fuente del Salín (Aragon, Spain: González Morales and Moure 2008) and in Tito Bustillo (Asturias, Spain), where excavations revealed an archaeological layer containing a hearth, pigments, and tools of stone and bone (Moure Romanillo 1989). Given their distribution at rockshelter and open air camp sites, the use of lamps, hearths, and (one assumes) torches was not restricted to deep caves (de Beaune 2004; see Figure 2.4). The firelight produced by them would, however, provide a degree of continuity—​perhaps a meaningful link—​between the periodic darkness of the night (experienced in the open air) and the perpetual darkness of the cave, to which we now turn.

Figure 2.4.  Open air hearth from the Late Magdalenian Level IV40, Sector 36 of Pincevent, France. Photo courtesy Centre archéologique de Pincevent and with thanks to Pierre Bodu.

Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic    29

The experience of light and colour in Palaeolithic caves Humans are not well adapted to low-​light environments; in dark or near-​dark conditions the nature and precise location of things becomes ambiguous and is ultimately lost. In total darkness, orientation is completely lost and it becomes impossible to confirm visually events happening even close by (Bishop 2005); thus darkness, combined with a lack of recognizable landmarks such as the sun, moon, stars, and landscape, can contribute strongly to the subjective state of disorientation (Montello and Moyes 2012). In the case of caves, darkness considerably inhibits the visual access (i.e. viewshed) to these natural environments, which in terms of environmental aesthetics create an environment that is unusual, mysterious, and complex, in which the perception of mystery and danger increases as light levels dim (Montello and Moyes 2012: 393). It is no surprise, then, that darkness tends to be associated with fear, simply because risks and danger in any activity in darkness increase (Edensor 2013). Deep caves are enveloped in permanent darkness, and even given the capability of rods to process a wide range of luminance levels, cave darkness is too dense to allow these light detector cells to adapt to the environment (Pastoors and Weniger 2011). Such lightless spaces have had an influence on human psychology and have often been interpreted as a source of metaphorical beings: fear of the darkness in caves can be associated with the unknown and with other worlds (Arias and Ontañon 2012). Artificial light sources were therefore critical both for the exploration of the dark zones of caves and for any activities requiring vision—​including artistic—​that occurred within them. Two important characteristics of Palaeolithic light sources are that they (and everything they illuminate) are constantly moving; and that they reduce visual acuity and colour contrasts, emphasizing only the warmer colours of the spectrum, i.e. yellow and particularly red (de Beaune 1987a, b; Delluc and Delluc 2009). In this sense one might say that in terms of visual perception cave art is ‘redshifted’ (Shepard 1992), which, apart from its natural occurrence in or near many caves, may explain in part the ubiquity of ‘red ochre’ (haematite) in cave art. It should be apparent that there is a clear distinction between the visual experience provided by firelight (i.e. to Palaeolithic cave explorers) and that provided by electric light (i.e. to ourselves). Electric light is static; it does not cause objects to move. With shifting and flickering firelight, however, nothing is ever still, and thus Palaeolithic explorers would never have been able to view art (or anything else in deep caves) as a static phenomenon. Even with the use of numerous lamps at the same time (as may have occurred, for example, in the Well/​Shaft of the Dead Man in Lascaux, which contained at least 21 unmodified or rudimentary lamps in limestone, and the two well-​made forms in red sandstone noted above: Delluc and Delluc 1979), hardly any part of a cave system could be seen at any one time or as a static phenomenon. Artificially facilitated vision under such conditions is far different from that of our everyday colour perception, where a white light (such as daylight) enables us to perceive colours correctly. Once the proportion of wavelength differs, however, the light source itself appears coloured (Zollinger 1999), and the low luminance of Palaeolithic lamps possesses a low colour ‘temperature’ dominated by orange and red, in contrast to the higher-​temperature

30    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto whites and blues of sunlight (Doolittle 1967). Inside deep caves, therefore, human colour vision is inevitably biased to red and yellow; under such conditions blues become darker (possibly even invisible; Harten 1997: 381), and black absorbs all wavelengths including red light, and therefore appears as impenetrable darkness indistinguishable from shadow. Our trichromatic colour vision is reduced to a red-​based dichromatic under which even colours of longer wavelength appear redder (Shepard 1992, Zeki 1999, Conway 2009). Red colour will therefore be more visible than any other colour, and attention to red would naturally be heightened (Pastoors and Weniger 2011). The artificial brightening (saturation) of red ochre through heat treatment further reveals its importance (Geneste et al. 2004; Barnett et al. 2006; Salomon et al. 2015). The remarkably limited light levels available to Palaeolithic cave explorers would inevitably have constrained the means by which and extent to which they were able to navigate, scrutinize, and give meaning to the subterranean world. Pastoors and Weniger (2011: 381) calculated the visible distance of red in caves, based on the relation between luminous flux of light sources and luminance, concluding that red can be seen within 2.24m and 1.29m from the light source; beyond this, vision becomes colourless within the distance in which rods can detect light, which the authors estimate at between 22.36m and 38.73m. Pastoors and Weniger (2011: 382–​383) used the following methods: based on the threshold of colour perception (3 lux (lx), whereby Ix = lux/​illuminance) and the known luminous flux of a candle (5–​15 lumens (lm)), given by the definition of illuminance = lm/​m2. Lux = the illuminance generated in an area of one square metre when illuminated by one luminous flux (1 lm). Illuminance is subject to distance, and decreases quadratically with increasing distance from the light source. Using these figures, in the light of a single candle/​lamp in an otherwise lightless environment the colour red will first become visible at a distance of 2.24m (= √ 15 lm/​3 lx) and at the latest 1.29m (= √ 5 lm/​3 lx). The naked flame of such a candle/​lamp will be visible between 22.36m (= √5 lm/​0.01 lx) and 38.73m (= √ 15 lm/​0.01 lx). The distance at which black becomes visible cannot be measured. Taking into account the topographical constraints of most caves, however, they concluded that the actual visible area within which one can perform an activity would be only ~4m diameter. As explorers progressed along their path, lit in a small bubble of red light, the darkness would open up before them and close in again behind them (Groenen 2000: 107; Pettitt 2016). Sight could not be relied upon for many things one would otherwise take for granted: long-​distance viewing, the perception of large chambers or long passages in their entirety, the planning of safe or desirable routes without experiencing them first, or the scrutiny of any detail over a metre or so beyond the viewer. Because of this, senses other than sight inevitably become crucial. The physicality of cave exploration would therefore prioritize touch as a means of steadying, raising, and lowering the body in the tiring process of navigating the cave, as well as feeling for danger. Light would thus form a role in the definition and experience of the ‘ritual architecture’ of the cave. The use of numerous lamps, for example, would have enabled visual communications between the various decorated panels of the Grande Salle in Pech-​Merle, among which the famous spotted-​horse panel is not visible in its entirety with only one lamp (Lorblanchet 1995: 433). Light would also have been crucial in the use of anamorphosis to correct the distorting effect of cave walls on images, e.g. in the Mid (Cougnac) and Late (Lascaux) Upper Palaeolithic (Lorblanchet 2010: 303).

Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic    31

Cave art: an art of form or colour? The significance of colour to cave art and thus to the early development of art should be obvious. Even today, cave art provides a vivid experience: icons of Palaeolithic art such as the bison of Altamira and horses and aurochs of Lascaux attract praise with their stunning colours. Polychrome images such as these belong, however, to the Late Upper Palaeolithic (Solutrean and Magdalenian), and it seems that the significance of colour became salient only at this time (Davis 1986). Researchers often emphasize the importance of line to figurative cave art, that is the outline of animal images. Halverson (1992) stressed that some 90 per cent of parietal images are executed only in simple outline, concluding on the grounds of perceptual psychology that ‘Palaeolithic art is an art of outline’ (Halverson 1992: 390). Similarly, Davis (1986) also argued that lines were of primary importance to representations, and that colour, which need not be symbolic, ‘is only one element of a whole package of techniques used to make images’ (Davis 1986, 197). One cannot deny the importance of line in the depiction of animals (which in caves perhaps only appear with the Mid Upper Palaeolithic, lines being unimportant before this time), but here we examine the significance of colour as an inseparable constituent of parietal art, and by so doing elaborate why red and black were crucial elements of cave art. Properly speaking, we should view cave art as an interaction between light and the absolute properties of caves such as darkness, topography, and shadow, the contrast between which is heightened by our chromatic vision. In such a definition, it is clear that the nature of human vision must be seen as an integral element of cave art.

Rod-​adapted ‘cave art’: an art of red and black The artificial light available to Palaeolithic explorers create in caves a world of red and black—​colours shared by much of the surviving art pigments, provided by iron oxides (red) and manganese oxides and charcoal (black). Less frequently, yellow (a mixture of goethite and clay) and brown or purple (a mixture of hematite of ferrous oxide and manganese) were used (de Balbín Behrmann and González 2009). Blue and green are absent. It is possible that this red-​base dichromatic vision influenced Palaeolithic cave visitors, perhaps providing an artistic inspiration. The integration of visible (red) and invisible (black) areas into cave art forms its dominant structure; cave art is an art of red (light) and black (darkness).

Light, liminal areas, and colour transition Imagine standing at a cave mouth. A bright sun in a blue sky lights the green tundra, yet before you a path disappears into the darkness of the deep cave. The stone lamp in your hand is already lit, but its light is insignificant under the sun. As you walk into the cave, the sunlight gradually fades and the darkness becomes thicker and begins to surround you. The radiation of the lamp slowly becomes pronounced, its flickering illumination casts moving shadows

32    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto on cave’s walls. Every single step takes you towards the world of red and black, separating you from the multicoloured quotidian world. Now, you can see your surroundings only ambiguously; while your eyes have yet to adapt to the dark you still remember the bright rays, vivid colours, and geometric certainties of the ‘outside’. As you look back, you recognize the decreasing sunlight, the darkness swallowing it up like the onset of night. This describes a transitional colour experience, a journey through liminality from the relative brightness of the cave entrance, through a twilit transitional zone, and into the depths. This can be formally defined as light, twilight, and dark zones, the depth, extent, and morphology of which will be defined by the cave’s morphological characteristics (see discussion in Moyes 2013: 5–​7). Artistic activity in the latter is inconvenient to say the least, although its ubiquity suggests a deliberate association between liminality and images that emerges only under certain lighting conditions. The polychrome art of Altamira’s liminal zone would have been lit by an oblique natural light (de Quiros 1999; Pérez-​Seoane 1999). The significance of such twilight zones is that their luminance will change over time; as the quality of natural light changes, so too does the impression of the space and its art, and Palaeolithic audiences may have seen these depictions in different ways at different times. The orientation of Lascaux’s entrance (facing northwest) is most characterized by evening, when red light from the sunset would have directly illuminated the Hall of the Bulls and provided a crepuscular red light which, therefore, forms an integral part of the art (Geneste et al. 2004: 49). In the dark zone, available light would be constantly moving in air currents and through the movement of the lamp holder. At every moment, therefore, the relationship between light/​visible things and dark/​invisible things is always changing (Groenen 2000). Things are never fixed. A number of examples show how this visual uniqueness was incorporated into cave art. Groenen (2000) points out the significance of darkness: some paintings (e.g. two red deer in La Pasiega, or a horse in the axial gallery of Lascaux) appear to run towards or emerge from dark (invisible) areas, yet the absence of background features such as trees, plants, and rivers means that we cannot view cave art as simply that of a reconstructed visible world (Groenen 2000). Instead, the ‘alternate realism’ of cave art took as its basis the shifting perception of an unusual, red-​black-​based space, in which two-​dimensionality and three-​dimensionality blurred as darkness and shadow graded into visible cave walls and art. In short, darkness itself forms the ‘landscape context’ of cave art (Pettitt 2016). It is well known that animal images in cave art are often associated with features of the natural topography of cave walls that ‘suggest’ or stand for anatomical features of the animals (e.g. Clottes 1993; Bahn and Vertut 1997; Clottes and Lewis-​Williams 1998; Lejeune 2004; Pigeaud 2004; Vialou 2004). The enhancement of the cave surface through lighting will turn a two-​dimensional depiction into a three-​dimensional one—​effectively an art conceptually between sculpture and painting. Shadow forms the critical component of this optical illusion, combining with surfaces to provide a natural line. The topography of the cave wall forms the dorsal line of a vertical bison in Niaux’s Salon Noir, whereas shadow portrays the shape of its body; the artists needed only to draw a line to represent its anterior part and limbs (Groenen 2000). The bison can only be seen when light is projected onto it from the left; once the light is moved out of this position, it is no longer recognizable. Elsewhere in the Salon Noir a natural hollow resembles a deer, to which two antlers have been added by Palaeolithic artists; shadows formed in the hollow only when light is held in a specific position enrich the quality of the deer’s body (Bahn and Vertut 1997). An awareness of such properties of light and surface was probably already present in the Early Upper Palaeolithic (Pike et al. 2012; Pettitt et al. 2014).

Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic    33 Rockshelters with engraved, sculpted, and/​or painted friezes are relatively common in the Late Upper Palaeolithic (Leroi-​Gourhan 1968: 163; Lorblanchet 1995: 25–​28), and light played an important part in the definition of volume of sculpture (Barrière 1993), e.g. in the Solutrean sculpted frieze of Roc de Sers (Charente, France: Tymula 2002) or the Magdalenian frieze of the Roc aux Sorciers, L’Angles sur L’Anglin (Vienne, France: Iakovleva and Pinçon 1997). As light brings features such as stalactites and stalagmites into the visual spectrum, it throws their shadow. An epitome of a sculpture-​shadow art is the so-​called ‘bison man’ of El Castillo Cave, Cantabria, Spain (Figure 2.5). This natural stalagmite column bears a vertical painting of a bison. The upper part of the column itself, however, was deliberately modified so as to throw the shadow of a similar bison onto the cave’s wall when light is projected from a certain position (Groenen 2000). Such a juxtaposition of action and effect cannot be accidental. Such integrations of visibility and invisibility in cave art inevitably highlight one of its unique characteristics: human interaction with the art. ‘Viewers’ (one might better regard

Figure 2.5.   The ‘Bison Man’ (shadow) of El Castillo cave (Cantabria, Spain). The shadow thrown on the cave wall (right of photo) is of the upright stalagmite column (centre of photo). Note the painted, upright bison on the column itself. Photo thanks to Marc Groenen and courtesy Gobierno de Cantabria.

34    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto them as ‘performers’) can exert a direct influence on the art by changing the position of the light source; by illuminating the art from different directions, images emerge from the darkness or disappear into it again, or are left in the ambiguity between light and darkness. Hand stencils provide a specific example of the influence of lighting conditions on the ‘performance art’ of Palaeolithic caves. These form one of the iconic images of cave art and probably constitute some of the oldest type of art (see Pettitt 2011; Pettitt et al. 2014 for a summary). The majority of examples are red, although a number of black examples are known (Pettitt 2011). Accordingly, it might appear that the red-​coloured cloud around a hand is an expression of light, and that the hand-​shaped absence in part represents shadow, as this production method is conceptually distinct from that of far rarer positive handprints created simply by pressing a pigment-​covered hand against a wall (Figure 2.6).

Figure 2.6.   One of many hand stencils from El Castillo cave (Cantabria, Spain) produced by projecting liquid pigment at a hand placed against the cave wall. Note how the ‘hand’ blends in with the cave wall, whereas the red pigment cloud stands out. Photo: Luis Teira, and thanks to Roberto Ontañon and the Gobierno de Cantabria.

Light, Human Evolution, and the Palaeolithic    35

Red: light and pigment In prehistoric art, red is the most universally used colour, regardless of geography. The earliest European settlers of the Americas referred to the indigenous people as ‘Red Indians’ due to their red body paint (Barnett et al. 2006). Processed red ochre is known from prehistoric contexts across the world, and its use can be traced back to at least 100,000 bp (e.g. Blombos cave, South Africa: Henshilwood et al. 2002; 2009), and 71 pieces of utilized red ochre were discovered in Qafzeh cave, Israel, dating to around 92,000 bp (Hovers et al. 2003). Use of the pigment has also been reported for Neanderthals, and perhaps for earlier hominins (Zilhão et al. 2010; Wreschner 1980).

Red light and evolutionary psychology Modern psychology has shown how colour impacts significantly in various ways on human consciousness, evoking both negative and positive psychological impressions. According to colour psychology, red is often linked with danger, warning (Kalmus 1935) or energy, warmth, and love (Morton 1997). Colour symbolism can vary culturally, and ‘natural references’ such as fire and water play a powerful role in the symbolic meaning of the respective colours in all cultures. This symbolism can be considered timeless and cross-​ cultural (Morton 1997: 21). Colour has allowed us to enjoy a rich aesthetic experience in the evolutionary landscape, one which provokes emotional responses to phenomena, objects, and animals that require action (Orians and Heerwagen 1992). In evolutionary perspective, one might draw a correlation between the red-​biased visual condition of a deep cave environment and the ‘natural setting’ of sunset and sunrise. When the sun is near the horizon, its light passes through a thicker atmospheric layer than when it is higher in the sky, and only long-​wavelength light is able to pass through (Burnham et al. 1963)—​thus the impressive red skies. According to Orians and Heerwagen (1992), this natural red light could have provoked an emotional reaction among our early ancestors, which became hardwired into the brain. As our ancestors were diurnal animals, sunsets may therefore have induced feelings of uneasiness, provoking them to prepare for night-​ time, whereas sunrise offered reassurance. According to this argument, red light was originally the most essential cue for survival. Shadows could also be pertinent to this model, as they convey information about the amount of daylight left. The ability to predict the timing of the loss of light, for example in order to return to safety before darkness falls, could depend on the length of shadow (Orians and Heerwagen 1992). It is probably safe to assume that Palaeolithic individuals practised a far more heightened awareness of visual clues such as the quality of light and shadow, in addition to a focus on shapes, and it is clear that such observation was extended into the realm of cave art. In this context, Hodgson (2003, 2006) notes how the configuration of cave walls provided a ‘sign stimulus’ (i.e. a morphological ‘trigger’) that allowed the human brain to interpret the combination of surface, light, and shadow as parts of the bodies of equids, bovids, cervids, caprids, and other animals. All this in red-​shifted light.

36    Paul Pettitt, Stefanie Leluschko, and Takashi Sakamoto

Conclusion The artificial creation of light in the Palaeolithic probably began, at least in regular form, during the Middle Pleistocene. Only by the Upper Pleistocene was it used ubiquitously on camp sites (by Neanderthals and early Homo sapiens) and, it seems, only from the Early Upper Palaeolithic (in Eurasia at least) was it used, at least with any regularity, to light the way in deep caves. In many contexts red and black light were dominant colours in Palaeolithic art, the human sensitivity for which probably has evolutionary psychological grounding. In terms of cave art, the features of the available light, including its red-​shifted nature and constant movement, were very clearly integrated as important aspects of the performance of art, probably from its earliest manifestation in Europe. Photographs of cave art images available today (taken with static electric light) display the art as a two-​dimensional record; this removes the modern viewer from the visual and wider sensual experience of the Palaeolithic participant. Only by considering the widest components of this remarkable art—​of which light is a critical component—​can we begin to grasp the profoundly different nature of light, vision, and cognition in the Palaeolithic.

Acknowledgements We are grateful to Costas Papadopoulos and Holley Moyes for the invitation to contribute to this volume and for their patience awaiting the final draft. Their comments and those of anonymous reviewers helped improve the manuscript. Pedro Cantalejo kindly supplied Figure 2.3; Pierre Bodu Figure 2.4, Marc Groenen Figure 2.5, and Luis Teira and Roberto Ontañon Figure 2.6.

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chapter 3

The Role of Da rk ne s s i n An cient Greek Re l i g i on and Religious Prac t i c e Efrosyni Boutsikas Introduction The performance of ancient Greek festivals and religious rituals was carefully staged, established through tradition, bound in myth, and legitimated by the god honoured. Temporality in ancient Greek rituals was as significant as all their other elements. The time of day or night and season a ritual was held determined its character, thus making its timing inseparable from its purpose. Clear parallels of this are found in festivals connected with agricultural activities. Such were the Thesmophoria and the Anthesteria; their purpose defined the time in the year they had to be celebrated. Similarly, the festival of Proerosia—​ ‘rites before ploughing’—​also called Proarcturia (Robertson 1996) (i.e. before the rising of Arcturus) exemplifies this tight connection between cult and timing. The name of the festival of Proarcturia denotes the exact time in the year it had to be held: before the heliacal rising (annual first appearance of a star a few minutes before dawn and after a period when it had been invisible) of Arcturus, a star in the constellation of Boötes. At around 500 bce, this event would have been visible from the latitude of Greece between our 26 and 28 September. But aside from the time in the year chosen to celebrate certain festivals, ancient Greek cult practice included also a significant number of nocturnal rituals. Such a timing was, of course, important in fulfilling the specific religious aims of these performances. An initial brief discussion of characteristics attributed to darkness and its various properties, leads us to an investigation of the role of darkness in ancient Greek religious experience and the ways it shaped the participants’ memories of these occurrences. This is achieved by considering the relationship between natural and artificial light and religious architecture used in nocturnal and dawn rituals, for a number of initiatory, Mystery, and divinatory cults. It is demonstrated not only that their timing of the performances was deliberate and important, but, more significantly, that darkness had another function in ancient Greek cult practice: it was the medium that triggered emotions and symbolic referents in the minds of

44   Efrosyni Boutsikas the participants. It follows that darkness was a key element in shaping the religious experience and memories of these events.

Types of darkness Light and Night (Nyx) lie at the beginning of everything in ancient Greek cosmogony and cosmology. Despite their differences, Hesiodic and Orphic traditions agree that the Earth (Ge) and Nyx are early divine mothers (on this see also Betegh 2004: 153–​154, 166). For Hesiod, Nyx is born directly from Chaos before Ouranos (Theogony, 123), whereas for Parmenides, she is one of the first elements to have existed (Parmenides fr. 9; Graham 2010: 239; see also Eudemos fr. 150; López-​Ruiz 2010: 138, 153, 158). The union of Nyx and Erebos resulted in the birth of Aether and Day, whilst children of Nyx include Doom, black Fate, Death, Sleep, Dreams, Blame, and Woe (Hesiod, Theogony, 123–​125, 211–​225). Thus Night, Death, Dreams, and Darkness are closely associated in ancient Greek thought. Today, we use the word ‘Darkness’ to describe the absence of light, but as a word, it is inadequate to accurately describe differing ancient Greek conceptions of darkness. Darkness is, for instance, a characteristic of Nyx, but in this context it merely means absence of sunlight. This was one type of darkness, distinctively separate in the minds of the ancient Greeks from the dense darkness that characterized places like the Underworld. Thus words like Erebos and Zophos describe different dark conditions from those of Nyx (Marinatos 2010: 198–​199). The difference between the two types of darkness does not simply lie in the density, but also in the properties that darkness carries. Parmenides thought of Night as obscure, dense, heavy, and unrecognized (‘nykt adae, pykinon demas embrithes te’ (fr. 8.59); ‘nyktos afantou’ (Simplicius, Physics, 180.11; see also Graham 2010: 219–​221, 239 n. F8.56–​59; Thanassas 2007: 69 n. 19). The darkness of the night is, though, a variable quality; there are dark and ‘bright’ nights, depending on the phase of the moon and the amount of light it sheds on earth. In the absence of artificial light, a night lit by the full moon is still night, but quite different from a moonless night. In addition, because night is imbued with anticipation of sunrise, it is not only a temporary condition, but also a type of darkness that exists only in the world of the living and that can be manipulated (i.e. controlled through the use of artificial light). Conversely, the thick darkness of Erebos, Hades, and Zophos is a permanent, irreversible condition of places not inhabited by living mortals (e.g. Sophokles, Antigone, 879; Hipponion tablet l. 10, Haidos skotos ouloeentos ‘shadowy darkness/​gloom of Hades’; Entella tablet l. 11, Haidos skotos orphoneentos ‘Hades’ gloomy darkness’). The landscape and conditions present in the underworld are unknown to humans; therefore souls of the dead arriving in the dark, shadowy, murky Underworld are in need of instructions in finding their way (on this see Bernabé and Jiménez San Cristóbal 2008: 21; Edmonds 2004: 47, 49). The depiction of deities and mortals alike carrying torches in iconography when visiting the Underworld (as seen e.g. in the Apulian red-​figure volute krater by the Underworld painter (Staatliche Antikensammlung, Munich), in which Hekate is depicted holding a pair of torches) could indicate that this type of dense darkness posed difficulties in visibility. But Lucian’s comment that, although the Underworld was supposed to be dark, no visitor seemed to have trouble seeing their way around (De luctu, 2), although satirical, attests to the meaning of these torches being not simply functional. Instead, the

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    45 dense darkness of the Underworld signified the gloomy conditions of existence rather than simply a physical darkness that caused invisibility. Carrying lit torches in iconographic representations of visitors of the Underworld could also denote that those needing the light shed by the torches did not belong there; light carried from the world above may have marked these figures as invaders in that domain. Herakles, in the Apulian volute krater by the Underworld painter is depicted as the recipient of the light shed by Hekate’s torches and Hekate lights Persephone’s path as she leads her out of the Underworld in the fifth century bce bell krater attributed to the Persephone painter (Metropolitan Museum). Since these conditions are characteristic of the world of the dead, and given that the rays of the all-​seeing Helios only reached the world of the living, it is understandable why the type of darkness present in the Underworld existed only in places inaccessible to living mortals. Only through initiation to the Mysteries could an afterlife with light be hoped for; the light of the sun reached the Underworld only for pious initiates of the Mysteries (Aristophanes, Frogs, 449–​459, 455–​459; Pindar, Olympian, 2.56–​67).

The temporal significance of darkness in religious practice: nocturnal and dawn rites The presence of natural light, or its absence, can have a significant temporal function in the context of ritual. Sunrise can, for example, herald the time of commencement or end of rituals. Ancient Greek dawn rites commenced with the appearance of the first rays of the rising sun. Such was the Panathenaic procession, which started at dawn (Burkert 1983: 155), when a runner brought to the Acropolis a torch lit with the new fire from the grove of Akademos (Aristophanes, Frogs, 1090–​1098 with Schol.). Torch races are a common occurrence in Greek festivals, especially those performed at night. The absence of natural light made these events an impressive spectacle, with the light of the torches adding a festive note to the atmosphere of the race. This spectacle could vary considerably, even within the same city. In Athens, for instance, the Panathenaic torch race was a foot race (Pausanias, 1.30.2), whereas that held during the festival of the Thracian lunar deity Bendis was on horseback (Plato, Republic, 328a). Apart from torch races, other types of nocturnal ritual and activity were performed in various festivals, for example sacrificial meals, pyres, lustration rites, processions, pannychides (pannychis, singular, was a night-​long ritual which ended before sunrise and usually involved the sole participation of women). These formed part of the ritual proceedings of the festival, but were usually not the main rituals; in most cases they marked the beginning and/​or end of festivals. A number of rites favoured the interplay between night and dawn (i.e. darkness and light), as did for example the Eleusinian Mysteries (e.g. ‘the light-​bringing star of our nocturnal rite’, Aristophanes, Frogs, 342–​343) and the Argive rite performed at the altar of Helios (Pausanias, 2.18.3). In the latter, the sacrifice of a ram took place at night, then, after crossing the river Inachos, a sacrifice was offered to Helios at his altar at dawn (Burkert 1983: 107). Dawn rites equally served chthonic cults, as did the funerary sacrifice honouring those killed at the battle of Plataea described by Plutarch. It involved a procession that formed just

46   Efrosyni Boutsikas before dawn and wound its route from the Agora to the cemetery (Plutarch, Aristides, 21.1–​ 4; Pausanias, 9.2.5) (for detailed description of the rite see Burkert 1983: 56). Thus the time of day or night a ritual commenced was part of its carefully planned staging and performance. This intention is exemplified in the sacrifice of the inhabitants of the island of Keos, which took place during the first appearance of the dog-​star Sirius, before dawn (i.e. at Sirius’ heliacal rising). According to Apollonios, the sacrificers waited on the mountaintop to see Sirius rise before commencing their sacrifices first to Sirius and then to Zeus (Argonautica, 2.527; cf. Schol. 498a/​w ; Heraclides fr. 141). The rite started at night, when it was still dark, and continued after dawn, into the day; so what commenced as a nocturnal ritual ended as a daytime rite. These examples are not exceptional occurrences. We know of several cases of rituals starting at night and ending just before, or at, sunrise. Such was the pannychis held at the beginning of the Panathenaic celebrations, and the rite described in Alkman’s Partheneion, both discussed below. The light shed by the rising sun would dramatically change the visible surroundings and staging of these rituals. The written sources are explicit that such nocturnal activities had to end with the first rays of the rising sun, or that a different set of activities was performed with the arrival of dawn. The Keans, for example, commenced their sky watch with a night sky lavishly decorated with stars and constellations visible from the mountaintop. Their watch ended upon the heliacal rising of Sirius, visible during the few minutes before sunrise, when it was dark enough for the star to still be visible in the sky. Then the sacrifices would take place, as the nocturnal setting gave way to a bright, warm August morning, with commanding views of the Aegean Sea. The Kean rite was aimed at warding off the deadly powers of Sirius by setting an altar and sacrificing to Zeus Ikmaios (Zeus of the rain), as advised by an oracle when threatened by drought (Apollonios, Argonautica, 2.516–​ 527 and Schol. 498; Kallimachos, fr. 75.34) (more detailed discussion of the custom can be found in Burkert 1983: 109–​111). The need to control or even overturn the powers of Sirius for more favourable conditions, such as wind and rain, resulted in a ritual with a clear objective: to influence the cosmic powers. It seems that in order to achieve this, it was necessary to perform the ritual at the time in the day when the rotating cosmos was alternating from darkness to light. In this way, it seemed as if the entire cosmos witnessed these activities.

Light and shadow effects in religious architecture Double polarities such as Night/​Day, Death/​Life, ‘Chthonic’/​‘Ouranic’ are basic dualistic conceptions that become recurrent themes in ancient Greek cult. They are attested in cults that involve pairs of opposites, such as Pelops and Zeus in Olympia, and Opheltes and Zeus at Nemea. These dualistic conceptions are present in the cosmic cycle: brightness follows from and is followed by darkness, a cycle that also characterizes human existence: born out of darkness into the light, ending in submersion into darkness after death, followed by the arrival to a bright after-​death existence as promised by Eleusinian and Orphic eschatologies. Only the gods are excluded from this repeated cycle: they do not face death and are eternally luminous and radiant. Yet the contrast of these polarities, although present in ritual, does not seem equally present in the structural positioning of Greek religious architecture.

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    47 A comparison of (34 temples dedicated to ‘ouranic’ cults and 24 to ‘chthonic’ (there is currently much debate on how appropriate and sufficient these terms are; they are used here as abbreviations of groups of cults that have to this day shaped our understanding of Greek cult practice) does not reveal a preferential distribution or clustering in either group, which could be linked to the movement of the sun at a particular day in the year, or between sunrise and sunset (Figure 3.1). Instead, a very similar pattern of orientations is revealed between the two groups, indicating that the rising or setting position of the sun in the horizon was not associated with the placing of Greek temples in relation to their ‘chthonic’ or ‘ouranic’ attributes. The small predominance of ouranic orientations observed at azimuth range 78°–​ 100° is probably the result of the larger number of ouranic cults in the dataset. Despite the absence of a dichotomy when grouping the orientations of Greek temples in this way, it is certain that the amount and direction of natural light was controlled and guided in religious architecture. Ancient Greek temple construction controlled the amount of natural light admitted through the use of doors and openings, thus satisfying specific needs for illumination or darkness. This attests also to the important role of darkness/​ shadow/​light effects in Greek religion. Sunlight admission was manipulated through the size and positioning of the windows and doors, creating maximum visual impact when viewing the cult image. This can be clearly demonstrated in the placement of an eastern entrance in the temple of Apollo at Bassae. In terms of the dimensions of these architectural elements and their proportions, however, there was no hard and fast rule throughout antiquity that determined the amount of light admitted in the temple cella. Variations in cella depth and width, as well as in the size and number of openings, indicate that different trends were followed. Seventh-​century temples, for example, were long and narrow compared to their Hellenistic counterparts, which, in addition, seem to also have a greater amount of natural light admitted through larger window and door openings (Williamson 1993). This, in conjunction with the orientations of temples as demonstrated in Figure 3.1, means that general overarching conclusions on the amount of light received inside Greek temples, like the general assumption that Greek temples are oriented towards the east, are not particularly meaningful. Indeed, recent studies of temples from the Geometric to the end of the Hellenistic periods have shown that this traditional assumption is not as straightforward as commonly assumed. In fact, earlier conclusions that 73 per cent of Greek temples face east have been revised downwards considerably, to 58 per cent, indicating that Greek temples were instead constructed according to the particular needs of the cult they served (Boutsikas 2014: 1575;

Number of Temples 2.0 1.0

‘Ouranic’ ‘Chthonic’

0.0 10.0 20.0 30.0 40.0 50.0 60.0 70.0 80.0 90.0 100.0 110.0 120.0 130.0 140.0 150.0 160.0 170.0 180.0 190.0 200.0 210.0 220.0 230.0 240.0 250.0 260.0 270.0 280.0 290.0 300.0 310.0 320.0 330.0 340.0 350.0 360.0

0.0

Azimuth

Figure 3.1.   Graph displaying the distribution of 58 Greek temple orientations classed either as ‘chthonic’ or ‘ouranic’. The ‘chthonic group includes for example Heroa, Asklepieia, temples to Demeter, etc., and the ‘ouranic’ group temples to Zeus, Hera, Athena, etc. Azimuth 0° and 360° stand for due north, 90° due east, 180° due south, and 270° due west.

48   Efrosyni Boutsikas Boutsikas and Ruggles 2011: 58). Furthermore, the oversimplification of the argument for a general eastern temple orientation is deceptive in terms of the reality of natural light admission. When talking about eastern orientations, we tend to assume that the east is the optimal direction for sunlight admission in a structure. However, what such an orientation actually means is that the structure would admit direct light to its interior at sunrise. A west-​ facing temple, on the other hand, does not mean lack of optimal, consistent, and natural illumination by direct sunlight during the day. It simply means that the temple admits light at a different time in the day. An eastern orientation puts emphasis, then, on the time in the day at which light is admitted, rather than on the amount of light. Furthermore, the ‘eastern orientation’ argument assumes that the temples were in use at sunrise during specific days in the year, an assumption which in most cases cannot be verified by our knowledge of the cults associated with the structures. A further consideration that can confirm the idea that general conclusions on the placement of religious structures alone are not meaningful or sufficient to give us a satisfactory idea of the presence or absence of light during the times the structures were in use, is the fact that a large number of sanctuaries were visited and used at night, in the absence of daylight. Eva Parisinou examined a vast number of lamps from sanctuaries (2000: 136–​161), remains of which have been recovered inside temples and within the open space of Greek temene (temenos, singular, is the sacred enclosure or space occupied by a sanctuary which included all the structures and features associated with the sanctuary, e.g. temple, altar, sacred trees). Her study demonstrates the extensive use of lamps found in a variety of contexts in sanctuaries dedicated to various deities such as Demeter, Artemis, Poseidon, Apollo, and Hera. The discovery of lamps inside temple cellas used as illumination devices within the temples (e.g. the sanctuary of Demeter Malophoros at Selinous and the temple of Artemis at Ephesos, Parisinou 2000: 14–​17) complements the testimony of written sources on the use of artificial light inside temples (e.g. Athena’s ever-​burning golden lamp in the Erechtheion; Pausanias, 1.26.6–​7). In addition, ritual performances were embellished with the use of artificial light such as torches and pyres (bonfire-​like structures made by stacked wood set on fire, most commonly used in cremation). The numerous torches lit during rituals like the nocturnal pannychides would have had an impressive effect on the participants. This effect can be contrasted to the large wooden pyres, which although just as impressive, had a very different effect. Yet we should note that the use of fire was not present solely in nocturnal rites. The eternal flame of Athena in the Erechtheion, or that of the Argive Heraion, remained lit during the day, and fire was used in different diurnal cult activities, such as purificatory rituals.

Rites of passage A number of Greek gods were believed to have a close relationship with darkness, some divinities were even believed to live in darkness. Such were the Erinyes, perceived as creatures inhabiting the darkness beneath the earth (Homer, Iliad, 14.274–​279; 19.259–​260; Aeschylos, Eumenides, 68–​73, 417). They caused madness, and punished oath-​breakers in the Underworld after death (Homer, Iliad, 3.278–​ 281, 19.259–​ 260). In Aeschylos’ Eumenides they called curses and attested to their chthonic nature and powers (417; see also

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    49 Pausanias, 2.11.4, 8.25.4–​7 on their cult), which brought danger and evil to mortals (Isokrates 5.117; Apollodorus, Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum 244 F 93). They were thus invoked in oaths, curses, and harming magic (Burkert 1985: 200, 428 n. 12). Capable of lurking in the minds of mortals (Aeschylos, Eumenides, 75–​77) and inhabiting the Underworld, they moved between the worlds of the living and the dead. As mentioned previously, an array of other divinities are depicted in iconography holding fire-​lit torches when entering the sphere of the dense darkness of the Underworld, perhaps to indicate that they did not belong in the world of the dead. Such was Hekate, the goddess of nocturnal sorcery (Theokritos, 2.12–​14; Schol. Kallimachos, fr. 466). For a detailed discussion on Hekate’s several other aspects, see Zografou (2010). In ancient Greek conception, Darkness/​Night had multiple meanings and roles. She permeated the two most significant events in human existence: birth and death. These two major life transitions bore direct light/​darkness connotations (Homer, Iliad, 16, 187–​188; 19: 103–​104, 118–​119) because they were characterized by symbolic and physical darkness. In iconography, this transition from light to darkness and vice versa finds its most explicit manifestation in the torch-​bearing deities who accompanied mortals during these times (e.g. Eileithyia, Hermes), thus pairing symbolic and physical darkness in the use of fire (i.e. light). It follows that any discussion on darkness must also include light, just as light cannot be appreciated without darkness. The contrast of human experiences characterized by the alternation of light and darkness is given particular emphasis in the texts of the golden leaf tablets (Bernabé and Jiménez San Cristóbal 2008: 28), exemplified in a fourth century bce tablet from Thurii: But when the soul leaves the light of the sun, go straight to the right having kept watch on all things very well.’

(after Edmonds 2004, 20)

The simulation in the rites of passage of the two major natural transitory states in human existence, death and birth, enhanced the importance of a newly acquired state of being; birth, the most important revelation in human existence, was mimicked in initiation rites through the manipulation of darkness. Characterized by a sense of not belonging and detachment from the former self, not having yet rejoined the new community, the liminal stage of initiation rites made extensive use of darkness. This was directly contrasted to the next stage, the reincorporation or revelation, which was dominated by feelings of happiness, accomplishment, and bright light. With light comes the ‘enlightenment’ of newly revealed knowledge and a newly acquired status. In iconography, this transitory liminal stage was symbolized by the presence of torches. Testimony to this link in ancient Greek cognition bears the iconographic representation of goddesses associated with birth, like Artemis Lochia and Eileithyia, always depicted holding fire-​lit torches. Both deities were associated with childbirth (e.g. Eileithyia: Homer, Iliad, 16.187–​188; 19.103–​104, 118–​119; Homeric Hymn to Apollo, 115–​119) We are told that without Eileithyia people would exist in an in-​between state, being able to see neither light nor the night (Pindar, Nemean, 7.1–​3; Olympian, 6.43–​ 44). Archaeological finds offer full support of this idea. The cult statue of Eileithyia in Aigion was depicted holding torches (Pausanias, 7.23.5–​6), whereas Artemis Lochia is probably the torch-​bearing deity depicted in two votive reliefs, one from Delos dating to 420–​410 bce and a late fourth/​early third century bce from Achinos (Figure 3.2). Artemis carried torches also in Arkadia (Pausanias, 8.37.1, 8.37.3–​4), Boeotia (Pausanias, 9.19.6), Messene (Pausanias,

50   Efrosyni Boutsikas

Figure 3.2.   Votive Relief to Artemis Locheia/​Eileithyia, Achinos (PE 1041), third century BCE. Photo Credit: Archaeological Museum of Lamia. Copyright © Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports/​Archaeological Receipts Fund.

4.31.10), Phokis (Pausanias, 10.37.1–​2), Delos, Megara, Byzantion, Odessos, and Metaponto (Parisinou 2000: 82–​83). However, she was not associated with darkness, nor did all of her depictions with torches link her to a transitory status. In some cases she holds torches also when associated with hunting or war (e.g. Artemis Soteira). She did not transgress the world of the dead and the world of the living in the way Hekate did. In fact, the opposite was the case: she was a deity not only carrying light but also responsible for bringing humans into light. Her light-​bearing associations are testified in her epithets Amphipyros (‘with a torch in each hand’), Pyronia (‘of the fire’), Phosphoros, Selasphoros (both meaning ‘bringer of light’), Prosioas (‘she who faces the sun’), Philolampados (‘torch-​loving’). Artemis was, however, closely associated with female initiation. The female initiation rite described in Alkman’s Partheneion is believed to have been held at the Spartan sanctuary of Artemis Orthia. It ended at sunrise, with an offering at the altar of the ‘Lady of the Dawn’ (Alkman, Partheneion, 61, 87). The Pleiades, Sirius, and the sun are featured in the Partheneion, whilst the altar and temple of the goddess were oriented towards the point in the horizon from where the heliacal rising of the Pleiades and the sun would have been observed at the end of the rite, a few minutes before sunrise (Boutsikas and Ruggles 2011: 60–​65). The poem chorus is in a time contest with the sun, as the girls needed to have completed their tasks by the time its first rays appeared. Dozens of multi-​nozzled clay lamps were excavated at the sanctuary of Artemis Orthia in Sparta—​a seemingly common find in sanctuaries of Artemis, found also at Ephesos, Chalkidike, Thasos and Boeotia. Marble and steatite lamps were unearthed in Ephesos, single-​and double-​nozzled at the Thasian Artemision, multi-​and single-​nozzled in Chalkidike, etc. (Parisinou 2000: 151–​155). These

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    51 finds confirm the performance of nocturnal activities in honour of the goddess mentioned also in the written sources in locations outside Sparta, such as Messene, and Kos. The nocturnal element of Artemis cults is also attested in the black-​figure krateriskoi from the sanctuary of Artemis in Brauron, which depict torch races or dances carried out by girls (Kahil 1965: 20–​21; Parisinou 2000: 51–​53). Because of the need for concealment which darkness could offer, initiation rites made extensive use of torches and lamps. Consequently, a number of rites of passage were nocturnal. The Athenian Arrephoria, for example, involved carrying boxes with unknown contents by young girls in the service of Athena, from the Acropolis to the sanctuary of Aphrodite and back to the Acropolis. The darkness of the night was a fitting setting for the mysticism involved in such rites. In this type of rituals, darkness played a dual role: it forged a fitting atmosphere in which mysticism and hidden actions prevailed. At the same time, the night may have assigned these activities a cosmic dimension. At the time when the young Arrephoroi would be returning to the Acropolis, for example, in the few minutes before dawn, while it was still dark, they would have been able to see the celestial counterparts of their mythical re-​enactment, the Hyades, rise in the predawn sky (Euripides’ Erechtheus, fr. 370.71–​74; Schol. Aratos, Phaenomena, 172; Boutsikas and Hannah 2012). The Arrephoria and the Artemis Orthia rites are examples of the role of the night sky and darkness, and the importance of the correct timing of Greek cults. The contrast of light and darkness enhanced the experience of the participants as in the case of the Keans, whilst catasterism myths and constellations were commemorated during the performance of rituals (Alkman, Partheneion, 60–​63; Boutsikas and Ruggles 2011: 62–​66). The backdrop of darkness enabled the stars to be visible and appreciated, just as the beauty of Agido was exceptional and paralleled to the sun in the Partheneion. In the poem, the girls sing of the beauty of Agido during a torch-​lit night (Alkman, Partheneion, 39–​43). The beauty of Agido, like the sun, can be appreciated only because darkness precedes it.

Cults with Mystic character Pannychides were held in honour of various deities such as Demeter (IG II2 1363, l.17, 22), Dionysos (IG XII2, 499), Artemis (Pausanias, 6.22.9), and Athena. They included night-​long singing, dancing, sacrifices, and dining (Euripides, Helen, 1362–​1367; Euripides, Heraklidae, 777–​783; Menander, Dyskolos, 857; Aristophanes, Frogs, 371, 409). The Panathenaia had, for example, two pannychides, one commencing in the evening of the first day, after the end of the torch race, ending before the Panathenaic procession started, and the second, starting after the sacrifice and the dedication of Athena’s new peplos (IG II2 334, l. 30; ll. 31–​2; Shapiro 1992: 56; Lefkowitz 1996: 79). Although pannychides differed in function and proceedings from the main rites of the Mystery and initiatory cults, all these rituals had to be performed with the assistance of artificial light. As mentioned previously, a number of mystery cults and initiation rites involved the symbolic re-​enactment of the initiates’ death or mourning in order to mark the transition to the next stage. This stage involved a symbolic rebirth and elation resulting from the revelation of secret, life-​changing knowledge. It is understandable then why mystery

52   Efrosyni Boutsikas cults were largely nocturnal (Jost 2003: 150), and why darkness played such a pivotal role in their performance. Dionysos is heavily associated with darkness, having himself specified the nocturnal character of his rites (Eripides, Bacchai, 485–​486). The myth of his gruesome killing and dismemberment as a child by forces that lurk in the dark tie him in to darkness and death. In Delphi, where his tomb was, he was associated with winter (when the days are short) and mourning (Plutarch, Moralia, 365A, 388E, 389C). Although some of his invocations connect him with bright celestial light (e.g. ‘greatest light’, Euripides, Bacchae, 608; ‘overseer of the stars’, Sophokles, Antigone, 1146–​1147), his rites were nocturnal. Indicative is his festival called Nyktelia, celebrated in Lerna (Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride, 364F) and Sikyon (Pausanias, 2.7.5–​6). Throughout ancient Greece, women participated in nocturnal dances in the countryside or mountains (Sophokles, Antigone, 1146–​1150; Plutarch, Moralia, 249e), and, becoming one with the wilderness of their surroundings, they displayed uncontrolled, frenzied behaviour (Euripides, Bacchae, 32–​38; Diodorus Siculus, 4.3.3). The release of the civilized self in these outbursts of female freedom, far from the confines of the rules and order that governed civic space, had to be concealed by a veil of darkness, which temporarily empowered and liberated the female participants of the rites, at the appropriate time for the ecstatic and orgiastic character of the Dionysiac cults—​at night. In the Dionysiac rites, darkness thus had both a liberating and a concealing character. It allowed the participants to release their wild unruly self in an untamed landscape, while ensuring at the same time that these activities would not pose a threat to civic order; darkness hid this behaviour from the sight of those who should not witness it. Demosthenes’ account of Dionysiac teletai (rites) exemplifies the use of darkness in Dionysiac revelations: in a nocturnal rite, the initiates, seated and smeared with a mixture of clay and chaff, saw the priestess appear from the dark like a frightening demon (Demosthenes, 18.259; Burkert 1987: 96). Nocturnal rites illuminated by lamps and torches seem to be the norm for Demeter and Persephone. Lamps have been found in deposits of Demeter sanctuaries in Akrokorinth, Tegea, Bathos, Lykosoura, Eretria, Kephalonia, Chios, Thasos, Thrace, Pella, Crete, Attika, Boeotia, the Argolid, Sicily, Halikarnassos, Knidos, and Kyrene, whereas clay torch-​holders with traces of use dating to as early as the seventh century bce were excavated at the sanctuary of Demeter in Troizen and Ithaka (Jost 2003: 150; Parisinou 2000: 137). The goddess is depicted holding torches in her Arkadian sanctuaries in Thelpousa, Lykosoura (with Artemis), Tegea (with Persephone), in Phokis, Sicilian Enna, and Attika (Pausanias, 8.25.7, 8.37.4; Jost 2003: 155; Parisinou 2000: 136–​150). Similarly, Persephone is depicted in iconography holding torches on numerous occasions (see Parisinou 2000: 125), and is called ‘mistress of fire’ in Euripides’ Phaethon (268). Clay figurines depicting females holding torches have been found in a number of Thesmophoria such as Priene and Sicily (Parisinou 2000: 126–​128, 194 n. 14). Darkness during the festival of the Thesmophoria was linked to mourning and the conditions governing the Underworld. On the first night of the festival, in a re-​enactment of the journey to the Underworld, women holding lit torches descended to underground megara to bring the remains of previously sacrificed pigs. The mystic character of the Thesmophoria was achieved, as in the case of the Dionysiac rites, by being celebrated in the countryside, outside the civic space, at night, with the exclusion of men (Aristophanes, Thesmophoriazousai, 1149–​1153). The story about the castration of King Battos of Kyrene, who dared to spy on female celebrants of the Thesmophoria (Aelian, fr. 44), and that of the Lakonian women celebrating at Aigila attacking their Messenian capturers with knives and

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    53 spits (Pausanias, 4.17.1) may be exaggerations, but are indicative of the festival’s emphasis on secrecy. The indecent speech in which the female participants of the Thesmophoria engaged was another reason for the secretive nature of the festival. Just as in the Dionysiac rites, the nocturnal setting of the Thesmophoria obscured the actions involved and allowed the women to regain their freedom for a few days, without posing a threat to the civic framework. Darkness was integral in the creation of a mystic atmosphere, which was also necessary for initiation to Mysteries (see also Gatton this volume). The procession to Eleusis arrived at the sanctuary of Demeter in the evening of 20 Boedromion (Euripides, Ion, 1076–​1079), and the majority of activities associated with initiation to the Eleusinian Mysteries were carried out at night under the light of torches: torch-​lit libations, dances, processions, the pannychis, the search for Persephone in the open space around the Telesterion, etc. (Aristophanes, Frogs, 326–​333, 342, 444–​448; Sophokles, Oedipus at Kolonos, 1048–​1052; Euripides, Ion, 1075–​1084). The existence of the Dadouchos (torch-​bearer) attests to the significance of artificial light during the unfolding of the nocturnal rites. Torchlight at night symbolically re-​enacted passing through the dark Underworld—​dying in order to be reborn—​in rituals concerned with the afterlife. The atmosphere created by combining the darkness of the night and the magnificent effect of the lit torches and the pyres during the Mysteries created feelings of mysticism and devoutness (Aristophanes, Frogs, 444–​448; Euripides, Bacchae, 486). During the final stage of initiation, in the evening of 21 Boedromion, these conditions would be reversed: darkness would be replaced by flooding, dazzling light inside the Telesterion after the revelation of the Hiera/​Deiknymena (Hippolytus, Haeresium, 5.8.40; Dio Chrysostom, Orations, 12.33) (for discussions on what would have caused this sudden flooding light and the arrangement of this event, see Clinton 1988: 71–​2; Mylonas 1961: 119–​120; Parisinou 2000: 70). The sources are explicit on the lasting impression left in the minds of the initiates from the alternation of light and darkness (Hippolytus, Haeresium, 5.8.40; Dio Chrysostom, Orations, 12.33). The bright light resembling the light of the sun had direct references to the promised happy existence after death (Aristophanes, Frogs, 155, 340–​ 351, 455–​459). The use of sudden light after darkness stood for revelation and insight. In the previous moments, the initiates experienced darkness, symbolizing their lack of knowledge and their search for the true meaning of life. Darkness in the context of the Mysteries (skotos and vorovos, Aristophanes, Frogs, 273) stood for a gloomy afterlife in desolate darkness for the uninitiated (Homeric Hymn to Demeter, 480–​482; Aristophanes, Frogs, 454–​459; Graf and Johnston 2007: 107); in a more general context, darkness is a characteristic of the Underworld and death (e.g. Simplicius’ introductory remark to fr. 13 in Thanassas 2007: 74–​75; Hades’ invisibility cap, Hesiod, Shield of Herakles, 226). An idea already present in the Iliad (6.11; Euripides, Alkestis, 269; Sophokles, Antigone, 848, 988–​989). Conversely, torchlight or sunlight signified the fulfilment of the promise of sunlight for the privileged initiates in a happy afterlife. The sunny parts of the Underworld were reserved for the blessed and the heroes (Pindar, Olympian, 2.61–​77 and fr. 129), where their souls ‘will go on playing and dancing in places full of brightness, pure air and light’ (Plutarch, Non posse, 1105b). This belief is in tandem with the inscription of the Hellenistic altar at Rhodes: ‘for us alone do the sun and the divine daylight shine all of us who have been initiated’ (after Pugliese Carratelli 1940: 119). This aim was also fulfilled by the gold leaf tablets, which, although not entirely uniform in their content, ensured that the soul ‘carrying’ them in passage would find its way to the meadow of the blessed, not the dark, shadowy existence of the Homeric dead (Bernabé and Jiménez San Cristóbal 2008: 5, 9–​10) (a discussion of the function of the tablets can be found in Cole

54   Efrosyni Boutsikas 2003: 207–​213; Edmonds 2004: 31–​37; 2011: 3–​10; on the special place reserved in the afterlife for those initiated in the Dionysiac Mysteries, see Burkert 1987 21–​22.). Although this belief about the dark existence in the Underworld for the uninitiated was not shared by all ancient writers (e.g. Plato, Republic, 363d–​e, and the author of the surviving commentary of the Derveni papyri—​for a discussion on this see e.g. Betegh 2004: 88–​89; Cole 2003: 206), it must have been common knowledge, because even Pausanias, who did not believe in this distinction, in his description of a painting in Delphi made by Polygnotos of Thasos, pointed out the uninitiated who were destined to draw water in sieves in the afterlife (Pausanias, 10.25.1–​31.12). The close relationship between the absence of light and death is attested as early as the Iliad, where the darkness that comes upon the dying is, in some cases, called Nyx (e.g. 5.45). In many examples from ancient literature, darkness, apart from being associated with death, is also synonymous with evil and trickery (Homer, Iliad, 10.204–​210; see also Dowden 2010: 111, 112) and with strong negative emotions such as fear, grief, and despair (e.g. Euripides, Helen, 629). Most commonly, darkness is used as a metaphor for ignorance, in contrast to light, which always stands for knowledge—​Helios saw and knew everything (Homer, Iliad, 3.277; Odyssey, 11.109, 12.323). Demeter carries torches throughout her search for Persephone in literature (Homeric Hymn to Demeter, 47–​50). The torches signify both Demeter’s lack of knowledge of her daughter’s whereabouts and her concern that Persephone had entered a domain beyond Demeter’s control. The experience of the Underworld is, in Plutarch, similar to an initiation, involving pointless wanderings, tiring walking, and fearful paths that lead nowhere (Plutarch, fr. 178). A near-​death experience which was part of rituals concerned with the afterlife was an element of the Eleusinian and Dionysiac Mysteries and later of the Mysteries of Isis (Eleusinian Mysteries: Plutarch, fr. 178; Dionysiac: Euripides, Bacchae, 605–​635; Isiac: Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 11.23–​27). By and large, this experience was represented by darkness followed by the appearance of flooding light, signifying the end of the experience of death, and the initiates’ newly acquired knowledge. The connotations of darkness, however, need not be necessarily negative. The pannychides took place at night because of their mystical character, but they do not seem to have been associated with the negative undertones of darkness with which other cults with mystical character were linked. Similarly, in a number of occasions the blind possess special knowledge, and act as mediators between the world of the living and the divine realm (Christopoulos et al. 2010: xi) (e.g. Tiresias). Here, darkness acts as a form of concealment of metaphysical abilities and of the possession of ‘spiritual light’. It has been argued that mystery cults have several things in common with magic. Both are exclusive and require some form of revelation: the magician, just like the hierophant (the person who showed and interpreted holy things in mystery cults), had to go through stages of initiation, while both types of rite presupposed special relationship with the deities involved (Graf 1991: 192, 197). Magic is another type of ritual that achieved the required secrecy and mysticism through darkness. Associated with magic was the divine triad Artemis–​ Selene–​Hekate. Hekate was summoned at night, and was invoked at intersections of three roads when seeking oneiromantic (divination based on dreams) prophecies. Similarly, magic dolls of Selene-​Hekate made of magic components (clay, sulphur, and the blood of a spotted goat) had to be placed in the shrine late at night (in the fifth hour) facing the moon (Eitrem 1997: 178). Magic had to be performed at night, since it invoked the demons, the dead, ghosts and deities associated with them (see also Petrovic 2007: 8). In the Homeric Hymn

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    55 to Demeter, the torches held by Hekate shed bright light (52–​53). As with Artemis, the light that Hekate carries is also reflected in her epithets: Amphipyros, Pyrphoros, Phosphoros, Dadouchos, Daidophoros—​yet Hekate’s dark properties are beyond dispute. Conversely, Artemis does not belong to the sphere of magic; she is instead indirectly associated with it (Petrovic 2007: 5–​6). Darkness in this context is indicative of the lack of communication between the world of the living and the Underworld. With the light they carry, torch-​bearing deities traverse both worlds, assisting in communication with a dangerous realm that should otherwise be left alone.

Divination Magic spells dictate the time that necromancy had to take place: at night, because the night brings dreams (Eitrem 1997: 177). Divination cannot be omitted from a study that investigates the role of darkness, especially divination taking place in incubatory oracles. Incubation was a common characteristic of Greek necromancy, where contact with the dead was sought for advice or healing. Dreams or visions (healing visions in certain cases) were experienced in the Asklepieia, the Nekyomanteia, and at the oracles of Amphiaraos in Oropos and Trophonios in Lebadeia (Homer, Odyssey, 11.207; Lucian, Philopseudes, 27; Euripides, Phoenissae, 1539–​1545; Pausanias, 1.34.5, 9.39.11; Philostratus, Imagines 16 Amphiaraus; Clark 1968: 64–​65). Since ghosts inhabited the Underworld and appeared in the dark (Strabo, 5.4.5), cults invoking the dead had to satisfy two main requirements: a landscape which would psychologically and emotionally prepare visitors for the Underworld experience, and a descent in order to psychologically imitate going down to the gloomy Underworld (see also Zografou this volume). In a number of oracles of the dead and other cults, in which incubation and visions or dreams were part of the experience, the descent was mimicked through movement within the structure. This movement assisted in recreating a sense of the conditions of the Underworld. The structures were built in landscapes that resembled the imagined dark, gloomy landscape of the Underworld, and where water was an integral part of the landscape. The oracle of the dead in Acheron was located in a marshy land with poplars and willows at the meeting point of three rivers, just as the ancients imaged the landscape of the entrance to the Underworld to be (Homer, Odyssey, 10.509–​5 14; Pausanias, 1.17.5, 5.14.2; Plato, Phaedo, 112e; Virgil, Aeneid, 6. 297, 6. 323; see also Ogden 2014: 166– ​167). A dark setting also characterized the oracle of the dead in Avernus near Cumae in Campania, located in a volcanic landscape close to the sea, within ‘a wild wood of black and impenetrable trees’, causing the area to be inhabited by ghosts (Strabo, 5.4.5). Here, it was not just the landscape that was imbued with gloom and darkness. We are told that the inhabitants of the area, who were also servants of the oracle, lived underground, having constructed an entire network of tunnels to communicate with each other. This was done because, according to their customs, they should never see the light of the sun. They could only ascend above ground at night (Strabo, 5.4.5). Similarly, the Nekyomanteion at Herakleia Pontika on the south coast of the Black Sea had an entrance to a cave leading down to an underground chamber through a stairway (Quintus Smyrnaeus, Postomerica, 6.469–​491; Pomponius Mela, 2.51), and that at Tainaro had a

56   Efrosyni Boutsikas temple constructed in the shape of a cave (Pausanias, 3.25.4), placed in a dry and rocky landscape with commanding views of the sea, that gives the visitor the impression that he/​she has arrived at the end of the land (Figure 3.3). Necromantic consultations commenced long after sunset, ideally at full moon, thus in the middle of the month. The consultation involved several days of fasting, preparation, and incubation in dark rooms, where the ghosts were anticipated. Contact with the dead through necromancy was similar in many ways to mystery initiation. Purification and darkness were compulsory in both types of ritual. In necromancy, the seclusion of oracle seekers in dark chambers, where they also slept, was obligatory, for example, in Acheron and oracles of Asklepeios and Amphiaraos (Euripides, Phoenissae, 1539–​ 1545). The practice finds abundant support in the archaeological record. Incubation rooms, where the oracle seeker would sleep and anticipate the vision of the god to appear in his dreams, have been securely identified at the Asklepieia of Corinth and Epidauros (Roebuck 1951: 24, 42, 45, 46, 55, 57), Pergamon (Ziegenaus and De Luca 1968: 29–​31, 39–​47, 111–​115, 125–​ 134), and Messene (Luraghi 2008: 279 n.115, 280), to mention but a few examples. A Greek magical papyrus recording a magic spell capable of conquering death bears witness to an ancient mystery procedure in the Idaean Daktyls involving initiation, during which the oracle seeker descended to an underground megaron and witnessed visions (PGM LXX.13–​16; see also Betz 1980: 288, 292–​293). The procedure resembles that of the oracle of Trophonios in Lebadeia, where those who wished to consult the oracle had to descend to an extremely narrow underground chamber at night and wait for the vision or hearing to come to them, in what is described even by ancient authors as a near-​death experience (Pausanias, 9.39.9–​11; Plutarch, Moralia, 590a–​592e; Aristophanes, Clouds, 506–​508; Bonnechere 2002: 182; Clark 1968: 64–​65; Ustinova 2009a: 91–​92). A preoccupation with the Underworld and the facilitation of procedures through the use of darkness characterized both necromancers and initiates. Contact with the world of the dead gave both groups the privilege of attaining secret knowledge, and could only be achieved in darkness (for more similarities, see Ogden 2004: 125–​127).

Figure 3.3.   View of oracle of the dead at cape Tainaro and its surrounding landscape. (Photograph by E. Boutsikas).

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    57 The interplay of light and darkness in order to emotionally manipulate the participant was also possible on a different level: through religious architecture. Some oracles aimed at psychologically preparing the oracle seekers through spatial movement within religious structures. The aim was clear: separation from the surrounding world through a dark passage, or by entering a dark chamber symbolic of this distancing. This was achieved in a number of ways: through descent to a narrow subterranean hole as at the Trophonios oracle, through labyrinthine passages and through a light-​deprived existence for several days such as that experienced at the oracle of Acheron. Interestingly, at Apollo’s oracle in Didyma, the grand ascent by the large staircase and the arrival to an equally grand pronaos is in direct contrast with the two transverse passages flanking the pronaos. They led through a very narrow, sloping, dark corridor out into the open air but at a much lower level (Figures 3.4 and 3.5). Darkness was also an essential element in the sunken adyton where the Pythia’s tripod was located in Delphi. At

Figure 3.4.   Didyma Temple of Apollo, north passage to temple’s interior. (Photograph by E. Boutsikas).

58   Efrosyni Boutsikas

Figure 3.5.   Didyma, Temple of Apollo, south passage from temple’s internal courtyard. (Photograph by E. Boutsikas).

the oracle of Klaros, consultations took place only after dark. There, Apollo’s mouthpiece descended into a cave—​in fact a subterranean complex of chambers and passages under the temple’s floor—​took a drink of the sacred water and began to prophesy (Iamblichus, De mysteriis, 3.11; Tacitus, Annals, 2.54; Pliny, Historia Naturalis, 2.232; Parke 1985: 138) (Figure 3.6). At the oracle of Apollo in Patara, Lykia, the priestess was locked in the temple at night waiting to be visited by the god (Burkert 1985: 115). Other similar examples of Apollo cults

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    59

Figure 3.6.   Klaros, Temple of Apollo, subterranean structures. (Photograph by E. Boutsikas).

exist, such as the sanctuary of Apollo Ptoios in Boeotia, where the ‘nightly’ god appeared to oracle seekers in a gloomy grotto (Herodotos, 8.135.1–​3; Guillon 1943: 109–​10; 1946; Schachter 1967: 1). It transpires that the god of light would communicate with his mouthpieces in complete darkness. The frequency of this practice indicates that for a number of oracles, architecture was the medium of constructing artificial darkness in order to satisfy the needs of the cult.

Discussion In Greek ritual practice, the use of artificial light at night depending on the context in which it was used, had a dual role: literal and symbolic. In its literal expression, artificial light (i.e. fire) was used throughout nocturnal rituals in order to facilitate the procedures. Its symbolic role had a number of meanings depending on the purpose and context of the rite involved. It could symbolize the change of status of a newly married woman, during her transition from the oikos (household, family) of her father to the new hearth and oikos of her husband, at a wedding ritual. At the same time, the light of the hearth was synonymous with warmth (Aeschylos, Agamemnon, 968–​9). In a different context, lit torches held by birth deities like Eileithyia and Artemis Lochia can be symbolic of the aid these deities offered in bringing children to light, i.e. to life. In addition, light in iconography and literature can be synonymous of knowledge, revelation, enlightenment, and happiness (Parisinou 2000: 2–​3). Darkness, on the other hand, is more often than not symbolic of the opposite conditions: lack of knowledge, concealment, death, and mourning. Darkness shapes ritual experience. Leaving aside the impressive effects of artificial light in nocturnal activities (such as torch races and processions), visually, darkness functions as the backdrop that allows revelations to inspire awe, focal points to stand out, spectacles to be appreciated. The participants of the Arrephoria and the Partheneion rite, for example, could connect visually and verbally—​through a dialogue in the case of the Partheneion—​with celestial bodies linked in myth and tradition with the rites performed. The performance of

60   Efrosyni Boutsikas open-​air nocturnal rituals meant that the surrounding landscape was shrouded in darkness, providing the background against which the constellations and artificial light could be appreciated. In this context, darkness created the ideal conditions for the commemoration of catasterism myths (myths narrating the transformation of a hero or monster into a constellation), linking the microcosm to the macrocosm. Temporality was a defining factor in Greek ritual. Nocturnal rites enhanced ritual experience, and added the dimension of a participating cosmos in the ritual activities. At the same time, darkness has an indisputable impact on the emotional condition of the participants, not necessarily negative, especially in those cases where an interplay with light is present. Darkness triggers different types of emotions from those produced by daylight: nocturnal rituals are aimed at offering a different experience from day rituals, producing an impression dominated by mysticism and religious devoutness. Mystery cults aimed to relieve the fear of death (i.e. a condition of permanent darkness) through newly acquired knowledge that brightened the souls of those initiated. Fear, grief, despair may have been emotions experienced by the participants of the Eleusinian Mysteries, but these were not the emotions the initiate’s memory of this experience would focus upon. These negative emotions would have been overshadowed by revelations made in a spiritually heightened atmosphere. The presence of emotional and physical darkness was a precondition of appreciating the brilliance that followed. Thus darkness was a necessary step in acquiring knowledge. Life was not going to be the same. Rituals ‘change those who perform them’ (Chaniotis 2011: 10) and the presence of darkness in rituals intensifies the emotions and experience of the participants, thereby also influencing the impact of this event’s memories. In this context, darkness also offered the ideal concealment for revelations and actions that had to remain secret. Fear, despair, and submersion in a near-​death experience in the dark were also emotions experienced by those who consulted the oracle of Trophonios or the Nekyomanteia; but in these cases the negative feelings would not be replaced by the happy and hopeful undertones that characterized mystery cults. Here, the emotional and physical darkness was not to be lightened by hopeful promises: the oracle seeker would remember this experience as dreadful and terrifying. Memory of contact with the dead had to remain unpleasant. Thus darkness in ancient Greek religion does not simply influence the experience, but also manipulates the mind. Ancient Greek religious ritual involved the participation of all senses. The types of emotion evoked by nocturnal rituals vary: mysticism, liberation, excitement, hope for light, fear, grief, bereavement, despair. The carefully orchestrated ritual actions (involving singing, dancing, and choreographed performance), and the interplay with light that characterized ancient Greek nocturnal rituals, successfully channelled strong and (at times) contrasting feelings during what was an emotionally intense experience. Research in cognitive motor neuroscience argues that movement, actions, and performance are imprinted in human memory in the same way as words, sounds, smells, and images (Brown and Parsons 2008; Krakauer and Shadmehr 2006; Schmidt and Lee 2011). Combining the performance of such activities with an intense emotional state can convert these experiences to strong, lasting memories of the event. The spatial and temporal setting of a performance are of paramount importance in understanding the ritual experience. Darkness is a decisive factor in religious experience. It intensifies emotional conditions, whilst shaping the ritual experience and memory of the event.

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    61

Acknowledgements I am thankful to the Royal Society of New Zealand and the British Academy for funding parts of the research presented in this chapter. My thanks are also extended to the Ephorate of Antiquities in Athens and Lakonia for granting me survey permissions, and to the Ephorate of Antiquities of Phthiotida and Eurytania for permission to publish the Achinos Stele. I also wish to thank the reviewers for their constructive comments and insightful suggestions which led to significant improvements of the final outcome.

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62   Efrosyni Boutsikas Edmonds, R. G. 2004. Myths of the Underworld Journey: Plato, Aristophanes and the ‘Orphic’ Gold Tablets. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Edmonds, R. G. 2011. The Orphic Gold Tablets and Greek Religion: Further Along the Path. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eitrem, S. 1997. Dreams and divination in magical ritual. In Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion, ed. C. A. Faraone and D. Obbink, 175–​187. New York: Oxford University Press. Graf, F. 1991. Prayer in magic and religious ritual. In Magika Hiera: Ancient Greek Magic and Religion, ed. C. A. Faraone and D. Obbink, 188–​213. New York: Oxford University Press. Graf, F., and S. I. Johnston. 2007. Ritual Texts for the Afterlife: Orpheus and the Bacchic Gold Tablets. London: Routledge. Graham, D. W. 2010. The Texts of Early Greek Philosophy: The Complete Fragments and Selected Testimonies of the Major Presocratics, pt 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Guillon, P. 1943. Les Trépieds du Ptoion, 2. Depositif matériel: signification historique et religieuse. Paris: Ecole française d’Athenès. Guillon, P. 1946. L’offrande d’Aristichos et la consultation de l’oracle du Ptoion au début du IIIe s. av. J.-​C. Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 70: 216–​232. Jost, M. 2003. Mystery cults in Arcadia. In Greek Mysteries: The Archaeology and Ritual of Ancient Greek Secret Cults, ed. M. Cosmopoulos, 143–​168. New York: Routledge. Kahil, L. G. 1965. Autour de l’Artémis attique. Antike Kunst 8: 20–​33. Krakauer, J. W., and R. Shadmehr. 2006. Consolidation of motor memory. Trends in Neurosciences 29: 58–​64. Lefkowitz, M. R. 1996. Women in the Panathenaic and other festivals. In Worshipping Athena: Panathenaia and Parthenon, ed. J. Neils, 78–​91. Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press. López-​Ruiz, C. 2010. When the Gods Were Born: Greek Cosmogonies and the Near East. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Luraghi, N. 2008. The Ancient Messenians: Constructions of Ethnicity and Memory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marinatos, N. 2010. Light and darkness and archaic Greek cosmography. In Light and Darkness in Ancient Greek Myth and Religion, ed. M. Christopoulos, E. D. Karakantza, and O. Levaniouk, 193–​200. Lanham: Lexington Books. Mylonas, G. 1961. Eleusis and the Eleusinian Mysteries. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ogden, D. 2004. Greek and Roman Necromancy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ogden, D. 2014. How ‘Western’ were the ancient oracles of the dead? In Hespería: tradizioni, rotte, paesaggi, ed. L. Breglia and A. Moleti, 211–​226. Paestum: Pandemos. Parisinou, E. 2000. The Light of the Gods: The Role of Light in Archaic and Classical Greek Cult. London: Duckworth. Parke, H. W. 1985. The Oracles of Apollo in Asia Minor. London: Croom Helm. Petrovic, I. 2007. Von den Toren des Hades zu den Hallen des Olymp: Artemiskult bei Theokrit und Kallimachos. Leiden: Brill. Pugliese Carratelli, G. 1940. Versi di un coro delle ‘rane’ in un’epigrafe rodia. Dioniso 8: 119–​123. Robertson, N. 1996. New light on Demeter’s mysteries. The festival Proerosia. Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 37(4): 319–​379. Roebuck, C. 1951. Corinth: Results of Excavations Conducted by the American School of Classical Studies at Athens, vol. 14: The Asklepieion and Lerna. Princeton, NJ: American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Schachter, A. 1967. A Boeotian cult type. Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 14(1): 1–​16.

Darkness in Ancient Greek Religion and Religious Practice    63 Schmidt, R. A., and T. D. Lee. 2011. Motor Control and Learning: A Behavioural Emphasis. Champaign, Ill.: Human Kinetics Publishers. Shapiro, H. A. 1992. Mousikoi Agones: music and poetry at the Panathenaia. In Goddess and Polis: The Panathenaic Festival in Ancient Athens, ed. J. Neils, 53–​76. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Thanassas, P. 2007. Parmenides, Cosmos, and Being: A Philosophical Interpretation. Milwaukee, Wis.: Marquette University Press. Ustinova, Y. 2009a. Caves and the Ancient Greek Mind: Descending Underground in the Search for Ultimate Truth. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Williamson, C. 1993. Light in dark places: changes in the application of natural light in sacred Greek architecture. Pharos 1: 3–​33. Ziegenaus, O., and G. de Luca. 1968. Das Asklepieion, pt 1: Der südliche Temenosbezirk in hellenistischer und frührömischer Zeit. Berlin: de Gruyter. Zografou, A. 2010. Chemins d’Hécate: portes, routes, carrefours et autres figures de l’entre-​deux. Kernos, supplément 24. Liège: Centre international d’étude de la religion grecque antique.

Suggested Reading Bowden, H. 2010. Mystery Cults of the Ancient World. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cosmopoulos, M. 2003. Greek Mysteries: The Archaeology and Ritual of Ancient Greek Secret Cults. New York: Routledge. Friese, W. 2010. Facing the dead: landscape and ritual of ancient Greek death oracles. Time and Mind 3(1): 29–​40. Hamilakis, Y. 2013. Archaeology and the Senses: Human Experience, Memory, and Affect. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ustinova, Y. 2009b. Cave experiences and ancient Greek oracles. Time and Mind 2(3): 265–​286.

chapter 4

C onstru ct i ng t h e Invisi bl e

Light and Darkness in the Topography of Hades Athanassia Zografou Introduction Lucian, the most acknowledged rhetorician of the Second Sophistic (2nd c. ad), in his derisive treatment on mourning, reported that ancient authors ‘suppose there is a place deep under the earth called Hades, wide and spacious and murky and sunless—​zopheron kai anêlion.’ This makes him wonder, ‘I do not know how they imagine it lighted up to see everything in it’ (Luc. Luct. 2, tr. Vermeule 1979: 29). There is thus an essential paradox in identifying Hades with the deepest darkness, while giving a full description of it as if it were a visible place. The present study represents an effort to deepen our understanding of: (i) the various ways in which the concept of darkness—​and so that of invisibility—​is related to the representations of the Greek Otherworld; and (ii) the devices employed to resolve the paradox of representing what is by definition dark and unseeable, in literary descriptions and narratives as well as in religious geography, architecture, and more generally spatial arrangement. Much information relating to the poetic image of the Hades is drawn from Homer, whose major influence on later descriptions is beyond doubt. Evidence about dark places known from religious topography—​caves and crevasses, subterranean chambers and pools—​is also taken into account, although a systematic cataloguing of all these localities is, of course, beyond the scope of our approach. Finally, the various presentations of the Otherworld in philosophical or mystery context as a well-​segmented area with both areas of radiance and gloom receiving dead according to their moral or ritual status (such as the Isles of the Blessed, the Elysian Fields, and various places of punishment and oblivion) are only taken

Constructing the Invisible    65 into account as far as the very element of darkness, its connotations and special ‘atmospheric conditions’, that is, its foggy and humid character, are concerned.

The darkness of Hades in ancient Greek thought The choice to explore the various aspects of darkness in a world pervaded by the love of light is an intriguing experiment (see Bernidaki Aldus 1990, exploring the ambivalence of blindness). Darkness is surely the more persisting element in the representations of both death and the realm of Hades (Cousin 2012: 125–​134). In poetry ‘death’—​thanatos—​arrives as a cloud between light and the mortals (‘black cloud’, melan nephos, ‘darkness’, skotos, ‘mist’, achlus, ‘gloomy night’, nux erebennê), while the words erebos and zophos, ‘place of nether darkness’/​‘nether darkness’, are constantly used to designate Hades as a place (Clarke 1999: 241–​242). As a scholar specializing in death mythology and ritual puts it, ‘death’, thanatos, is like ‘a cloud between man and the light, a private fragment of night’ (Vermeule 1979: 35–​41; see Lattimore 1962: 161–​163; Giannakis 2001: 127–​153; and cf. the meaning of the verb skotoô, ‘send to darkness’, i.e. kill). Mythic creatures living near the entrance of Hades are ‘enshrouded in mist and darkness (êeri kai nefelêi kekalummenoi, Hom. Od. 11, 14–​15); this is the case of the Homeric Cimmerians—​in Homeric manuscript traditions, Kimmerioi, Kemmerioi, Cheimerioi, or even Kerberioi (cf. Ar. Ran. 187)—​whose land, according to the Odyssey, ‘the rays of the sun never pierce neither at his rising nor as he goes down again out of the heavens, but the poor wretches live in one long melancholy night’ (Hom. Od. 11, 16–​19; cf. Heubeck 1963: 490–​492 and Cousin 2012: 50–​52). Although Odysseus was instructed to visit the land of the dead, in fact his journey to the limits of the Ocean brought him to the land of the Cimmerians, where he would summon up the ghosts to the surface of the earth. For Cerberus, the multi-​headed dog on the threshold of Hades, the transition to the world of the living turned out to be especially difficult, since his life in absolute darkness made him intolerant of sunlight. According to one tradition from Heracleia Pontica, an ancient city on the Black Sea coast of Asia Minor, the mythic dog, dragged up by Hercules by a nearby passage, vomited on a plant, which produced the poisonous aconite (Dionys. Per. Orbis terrae descriptio 788–​799 and Schol. on 791: theasamenos to phôs êmese). Unsurprisingly, the darkness is a common motif in funerary inscriptions (Peek 1955: 152, 156, 180, 205, 214, 299, 302, 313). Only initiated and ‘purified souls’ have the hope of ‘sweet light’ or ‘shining nights’ in a world of pure darkness (Ar. Ran. 455; Pind. fr. 129–​130). Callimachus, the most famous Hellenistic poet and scholar, in a sceptical manner typical of his time, mocks every mythic idea connected with the afterlife, in order to conclude that darkness is the only undoubted element of Hades. This is what he expresses in a mocking pessimistic dialogue with a dead. — ​How is the Netherworld? —​  Very dark (Callim. Epigr. 13 Pfeiffer (= 31 Gow- Page), 3 cf. 4 Pfeiffer (= 51 Gow- Page); Vermeule 1979: 4; Livrea 1990: 314– 324)

66   Athanassia Zografou In Greek authors, the descriptions of such contacts with dead are usually presented as something exceptionally instructive. In poetry and ritual, common or legendary dead, like Tiresias, Anchises, Melissa, are addressed in order to answer important questions about the lives of inquirers. Yet the question posed in Callimachus’ epigram, ‘How is the Netherworld?’, is perhaps the most pressing for human beings: it concerns the very nature of the Underworld itself.

Connotations of otherworld darkness Place and time of darkness In the famous Homeric passage about the share of the world between the elder gods, Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, the lot of Hades, i.e. the dominion over the Underworld, is simply described as the ‘misty dark’, zophos êeroeis (Il. 15, 190–​193). Similarly, when Anticleia encounters her son as a ghost, eidôlon, she asks him how he managed to arrive to the ‘misty dark’, hupo zophon êeroenta, although still alive (Od. 11, 155; cf. the expressions pros zophon eis Erebos tetrammenon, Od. 12, 81, for the location of the cave of Scylla, and apo zophou êeroentos in Hom. Hymn Dem. 337). Thus, zophos denotes the gloom, the thick darkness of Hades or, sometimes, that of Tartarus, which is a subterranean chasm, seen in archaic poetry either as a region of Hades—​the deepest part of it (Il. 8, 13–​16)—​or as the name of an Underworld abyss intended to be a divine prison, perhaps an equivalent to Hades’ realm of the dead. Zophos is moreover related to zephuros, ‘west wind’, and also used in Homer for the dark west, where the sun dives, where day meets its end, that is the night (Il. 12, 239–​240; cf. Mugler 1964: 187; Moreux 1967: 241; Cousin 2002: 36–​37; Chantraine 1968: s.v.; Clarke 1999: 167, n. 20). Erebos is very often used for the spatial designation of Hades pointing to the profound darkness of the realm of dead. It is the place under the earth towards which dead are directed or, eventually, whence they rise up; when Ulysses visits their realm, the dead come to speak to him hupex Erebeus (Od. 11, 37; cf. Hom. Hymn Dem., 409; see also Il. 16, 327, Hom. Hymn Dem. 335, eis Erebos in Od. 11, 11, and Erebosde in Od. 20, 356; in Soph. OC 1390, the erebos is the essential feature of Tartaros). Like zophos, this term also designates the sun’s descent in the West. M. L. West, a classical scholar who wrote on the relations between Greece and the ancient Near East, compares erebos with the semitic ereb corresponding to Ugaritic ʿrb špš and Akkadian erēb šamši, signifying originally the going down of the sun and so the ‘complete absence of sunlight’, (West 1997: 153–​154; Marinatos 2010: 193–​200; Austin 1982: 95; Cousin 2012: 50). In Hesiod’s Theogony Erebus personified is to be found among the primeval beings directly born out of Chaos; representing absolute darkness, he is the brother and consort of Nyx, who however contains some particles of light, since she is able to give birth to Aithêr, ‘upper air’ and Hêmera, ‘day’(Hes. Theog. 124–​125). In every aspect, the darkness of Hades appears as a point of convergence between cosmological space and human time. On the one hand, it is usually situated downwards or, as in the Odyssey’s first and second nekyia (of books 11 and 24), to the west: consequently it can

Constructing the Invisible    67 be approached vertically or horizontally; on the other hand, it is to be found at the end of a man’s life period. It is thus comparable to gloomy Night—​dnophera, erebennê, melaina—​ found towards the extreme limits of the world, either beyond the ocean or in the depths of Tartarus (Hes. Theog. 274–​275 and 748–​754 respectively) and also at the end of the day.

Foggy and humid darkness The adjective êeroeis ‘regularly attributed to the Homeric zophos is sometimes translated as ‘windy’, although in Homer it means ‘veiled by a misty fog’. In fact, Homer distinguishes between two types of air. He characterizes the ‘clear air aloft under the shining sky’ or bright upper air as aithêr, but the dim lower atmosphere—​the ‘fog near the earth, over which a very tall tree up in the aither can emerge’—​as aêr, from which derives êeroeis (zophon êeroenta, Hom. Il. 15, 193; cf. Heraclit. Hom. Probl. passim Pl. Phd. 109b; see also Louis 1948: 63–​72 and Buffière 1973: 119–​121). According to Heraclitus, the allegorist of the 1st c. ad, ‘this element, aêr, is dark, melas, because, presumably, it is assigned to a denser and damper region; at any rate it is separated from possible sources of light and does not shine—​alampês esti—​and so is quite properly called Hades’ (Hom. Probl. 23, 8. trans. Russell, Konstan 2005: 45). What was meant by these two terms—​aithêr, aêr—​however, changed through time, probably most significantly in the 5th c. In the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, another quality is attributed to the darkness of Hades. The place of the dead is located ‘beneath the moist darkness’ (hupo zophôi eurôenti, Hom. Hymn Dem. 482; cf. Od. 11, 57). In fact in Homer the halls of Hades (oikia, domoi, dôma) as well as the road which leads to them are altered by humidity and so are presented as ‘dank’ or ‘putrefying’: eis Aideô domon eurôenta, ‘to the moist halls of Hades’ (Od. 10, 512; 22, 322; 24, 10; cf. Il. 20, 65 and Hes. Theog. 731, 739 for Tartarus). If the meaning is to be deduced from the cognate noun, euros, the adjective eurôeis, denoting decay, could be linked with that of the depths of the earth and the subterranean tombs (taphon eurôenta, Soph. Ant. 1167; cf. Clarke 1999: 192). Nevertheless, this important condition, which is never forgotten by later literature and religion, can be sometimes linked with fecundity (Motte 1973: 233–​ 379, Cousin 2012: 116–​124)—​somewhat contradictorily, as the ritual and mythic places of Hades and its surroundings are also, not surprisingly, characterized by infertility. For instance, in Homer’s nekuia, the trees of Persephone’s grove are ‘tall poplars and willows that shed their fruit’ (Od. 10, 510), while Strabo informs us that the unproductiveness of the soil in Triphylia of Elis is connected with the precincts of Hades: ‘for, as we know, not only the temples of Demeter and Kore [Persephone] have been held in very high honor there, but also those of Hades, perhaps because of “the contrariness of the soil” . . .’ (Strab. 8, 3, 14–​15, trans. Jones 1927: IV, p. 53).

Shine, reflections, and contrasting effects The adjective kuaneos/​ous, ‘dark blue’, adds some gleams of light to the wider area of the Hades’ realities. It refers to a colour adjacent to black and equally representing the dark pole of the colour scale. According to Aristotle and Plato kuanoun derives from the blending of light and darkness, leukon and melan expressing in ancient Greek, like other

68   Athanassia Zografou ancient colour terms, less the hue than the luminosity (Pl. Ti. 68c, 4–​6; Arist. Sens. 442a24 Bekker; cf. Hoeppe 2007: 30). This colour quality is attributed to the dark mane of both Poseidon and Hades described by the Homeric epithet kuanochaita. It is not surprising that in the Homeric Hymn to Demeter the mourning goddess Demeter is presented ‘dressed in dark veils’, kuanopeplos (360, 374, 442). The adjective kuanous is connected with the Otherworld, but also with deep bodies of water and with lustrous surfaces as these of lakes (Platnauer 1921; 160): Stygios, the Underworld stream, is described by Plato as kuanous (Phd. 113 b–​c) and Kuanê/​Cyane, ‘Dark Blue’, is the name of a pool next to the place where the earth opened to swallow the chariot of Hades, leading Persephone to the realm of shades. According to one version of this myth, after failing to prevent the abduction of Persephone, the Nymph Cyane was literally dissolved in tears and so transformed into the lake which was named after her: ‘You might have seen her limbs soften, her bones begin to bend, her nails /​losing their hardness. All the slenderest parts, /​her wave-​blue hair, her finger, legs and feet /​were liquid first . . .’ (Ov. Met. 5, 430–​437, tr. Melville, Kenney 1986: 112). It is perhaps not by chance that in some other versions the Nymph is turned to liquid as a punishment from Hades, and seems to function herself as a passage to the Otherworld, as I will later demonstrate (Diod. Sic. 5, 3, 2; Ael. VH 2, 33; Nonnus, Dion. 6, 129ff.). In this case the ‘deep blue’ colour of the water is probably related to extreme depth, as in the case of the Italian lake Avernus, next to Cumae in Campania, also considered a passage to the Underworld (kuanoun dia tên huperbolên tou bathous, Diod. Sic. 4, 22, 1; cf. Aesch. fr. 273a, 6 Radt, benthos amauron). Luminous signs are not completely missing in the world of darkness. The most famous example is perhaps the White, or rather Bright Rock—​Leukas Petrê—​of the second Odyssey nekuia (Od. 24, 11), a passage seen by many classicists as a later interpolation (Heubeck, Hoekstra 1989 on Od. 24, 1–​204). ‘White Rock’, usually identified by modern readers with the ‘rock’ mentioned by Circe (Od. 10, 514–​515), is, according to the Homeric text, the last sign of the arrival of the souls of Penelope’s suitors in the ‘district of dreams’ and, finally, the realm of the deceased. Its name and identification poses a puzzling problem to Homer’s readers of all periods. One of the questions put by the ancient commentators about this passage concerns the intense visibility of this rock in the realm of darkness. The pedantic answer given by ancient commentaries was that the rock was partly turned towards the day so as to reflect actual light (Schol. M. V. on Od. 24, 1); an analogous problem concerned the pallid—​leukoeideis—​shades of the dead; ( Vermeule (1979: 29, 218 and Cousin 2012: 53–​ 54). At the symbolic level, the homerist G. Nagy goes probably too far by considering this mythical marker as one of the boundaries delimiting life and death, ‘the conscious and the unconscious’, and so paradoxically mixing elements of both realities (Nagy 1973: 173b and the critics of Ballabriga 1986: 54–​55). Whatever the exact connection between the ‘White Rock’ and the real Cape Leukatas, a bare white cliff at the southwestern extremity of the island of Leukas sometimes identified with it by modern scholars (Morgan 1985: 229, n. 3), it is obvious that, in this case, the indication of brightness creates a contrast: the mythic rock provides a last shine of light before diving into the darkness (Stanford 1973: II, 412). An analogous interpretation has sometimes been given to the Leuka kuparissos, the famous ‘white poplar’ marking either the correct or the wrong spring in the Underworld, according to Orphic tablets guiding initiated dead: ‘a luminous sign of hope which interrupts the all-​encompassing darkness of death’, (Guarducci 1974: 32cf. 19–​20 and Zuntz 1971: 373). Intriguingly, the traveller Pausanias (2nd c. ad) refers to white poplars growing on the

Constructing the Invisible    69 banks of the Thesprotian River Acheron, identified with the mythic Underworld stream (5, 14, 2). However, in the Odyssey the adjective leukas seems to allude at the same time to barrenness, particularly appropriate to the steep and rocky landscape of the world’s end; the lack of vegetation underlines the absence of life at this marginal point. We can compare this effect to that created by the motif of the dead sitting on yellow-​ochre rocks on white ground, lekythoi. The motif of the rocky ground in these paintings—​found also at Polygnotous Nekyia (Paus. 10, 30, 9, 1–​2)—​points to the characteristic isolation of the dead, especially when existential levels of life and death are jointly represented (as demonstrated by Kavvadias 2012: 264–​265).

Blind darkness It is well known that ancient Greek thought, expressed both in poetic images and in theoretical explanations, associates visual perception with brightness: as though ‘the eye rays’, but also the sun rays or the rays emanated from all colorful, luminous objects offer the ability to see (Mugler 1960: 49, 59–​69, 49; cf. Vernant 1995: 12–​16). Moreover, there is a perfect reciprocity between seeing and been seen: to be alive equates not only to see the light of day (the deceased are ‘blind’ only in this sense) but also to be visible. Conversely, the absence of light and sight is linked to invisibility. Only a god can be eventually kruptos, aoratos, although pantas ephorôn—​ an ability particularly envied by practitioners of magic. The relation of invisibility to darkness is expressed too by the term amaurôsis, denoting a blinding affliction, the act of blinding someone, or, inversely, a spell to gain invisibility (PGM I, 222, 247; cf. Phillips 2009: 28–​50). The realm of the dead, impenetrable by light, is by definition the ‘unseen world’. The word ‘Hades’, which points through the ages to three realities, the world of the dead, its master, and sometimes also the grave, is regularly associated with the invisible/​unknowable, especially in etymological discussions which derive it from privative a and idein, ‘to see’, and, in a wider sense, ‘to know’ (Pl. Grg. 493a, Phd. 80d–​e and Cornutus, Theol. 5, 2-​4; cf. Clarke 1999: 167). The fact that the god Hades, with the exception of his chariot and his dark blue hair, is relatively featureless and undetermined has probably something to do with his quintessential darkness and invisibility. The god seems to be shaped in accordance with the predominant character of the space over which he rules. Although the adjective aidês, ‘invisible’—​could sometimes describe a person with vision problems (pais aides, ‘blind child’, Herzog 1931: 17, no. 20), Hades as a divine person is not blind himself. Consequently, one of his rare attributes is Aidos kuneê, the ‘helmet of Hades’ (Phillips 2009: 10–​12; Ogden 2008: 45), a means to attain invisibility temporarily and deliberately without losing the capacity of seeing. Aidos kuneê, whose origin goes back to the Cyclops, Hermes, or the Nymphs, is a kind of alternative device to the misty clouds which guarantee invisibility to gods (Od. 7, 14–​17, 39–​42, 139–​145, cf. Il. 5, 840–​845; Apollod. Bibl. 1, 6, 2). According to the archaic epic Shield attributed to Hesiod, the cap offers invisibility, as it brings with it nuktos zophon ainon, ‘the awful darkness of night’ ([Sc.] 217; cf. nephos êgoun aorasia, ‘a cloud, making him invisible’ in Scholia ad loc.). The idea is conserved in a much later invocation of ‘first appearing darkness’ in a recipe for invisibility (PGM XIII, 268–​269; cf. Phillips 2009: 124–​125). Visual isolation connected with the darkness of the Hades represents a fundamental limit separating life and death. We can then understand the reaction of the god Hades when

70   Athanassia Zografou during the theomachy of the Iliad, book 20, his world risks being uncovered to the eyes of mortals: ‘And seized with fear in the world below was Aidoneus, lord of the shades, and in fear leapt he from his throne and cried aloud, lest above him the earth be cloven by Poseidon, the Shaker of Earth, and his abode be made plain to view—​phaneiê—​for mortals and immortals’ (61–​64 tr. A. T. Murray). For mythic heroes who can exceptionally have access to the world of the dead remains the difficulty of affording to see Hades: the surprise of Odysseus’ dead mother at meeting her son in the Underworld underlines exactly this point: ‘Hard is it for the living to see these things—​horasthai tade’ (Od. 11, 156).

Darkness’ relatives: night, sleep, and dreams Ties between the darkness of night and that of Hades/​death can be observed at a cosmological level. As we have already seen, in Hesiod, Nyx is born out of Chaos, and by Erebus, her brother, she gave birth to Upper Air, Aithêr, and Day (Hes. Theog. 123–​125). In the fifth-​ century comedy Birds, Aristophanes, promoting Night’s role, uses a basic theme of the Orphic cosmogonic tradition. In fact, early Orphic teachings confirmed by the Derveni papyrus commentary (end of 5th c. bc) ascribe a crucial role to Night: according to the Orphics, the world was born from the egg laid by Night in the bosom of Erebus (Ramnoux 1959: 194–​252; Christopoulos 2010: 207–​220). In the Iliad, Hypnos and Thanatos are presented as twins collaborating in ‘death affairs’ (Il. 14, 231; 16, 672; cf. Albinus 2000: 90–​97). We see them carrying the corpse of Sarpedon in his homeland (Albinus 2000: 90–​97; cf. Frontisi-​Ducroux 1995: 81–​94). In the Hesiodic Theogony, they are among the children of Night and thus brothers to the family of Dreams and to Kêr melaina, ‘Black Fate of Death’. Their dwellings are placed in sunless Tartarus, like that of Night: ‘the glowing Sun never looks upon them with his beams’ (Hes. Theog. 211–​212, 756–​761). Kinship between Thanatos, Nyx, Hypnos, and Dreams is consistent with the analogous appearance of dreams and ghosts: coming from connected realms, they are presented as mere images in the shape of mortals; thus, dead Penelope, in the first Odyssean nekuia, escapes the arms of her son ‘like a shadow or a dream’ (Il. 11, 207), while in Euripides’ Hecuba, dead Polydoros appears both as a ghost to spectators and as a dream to his mother (1–​82). Significantly, the word eidôlon, ‘reflection’ or ‘mental image’, commonly used for actual metal or water reflections, is applied to both dreams and wraiths. In Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris, prophetic dreams emerge from a place similar to Hades, i.e. from the dark womb of the ‘nightly’ earth (Nuchia Chthôn, IT 1259–​1267).

From indefinite darkness to otherworld landscapes These vague or general qualities and connotations of Hades’ darkness are more precisely expressed in detailed presentations of Hades in myth and/​or cult. Depth and remoteness, humidity, shadowing, shining, and contrasting effects, convergence of time and space,

Constructing the Invisible    71 relationship with night and dreams are to be found in a poetic topography, but also in descriptions of geographically situated ‘entrances’ to the Otherworld. As we have already said, it is beyond the scope of this study to present each of these cases in detail (cf. Gruppe 1906: 815; Papachatzis 1976: 105–​106, n. 1; Ogden 2001: 56–​26; Ustinova 2009: 68–​81). In addition to those already recorded, many places (mostly caves or lakes) are likely to have been seen in antiquity as natural openings to the Otherworld, and consequently as suitable spots to summon up the dead. Some toponyms like Skotoussa, ‘Dark One’ (a city to the west of Pherai) could allude to unknown traditions of such mythical journeys to Hades. In what follows, a number of elements frequently associated with the concept of Underworld darkness will be discussed through a brief presentation of spatial characteristics of a number of sites.

Anticipation of characteristics of the inner realm As the inscription of mythic landscape in real geography becomes popular in the Post-​archaic period, many Greek poleis solicited their own access to the dark realm. These spots appear as exceptional breaches of the boundary between the living and the dead reminding at the same time the fatal existence of Hades. Although they are known as entrances (or exits), they offer, through natural or artificial elements, a tangible dimension to the mythic image of the Otherworld as a whole. Gateways to Hades are usually connected with heroic adventures of descent, katabasis, to the Underworld (such as the descent of Theseus and Perithous, of Orpheus, Dionysus, and above all Heracles) or to the rape of Persephone (Hsch. s.v. Deuteropotmos; cf. Ogden 2001: 261; Johnston 1999: 152, n. 93; Ustinova 2009: 218–​226). Competing traditions about the same mythical journey to Hades involve various localities, so that the number of supposed passageways to the Otherworld, seen in all these cases as an Underworld, increases. For example, Taenaron, Troezena, Hermione, Heracleia, Boetia could each possess a local ‘gate’ connected with the exit of Cerberus. Offerings to Underworld beings, as well as necromantic or healing rituals often attested in these transitional spots, constitute proof of the search for ritual interaction between two otherwise distinct worlds. Despite the view of some ancient writers (Aesch. fr. 161 Radt and Schol. Il. 9, 158), the king of the dead, under the name of Hades or Pluto, appears as the recipient of honours in many parts of the Greek world, and sometimes is even included in the group of twelve gods (Farnell 1907: 376–​378; Fairbanks 1990: 252–​253; Georgoudi 1996: 62). Nevertheless, in these localities, a cult explicitly dedicated to the ruler of the realm of the dead is not always attested; Hades himself could concede his presidency to comparable figures like Plouto or Clymenos and/​or to couple of Eleusinian goddesses. Sometimes even Zeus appears as an equivalent to Hades, through the appellation (Kata)Chthonios, Skotitas (IGSK 57, 56; cf. Hesychius s.v. Katachthonios; Paus. 3, 10, 6), or through euphemistic epithets. Passages to the realm of dead can be located exceptionally in precincts consecrated principally to gods who do not belong directly to the world below—​the most famous case being the entrance at Cape Tainaron in Poseidon’s sanctuary. Finally, some places consecrated to heroic cults reserve cavities which could offer a ritual experience similar to that of katabasis. The most striking case is that of Trophonios, a heroic figure who shares epithets appropriate to the dark ruler of the Underworld: Klumenos, Skotios (Bonnechere 2003: 162, 223, 330). His sanctuary in Lebadeia strongly recalls other

72   Athanassia Zografou shrines considered as entrances to the Underworld (Bonnechere 2003: 221–​228 and passim; Ustinova 2009: 90–​91).

Caves as gates In poetry, the most common means to design Hades in a global way is the appeal to the image of a house (domoi/​dôma): domoi Aidao is an expression appearing over ten times in Homer, found also in the Orphic lamellae (see e.g. Bernabé, Jiménez San Cristóbal 2008: 9–​12; Cousin 2012: 82–​88;). The expression is analogous with that used for the ‘halls of Zeus’, thus presenting Hades as the negative counterpart of the dominion of Zeus. What is more, the word domoi, used not only for a palace or a temple but also for an ordinary house, reflect human reality, even in such an extraordinary context. Of course, the ‘halls of Hades’ stand for the realm of Hades as a whole and not only his palace. It is especially in vase paintings of the 4th c. bc from the south of Italy that we find an image corresponding to the house of Hades described in the poetry: an interior reminiscent of a palace, with the spouses Hades and Persephone sitting in a naiskos framed by Ionic columns, while on earlier vases from Attica sometimes it is a single door or a throne that designate Hades’ palace (Moret 1993; Bernabé, Jiménez San Cristóbal 2008: 291–​293; Chazalon 1995: 165–​188). The ‘wide’ gates of Hades (eurupules Aidaos dô, Il. 23, 74, Od. 11, 571) are given a prominence not only in art but also in poetic language (Cousin 2012: 88–​91). Passage through the gates of Hades is frequently used to evoke the trajectory of souls after death (pulai Aidao, Il. 5, 646; 23, 71). In this case, the gates can function not only as a synecdoche but also literally, as the visible façade of something hidden (Od. 19, 562). Furthermore, even if the image of gates is employed for a number of cosmic limits (gates of heaven, of the Sun, of dreams), their mention seems more vital as far as the world of Hades is concerned. It underlines both the marginality and the rigidity of this cosmic area, regarded as a dungeon impossible to evade. This is why the ‘gates of Hades’ become the measure of irreversible hatred, as we can see in the stereotyped expression ‘hateful to me as the gates of Hades’ (e.g. Il. 9, 312) and its ruler takes on the aspect of a merciless gatekeeper (pulartês, Od. 11, 277). However, these proverbial gates leading to Hades—​like the expression ‘threshold of the Hades’ (Hom. Il. 8, 13; Hes. Theog. 811; cf. Verilhac 1978: 1, 93)—​are absent in both Homeric nekuiai, where we encounter just the gates of the Sun (24, 12); the toponym Pylos in the Iliad serves probably as the only allusion to a geographically defined ‘gate’, pulê, in relation to Hades (Il. 5, 395–​404; see Frame 1978: 81–​115, vs Ballabriga 1986: 30–​35). Gates of Hades reappear in Vergil (Aen. 6, 124–​130) and in later authors, this time, integrated into a larger mythic landscape. In Lucian, besides characteristic waterland—​lake, rivers, fountain—​and vegetation—​the meadow of Asphodels—​there is also an adamantine gate next to which stands the judge Aeacus, and a three-​headed dog (Luct. 2). Gates in their literal form are also absent from religious geography, as far as we know. We are only informed by Sophocles about a spot named the ‘bronze threshold’, an ambiguous landmark at Hippios Colonos, which Oedipus has to cross to enter Hades. As R. C. Jebb, one of Sophocles’ modern editors and commentators, concludes, this was probably no more than ‘a steeply descending rift or cavern in the rock, at the mouth of which some brazen steps have been made’ (Jebb 1965: 21, 245 in OC 57–​58 and 1591ff.; see also Calame 1999: 339 and passim). Generally, descriptions which refer to real landscapes mention mostly caves

Constructing the Invisible    73 and chasms, both natural and artificial, as well as bodies of water (possibly associated with meadows), rivers and streams, or various pools of still water instead of palaces and gates. Mountains are recorded in a more elusive way as places where passages to Hades can be found, probably in the form of caves or chasms. This is the case of the mountain Laphystion in Phocis, another place where Heracles was believed to have dragged up the hound of Hades (Paus. 9, 34, 1–​4). In ancient Greek thought, caves are surely evocative of passages to the world of the dead (Motte 1973: 237–​247; Lavagne 1988; 33; Ustinova 2009: 68–​89; cf. Buffière 1973: 439–​459), although not exclusively, as they are often believed to be the shelters of various divine and heroic activity. Pan and the nymphs are their most frequent inhabitants, while various traditions connect them with nursing or clandestine love of gods as well as with various episodes of the lives of heroes or prophets (Borgeaud 1979: 73ff. (Pan); Lavagne 1988: 31–​86; Larson 2001: 226–​267 (nymphs); Boardman 2002: 104–​106; Ustinova 2009: 55–​68). It is not surprising, therefore, that numerous shrines associated with Underworld passages include caves such as the sanctuary of Demeter and Core at Eleusis, that of Poseidon at Cape Tainaron, the nekyomanteion at Heracleia Pontica, and, in later times, that of Cumae next to Lake Avernus. In Caria, the Charonia and/​or Ploutônia of Meander Valley—​Acharaca, Leimon of Nysa, Thymbria, Hierapolis—​consist essentially of caves. The specific terms ploutône(i)on and charône(i)on are sometimes used by Greek authors as meaning a place devoted to Plouton and to Charon, respectively. However Strabo, in his description of Acharaca, distinguishes the Charonion cave, ‘Underworld passage’ from the Ploutonion, ‘shrine of Plouton’. This seems correct, since Charon the ferryman, who carries the souls of the newly deceased to Hades, has no cults and therefore no shrines, properly speaking (Nissen 2009: 108–​ 109). The rest of the vocabulary used by Greek authors to describe these special caves, either natural or artificial, is not specific to the religion, and includes not only the usual words spêlaion—​or, poetically, speos, antron—​but also stomion (mouth), especially in case of ‘earthly mouths’, i.e. narrow openings sometimes emitting mephitic gazes (e.g. Strab. 13, 4, 14; cf. Soph. Ant. 1217, Pl. Resp. 615d–​e). The expression chasma gês (earthly chasm) is used especially when a hero is received by an opening of the earth, but also to describe permanent openings, like that observed in Argolis (Paus. 2, 35, 8; cf. Nic. Alex 13–​15, chasma Euboulêos). We also find adutos topos, ‘impenetrable place’, oikêsis katôruchê, ‘subterranean residence’, and even muchos, ‘nook’, ‘recess’, or probably muchopontion, ‘nook of the sea’, applied to a sea cave like that of Heracleia Pontica (Ap. Rhod. Argon. II, 737; Amm. Marc. 22, 8, 16–​17; cf. Ogden 2001: 31). Strabo compares the cave of Acharaca, where sick people used to have an overnight, ritually prepared sleep, with a ‘lurking-​hole’—​phôleos—​and in Euripides Ion the cave of Trophonius is mentioned as thalamai, both words used for animal lairs or nests and thus equally hinting at a kind of identification of a votary searching for healing or for revelation in a place of retirement to a wild animal resting in a hidden place (Eur. Ion 392–​394; cf. Bonnechere 2003: 82–​85). Several natural caves are seen as gates of Hades. In Eleusis, where there is also, in the general vicinity of the Eleusinion, an autonomous sanctuary of Plouto (to tou Ploutônos), there is an actual cave generally known as Ploutonion, though this name is not attested epigraphically (Clinton 1992: 14–​19; Mylonas 1961: 98–​91, 146–​149; Ustinova 2009: 233–​234; cf. also Bérard 1974: 58, pl. 10, figs 34, 35 for iconographical evidence). As shown by the careful

74   Athanassia Zografou study of the historian of Greek religion K. Clinton, this place is instead to be connected with Agelastos Petra, ‘the Mirthless Rock’ on which Demeter sat when she arrived at Eleusis—​ a landmark ignored by the Homeric Hymn, but related, by written sources, to the myth of Theseus’ descent to Hades. There is also the so-​called Agelastos Petra among the Athenians, where they say Theseus sat when he was about to descend to Hades (Schol. on Ar. Eq. 785a; cf. Clinton 1992: 16). As previously mentioned, rocks are typical landmarks at the marginal section just preceding the entry to the Otherworld; yet caves appear more specifically as the natural counterpart of the mythico-​poetic gates of Hades. They combine difficulty of access, depth, and minimal penetration of light. Without mentioning any cave at Eleusis, the archaic Homeric Hymn to Demeter situates the rape of Persephone in the mythical plain of Nysa (‘the earth with its wide ways yawned over the Nysian plain’, 16–​17, tr. Foley 1994: 2). However, later authors do mention caves, for instance Pausanias, who locates the site of the rape at twin caves at Eleusis (1, 38, 5; 2, 35, 7; 6, 21, 1; 9, 31, 8) or the Orphic Hymns (2nd–​3rd c. ad), which clearly associate a cave in Eleusis with the ‘doors of Hades’: ‘the cave in the deme of Eleusis where the gates of Hades—​pulai Aidao—​are’ (Orph. Hymns 18, 14–15; cf. Clinton 1992: 22 and Zografou 2010: 58–​59). At the very south of Peloponnesus, at Cape Taenaron, below the temple of Poseidon, who oversees the whole sanctuary, and next to the sea, there is another cave, famous in early times for being a passage to Hades, as well as a psuchopompeion, nekuomanteion, or nekuôrion, ‘place where souls are conjured up’, a ‘dead oracle’, or a ‘seeing-​place of the dead’ (from horaô, ‘to see’). In this case a natural cave is combined with artificial elements in order to create the right effect. According to Pausanias it was an artificial grotto (‘a temple made like a cave—​spêlaiôi’, Paus. 3, 25, 4). See also Strab. 8, 5, 1 and Pomponius Mela 2, 51; cf. Ogden 2001: 34–​42; Papachatzis 1976: 102–​125). Nonetheless, what we see nowadays are the just the remains of a small natural cave whose entrance was closed by a wall from the Hellenistic period, a construction restricting visibility and luminosity. In the case of Taenaron, as in that of Trophonios’ cave in Lebadeia, following the study of cave oracles by W. Friese, a historian of ancient Greek religion, ‘the narrowing of the entrance made necessary for the visitors to put pressure on their body, squeezing through it’ (Friese 2013: 229, 233). Pausanias remarks that, against expectations based on traditional beliefs, there was ‘no path in the underground’ from the famous cave-​oracle. In effect, this kind of cave entrance serves not as a literal passageway, but rather as avirtual Otherworld. Even a finite hole or an insignificant grotto with a measurable depth could offer an idea of the ‘gates’, i.e. of the external façade of Hades, while anticipating imaginary characteristics of the inner realm of shades. Architectural devices aiming to obstruct vision or to restrict access provide evidence for the kind of ritual experience pursued. The sea-​cave of Heracleia Pontica was, like Taenaron, supposed to be the opening from which Heracles dragged out Cerberus. Pomponius Mela, the earliest Roman geographer (43 ad), compares it with the Tainaron cave (1, 103). In this case also, the natural cave on the south coast of the Black Sea functions as a dead-​oracle at least from 560 bc (Ogden 2001: 29–​ 34: Ustinova 2009: 71–​72). The entrance of the cave consists of a rather narrow dromos-​like passage followed by a twisting stairway which descends to a more or less rectangular central chamber for the most part flooded by a pool of crystal-​clear water over a metre deep—​the inner chamber. Other constructed features, like pillars, niches, and an alcove, show that the place was modelled on a natural cave (Friese 2013: 229, 233).

Constructing the Invisible    75 The epic author of the 3rd c. ad, Quint. Smyrn. (Posthomerica 6, 468–​491) depicts the oracle cave of Heraclea as a cave of nymphs with two passageways, following the description of the sea cave in the Odyssey; in his narrative the idea of invisibility, conceived as an isolating limit between mortals and the realm of death, remains crucial; only gods can see through the passageway which leads to Hades: ‘by the latter route mortals come down into the wide cave of the goddesses. But the other is the path of the blessed gods, and men could not tread it easily, since a broad chasm has been made that goes down as far as the pit [berethron] of high-​minded Hades. But it is right for the blessed gods to see these things [themis eisoraasthai].’ Emanations of mephitic vapours and sulphur waters are frequent in cave ‘entrances’ to Hades. Mysterious noises produced by water springs and high-​temperature water and lethal vapours are evocative of the inner, invisible part of Hades. In this case, darkness is substituted by a cloudy and sometimes noxious atmosphere affecting consciousness and inducing sleep. The Meander Valley in Caria, thanks to special soil conditions, was particularly rich in mephitic caves, charôn(e)ia or ploutôn(e)ia, supposedly leading to Hades; Strabo’s account is rich in details especially for the shrine of Acharaca, between Tralles and Nysa, comprising a sacred grove (alsos) and a temple of Plouton (neôs) with attendant buildings; a cave entrance to Hades (charônion antron) above the main precinct has functioned at least from the Hellenistic period as the healing oracle of the complex. The cave, probably a natural cave that has collapsed, has proved difficult to locate. However, Strabo gives much information concerning the incubation rituals. Although the atmosphere in the cave was noxious enough to kill a bull ritually carried up into the cave at the annual festival, sick people or their representatives could sleep in the cave in order to obtain therapy through divine dreams. As the geographer Strabo (1st c. bc–​1st c. ad) states: ‘they often bring the sick into the cave and leave them there, to remain in quiet, like animals in their lurking-​holes [kathaper en phôleôi], without food for many days’ (Strab. 14, 1, 44; cf. Ustinova 2004; 31; 2009: 86–​87; Nissen 2009: 111–​124). Strabo is less informative about similar caves in the same area which, at least for a period, functioned like the Charoneion of Acharaca as healing oracles. One sacred to Plouton and Core, in the town of Leimôn, was described as stomion and thought to communicate with Charonion of Acharaca (Nissen 2009: 124–​125); another next to the village of Thymbria, between Magnesia of Meander and Myous, was described as a ‘sacred cave without birds’ (aornon spêlaion hieron) for the reason that it ‘emitted fatal noxious gazes’ (olethrious echon apophoras) (Ogden 2001: 25–​27; Nissen 2009: 125, 131–​133, 313–​315). A better-​known site presenting obvious similarities with the former three, i.e. Acharaca, Leimôn, Thymbria, is the Apollo sanctuary of Phrygian Hierapolis, where ‘the hot springs and the Plutonium’ are located (according to Strabo) with calcified water creating petrified waterfalls (Ustinova 2009: 84–​86; Nissen 2009: 126–​131). The geographer does not mention the oracle-​sanctuary of Apollo which, following the epigraphical evidence, was in use from Hellenistic times. He describes the Ploutonion as ‘an opening of only moderate size, large enough to admit a man’. He continues: ‘it reaches a considerable depth, and it is enclosed by a quadrilateral handrail, about half a plethrum in circumference, and this space is full of a vapour so misty and dense that one can scarcely see the ground’ (13, 4, 13). He adds that only eunuchs, priests of Cybele, are immune to vapours which can destroy every living being. According to Plinius these galloi become possessed by breathing in gases from the cave. At the close of the 5th c. ad, Damascius descended in to the cave (katabasion, bothros)

76   Athanassia Zografou in spite of the supposed danger; a revelatory dream explained its ‘salvation from Hades’ as a transformation to Attis, Cybele’s favourite (ap. Phot. Bibl. 242, 344b). Nowadays Strabo’s Ploutonion is found beneath the south side of a temple of Apollo built in the 3rd c. ad above a Hellenistic predecessor. It consists of a deep, dark chasm, a natural cave enhanced by tooling and walling, with a river still belching vapours at its base (Friese 2013: 229–​230). Therefore, the darkness of Hades could be subtly rendered in human landscape thanks to the double nature of caves, a visible and a hidden side. Remote location, considerable depth (real or imagined), narrow openings, humidity, and even underground bodies of water contribute to create the atmosphere of the imagined misty darkness enfolding the realm of shades. Rather than absolute gloom, we encounter shadowing and contrasting effects, as well as special environmental conditions associated with the Otherworld. The additional elements of vapours and black ash sulphur waters encountered in a number of cases enhance the cloudy atmosphere and the danger of access, while possibly provoking an alteration of consciousness: without doubt, these extraordinary settings offer ideal environment for some ritual activities reminding participants of the closeness between death and sleep, and thus between ghosts, dreams and prophetic visions. Architectural devices aim, in each case, to increase these conditions which tend to create the impression of the realm of the dead.

Watery landscapes As we have already seen, caves and grottoes representing the gates of Hades are consistently related to streams, rivers, lakes and pools of water. The religious landscape of Hermione (Argolis), which recalls both myths of the ascent of Cerberus and the descent of Persephone provide us with another example: an elaborate complex of chthonic sanctuaries sacred to Chthonia Klumenos, and Plouton which incorporates not only a chasm leading to the Underworld but also an Acherusian lake (Pausanias 2, 35, 10–​11). Watery landscapes can come in a variety of forms, and support many rituals. In Trophonios’ shrine at Lebadeia, for instance, it is the water of the river Hercyna that serves as the preparatory bath for whoever desired to consult the oracle by experiencing a kind of ritual Underworld descent, while drinking the water of the springs of Lethe and Mnemosyne assures that revelation will be clearly inscribed in the mind (Paus. 9, 39, 7–​8). As far as rivers and streams are concerned, the connection with the Otherworld seems grounded in the idea that their course continues under the earth, leading to Hades’ depth. They are also imagined to surge and undulate down from one side of the earth to the other, and to form lakes with which they are sometimes confused. Once more, real landscape is found to be in accordance with imaginary descriptions of the abode of Hades, where rivers, streams, waterfalls, fountains, and swampy lakes are more than frequent. Moreover, the insistence on the element of water is appropriate to the presumed humidity of the Otherworld darkness already discussed. This condition is associated by ancient authors either with decay and disintegration or with fertility (Ndiaye 2014: 53–​65). Groves providing deep shadow and gorgeous valleys—leimônes, a word which always implies the notion of humidity—​are obviously mostly expected in mythic as opposed to real spots connected to Hades (Motte 1973: 233–​279; Cousin 2005a and 2012: 157–​158). Nevertheless, we must keep in mind that, as we have already shown, the notion of Hades’

Constructing the Invisible    77 fertility is ambivalent: not only the uproductive trees and the rocky soil, but also the familiar motif of the dehydrated dead still point to a general aridness. Lakes, under various names, can be found in the neighbourhood of cave-​entrances, such as the lake in Heraclea or in Ermione, but they can also function as autonomous passageways to Hades. As we have already mentioned, Hades made his appearance in Sicily through a cavern below the Henna plateau; then, seizing Persephone, he drove her down on his chariot next to the pool of Cyane near Syracuse. However, some details of the story show that Cyane was also conceived as a spot communicating with the Underworld realm: in Ovid’s version, her waters offer a material sign proving that Core had been forced to follow the god of the dead: ‘Even so she gave a clue, clear beyond doubt, and floating in her pool she showed the well-​known girdle which Persephone had chanced to drop there in the sacred spring’ (Met. 5, 465–​473, trans. Melville, slightly changed. Melville and Kelley, 113). Diodorus’ version of the abduction in his Library (universal history written about 60–​30 bc)—​as well as the annual ritual plunging of bulls into the waters of Cyane recorded by several sources—​confirm the impression that the fountain named Cyane surged forth (pêgên aneinai) exactly where the earth had opened to receive Core (Diod. Sic. 5, 4, 3), and so can assure a kind of communication with the Otherworld. More explicit is the case of Alcyonia. Pausanias had heard of an Argive tradition, still current in his time, that Dionysus descended to Hades not through an earthly mouth, but through the waters of a lake in the Lerna region: ‘I saw also . . . the Alcyonian Lake, through which the Argives say Dionysus went down to Hell to bring up Semele . . . There is no limit to the depth of the Alcyonian Lake [peras tou bathous ouk estin].’ Pausanias continues by mentioning the example of Nero, who failed in his attempt to discover the limit of its depth using long ropes. He finally describes the mysterious conduct of the water, which although looking ‘calm and quiet’ (galênon esti kai êremaion) drags down into the depths and swallows forever every swimmer who ventures to cross the lake (Paus. 2, 37, 5; cf. Papachatzis 1976: 118, n. 1). As Pausanias only mentions a district called Lerna, it is probable that his Alcyonia is the same as other writers’ Lerna. Hence, misleading calm and immobility go together with immeasurable depth and fatal dragging to the world of darkness. The majority of names given to various bodies of water—​as well as some of the names given to the cave entrances—​are provided from Homer. In the site of the Heracleia, already described, both cave and chersonese are called ‘Acherousians’, the river that flows beneath is known as Acheron, and Acherousias is the name given to a nearby lake, although the Acherousian lake is absent from the Homeric landscape proper (Etym. Magn. s.v. Acherousias). Nevertheless, as Pausanias assumed, in the case of the famous and very ancient site of Thesprotia, where some famous mythic descents to Hades are located (those of Orpheus, Theseus, and Heracles), the naming sequence could occur in the opposite sequence: Homer described in his poems the regions of Hades and gave to the mythic rivers their eloquent names—​Cocytus, ‘the Wailing’, Pyriphlegethon, ‘the Flaming’, Styx, ‘the Hate’ (cf. Ogden 2001: 44, n. 8)—​after having seen the famous necromantic site (Homêros te moi dokei tauta heôrakôs es te tên allên poiêsin apotolmêsai tôn en Aidou kai dê kai ta onomata tois potamois apo tôn en Thesprôtidi thesthai, Paus. 1, 17, 5; cf. 9, 30, 5–​6 and Hdt. 5, 92). Hydrographic features of the region include the Acherousian lake, known later as Aornos, ‘birdless’—​nowadays disappeared—​where the waters of Thesprotian rivers were supposed to flow (Fouache, Quantin 1999: 29–​61; Ogden 2001: 43–​60). As none of the ancient sources mentions a cave or a chasm, the passageway to Hades and the place of consultation of the

78   Athanassia Zografou dead were most probably situated beside the river Acheron or the Acherousian lake, which is held in itself to be ‘sender of dead’ (limnê nekuopompos, ‘lake-​sending-​the dead’, Schol. Hom. Od. hypothesis, p. 5). From at least the late 6th c. bc, traditions describing Odysseus’ journey to the west of Italy place the katabasis of the Homeric hero to the area of Lake Avernus (lit. ‘full of birds,’, from Latin avis, ‘bird’, but paradoxically understood in antiquity as equivalent to the Greek Aornos ‘birdless’, from privative a + greek ornis, ‘bird’). This volcanic lake next to Cumae, in Campania, is characterized by mephitic (noxious toxic) gases, hot springs, and caves. According to Diodorus, ‘its water is very pure and has to the eye a dark blue colour—​ phainetai têi chroai kuanoun—​because of its very great depth’ (Diod. Sic. 4, 22, 1–2, trans. Oldfather 1935: II, 43; cf. Soph. fr. 748 Radt, Strab. 5, 4, 5–6). We cnanot describe in detail this famous spot, which received considerable attention from ancient authors. In his rich study of ancient Greek necromantic oracles, Professor D. Ogden offers an analytic presentation of the whole site, underlining the importance of the lake. He concludes: ‘Even for the sources that speak of a cave in Avernus, the significance of the connection of the lake with the Underworld remains strong. It is likely that the ghosts were held to emerge from the lake alongside with its supposed mephitic vapors’ (Ogden 2001: 61–​74). The importance of still, stagnant water in mythic and real places connected to Hades, in addition to that of ever-​flowing chthonian rivers, streams, and cascades, increased in the classical period. As a result, from the 5th c. onwards Lake Acherousia makes its appearance in artistic representations, often associated with the figure of Charon (for the appearance of the latter in vase painting around 500 bc, see Sourvinou-​Inwood 1986: 210–​225; cf. Paus. 10, 27, 3 for mention of Charon in the epic poem Minyas). Although the ritual function as well as the symbolic meaning attributed to chthonian lakes and pools can vary according to the religious or philosophical tradition underlying each case, the importance of dark motionless water for the representation of invisible Hades is a recurring matter. In opposition to the flowing water of a stream, the stagnant water of a deep lake can provide a dark reflecting surface (see the expressions benthos amauron, ‘gloomy depth’, and, somewhat contradictorily, statheron cheuma, ‘motionless flood’ in Aesch. fr. 273a and 276 Radt from lost Psychagôgoi; cf. Cousin 2005b: 139–​149 and 2012: 100–​ 102). Mirroring effects perceived as faint, dark images could give a picture of the realm of Hades as the reverse side of our world, reachable but remote, similar but essentially different. Unsurprisingly, representation of Hades by the means of a revealing water surface is inseparable from actual consultation of the dead. Necromancy performed through the surface of a lake entrance to Hades, i.e. hydronecromancy, one of the more popular ways of ritual interaction with the inhabitants of Hades together with incubation, is an oracular approach akin to lecanomancy, i.e. divination through a bowl of water, as well as to catoptromancy, divination through a mirror (Delatte 1932: 133ff.; Tsaggalas 1977: 279–​294). Following Propertius there is no doubt that, in case of such a ritual, the shade of the dead rises directly from the water to reveal the truth (umbrave quae magicis mortua prodit aquis, Elegies 4, 1, 106). An interesting illustration of the way chthonian lakes could function to offer a view of Hades is given through the comic filter of Aristophanes in Frogs (Ar. Ran. 209-267, for this comic catabasis, see e.g. Sourvinou-​Inwood 1995: 307 and Edmonds 2004: 111–​154). In fact, the first residents encountered by Dionysus on his way to Hades are the ‘offspring of the marshland’, the ghosts of dead frogs surging from the lake Acherousia: these pretty amphibians mingle in their song their past and present life, remembering the hymns they sung in honor of the

Constructing the Invisible    79 Nysaean Dionysus close to the precinct of the Marshes (Limnai) during Anthesteria (a festival celebrating Dionysus and the spirits of dead on the occasion of the opening of jars of wine from the previous year). Either they are meant dramatically as mere reflections unseen from the audience, or, as actors playing ghost frogs, they are to be understood as eidôla ‘doubles or mirror images’ (Dover 1993: 56–​57). Their presence marks the crossing of the lake as a real shift in this comic katabasis: in what follows everything will remind the real world of its problems, but it will be radically different. The persistence of lakes providing a still surface in mythic and ritual settings in relation with Hades can be partly understood as a manifestation of the importance of reflecting phenomena in the representation of the invisible. The role of the mirror in oracular practices as well as in some mystic and funerary representations can be easily compared to that of some of the lakes in Hades (Frontisi and Vernant 1997: 195–​197; Frontisi 2000: 40–​41 cf. Delatte 1932: 133ff. and Tsaggalas 1977: 279–​294; for the use of mirrors in Orphic and Dionysiac mysteries, see Seaford 1998: 133 ff.). It is particularly in Italiotic funerary iconography that mirrors function not only as markers of gender or social status but also as windows opened towards the invisible (Cassimatis 1995: 1079; 1998: 347–​350 and passim; cf. Lissarrague 2000: 44–​48).

Conclusion This study has demonstrated that Hades is not as dark or unseeable as we might expect. As previous studies have pointed out, the Otherworld consists of much more than a dwelling for ghosts and dangerous creatures: organized and partly lighted places could favour, on the ritual level, recovery and revelation, sometimes through near-​death experiences. The means by which a whole range of ‘hues of black’ is substituted for total obscurity include an astute use of landscape features and architectural elements, in order to create shadowing or contrast effects, sudden illuminations, mirroring games, troubled reflections, most of which are to be found already in the poetic properties of the misty, foggy, blind, or deep blue shining darkness of Hades. While sharp contrast between light and darkness can sometimes create the impression of a strong barrier dividing the dead from the living, in religious geography, cave entrances, narrow passageways, and deep lakes mingling sunlight and obscurity often offer to visitors the experience of a transitional stage, allowing a view of the realm of the dead. On the cultic level, caves and chasms are appropriate to descent rituals, whereas marshes and lakes seem to be more connected with calling up the dead through the reflections appearing on their surface. Mirroring surfaces offer a suitable structure for communication with the Otherworld, because they permit a vision of it, even slightly distorted, while protecting, like Perseus’ mirror-​shield, against the dangers of direct gazing. Moreover, their role highlights the old conception of the dead as mere reflections of the living—​an idea which can probably be related to the popularity of the parody and satire concerning journeys to the Otherworld, from ancient comedy to Lucian’s dialogues. It is intriguing that, even with the transfer of the realm of death to the sky, a special role is attributed to the moon’s mirroring function. Following an allegorical tradition attested

80   Athanassia Zografou in one of Plutarch’s dialogues (1st c. ad), Demeter’s daughter identified with an Otherworld moon has been called both Kora and Phersephonê, the latter as being a bearer of light and the name Kora derived from the part of the eye (korê), ‘the pupil’, in which is reflected the picture of anyone who looks into it, in the same way as the light of the sun is seen in the moon (Plut. De fac. 942f-944a-c cf. Buffière 1973: 489–​495).

Abbreviations IGSK: Inschriften griechishen Städte aus Kleinasien, Bonn, 1972–​ PGM: K. Preisendanz (ed.), Papyri Graecae Magicae. Die griechischen Zauberpapyri I–​II, Stuttgart, 1973–​1974 (1st edn 1928–​1931)

Greek and Latin authors Editions consulted for this chapter Aelian (Various History): M. R. Dilts 1974. Claudii Aeliani Varia Historia, Leipzig. Aeschylus (Fragments): S. Radt 1889. Tragicorum graecorum fragmenta (TGF) vol. 3: Aeschylus Göttingen. Ammianus Marcellinus: V. Gardthausen 1875. Ammiani Marcellini Rerum Gestarum libri qui supersunt, Stuttgart. Apollodorus: J. G. Frazer 1921. Apollodorus: The Library, Cambridge/​London (LCL). Apollonius Rhodius: G. W. Mooney 1912. The Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, London. Aristophanes: F. W. Hall, W. M. Geldart 1906. Aristophanes Comoediae I–​II, Oxford. W. J. W. Koster 1969. Scholia in Aristophanem, I2: Prolegomena de Comoedia Scholia in Acharnenses, Equites, Nubes, fasc. II (A.–​D. Mervyn Jones, Scholia Vetera in Aristophanis Equites), Groningen/​ Amsterdam. Aristotle (On Sense and the Sensible): W. D. Ross 1955. Parva Naturalia, Oxford. Callimachus (Epigrams): R. Pfeiffer 1949, 1953. Callimachus. Vol. I: Fragmenta. Vol. II: Hymni et Epigrammata, Oxford. A. S. F. Gow, D. L. Page 1965. The Greek Anthology: Hellenistic Epigrams, Cambridge. Cornutus: C. Lang 1881. Cornuti Theologiae graecae compendium, Leipzig. Diodorus Siculus: C. H. Oldfather 1935. Diodorus of Sicily, Cambridge/​London (LCL). Dionysius Periegetes: G. Bernhardy 1828. Dionysius Periegetes Graece et Latine cum vetustis commentariis et interpretationibus I, Leipzig. Etymologicum Magnum: T. Gaisford 1848. Etymologicum Magnum, Oxford. Euripides: G. Murray 1913. Euripidis Fabulae, Oxford. Heraclitus (Allegories): D. A. Russell, D. Konstan 2005. Heraclitus: Homeric Problems, Atlanta. Herodotus: C. Hude 19273 (19081). Herodoti Historiae. Libri V–​IX, Oxford. Hesiod: H. G. Evelyn-​White 1914. Hesiod: The Homeric Hymns and Homerica, Cambridge/​ London (LCL). L. di Gregorio 1975. Scholia vetera in Hesiodi Theogoniam, Milan. Hesychius: M. Schmidt 18672. Hesychii Alexandrini lexicon, Jena. Homer: D. B. Monro, T. W. Allen 19203 (1902). Homeri Opera, Oxford. W. Dindorf 1855. Scholia Graeca in Homeri Odysseam, Oxford.

Constructing the Invisible    81 H. Erbse 1969–​1977. Scholia Graeca in Homeri Iliadem (scholia vetera), Berlin. Lucian: A. M. Harmon 1925. Lucian:Works, Cambridge/​London (LCL). A. T. Murray 1924. Homer. The Iliad with an English Translation, Cambridge-​London. Nicander (Antidotes): O. Schneider 1856. Theriaca et Alexipharmaca, Leipzig. Nonnus of Panopolis: W. H. D. Rouse 1940–​ 1942. Nonnus of Panopolis: Dionysiaca, Cambridge/​London (LCL). Orphic Hymns: W. Quandt 19734 (19411). Orphei Hymni, Berlin. Ovid: R. J. Tarrant 2004. P. Ovidi Nasonis Metamorphoses, Oxford. Pausanias: W. H. S. Jones, H. A. Ormerod 1918. Pausanias: Description of Greece, Cambridge/​ London (LCL). Photius: R. Henry 1962. Photius III, Bibliothèque, Paris (Collection Budé). Pindar: W. H. Race 1997. Pindar: Nemean Odes, Isthmian Odes, Fragments, Cambridge/​ London (LCL). Plato: J. Burnet 1903. Platonis Opera, Oxford. Plutarch: C. Hubert, M. Pohlenz 1960. Plutarchus Moralia V, 3, Monachii/​Lipsiae. Pomponius Mela: C. Frick 1880. Pomponii Melae, De Chorographia Libri Tres, Stuttgart. Propertius: G. P. Goold 1990. Propertius: Elegies, Cambridge (LCL). Quintus Smyrnaeus: A. Koechly 1968. Quinti Smyrnaei Posthomericum Libri XIV, Amsterdam. Sophocles: F. Storr 1912. Sophocles. Vol 1: Oedipus the King; Oedipus at Colonus; Antigone, London/​New York (LCL). S. Radt 1977. Tragicorum graecorum fragmenta (TGF) vol. 4: Sophocles, Göttingen. Strabo: H. L. Jones 1927. The Geography of Strabo, Cambridge/​London (LCL). Vergil: J. B. Greenough 1900. Vergil: Bucolics, Aeneid, and Georgics of Vergil, Boston.

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chapter 5

Darkness a nd t h e Im aginat i on The Role of Environment in the Development of Spiritual Beliefs

Holley Moyes, Lillian Rigoli, Stephanie Huette, Daniel R. Montello, Teenie Matlock, and Michael J. Spivey Introduction Humans are considered to be diurnal creatures, and light or the lack thereof profoundly impacts our experience of the world. Many would argue that vision is the most crucial of all human senses in interacting with the environment, given the impact of lighting conditions on our experience and the power of vision to reveal detailed and precise information at a distance unmatched by any other sense. Aside from basic survival, light plays an integral part in creating meaning in our world, including invoking affective responses. As a salient feature of aesthetics, light influences mood and states of relaxation or excitement—​the play of light on the ocean, a painting by Monet, moonlight over snowy mountains, a candlelight dinner, a dark haunted house—​may elicit responses, which we assume to be culturally determined. The power of these scenes relies in part on the quality of light and its effect on our conscious and unconscious mental and emotional make-​up. In this chapter we question whether our perceptions of light are wholly culturally mediated or whether there is some regularity in human response to environmental conditions based on the quality of available light. We suspect the latter to be the case. At least one recent study has suggested that lighting conditions affect a number of different emotional and perceptual experiences (Xu and Labroo 2014). We also know that the absence of light may be pathological to humans, based on evidence for Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a form of depression caused by the lack of natural daylight during autumn or winter months that is likely to have a physiological genetic component (see e.g. Targum and Rosenthal 2008). This condition has been demonstrated to occur more frequently in northern locales where there is little light during winter, and is treated with light therapy (Wetterberg 1995).

86    Moyes, Rigoli, Huette, Montello, Matlock, and Spivey In this chapter we focus on effects of the absence of light on cognition. We do not argue that people’s specific cognitive responses to dark environments are universal, but rather that the absence of light provides a universally similar context that stimulates the creative and imaginary abilities within us, capacities that are central to what makes us human. As a consequence, dark spaces are often employed in similar human pursuits, and are used for rituals, meditation, enlightenment, or magic. Dark zones of caves are one of the few natural environments in which the condition of darkness is taken to its logical extreme. The shadowy environment of the dimly lit cave, along with the quietude that only deep caves can provide, is unique in the natural world. The only other natural places that are in complete darkness are deep below the surface of the ocean or perhaps in wooded groves on moonless nights, but forests and jungles lack the quietness of the cave environment. While humans need light to negotiate the complete darkness, the shadowy flickers from torches or small flames used by people in the distant past created low light conditions in which shadows danced on cave walls, adding to the cave’s unique qualities (see Pettitt this volume). To begin our discussion, we explore how dark caves have been used by humans over time and space. Because caves are enclosed and protected, they provide some of the best archaeological evidence for understanding these natural spaces beginning in the deep past. These observations helped us to shape our research questions from a phenomenological perspective, and motivated a laboratory experiment that we go on to briefly describe. To help explain our findings, we explore how darkness is conceptualized in metaphor among people today. We then consider how people experience and respond to darkness from the perspective of environmental psychology. Finally, we consider the implications of our results for the role of cave environments in the development of otherworldly beliefs, spiritual ideas, and magical thinking. Our criteria for assessing what we consider to be ‘otherworldly’ ideas is based on the work of Pascal Boyer (2001), who defines religious or spiritual ideas as counterintuitive to real-​world understandings. According to Boyer, the best and most widely accepted spiritual concepts have structures that violate some ontological categories or expectations about the world, but preserve others. While these may be difficult to predict cross-​culturally, our research is with subjects from Western cultures, so our assessments will be at least generally consistent with Western norms.

Humans and caves in the archaeological record Our research is informed by both archaeological and anthropological studies regarding the human use of caves as sacred space. The term ‘cave’ is a non-​scientific, non-​specific term often used broadly to refer to many sorts of cavities, including rockshelters or overhangs. However, the morphology of space and quality of light is crucial to understanding how these spaces were used in the past and how they are used today. Here, we refer to deep caves with areas of complete darkness rather than rockshelters or shallow caves, which have areas of light. While people have frequently resided in rockshelters or shallow caves, perhaps using them as ritual spaces, they have rarely if ever inhabited cave dark zones. Contrary to popular belief or depictions in horror stories, humans occupy such spaces only in the

Darkness and the Imagination    87 most desperate circumstances (Burkitt 1966 [1933:7]; Chard 1975: 171; Clottes 2012: 16–​17; Farrand 1985: 23; Faulkner 1988; Goldberg and Sherwood 2006: 15; Hayden 2003: 100; Hole and Heizer 1965: 47; Moyes 2012a). There are only a handful of documented examples of humans living in dark zones. For instance, Paul Taçon and his colleagues (2012) describe a rare instance of dark-​zone habitation in Tasmania under brutally cold conditions about 30,000 years ago. There are also cases in which people may have hidden in caves when they were running from someone or something, including during times of warfare (Ranger 2012). Perhaps the most poignant example of wartime cave use is related by Anne Chapman (2010: 33–​34), who studied the Selk’nam of Tierra del Fuego. In one battle with the Dutch, every man in the village was slaughtered defending a cave that was thought to be filled with treasure. Upon entering the cave the victors discovered that the ‘treasure’ consisted of the village’s women and children. Only one woman survived the massacre. In contrast to this rarity of dark-​zone habitation, we find throughout time and over space that dark zones serve as venues for special or sacred activities such as burying the dead, producing art, or conducting rituals. There is a vast literature on the subject based on archaeological, historic, and ethnographic evidence, but only recently have there been any attempts to evaluate and synthesize this evidence (Moyes 2012a). For archaeologists who study these sites, it becomes apparent that there have been many spurious interpretations of caves as dwellings. The idea of living in caves has gripped the imagination of both scholars and the general public to the point that the term ‘caveman’ has become synonymous with early humans. This is not surprising when we consider that European caves produced some of archaeology’s best evidence for understanding them. But when we review the reports it becomes apparent that these hunter-​gatherers occupied the mouths of caves or camped in rockshelters, but did not live in cave interiors. Nineteenth-​ century reports of Palaeolithic sites were fairly specific in stating that deposits left by human activity were washed into dark zones from entrances, but this information was often lost in media hype. Even this period’s archaeological experts took up the mantle. Sir John Lubbock devoted an entire chapter to ‘cave men’ in his volume Pre-​Historic Times: As Illustrated by Ancient Remains, and the Manners and Customs of Modern Savages, first printed in 1865. A few years later, in Cave Hunting: Researches on the Evidences of Caves Respecting the Early Inhabitants of Europe, W. Boyd Dawkins concluded that stone tools found in association with extinct mammal bones were the remains of ‘a hunting and fishing race of cave-​ dwellers’ (1874: 430) present in Europe during the Pleistocene. The book was published only 15 years after Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859) and only three years following The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex (1871). The impact of such findings on a public who were first coming to terms with the antiquity of humans must have been considerable. When we view ritual cave use from a global perspective over time, a number of patterns emerge (Moyes 2012a). Caves are associated with netherworlds, the dead, fertility, and the emergence of primordial humans. David Lewis-​Williams (e.g. 1981, 2002) and his colleagues have argued for years that art painted or engraved onto cave walls directly relates to shamanic trance, transformation, and otherworldly imagery. Caves are often associated with rain and rainmaking, and many cultures consider them to be oracles or places of great power. Today we often think of caves as pilgrimage places associated with major world religions, but indigenous people in local communities the world over continue to practise ritual traditions rooted in the deep past.

88    Moyes, Rigoli, Huette, Montello, Matlock, and Spivey Arguably, Neanderthals used cave dark zones for symbolic activities. One of the earliest possible examples of special cave use was found in the dark zone of Bruniquel Cave in what is now southwestern France, where broken speleothems (stalagmites and stalactites) had been arranged in two circles, one of which contained a fire hearth (Rouzaud, Soulier, and Lignereux 1995). This is not an isolated example—​a similar feature located in the Galerie Schoepflin at Arcy-​sur-​Cure in central France was placed about 30m into the cave’s dark zone in a narrow space with barely a meter ceiling height. It is unlikely that either of these features was related to habitation; thus, they have been attributed to ritual use (Baffier and Girard 1998: 18–​19; Farizy 1990: 307; 1991; Girard 1976: 53). While features may be open to interpretation, more convincing is the practice of Neanderthal cave burial (Clottes 2012; Hayden 2003: 100–​118). Burials containing grave goods, including bear bones, were covered with stone slabs, precluding unintentional placement of the artefacts. Hayden (2003: 115) argues that this clearly indicates belief in an afterlife and may be part of a bear cult or even an early form of ancestor worship. It is possible that intentional burial in caves occurred as early as 530,000 years ago with Homo heidelbergensis, as per evidence at the Sima de los Huesos in Ataperca, Spain (Price 2013: 22–​24). Here, deposited in a lens of red clay, parts of skeletons of 32 individuals accompanied by bear bones were discovered at the base of a shaft 55m deep, located 500m from the cave entrance. The placement of the remains was clearly intentional, and may be the earliest evidence to date for special treatment of the dead. During the Neolithic period, cave mortuary sites are particularly widespread. For instance, there are at least 75 burial Neolithic caves in England (Chamberlain 2012). This number rivals the number of constructed monuments as ritual places associated with the dead. Niah Cave in Borneo was used by foragers in the late Pleistocene and early Holocene but became a cemetery during the Neolithic (Barker and Lloyd-​Smith 2012). Burials were placed in the twilight area between the light entrances and the dark interiors, a location that may have symbolized a liminal or boundary zone between life and death. Robin Skeates (2012) reported that caves in the Apulia region of Italy came into use as cemeteries in the Late Neolithic. He argues that mortuary rites were accompanied by feasting and the ritual ‘sacrifice’ and deposition of valued objects, and proposes that the caves may have been tied to ancestor worship during this early period. Additionally, the deep interior spaces of the largest cave sites were visually elaborated with paintings and ritual architecture such as walls and stairs, suggesting that they were used as performance spaces. Ritual cave use in this area continued into the Chalcolithic period through the Middle Bronze Age. Peter Tompkins (2009; 2012) noted that of the 2,000 caves on the island of Crete, about 200 contained Neolithic and Bronze Age materials that have been traditionally interpreted as evidence of domestic use. He argues that these interpretations are misguided, and that the caves are actually ritual sites. Exceptions that are clearly ritual in nature are ‘burial caves,’ mainly of Early Minoan date (c.3100/​3000–​2000 bce), or sacred caves of Middle (c.2000–​1600 bce) or Late Minoan date (c.1600–​1100 bce). In his extensive study, Tompkins concludes that burials in caves became more common in the Late Neolithic (c.5300–​4500 bce), and suggested that burial practices were related to increasing social hierarchy and control of symbolic natural resources. While burial practices provide some of the most convincing archaeological evidence for sacred or ritual cave use, indications may not be so overt. Cave formations (speleothems) that consist of crystalline spars or drip formations, such as stalactites and stalagmites, were found at the Neolithic site of Çatalhöyük in Turkey (Erdoğu et al. 2013). This is interesting

Darkness and the Imagination    89 because an elemental analysis conducted by Erdoğu and his colleagues suggests that these formations were collected from caves 100km distant. The fact that the people of Çatalhöyük visited caves and collected cave formations points to the importance of these places in the landscape. In her study of caching behaviour at the site, Carolyn Nakamura (2010) suggested that these formations were part of ‘magical’ deposits or caches, which indeed may be the case, given cross-​cultural examples of similar speleothem use. In a recent assessment of the materials, Moyes (2014) noted that the morphology of the speleothems tended to correspond with different contexts. Most of the drip formations were associated with burial contexts, whereas cave crystals were found in others such as middens, indicating that they were used in different ways. The presence of stalactites in burials suggests that there may have been a cognitive link between caves and death or the afterlife. It is also possible for us to trace archaeological traditions of ritual cave use over time from regional perspectives. For instance, in Greece ritual use begins in the Neolithic and is sustained throughout the classical period, when caves became enshrined in myth as houses of deities and venues for oracular enlightenment and prophecy (Ustinova 2009). In classical Greek mythology, deities of nature such as nymphs and the god Pan were thought to dwell in caves, and Apollo was often depicted as inhabiting dark nooks and caverns. Caves were also thought of as entrances to the netherworld where one could contact the dead. Yulia Ustinova (2009: 258–​259) posits that the consultation of oracles required altered states of consciousness that only the solitary darkness of the cave could provide. She concluded that for the ancient Greeks, dark caves were essential in the quest for ‘ultimate truth’. Caverns are salient features in ancient Egyptian cosmology and religion as well. The Nile itself was purported to emerge from secret deep caverns, but ironically, no natural deep caves upon which to draw for inspiration and only small caves and shallow grottos exist in the area (Smith 2012). Here, ritual cave use begins in the Neolithic and is continued into the classical periods, where we see caves and grottos playing a central role in solar cosmology and funerary theology. As written in the New Kingdom Book of Gates (c.1300 bce), as well as the Book of Caverns and Earth (c.1200 bce), in a continual cycle of renewal each night the sun god re-​entered the dark cavernous underworld realm, where he lit the land of the dead and battled and defeated the forces of chaos so that he could be reborn with each sunrise. This journey through the netherworld was also undertaken by the dead in their quest for immortality. It is not surprising that this mythical underworld journey was echoed in temple architecture that employed cave symbolism. The ideal temple plan moved from open lit entrances to restricted areas in dark space. Temples sometimes even incorporated built caverns, such as in the sanctuary of Amun-​Re at Deir el-​Bahari, a mortuary temple (Wilkinson 2000: 178). Ritual cave use is also an important part of New World cosmology (Moyes and Brady 2005; 2012). In Mesoamerica, caves were and still are considered to be openings into the sacred earth that contain life-​giving powers, and figure as mythological places of origin that gave rise to both humans and their sustenance. In Aztec myth, humans emerged autochthonous from Chicomostoc, the seven-​lobed cave (Heyden 1975), and in Maya iconography, caves are represented as the source of primordial corn and water (Saturno et al. 2005). Both ethnohistorically and ethnographically, caves are thought to provide passages to the fearsome Underworld through which souls were required to journey after death (Moyes 2012). In many Mesoamerican cultures, caves are homes for rain deities and modern Maya attest that clouds form in their interiors (Vogt and Stuart 2005: 164–​165). Evidence of ritual cave use dates from at least as early as 1000 bce (Moyes and Brady 2012), continuing through

90    Moyes, Rigoli, Huette, Montello, Matlock, and Spivey the classical periods and into the present. Today agricultural rituals, rainmaking, and other rites are still performed in traditional areas. In the American Southwest, ritual cave use is prevalent, and although many archaeological sites have been reported and described, few syntheses have been undertaken. In a recent literature review, Scott Nicolay (2012) reported on 44 ritual caves and rockshelters in the ancestral Puebloan, Hohokam, and Mogollon culture areas. He argued that, as in Mesoamerican religions, caves represent a gateway from this world to the world beneath the earth. Supernaturals inhabiting the netherworld may be supplicated in caves to request rain and sustenance. Cave use is recorded today in the North American Great Plains both ethnohistorically and ethnographically (Blakeslee 2012). As in other North American traditions, they are thought of as entrances to the underworld from which primordial humans emerged. They are also associated with water, hunting magic, curing disease, and fertility. In the North American East, Woodland period cultures (1000 bce–​1000 ce) were avid cave users, producing copious amounts of cave art including paintings, petroglyphs, and mud glyphs constructed of damp clay. Cave burials also became a tradition at this time (Watson 2012). While some archaeologists recognized the ritual nature of these sites (e.g. Faulkner 1988), little was done to interpret and synthesize findings from this area. Yet ethnographically and ethnohistorically indigenous people living in the area considered the landscape to be sacred, and caves to be places of primordial emergence from the underworld. Caves contained the bounty of the earth and deities were thought to dwell in them (Claassen 2012). Recent interpretations of the archaeological record suggest that among other rites, caves were used for male initiations (Crowthers 2012), women’s fertility rites (Claassen 2011), and possibly as sweat lodges (Claassen 2012: 220). Caves feature prominently in world religions as well. Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, for example, locate a number of important shrines in caves. Mohammed received his first divine messages in a cave. Holy Land pilgrimage sites also include the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, built over the rock floor of a cave on the ancient Temple Mount, and believed by Muslims to be the site of Mohammed’s ascent to Heaven, and by both Jews and Muslims to be the location of Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of his son. The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, Jesus’ birthplace stands over a grotto, as does the Eleona that stands outside the walls of Jerusalem on the Mount of Olives, originally associated with the Ascension and the revelation of the mysteries to the Apostles (Wharton 1992). Jews venerate the Caves of the Patriarchs in Hebron as the burial place of biblical figures Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, and Leah as well as possibly Adam and Eve. Muslims venerate it as the burial place of Abraham, and place the tomb of Joseph there as well (Meri 2003). The Church of St Peter in Antioch, Turkey, encompasses a natural cave, and Catholics venerate the major pilgrimage site of the cave in Lourdes, France, where Bernadette Soubiros convinced the Vatican she had received several visitations of the Virgin Mary in 1858 (Davidson and Gitlitz 2002: 356–​359). Buddhist and Hindu cave temples serve as pilgrimage shrines today (Hobbs 2012). In Tibet, many caves are considered to be gnas-​chenor power places in both Buddhist and pre-​ Buddhist traditions (Aldenderfer 2012). Indeed, caves are of special interest to Buddhists, for it is within a cave that the historical Buddha meditated for six years in his search for enlightenment, which he achieved only after his emergence from the cave (Barnes 1999: 119–​120). Monks and lamas seeking nirvana have emulated this tradition for centuries in meditation caves, which may be the reason that caves and chambers often serve as foundational

Darkness and the Imagination    91 elements of major temple and monastic complexes. The Potala palace, one of Tibet’s most sacred sites, is said to have been founded upon a meditation cave used by Songsten Gampo, the first Buddhist king of Tibet.

The cave and the mind The pattern of ritual cave use is so strikingly pervasive that one must ask ‘why caves?’ Are long-​standing cave traditions primarily the result of social memories, reinforced by the landscape presence (Edmonds 1999: 15–​31; Tilley 1994: 7–​75; Tompkins 2009: 135)? Is it possible that we are bearing witness to a long history of diffusion beginning in the Upper Palaeolithic or perhaps even earlier? Are cave traditions independent inventions, or do we have a combination of both independent invention and diffusion? How is it that cave traditions over time and space share so many similar concepts? This is one of the oldest and most intractable issues facing cross-​cultural researchers. Dubbing this ‘Galton’s Problem’, Raoul Naroll (1961) pointed out that this was one of the crucial weaknesses in the cross-​cultural quantitative survey method. The concept dates from an 1889 lecture in which Edward B. Tylor examined relationships between marriage laws and descent patterns using data drawn from a cross-​ cultural sample. Sir Francis Galton suggested that the regularities that Tylor noted could have been the result of diffusion rather than a functional relationship between various institutional forms. If cultures were considered to be a unit of measurement, cultural borrowing skewed statistical analyses by inflating the number of instances that a trait was represented, because each example is not an independent instance. Swayed by this argument, Franz Boas argued that cross-​cultural comparisons were valueless (Lowie 1946: 227, 230). How do we get around Galton’s Problem if it is impossible to know for sure whether culture traits, particularly those of the distant past, were the result of diffusion or independent innovation or both? Is it possible to understand cultural similarities without invoking diffusion? Studies of human cognition open up new avenues from which to explore similarities in independent invention and patterns of cross-​cultural regularities by introducing new lenses and methodologies for understanding human behaviour. Cognitive science shifts research away from cultures as a unit of analysis to individuals or populations as the focus of study. For years, Maurice Bloch has challenged the nature/​culture dichotomy, and his most recent volume (2012) issues a call for cultural anthropologists to more carefully consider the interaction between historical social processes and conceptualization in mainstream research. Bloch argues that cultural symbols are based on ‘meaning for people’; therefore, the separation between public meaning and private thought is unsustainable (2012: 4). He argues that for too long there has been ongoing hostility between the natural sciences and anthropology, and that cognitive science offers an olive branch to a field that has undervalued the individual. In his efforts to understand human behaviour, Bloch argued that what sets us apart from other animals is imagination, which is at the heart of all sociality, including religious beliefs (Bloch 2008: 2060). So, for Bloch, the study of the origins of beliefs is ‘nothing special.’ He divides human sociality into the transactional social and transcendental social. The transactional social is grounded in real-​world events, manipulations, assertion, and defeats. We share this type of sociality with non-​human primates and other animals. What differs in

92    Moyes, Rigoli, Huette, Montello, Matlock, and Spivey humans is that we also display a transcendental sociality that consists of essentialized roles and groups such as fathers, mothers, nations, presidents, monsters, ghosts, and deities that are the products of human imagination. Bloch concludes that it is our ability to live largely in our imagination that sets humans apart from other species and gives rise to human sociality, which includes religious beliefs. It is part of this transcendental sociality that interests researchers like Pascal Boyer (2001) in his attempts to predict the kinds of ideas that lead to the adoption of salient religious beliefs. He explains the occurrence of similar beliefs over time and space as the result of similar templates that organize information. Boyer suggests that these ideas are counterintuitive and therefore attention-​grabbing, which lends them a certain staying power as they are passed along between agents. Boyer’s explanations are mentalist, focusing on the structure of the mind as the fundamental source in these developments, so he does not consider the role that human environmental perception plays in establishing cosmologies or foundational religious principles. He is not alone, as many researchers of ancient religion attribute religious beliefs to internal dynamics and ignore the role of the environment in the production of religious ideas. In the very earliest anthropological research on religion, Tylor (2012 [1874]) argued that dreams were the causative agent in the generation of religious ideas and at the very heart of spirituality. Dreaming transports the individual to other worlds and opens up all kinds of possibilities for alternative realities. These alternative realities or ecstatic states are also part of traditional religions and are at the heart of shamanism, which is generally accepted as the most likely form of early religion (See Hayden 2003: chs 1–​4 for thorough discussion). The visual geometric patterns or entopics experienced in ecstatic states or trance have received a great deal of attention because of their utility in interpreting rock art. Much of this art is associated with open rockshelters, but some is located in deep caves such as many well-​known European Palaeolithic sites. Titling one of his volumes The Mind in the Cave, Lewis-​Williams (2002) recognized the importance of the cave space itself in the origins and creation of Upper Palaeolithic art. However, he attributes the use of dark cave interiors to preconceived cosmological beliefs, and envisions early shamanic cosmologies to include an otherworld or Underworld component that would attract ritual practitioners to the labyrinthine passages of the dark cave. He suggests that the cave space may have served as a metaphorical ‘mental vortex that leads to the experiences and hallucinations of deep trance’ (2002: 209). In other words, he argues that humans are attracted to cave spaces because of mental constructions experienced while in trance states, but does not view the cave as causal. This is analogous to Laurence Straus’s (1997) idea of caves being ‘convenient cavities,’ placing caves in the role of passive environments. Our work suggests that the environment takes a more active role in human cognition. Our stance requires that we reject Cartesian notions of mind/​body duality in favour of modern theories of embodied knowledge, such as experiential realism. In this theory, developed by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson (1999), mental models of the world evolve from one’s direct experiences with it. Even though the mind cannot experience the world ‘directly’, the indirect experiences of the world are shaped in consistent ways by its physical nature, by the physical nature of our individual senses, and by the physical nature of our own bodies and how they interact physically with the world. More recently, Vittorio Gallese (2005) has joined Lakoff in further developing this theory by reviewing evidence from neuroscience. Both argue that the formulation of concepts cannot be divorced from

Darkness and the Imagination    93 sensorimotor regions of the brain and are thus grounded in material reality and experience. This aligns with Gerald Edelman’s (1992) theory of neuronal group selection (TNGS), which argues that minds become structured not on a genetically specified schedule but by the building of certain neural firing patterns reinforced by experience. Therefore, we will argue that it is ‘the cave and the mind’ rather than the ‘mind in the cave’ that produces mental states that become associated with supernatural phenomena. While culturally specific concepts could affect an individual’s experience of cave dark zones by creating contexts based on preconceived notions, our question is whether there are factors other than culture at work in these formulations, and to what extent perceptions may influence cultural meanings rather than the other way around. Montello and Moyes (2012) proposed that caves have physical properties experienced by humans that lead to similar experiences and the assignment of similar meanings among different human groups across time and space. For instance, caves often have exceptionally complex layouts and topology, including 3D structure rarely seen in other terrestrial environments. They tend to be articulated in very irregular ways that offer only short lines of visibility (sightlines). Even if illumination was available, caves would not support large vistas, and the appearance of their surfaces is usually undifferentiated, creating disorientation in people. Most caves have relatively few distinct landmarks, especially for caving non-​specialists, and external features like celestial bodies are not present. Furthermore, cave locomotion often requires great physical effort and may be accompanied by anxiety or even claustrophobia. To the degree that a cave is a natural environment, it will not contain signs or other cultural artefacts that convey a sense of familiarity and the everyday world for people in the cave. Research on environmental aesthetics point to culturally universal characteristics of human–​environment interaction, such as ‘legibility’ and ‘mystery’, that help explain common emotional responses to cave environments. This led Montello and Moyes (2012) to conclude that darkness and poor visibility in caves are the most salient properties in explaining common human responses to them. This may be particularly true for ancient people who used torches or small oil lamps to illuminate dark zones. The quality of light would have been directed and variable, producing perceptual distortions of the surrounds. Based on our observations of how deep caves were used and thought of by humans, we conducted a human-​subjects experiment to investigate the cave’s most salient property—​darkness.

Human response to darkness: an experiment In a very dark environment, one has to become accustomed to accepting the existence of objects that cannot be readily seen. This happens at a very basic sensorimotor level. We wanted to know if thinking induced or inspired by darkness could lead to conceptualizations of the supernatural in the minds of modern humans. Thus, we have begun to carry out ongoing laboratory experiments to explore the effects of light and dark on the human mind. The results of our first study summarized here are intriguing. There is some degree of diversity in the age range and ethnic backgrounds of the University of California, Merced, undergraduates used in this experiment; therefore it was important to maximize the likelihood that these factors were evenly distributed across the experimental conditions by using random assignment of each participant to either of the

94    Moyes, Rigoli, Huette, Montello, Matlock, and Spivey two lighting conditions. We randomly assigned participants to fill out a questionnaire on magical or supernatural thinking while sitting either in a room that was well lit with natural light or in a room that was nearly dark. Both rooms were small 1.2 m × 1.8 m laboratory spaces. In the light condition, the room had a large picture window that let in a great deal of natural light during the day, when we collected data. The dark condition was presented in a windowless room dimly illuminated only by a reading light attached to the questionnaire clipboard. The dark room was otherwise identical to the light room. The reading light provided barely enough light to read the questionnaire. The questionnaire consisted of two parts. The first included 15 questions asking to what degree participants believe (on a 0–​10 scale) in a wide variety of types of supernatural thinking, including extrasensory perception, ghosts, reincarnation, a deity that listens to one’s prayers, etc. The second part included 10 short vignettes describing anomalous events in everyday situations, offering multiple-​choice responses for how the participant might interpret and explain the event. Two of the alternative responses involved supernatural explanations, while the other two involved common scientific explanations. We tested 104 participants, 52 in each room with its attendant lighting condition. Because we randomly assigned participants to one or the other room, we can attribute any reliable difference between the two groups’ responses on the supernatural-​thinking questionnaire to the light/​dark manipulation. In fact, the participants in the dark room rated their beliefs in supernatural thinking on the first part of the questionnaire as two-​thirds of a point higher on average than those in the light room. Although this effect is subtle, it is sufficiently reliable across participants that the difference is statistically significant (p