Knowledge Networks and Craft Traditions in the Ancient World: Material Crossovers

This edited volume investigates knowledge networks based on materials and associ-ated technologies in prehistoric Europe and the classical Mediterranean. It emphasises the significance of material objects to the construction, maintenance and collapse of networks of various forms—which are central to explanations of cultural contact and change. Focusing on the materiality of objects and on the way in which materials are used adds a multidimensional quality to networks. The properties, functions and styles of different materials are intrinsically linked to the way in which knowledge flows and technologies are transmitted. Transmission of technologies from one craft to another is one of the main drivers of innovation, whilst sharing knowledge is enabled and limited by the extent of associated social networks in place.

Archaeological research has often been limited to studying objects made of one particular material in depth, be it lithic materials, ceramics, textiles, glass, metal, wood or others. The knowledge flow and transfer among crafts that deal with dif-ferent materials have often been overlooked. This book takes a fresh approach to the reconstruction of knowledge networks by integrating two or more craft traditions in each of its chapters. The authors, well-known experts and early-career research-ers, provide concise case studies that cover a wide range of materials. The scope of the book extends from networks of craft traditions to implications for society in a wider sense: materials, objects and the technologies used to make and distribute them are interwoven with social meaning. People make objects, but objects make people—the materiality of objects shapes our understanding of the world and our place within it. In this book, objects are treated as clues to social networks of dif-ferent sorts that can be contrasted and compared, both spatially and diachronically.

Katharina Rebay-Salisbury works at the Institute for Oriental and European Archaeology of the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna. She previously was a research associate at the Universities of Cambridge and Leicester, UK. Her research centres on studying the human body, identities and social relations through burial practices and representations in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages of Central Europe.

Ann Brysbaert presently works at the Universiteit Leiden, Faculteit Archeolo-gie, under a Senior Gerda Henkel—Marie Curie Research Fellowship. She was previously professor in archaeology and ancient materials and technologies at DIKEMES, Greece, as well as honorary lecturer at the University of Leicester, UK. Together with Lin Foxhall, she initiated the ‘Tracing Networks’ programme in 2007. From 2010 until 2013, she was awarded a Senior A. von Humboldt Fellowship at Heidelberg University.

Lin Foxhall is professor of Greek archaeology and history at the University of Leicester, UK. She has also held posts at Oxford University and University College London. At present she is the principal investigator of the large col-laborative research programme ‘Tracing Networks’, funded by the Leverhulme Trust. Her research expertise falls squarely between archaeology and ancient history, with a focus on archaic and classical Greece.

Knowledge Networks and Craft Traditions in the Ancient World

Review Copy – Not for Redistribution Katharina Rebay-Salisbury - Institute for Oriental and European Archaeology, Austrian Academy of Sciences - 20/12/2016

Routledge Studies in Archaeology

1 An Archaeology of Materials Substantial Transformations in Early Prehistoric Europe Chantal Conneller

2 Roman Urban Street Networks Streets and the Organization of Space in Four Cities Alan Kaiser

3 Tracing Prehistoric Social Networks through Technology A Diachronic Perspective on the Aegean Edited by Ann Brysbaert

4 Hadrian’s Wall and the End of Empire The Roman Frontier in the 4th and 5th Centuries Rob Collins

5 U.S. Cultural Diplomacy and Archaeology Soft Power, Hard Heritage Christina Luke and Morag M. Kersel

6 The Prehistory of Iberia Debating Early Social Stratification and the State Edited by Maria Cruz Berrocal, Leonardo García Sanjuán, and Antonio Gilman

7 Materiality and Consumption in the Bronze Age Mediterranean Louise Steel

8 Archaeology in Environment and Technology Intersections and Transformations Edited by David Frankel, Jennifer M. Webb and Susan Lawrence

9 An Archaeology of Land Ownership Edited by Maria Relaki and Despina Catapoti

10 From Prehistoric Villages to Cities Settlement Aggregation and Community Transformation Edited by Jennifer Birch

11 Space and Time in Mediterranean Prehistory Edited by Stella Souvatzi and Athena Hadji

12 Open-Air Rock-Art Conservation and Management State of the Art and Future Perspectives Edited by Timothy Darvill and António Pedro Batarda Fernandes

13 Knowledge Networks and Craft Traditions in the Ancient World Material Crossovers Edited by Katharina Rebay-Salisbury, Ann Brysbaert and Lin Foxhall


Knowledge Networks and Craft Traditions in the Ancient World Material Crossovers

Edited by Katharina Rebay-Salisbury, Ann Brysbaert and Lin Foxhall


First published 2014 by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017

and by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

© 2014 Taylor & Francis

The right of the editor to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Knowledge networks and craft traditions in the ancient world : material crossovers / edited by Katharina Rebay-Salisbury, Ann Brysbaert and Lin Foxhall. pages cm — (Routledge studies in archaeology ; 13) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Europe—Antiquities. 2. Mediterranean Region—Antiquities. 3. Material culture—Europe—History—To 1500. 4. Material culture—Mediterranean Region—History—To 1500. 5. Technology—Europe—History—To 1500. 6. Technology—Mediterranean Region—History—To 1500. 7. Handicraft—Europe—History—To 1500. 8. Handicraft—Mediterranean Region—History—To 1500. 9. Knowledge, Sociology of—History—To 1500. 10. Social networks—History—To 1500. I. Rebay-Salisbury, Katharina. II. Brysbaert, Ann. III. Foxhall, Lin. GN803.K66 2015 936—dc23 2014012144

ISBN: 978-0-415-84364-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-203-75410-8 (ebk)

Typeset in Sabonby Apex CoVantage, LLC


List of Figures vii

1 Material Crossovers: Introduction 1 KATHARINA REBAY-SALISBURY, ANN BRYSBAERT

AND LIN FOXHALL

2 Material and Craft Networks in the Prehistory of Asia Minor: Transformations in Values and Societies 7 BLEDA S. DÜRING

3 Buildings That Wrap Objects and Objects That Wrap Buildings 23 LESLEY McFADYEN AND ANA VALE

4 Talking Shop: Multicraft Workshop Materials and Architecture in Prehistoric Tiryns, Greece 37 ANN BRYSBAERT

5 Temporality, Materiality and Women’s Networks: The Production and Manufacture of Loom Weights in the Greek and Indigenous Communities of Southern Italy 62 ALESSANDRO QUERCIA AND LIN FOXHALL

6 Cloth Worth a King’s Ransom: Textile Circulation and Transmission of Textile Craft in the Ancient Mediterranean 83 MARGARITA GLEBA

7 Interactions between Basketry and Pottery in Early Iron Age Attica, Greece 104 JUDIT HAAS-LEBEGYEV

Contents


vi Contents

8 Craftsmanship at Athens in the 11th Century BCE: Improvisation, Networking and Pottery Making 127 RIK VAESSEN

9 Skeuomorphic Pottery and Consumer Feedback Processes in the Ancient Mediterranean 147 JUSTIN ST. P. WALSH

10 Materials Make People: How Material Properties and Technologies Contribute to Figurine Shapes in Early Iron Age Central Europe 160 KATHARINA REBAY-SALISBURY

11 A Bronze Age Ornament Network? Tracing the Herzsprung Symbol across Europe 182 MARION UCKELMANN

12 Concluding and Future Thoughts on Material Crossovers 199 MARCIA-ANNE DOBRES

Contributors 205 Index 209


2.1 Material and labour value of various types of archaeological finds 9

2.2 Map showing the locations of obsidian sources and the site of Kulaksızlar: (a) Göllüdağ, (b) Nenezidağ, (c) Sakaeli, (d) Yağlar, (e) Melos, (f) Kulaksızlar 10

2.3 Pointed marble beakers and Kilia figurines from Kulaksızlar (not to scale). Courtesy of Turan Takaoğlu 13

3.1 The overall plan of Castelo Velho, Vila Nova de Foz Côa, Portugal (archive element redrawn by Vicki Herring, by permission Susana Oliveira Jorge) 25

3.2 Rectangular stone structure on the inner edge of the enclosure entrance of Castelo Velho (archive element, photograph by Susana Oliveira Jorge, by permission Susana Oliveira Jorge) 26

3.3 The pottery assemblage from the rectangular structure at Castelo Velho (photograph by Lesley McFadyen) 27

3.4 The overall plan of Castanheiro do Vento, Vila Nova de Foz Côa, Portugal (drawn by Ana Vale) 29

3.5 Sequence of deposition in one of the subcircular structures at Castanheiro do Vento (photograph by Ana Vale) 29

3.6 Sequence of deposition in one of the subcircular structures at Castanheiro do Vento (photograph by Ana Vale) 30

3.7 Sequence of deposition between a bastion and enclosure wall at Castanheiro do Vento (photograph by Ana Vale) 31

4.1 Synthesis of Tournavitou’s workshop model, part I 39 4.2 Synthesis of Tournavitou’s workshop model, part II 40 4.3 Map of Late Bronze Age Tiryns, indicating its main features

and the case study area (© Tiryns Archive, by permission of J. Maran) 42

Figures


viii Figures

4.4 Plan of Building XI in the Lower Citadel North with indications of passage ways (© Tiryns archive, adapted figure based on drawing by M. Kostoula, by permission of J. Maran) 43

4.5 Plan of the postpalatial phase of the Lower Citadel North workshop (© Tiryns archive, adapted figure based on drawing by M. Kostoula, by permission of J. Maran) 44

4.6 Wooden loom constructed on a house roof top (North Africa, c. 1943) whereby its wooden beams are stuck into the mudbrick and plaster of the wall of the house (indicated by arrows, after: www.flickr.com/photos/gbaku/3658559236/) 53

5.1 Lucania, map of ancient sites (after Isayev 2007: fig. 2, reproduced by permission) 64

5.2 A heritage stamp on a 4th-century BC loom weight from the Metaponto survey (309-L6, after Foxhall 2012: 205, fig. 11.5) 71

5.3 A loom weight with footprint stamp from the Metaponto survey (221-L2, after Foxhall 2012: 203, 11.2a) 72

5.4 Oppido Lucano, House D: loom weight with fibula and tweezers stamps (reworked after Lissi Caronna, Armignacco-Alidori and Panciera 1992: 239, fig. 66) 74

6.1 Bronze Age discoid loom weight from Miletos, Turkey (Photo: © Margarita Gleba) 90

6.2 Bronze distaff with three disks, Italic, 8th century BC, British Museum no. 1873,0820.237 (© Trustees of the British Museum) 92

6.3 Black-figured epinetron (thigh guard) with depiction of a wool-working scene, Athens, c. 500–480 BC, British Museum no. 1814,0704.1205 (© Trustees of the British Museum) 93

6.4 Textile cartoon with ‘inhabited scroll’ pattern of figures placed in vegetal interstices, papyrus fragments E 16450 and E 16305Q, University of Pennsylvania (© University of Pennsylvania) 95

7.1 Basket replica. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek, Inv. 8597, reproduced by permission 108

7.2 Two-handled basket vase. Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum der Universität Würzburg, Inv. 5337, reproduced by permission 109

7.3 Simple 1/1 plain weave and 2/2 twill weave (drawing by the author) 110

7.4 Reconstruction of a two-handled plaited basket made with 1/1 plain weave (made by Éva Richter, photo by the author) 111

8.1 General chronological table of the Aegean Early Iron Age 128


Figures ix

8.2 Belly-handled amphora (P30305) from Grave I 5:3 excavated beneath the floors of the Royal Stoa in the Athenian Agora: front and detail of the reverse side (photo © Rik Vaessen, published with permission of J. K. Papadopoulos) 133

8.3 Two deep bowls from the Kerameikos in Athens. On the left (a) a deep bowl with two tangentially joined hand-drawn running spirals and on the right (b) an example with sets of concentric circles that are linked together by crossed lines (photos are not to scale; after Kraiker and Kubler 1939: pls. 30.525, 48.518; © Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Athens, Neg.Nos. D-DAI ATH-Kerameikos 2519, 3179) 139

9.1 A Cástulo cup (Museo Archeologico di Aidone inv. 80–195) found at the archaic settlement of Morgantina on the Cittadella hill (drawing by the author, © Morgantina Archaeological Expedition, used by permission) 151

9.2 A Morgantina cup (inv. 09–11) from Cittadella. Rim diameter 10 cm (drawing by the author, © Morgantina Archaeological Expedition, used by permission) 151

9.3 A kantharos (inv. 95–180) from Cittadella. Rim diameter 14 cm (drawing by the author, © Morgantina Archaeological Expedition, used by permission) 152

9.4 The rim of a mastoid cup (inv. 09–22) from Cittadella. Rim diameter unknown; preserved height 3.7 cm (drawing by the author, © Morgantina Archaeological Expedition, used by permission) 153

10.1 Map of sites mentioned in the text (1: Altino, 2: Ampass- Demlfeld, 3: Bernhardsthal, 4: Bourges, 5: Este, 6: Fellbach-Schmiden, 7: Frög, 8: Gemeinlebarn, 9: Hochdorf, 10: Idrija pri Bači, 11: Keszthely-Dobogó, 12: Kreuznach, 13: Lac du Bourget, 14: Landeck, 15: Langenlebarn, 16: Mechel, 17: Nesactium, 18: Nyergesújfalu, 19: Pillerhöhe, 20: Saône à Seurre, 21: Šmarjeta, 22: Somló, 23: Strettweg, 24: Stuttgart- Uhlbach, 25: Süttő, 26: Turska kosa, 27: Unterlunkhofen, 28: Vače) 163

10.2 Ceramic figurines from Gemeinlebarn and Langenlebarn (Austria, c. 9.5 and 9 cm, after Preinfalk 2003: 91, Taf. 34, 10; Taf. 31, 3) and Turska kosa (Croatia, c. 8 cm each, after Balen-Letunić 2004, 333, No. 17.1 and 205, fig. 23) 165

10.3 Bronze figurines produced in lost-wax technique from Strettweg (Austria, c. 12 cm, after Egg 1996: pl. 8.1) and Hochdorf (Germany, c. 32 cm, after Biel 1985: pl. 30) 169

10.4 Bronze and lead figurines from Landeck (Austria, c. 6.5 cm, after Höck 1997: nr. 101b) and Frög (Austria, c. 9.5 and 3 cm, Tomedi 2002: pl. 94 and pl. 11) 173


x Figures

10.5 Properties of materials used for figurines and their effect on figurine shape and design, required skill level and context of use and deposition 176

11.1 The Herzsprung Symbol and examples of shields. Eastern Mediterranean votive shields: 1. Delphi, ‘Sacred Road’ (after Lerat 1980); 2. Idalion, Cyprus (after Perrot and Chipiez 1885); 3. Heraion, Samos, made of clay (after Eilmann 1933); 4. Samos (after photo, DAI Athens); 5. Delphi, ‘East Bath’ (after Homolle 1908).—Nordic bronze sheet shields: 6. Nackhälle, Sweden; 7. Fröslunda, Sweden; 8. Svenstrup, Denmark.—Shield of group Plzeň: 9. Denmark.—10. Leather shield from Cloonbrin, Co. Longford.—Iberian Steles: 11. Fóios; 12. Brozas (both after Harrison 2004).—Irish wooden shields and formers: 13. Former from Churchfield, Co. Mayo; 14. Shield from Cloonlara, Co. Mayo (6–10, 13, 14 after Uckelmann 2012) 183

11.2 Distribution map of the family of Herzsprung shields (after Uckelmann 2012) 191


Knowledge networks are entangled with materials and associated technolo-gies. This volume emphasises the significance of material objects to the con-struction, maintenance and collapse of human social networks of various forms, which are central to explanations of cultural contact and change. Materiality—the properties, affordances, functions and styles of different materials—is intrinsically linked to the way in which knowledge flows and technologies are transmitted. Transmission of technologies from one craft to another is one of the main drivers of innovation, whilst sharing knowledge is enabled and limited by the extent of associated social networks in place.

The analysis of networks is now recognised as an important tool for understanding the way knowledge is fundamental to social, economic and political relations in both past and present-day communities. Networks of craftspeople and technological traditions across the highly interconnected world of the Mediterranean, c.1500 to 200 BCE, offer case studies through which patterns of knowledge exchange, innovation and technological change can be explored.

Archaeological research, however, has often been limited to studying objects made of one particular material in depth, be it lithic materials, ceram-ics, textiles, glass, metal, wood or others. The knowledge flow and transfer among crafts that deal with different materials has often been overlooked. This book takes a fresh approach to the reconstruction of knowledge net-works by integrating the concepts of the chaîne opératoire and cross-craft interaction.

To integrate the human aspect in the production process, the chaîne opéra-toire is a useful methodological tool (e.g. Leroi-Gourhan 1964; Pfaffenberger 1998; Schlanger 1994). A chaîne opératoire approach considers all techno-logical and social elements of a specific commodity from the procurement of raw materials to the finished item and extends further into its distribu-tion and subsequent sociocultural biography. Thinking through all steps of production needed from raw material to finished object, steps that are not apparent through the archaeological record may be interpolated and choices and pathways identified. Looking at ancient technological practices as they are embedded socially, incorporating beliefs and traditions and identifying

Material Crossovers Introduction

Katharina Rebay-Salisbury , Ann Brysbaert and Lin Foxhall

1


2 Katharina Rebay-Salisbury et al.

choice and thus human agency, the chaîne opératoire allows for investigating both variability and consistency of artefacts (Dobres 1999, 2009). Through investigating technical systems, we aim to understand social systems in a wider sense, in particular relationships and networks that are brought into being through the various steps of making things.

The chaîne opératoire can help to ‘dissect’ and scrutinise each craft indi-vidually, but thinking in terms of multiple chaînes opératoires (Brysbaert 2007, 2011) may identify intersections and overlaps between different materials and practices. Cross-craft interaction (term coined by McGovern 1989; see examples of the concept used in Shortland 2000, Brysbaert 2007, 2011) is, in fact, an important source of innovation. For example, we can consider how certain technologies, such as how to attach a handle to the body of a ves-sel (Sofaer 2006), are shared between potters and metallurgists, or we can explore how the smooth look of metal is emulated in the finish of ceramic vessels (Vickers 1989). Material crossovers are the physical traces of over-lapping networks of production, use and discard of objects.

Both of these methodologies allow us to explore the creation, movement, adoption and adaptation of knowledge in past societies and the realms in which these processes take place. By considering objects as knowledge repositories, we are able to see where innovation emerges and under what circumstances, as well as investigating cases in which innovations do not occur or take hold. The complex entanglements among technical constraints, sociopolitical and economic contexts and the meanings of objects to the people making and using them are paramount here. The strength of our methodologies is that we can use them to unpick and analyse the enactment of these relationships.

This book considers precisely this overlap among two or more craft tra-ditions in each of its chapters. The scope of the book extends from networks of craft traditions to implications for society in a wider sense: materials, objects and the technologies used to make and distribute them are inter-woven with social meaning. People make objects, but objects make people (Miller 2005: 18)—the materiality of objects shapes our understanding of the world and our place within it. In this book, objects are treated as clues to social networks of different sorts that can be contrasted and compared, both spatially and diachronically.

The individual authors offer specific case studies to show how the trans-mission of knowledge from one craft to another took place and how the context in which these crafts are embedded transferred meaning. The chap-ters show how the creative joining of ideas from several domains results in innovation (Conway, Jones, and Steward 2001) as added value emerges from the meeting of expertise in different domains. In addition, the case studies show the importance of the context of innovation to enable the spread of ideas.

The chapters in this book roughly follow a chronological order and are set in both prehistoric Europe as well as the Classical World. The combination of case studies enables us to transcend the traditional, rather unhelpful, theoretical


Material Crossovers 3

and methodological divide between prehistory and classical/historical archaeology. The order of the chapters does not mean to imply an evo-lutionary or chronological trajectory. The stories told in this book are snapshots; they illustrate how people adapt and adopt craft traditions through the exchange of knowledge with other groups and other crafts.

Bleda S. Düring’s work on material and craft networks in prehistoric Asia Minor considers changes in distribution networks from the Epi-Palaeolithic to the Chalcolithic. He argues that despite the interaction that must have taken place between the Fertile Crescent and Asia Minor in the context of obsidian procurement, there was little cultural exchange at first. This changed as labour-intensive goods such as stone vessels and figurines as well as metal artefacts became more common. They helped to create and main-tain long-distance networks and might have facilitated the rise of stratified societies. This chapter sheds light on how production processes are embed-ded in societies and which roles craftspeople play.

Lesley McFadyen and Ana Vale introduce new ways of thinking about the relationship between material culture and architecture in their chapter ‘Buildings that Wrap Objects and Objects that Wrap Buildings’. Architec-ture is most often understood as wrapping, covering or containing objects, but at times, it is the other way round; in their case studies from Chalcolithic Portugal, the authors show how materials such as schist and clay were used to wrap stone buildings and show the application of knowledge situated in different crafts as contributing to architecture. Further, they consider how both the practice of everyday life and significance attributed to materials and objects contributed to the knowledge flow and transfer between crafts.

‘Talking Shop’, the chapter by Ann Brysbaert, considers the active role of architecture in the context of workshops at the Mycenaean palace of Tiryns. She reviews an often-employed workshop model by considering both the role of movement and confinement in the workshop areas, as well as the role of human and nonhuman agents in spaces which were active partici-pants in social practices that materialised in the workshops. In multicraft workshops, various materials were related to each other by people, and con-sidering the steps of multiple chaînes opératoires , it was possible to identify the points at which people intersected with nonhuman agents in complex interactive networks. The built environment in Tiryns thus played, firstly, an active role in mediating or hindering close collaboration among people, and hence different crafts, and secondly, it illustrated how collaborations were influenced by changing architectural layouts, adopted over time.

In ‘Temporality, Materiality and Women’s Networks’, Alessandro Quer-cia and Lin Foxhall investigate the production and manufacture of loom weights in the Greek and indigenous communities of southern Italy. Both Greek and indigenous cultures located in Lucania in Magna Graecia made loom weights, but they differed considerably in shape and production tech-nology. Weaving, spinning and textile manufacture were closely linked to women in the Greek and indigenous communities of southern Italy, and



the ways they were personalised by marking suggest that women who used loom weights were also involved in their manufacture. By comparing Greek and contemporary indigenous contexts in southern Italy, it became clear that ideas about the manufacture, use and meaning of these objects were moving between these different communities. Simultaneously, they revealed the history of women’s connections and identities, which have been often absent from traditional narratives.

Margarita Gleba expands the theme of women’s involvement in the spread of technological knowledge by considering evidence for the production of ceremonial garments for the early Iron Age elite in Europe. Extensive and far-reaching networks among the aristocratic elites were maintained through mechanisms such as gift exchange and intermarriage. Women served as links between aristocratic families of different communities and created powerful alliances between them. When women moved far away from home, cloth manufacturing tools and technological knowledge moved with them. Textile equipment thus allows us to track their movements, as well as the diffusion of textile technology and fashion.

The study of interactions between basketry and pottery in the Aegean Late Bronze and Early Iron Ages, by Judit Haas-Lebegyev, reveal detailed connections between the crafts. Although baskets are rarely preserved, they were widely used in antiquity. Basketry techniques and shapes are acces-sible through impressions left in soil or soft clay. Woven mats and baskets were used for the production process and decoration of ceramic vases, but their patterns also inspired pottery shapes and decoration schemes. Review-ing the available evidence for cross-craft interactions between basketry and pottery, the author contextualises the finds and explores their meaning and symbolism in the context of their use as grave goods.

Following actor-network theory, Rik Vaessen aims to break down the divide between active people and passive objects in his contribution on pot-tery production and networking at Athens during the 11th century BC. He argues that agency is distributed through a hybrid network of people and objects rather than embodied in any single actor and investigates the mecha-nisms of innovation through this framework. His case study of the devel-opment of ‘Submycenaean’ and ‘Protogeometric’ pottery at Athens during the 11th century BC illustrates that pottery was not only the outcome of a constant movement of materials, people and ideas within and between various networks but also transformed the links people could make in the development of social structures.

Justin St. P. Walsh understands skeuomorphic pottery in the ancient Mediterranean in the light of consumer feedback processes. Examining ceramic vases produced by diverse Mediterranean cultures in the Bronze and Iron Ages, he reveals the pronounced influence of shapes and decora-tions originally developed in metal. Details such as flaring concave rims, carinated bodies, high-swung strap handles, false rivets and shiny slipped surfaces are evidence for the translation of formal characteristics from metal


Material Crossovers 5

to ceramic media. Far from being functionally adaptive, the use of metal-lic features often made ceramic vases more fragile or otherwise less useful. However, consumers showed preferences for pottery that resembled more expensive gold, silver or bronze items, and these desires were transmitted as feedback to producers in other cultures. This case study demonstrates clearly how the impact from one craft on another is not a one-way street but estab-lished a network of communicative links and long-distance communication.

Katharina Rebay-Salisbury investigates the impact of materials that figu-rines are made from in early Iron Age central Europe on their shape and use. The early Iron Age in central Europe sees an increased interest in representing the human body on mundane and ritual objects and a rise in the production, use and deposition of figurines. Human figurines were found individually or as sets and were eventually deposited in graves and sanctuaries. The contexts in which they were found can directly be correlated with the quality of crafts-manship. Figurines are made of a number of materials, notably clay, bronze and recycled sheet bronze. The shape of the figurines follows the conventions of depicting a particular kind of person, on the one hand, but is also strongly influenced by the technologies applied in their making. In this chapter, the author argues that the affordances of the materials involved in making the human shape have a considerable impact on the outcome.

‘Signs from the Past’, by Marion Uckelmann, considers the ornaments on shields of the European Bronze Age in the light of cross-craft interaction. Although their function as defensive weapons in combat is central, shields can also be interpreted as symbols of prestige or ceremonial objects. Shields were made of different materials—metal, wood and leather—so different technologies were employed in making them. Some of the metal shields have a distinctive decoration that defines them as Type Herzsprung, which is mainly found in southern Scandinavia. The decoration consists of three ribs around the central oval shield boss; the outer two ribs show a U-formed notch whilst the inner rib has a gap in the same position. This characteristic decoration became an ornamental symbol which was found in disparate regions all over Europe until much later periods. This chapter suggests a much wider distribution of organic shields than indicated by the rare finds and looks at other materials and object classes to explain the widespread distribution of this characteristic decoration.

Marcia-Ann Dobres’s insightful comments conclude the book. She remarks on recent developments of studies of technologies, highlighting the theme of material crossovers , and formulates questions for future research.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We would like to thank the Leverhulme Trust for funding the programme ‘Tracing Networks: Craft Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond’ from 2008 to 2013, which gave rise to this book. Ann Brysbaert also



likes to acknowledge both the A. von Humboldt Foundation (2010–2013) and the Gerda Henkel Foundation (2013–2015) for their generous sup-port during the period that this book was created. We would also like to acknowledge Emma Dwyer for proofreading the manuscript.

REFERENCES

Brysbaert, A. 2007. “Cross-craft and cross-cultural interactions during the Aegean and Eastern Mediterranean Late Bronze Age,” in S. Antoniadou and A. Pace (eds), Mediterranean crossroads. Nicosia: Pierides Foundation: 325–359.

Brysbaert, A. 2011. “Introduction: tracing social networks through studying technolo-gies,” in A. Brysbaert (ed), Tracing prehistoric social networks through technology. New York, London: Routledge: 183–203.

Conway, S., O. Jones, and F. Steward. 2001. “Realising the potential of the social network perspective in innovation studies,” in O. Jones, S. Conway, and F. Steward (eds), Social Interaction and organisational change: Aston perspectives on innova-tion networks. London: Imperial Press: 349–366.

Dobres, M.-A. 1999. “Of paradigms and ways of seeing: artifact variability as if people mattered,” in E. S. Chilton (ed), Material meanings: critical approaches to the interpretation of material culture. Salt Lake City, UT: University of Utah Press: 7–22.

Dobres, M. A. 2009. Archaeologies of technology. Cambridge Journal of Economics 34(1): 103–114.

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Pfaffenberger, B. 1998. “Mining communities, châines opératoires and sociotechnical systems,” in A. B. Knapp, V. C. Pigott, and E. W. Herbert (eds), Social approaches to an industrial past. The archaeology and anthropology of mining. London: Routledge: 291–300.

Schlanger, N. 1994. “Mindful technology: unleashing the chaîne opératoire of the mind,” in C. Renfrew and E. B. W. Zubrow (eds), Cognitive archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 143–151.

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Vickers, M. 1989. “The cultural context of ancient Greek ceramics: an essay in skeuo-morphism,” in P. E. McGovern, M. D. Notis, and W. D. Kingery (eds), Cross-craft and cross-cultural interactions in ceramic, ceramics and civilization 4. Westerville, OH: American Ceramic Society: 45–63.


Material and Craft Networks in the Prehistory of Asia Minor Transformations in Values and Societies

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2

Exchange networks have become well established in the prehistory of Asia Minor from the Epipalaeolithic onwards, 1 during which obsidian found its way to the Levant. In this chapter, it is argued that despite frequent interac-tions between the Fertile Crescent and Asia Minor, as manifested primarily, but not only, by obsidian distribution, there was little cultural exchange between the two regions. Instead, it is proposed that the prime incentive of exchange was the procurement of exotic and prestigious materials. By contrast, in the Chalcolithic period of Asia Minor, we can document the rise of exchange-oriented production of labour-intensive goods such as stone vessels and figurines, and, later in the period, metal artefacts. These artefacts originally may have served as a mechanism for the creation and maintenance of long-distance relationships and cultural identities and might have facili-tated the rise of stratified societies.

INTRODUCTION

In this chapter, I would like to contrast two exchange networks from Prehistoric Asia Minor in order to highlight marked differences in the way these systems worked. The examples consist, on the one hand, of the exchange of obsidian in the early Neolithic and, on the other, the exchange of stone craft products in the Middle Chalcolithic of Asia Minor. These examples serve to illustrate what I perceive of as a more general shift in the nature of exchange networks from the Neolithic to the Chalcolithic. In particular, I will argue that in Chalcolithic Asia Minor, we can document the rise of shared value regimes, that is, the values of specific items in particular cul-tural systems (Appadurai 1986: 15), across a substantial region that linked previously distinct cultural groups.

Much ink has been spilled on the issue of how archaeologists can best study trade or exchange, in particular how such systems might be recog-nised and the degree to which trade or exchange was embedded in social relations. The first line of research is mainly concerned with methodology: how archaeological distribution patterns may or may not reflect specific


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types of exchange or trade and how they can best be modelled through network analysis (Algaze 1993; Hodder 1980; Knappett et al. 2008; Oka and Kusimba 2008; Renfrew 1975). The second line of research concerns the well-trodden distinction between the formalists and substantivists and to what degree trade and exchange were embedded in society and whether price mechanisms—that is whether supply and demand determined the value of goods—played a significant role (Finley 1999; Polanyi et al. 1957; Warburton 2011). Today, there is a growing consensus that the formalist–substantivist opposition, conceived of as two mutually exclusive modes of exchange, and the related opposition between gift and commodity is not accurate (Bourdieu 1977: 172–173; Graeber 2001: 23–47; Myers 2001; Oka and Kusimba 2008).

The debate between formalists and substantivists in my opinion has detracted from the study of what was being exchanged and why people would have wanted to obtain these goods. The issue I would like to focus on in this chapter thus concerns the nature of the materials that are being traded and why these materials were exchanged. Traditionally, prehisto-rians have tended to focus on the distribution of exotic raw materials, such as obsidian, amber, jade and specific types of shell or flint, materials that can easily be linked to their source and interpreted as exotic materi-als that became more prestigious as they were carried further from their source (Chapman 2008; Helms 1993; Robb and Farr 2005). Another cat-egory of material traded in prehistory, however, consists of craft products, and I will argue that the networks in which these artefacts were traded and exchanged in prehistoric Asia Minor differed from those distributing (exotic) raw materials.

I do not wish to suggest that there is a difference in intrinsic and socially ascribed value; in the end, all value evaluations are based on social percep-tions, and this is also true for exotic raw materials such as gold or obsidian (Comaroff and Comaroff 2005; Graeber 2001; Myers 2001: 6–10; Renfrew 2001: 106). Instead, it is possible to argue that conspicuous and rare raw materials are very suitable mediators of value which can be readily adopted in the value regimes of adjacent cultural groups. Conversely, artefacts pro-duced from relatively ubiquitous raw materials, where the value derives mainly from the labour that went into producing them ( Figure 2.1 ), suggest a greater degree of cultural consensus.

A good example of such craft products which derive their value from labour are the textiles that were exported from southern Mesopotamia to Karum Kaneš in central Turkey in the early second millennium BC. Among the main export products from the southern Alluvium—a region lacking conspicuous and rare raw materials—were textiles made from wool, a mate-rial also available in central Anatolia. The key point is that the textiles pro-duced in southern Mesopotamia were of better quality than those made locally and would have been appreciated as such by people in Anatolia (Algaze 2008: 77–92). This appreciation would have derived at least in part


Material and Craft Networks in the Prehistory of Asia Minor 9

from local expertise in textile production, as local craftspeople would have been keenly aware of the differences in quality. Of course, the fact that these textiles were exotic further contributed to their value. For such textiles, the suggestion that branding has a longer history than usually acknowledged (Wengrow 2008) may be accurate, in that the mechanisms at play could be very similar to those in the modern world.

There is, however, a further aspect of interest to the exchange of labour-intensive craft products. The fact that such products were exchanged over some distances implies shared or overlapping value regimes of societies par-ticipating in the network. In the case of finished craft products, this means that some form of intercultural consensus has developed on aesthetics and categories of desirable artefacts which link producers, exchange mediators and consumers, although of course these objects might have been used and valued very differently in the societies concerned. By contrast, the exchange of conspicuous and rare raw materials does not necessarily imply such a shared intercultural consensus. However, there are clear examples of cases in which materials do seem to obtain similar positions in various regimes of value, for example lapis lazuli in the ancient Near East (Wengrow 2010), and others in which crafted objects become mediators of value, for example glass beads in the Americas (Graeber 2001: 92).

OBSIDIAN EXCHANGE NETWORKS IN PREHISTORIC ASIA MINOR

Obsidian is a volcanic glass with fracture properties that make it very use-ful for producing chipped stone artefacts (Ercan et al. 1994: 505). In terms of mineral composition, each obsidian source is unique. This chemical ‘fingerprint’ makes it possible to identify the source of obsidian (Williams-Thorpe 1995; Yeğingil et al. 1998). The reconstruction of obsidian distri-bution networks in the Epipalaeolithic and early Neolithic of the eastern

Figure 2.1 Material and labour value of various types of archaeological finds

Value Material value

Labour value

Local material Exotic (rare) material

Little processing -core of local fl int -obsidian core at a distance

Craft product -Kilia fi gurines & pointed beakers

-obsidian chalice at a distance


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Mediterranean has, without doubt, been one of the great success stories of scientific archaeology in the 20th century (Williams-Thorpe 1995).

There are a substantial number of obsidian sources in Asia Minor, but only a few appear to have been exploited in prehistory (Yeğingil et al. 1998: 825–826) and have been scientifically investigated ( Figure 2.2 ). In Cappadocia, obsid-ian sources include those at Göllüdağ, Nenezidağ and Acıgöl in particular; sources in the Galatean Massif include Sakaeli, Yağlar and Galatia-X (Keller and Seifried 1990; Yeğingil et al. 1998). In the Aegean, obsidian sources were exploited on the islands of Melos and Giali (Kobayashi et al. 2003; Williams-Thorpe 1995; Yeğingil et al. 1998). Melian obsidian is found, among others, at coastal sites of the Aegean Sea in Asia Minor, such as Morali and Aphrodisias (Bigazzi et al. 1998; Blackman 1986; Herling et al. 2008; Perlès et al. 2011; Renfrew et al. 1965: 238; Renfrew et al. 1966: 37).

Undoubtedly the best-investigated obsidian sources in Asia Minor are those in Cappadocia. Obsidian from Nenezidağ and Göllüdağ has been found at numerous sites in the Fertile Crescent, spanning a long period of time. Cappadocian obsidian was used from the Epipalaeolithic onwards and found in the Levant in small quantities (Cauvin and Chataigner 1998). During the subsequent Pre-Pottery Neolithic A period (9500–8700 BC), artefacts produced from Cappadocian obsidian are also attested (Carter et al. 2005; Chataigner 1998; Renfrew et al. 1966, 1968), but obsidian became much more common in the Early and Middle Pre-Pottery Neo-

Figure 2.2 Map showing the locations of obsidian sources and the site of Kulaksızlar: (a) Göllüdağ, (b) Nenezidağ, (c) Sakaeli, (d) Yağlar, (e) Melos, (f) Kulaksızlar



lithic B, c. 8700–7500 BC (Binder 2002: 80; Carter et al. 2005; Chataigner 1998; Gratuze 1999; Renfrew et al. 1966, 1968). During these periods, a small part of the Cappadocian obsidian in the Fertile Crescent came from Nenezidağ, but most derived from Göllüdağ. In the subsequent Late Pre-Pottery Neolithic B, c. 7500–7000 BC, and throughout the sixth and fifth millennia BC, Cappadocian obsidian continued to be exported to the Fertile Crescent, but volumes appear to have decreased substantially.

The distance over which obsidian was exchanged in these periods was up to 900 km. Up to about 300 km from the obsidian sources, this material constituted the major component of the lithic assemblages at Neolithic sites (Cauvin 1998; Renfrew et al. 1968; Wright 1969). The hypotheses put for-ward by Renfrew in 1968 of a ‘supply zone’ at about 250 to 350 km from the sources (Renfrew et al. 1968: 327–330), within which obsidian constituted more than 80% of the chipped stone assemblage, and a rapid falloff in the ubiquity of obsidian beyond this zone has been largely confirmed in more recent investigations (e.g. Barge and Chataigner 2003; Chataigner 1998).

In sites further removed from the sources, the exotic nature of obsidian and its scarcity probably added to its perception as a desirable commodity, and obsidian could easily become a prestige good or acquire symbolic sig-nificance. By contrast, in the vicinity of obsidian sources, the material was generally used more mundanely (Robb and Farr 2005: 37).

The obsidian sources of Cappadocia have been investigated through sur-veys and excavations (Balkan-Atlı et al. 1999; Balkan-Atlı and Binder 2001; Cauvin and Balkan-Atlı 1996). Excavations have taken place at the Kömürcü-Kaletepe workshop, where knapping technologies similar to those known from the Fertile Crescent were documented but which differed markedly from contemporaneous chipped stone industries in central Anatolia. In particular, at the Kömürcü-Kaletepe workshop, we find the characteristic Upper Meso-potamian–type ‘naviform’ cores, which are part of core-and-blade production strategies that require high levels of skill. These ‘exotic’ chaînes opératoires documented at Kömürcü-Kaletepe were more efficient than those used in cen-tral Anatolia, in the sense that both more numerous and more standardised blades were obtained from a block of obsidian in comparison with local tech-nologies (Binder and Balkan-Atlı 2001). Given that identical knapping tech-nologies were used in the Fertile Crescent on flint and that the knappers at Kaletepe had almost limitless supplies of obsidian at their disposal, it is prob-able that the need for standardised blades was the rationale operating behind this technology rather than the efficient use of raw materials.

The presence of these ‘exotic’ chipped stone industries at Kaletepe has led the excavators to argue that obsidian expeditions were organised by peo-ple from the Levant to the Cappadocian sources. The distances concerned, however, are considerable, minimally about 400 km, and include difficult mountainous terrain. Expeditions over such long distances would have been very complicated, whereas much simpler modes of exchange between local groups could have achieved similar results with much less effort (Renfrew


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et al. 1966: 54). Recently, Cessford and Carter (2005: 310) have postulated that a single journey from Çatalhöyük to the Cappadocian sources, a dis-tance of some 190 km, would have lasted 10 to 13 days; thus a return jour-ney would have taken 20 to 26 days. By the same reckoning, an expedition from the northern Fertile Crescent would have taken at least twice as long, 40 to 52 days of travelling, to which we have to add the time taken by work at the obsidian quarries.

The Kaletepe excavators have also argued that these obsidian expeditions from Upper Mesopotamia played a major role in the Neolithization of cen-tral Anatolia (Binder 2002; Binder and Balkan-Atlı 2001). Domestic crops and farming technologies would have arrived in the wake of these expe-ditions, inducing local groups to adopt sedentism and farming. From the earliest Neolithic documented in central Anatolia, however, the region was culturally distinct from the Fertile Crescent (Düring 2006, 2011; Özdoğan 2002). This cultural difference is clearly expressed in different ways of producing chipped stone artefacts, different ways of treating the deceased, and a different spatial organisation of settlements. These cultural differ-ences separating central Anatolia and the Fertile Crescent can be contrasted with economic links between both regions, as manifested in the exchange of obsidian and domestic crops.

The exploitation and export of Cappadocian obsidian to the Fertile Crescent has received by far the most attention from scholars. Most of the obsidian was consumed locally, in Asia Minor, where some interesting shifts in exchange patterns have begun to be observed. In Çatalhöyük East, for example, a shift in chipped stone industries occurs around level VII, after which prismatic blades, derived from unipolar pressure cores, started to be produced on site (Conolly 1999). Interestingly, this technological shift coincided with a change in the obsidian source that supplied Çatalhöyük: whereas in earlier levels the obsidian had derived from Göllüdağ, from level VII onwards most material came from Nenezidağ (Carter and Shack-ley 2007: 443). Given that the obsidian from both sources has essentially the same physical properties, a technical change cannot serve to explain this shift. Instead, it is possible that the two sources were controlled by different groups and that the allegiance of people living at Çatalhöyük shifted from one group to the other. The transfer of the production of prismatic blades to Çatalhöyük accompanied this shift, whereas previously they had only been arriving as end products. This type of evidence hints at previously unex-pected dynamics in past exchange systems that require further investigation.

In summary, the study of obsidian exchange systems in Prehistoric Asia Minor has expanded beyond determining the origin and spread of obsidian as a material and has addressed issues such as transportation costs (Cessford and Carter 2005), the manner in which obsidian was mined and processed at the sources (Balkan-Atlı and Binder 2001), knapping industries that can be linked with particular parts of the exchange networks and shifts in obsid-ian sources (Carter and Shackley 2007). Obsidian exchange networks are



studied increasingly from the perspective of consumption patterns (Carter et al. 2005; Robb and Farr 2005). What is also evident from the accumulated data is that obsidian is traded primarily as a conspicuous and useful raw material, sought after for its translucent and shiny appearance and—with increasing distance from the source—for being an exotic raw material. The exchange of obsidian transcended the boundaries of cultural horizons and did not constitute an element in the creation of common cultural traditions.

THE RISE OF CRAFT PRODUCTS EXCHANGE NETWORKS: THE KULAKSIZLAR CASE

In what is labelled the Middle Chalcolithic in Anatolian culture history (5500–4000 BC), we can document the rise of exchange networks centring on craft products. The earliest examples consist of highly standardised stone vessels and figurines traded over considerable distances; subsequently, other types of craft products made from stone and metal started to appear.

A key site for discussing the rise of exchange networks centring on craft products is the site of Kulaksızlar, situated in Aegean Turkey and dated to the fifth millennium BC (Takaoğlu 2002, 2004, 2005). Kulaksızlar has been inves-tigated only on the surface, where a total of 220 Middle Chalcolithic sherds were collected. The site is of special interest, because there is evidence for the production of marble vessels and figurines ( Figure 2.3 ). A large number

Figure 2.3 Pointed marble beakers and Kilia figurines from Kulaksızlar (not to scale). Courtesy of Turan Takaoğlu


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of blanks, waste by-products, manufacture rejects and stone-working tools were found at this site. These constitute about 90% of the surface assemblage at Kulaksızlar, with the remainder consisting of more ordinary domestic arte-facts (Takaoğlu 2002: 72).

The marble raw material for these stone vessels and other rocks used in the manufacturing process, such as gabbro, basalt and sandstone, were located within walking distance of Kulaksızlar. The stone vessels and figu-rines were produced by combining hammering, drilling and grinding tech-niques. The figurines were much more difficult to produce than were the stone vessels and also took longer to make. The most common artefacts produced at Kulaksızlar are pointed beakers and ‘Kilia figurines’.

Kilia figurines depict stylised humans, most likely female, with long necks, round sloping shoulders, arms folded upwards in front of the chest and lozenge-shaped lower bodies and legs, with incisions to indicate the legs and the pubic triangle (Seeher 1992). Whereas the body is flat, the necks are cylindrical and the heads are much broader than the body and have raised facial features. The beakers are conical in shape and have two vertical lugs with piercings near the rim.

The manufacture of Kilia figurines and pointed beakers requires a con-siderable input in labour and a considerable amount of skill (Takaoğlu 2005: 22–44). Production stages of beakers include coarse flaking, pecking, drilling and polishing; those of Kilia figurines involve pecking, cutting and polishing. There are numerous stages in the production during which the stone could break, for example due to a structural weakness in the marble used, resulting in the large number of rejects found at the site. The remark-able thing about both the pointed beakers and the Kilia figurines is that they have features that make them very difficult to produce in stone: the beakers have perforated vertical lugs and the figurines have round, protruding heads set on a narrow and fragile neck. Given that these characteristics made the beakers and figurines more difficult to produce, it is possible that this added to the perception of craft products made with skilled labour—whereas, for example, a pointed beaker without lugs would have represented a large labour investment and less skill—and would have been appreciated as such. In any case, there is little doubt that these objects were produced by skilled craftspeople who were pushing the boundaries of what was pos-sible with the available techniques, materials and tools and were drawing on extensive know-how. Further, some form of craft specialisation almost certainly occurred at Kulaksızlar, perhaps even with a clearly structured chaîne opératoire with different steps being undertaken in different locales (Takaoğlu 2005: 46), although only future excavations might clearly iden-tify these (Costin 1991; Wright et al. 2008).

Both the pointed marble beakers and the Kilia figurines have been found over large areas. Although there may have been other production centres besides Kulaksızlar, the distribution of such artefacts informs us about pre-historic exchange patterns and cultural preferences.



Pointed marble beakers similar to those produced at Kulaksızlar have also been found at Tigani on Samos, on the islands of Keos and Naxos, at Kumtepe and Beşik-Sivritepe in the Troad, at Demircihöyük in the Eskişehir region and at Varna in western Bulgaria (Takaoğlu 2002: 78–79, 2004: 3). Pointed marble beakers appear to date to the early and mid-fifth millen-nium BC. Kilia figurines were found across western Anatolia, at sites such as Beşik-Yassıtepe, Hanaytepe and Troy in the Troad and Yortan, Alaağaç, Selendi, Gavurtepe and Aphrodisias in western Anatolia but not, it seems, in the Aegean. Kilia figurines are found at sites dating from between the late fifth millennium BC up to the Early Bronze Age, such as Troy. The Early Bronze Age Kilia figurines are probably ancient heirlooms (Seeher 1992: 163; Takaoğlu 2002: 80), and it is plausible that these artefacts were pro-duced in the Late Chalcolithic.

At Kulaksızlar, we find evidence for specialised production geared towards exchange in two separate exchange networks. We see a shift from an early–fifth millennium western Anatolian/Aegean interaction sphere to one focussed on western Anatolia, only later that millennium. The raw material used for the production of the pointed beakers and Kilia figurines is present in many localities within the networks, and the value of the objects may have been the added value of labour-intensive craft production.

Moreover, the existence of these two exchange networks suggests a cul-tural appreciation of and demand for these particular types of objects, which were highly standardised in their execution. Both the pointed beakers and the Kilia figurines are predominantly found within a 350-kilometre radius of Kulaksızlar, although a few examples were found further away. This rein-forces Renfrew’s idea of a ‘supply zone’ already alluded to, within which exchange was relatively easy, and might suggest that Kulaksızlar was indeed the centre of production of these artefacts. It is possible to argue that the supply zone developed into a network in which shared or overlapping value regimes of societies participating in the exchanges were developed, linking producers, exchange mediators and consumers. The scale of this network is probably determined by logistics more than anything else, as was suggested five decades ago by Renfrew and colleagues (Renfrew et al. 1968: 327–330; Takaoğlu 2005: 39–40).

An interesting issue is how the appreciation of Kilia figurines and pointed beakers as desirable craft products would have come about. One element we could think of is the older tradition of marble bracelets. These had been pro-duced at many sites across Anatolia in a tradition stretching back millennia and lasting into the Chalcolithic (Schoop 2005: 344–347; Ünlüsoy 2002). Stone bracelets were common in Mersin-Yumuktepe, Fikirtepe, Canhasan I, Köşk Höyük, Büyükkaya and Orman Fidanlığı (Schoop 2005: 344–347; Ünlüsoy 2002); blanks and waste related to the production of these objects were found in Maltepe near Sinop and at Kanlıtaş near Eskişehir (Doonan et al. 2001: 115; Türkcan 2010). Apart from these sites where production is in evidence, it is plausible that these bracelets were produced in many more places, given


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that the technology to produce them is relatively straightforward. If this holds true, many people would have been familiar with the techniques of stone working and would have been able to appreciate Kilia figurines and pointed beakers for the skilled craft products that they were. Thus a broader tradition of producing marble bracelets might have provided the cultural background in which Kilia figurines and pointed beakers were embedded.

The Kilia figurines and pointed beakers from Kulaksızlar provide but one, albeit early, example of what seems to have been a broader develop-ment in the prehistory of the eastern Mediterranean, and it is to this devel-opment that we will now turn.

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION

The Kulaksızlar stone workshop for pointed beakers and Kilia figurines can be compared with numerous other examples of craft products produced for exchange that become increasingly common in the fourth and third millen-nia BC. In Cyprus, for example, we see the exchange of picrolite cruciform figurines in the fourth and third millennium BC (Peltenburg 1991). In Asia Minor, high-quality metal artefacts emerged in the late Chalcolithic in the form of fan-shaped axes and pins of various sorts, some of which have been found at sites such as Ilıpınar 4, Kuruçay 6, Çadır Höyük, Büyük Güllücek and Ikiztepe (Düring 2011: 200–256). It has been argued that we are dealing with a deliberate alloy of arsenic and copper to create arsenic-bronze arte-facts (Begemann et al. 1994; Özbal et al. 2002). While this early metallurgy remains poorly understood in many respects, it is clear that the production of such tools required considerable expertise and resources, suggesting that both specialisation and production for exchange were important strategies. Further examples can be found in the Aegean, where exquisite stone craft products, in the form of stone vessels and figurines, start to circulate at about 3200 BC (Bevan 2007; Stampolidis and Sotirakopoulou 2011). These examples are meant to highlight what I perceive of as a significant trend in the prehistory of the eastern Mediterranean in the period between c. 4500 to 3000 BC. This is not to deny that earlier examples of craft production and the exchange of craft products cannot be documented, for example in the Levant (Rosenberg et al. 2010; Wright et al. 2008), but in my evaluation this type of exchange takes on a greater prominence in the millennia under consideration here.

The formation of shared regimes of value over large regions, encompass-ing a consensus on aesthetics and types of artefacts considered desirable, is a major development in the prehistory of Asia Minor and beyond. One consequence was that craft specialisation could have become a source of livelihood in a manner that was not previously possible. Further, the rise of craft exchange networks created opportunities for conversion of materials that were not previously available. Here the case of the southern Mesopota-mian Alluvium needs to be mentioned again. This was a region where food



and local resources, such as reed and clay, were relatively abundant, but metals, timber and stone resources were lacking. The mechanism through which these resources were obtained in the end was the conversion of the relatively abundant food resources into high-quality textiles through labour, which would have been recognised as superior craft products in Anatolia and Persia, where they were traded for metals, gemstones and other materi-als (Algaze 2008: 77–92). Thus, one could argue that the rise of complex societies in southern Mesopotamia was to some degree dependent on the emergence of exchange networks centring on high-quality craft products.

A second consequence of the emergence of craft product exchange networks was that it provided a vehicle for the articulation of elite identities. It has been argued that ‘People maintain networks for social reasons, as well as to obtain goods. Linkages with other communities can offer protection against natural disasters, such as floods, droughts or crop blights. Linked communities might provide assistance to others struck by catastrophes’ (Wells 2008: 357).

While this functionalist perspective on exchange networks may be accurate in some cases, it constitutes an etic explanation and does not clarify the moti-vations of the participants in the exchange networks. It is plausible that acquir-ing exotic, rare and conspicuous materials such as obsidian, lapis lazuli and gold, as well as high-quality craft products, could have been used to enhance the social status of people and might thus have been a vehicle for the cre-ation of social distinctions (Kristiansen and Larsson 2005; Wengrow 2010). In this respect, it is of interest to note that while in the fifth millennium BC at Kulaksızlar we have an exchange network centring on high-quality craft products made from a material that is ubiquitous, in later periods there is an increasing emphasis on craft products made from nonlocal raw materials.

The appearance of tin-bronze in particular marks a significant departure from earlier metalworking practices in Asia Minor. Whereas previously the production of metal artefacts was a labour-intensive process requiring a sig-nificant amount of knowledge and skill, it could nonetheless be organised regionally. Asia Minor is rich in metal ores of various kinds, and in each region there would have been small mining operations and local procedures and techniques for the production of metals, which have been described as cottage industries (Özbal et al. 2002). With the introduction of alloys containing tin, the production methods departed sharply from this preexist-ing regional tradition. Tin is a mineral that occurs in relatively few places, in ore variants that could have been worked in prehistory. Known sources are few and far between. Possible sources that most researchers believe might have been exploited in prehistory are located in Afghanistan, Uzbeki-stan and Tajikistan (Gale 2008; Weisgerber and Cierny 2002). The pos-sible extraction of tin at Göltepe-Kestel in central Anatolia (Muhly 1993; Yener 2000; Yener and Vandiver 1993) has been controversial (see Düring 2011: 274–276) but would have been a minor source in all probability. This means that much of the tin was transported over large distances, as attested in the Kültepe archives of the early second millennium BC (Dercksen 2005),


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and that artefacts produced with tin alloys would have been much more valuable than artefacts produced from local ores. The advent of bronze is all the more remarkable given that this alloy seems to have no mechanical advantages over an alloy of arsenic and copper, which could be produced from local ores. It has therefore been argued that the adoption of tin-bronze cannot be explained from a functionalist point of view. Instead, tin-bronze might have been valued for its colour, which resembles gold (Pernicka 1998: 136–137, Zimmermann 2007: 71).

I would like to end by returning to the idea of value. By contrasting obsidian exchange networks of Neolithic Asia Minor with exchange net-works of stone craft products which first appear in the Chalcolithic, I hope to have shown that these exchange networks are very different from a social perspective. Obsidian is a conspicuous and rare raw material that is a very suitable mediator of value which can be readily adopted in the value regimes of adjacent cultural groups. Exchange networks of this type of material can operate with the existence of a minimal value consensus among those involved in the exchanges. By contrast, craft items produced from relatively ubiquitous raw materials represent the emergence of shared regimes of value over large regions, encompassing a consensus on aesthetics and types of artefacts considered desirable. This consensus, once established, could have easily become one of the scaffoldings used in the creation of complex societ-ies thereafter. Thus, the rise of craft-oriented exchange networks from the fifth millennium BC onwards appears to me to be a key development in the rise of complex societies in the eastern Mediterranean.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Katharina Rebay-Salisbury for inviting me to con-tribute to this volume. A draft of this paper was read and commented on by Angus Mol and Hayley Mickleburgh, both of whom provided useful suggestions.

NOTE

1. The following periodization is used: Epipalaeolithic: c. 20.000–10.000 BC; Neolithic c. 8500–6000 BC; Middle Chalcolithic c. 5500–4000 BC; Late Chalcolithic c. 4000–3000 BC; Early Bronze Age c. 3000–2000 BC.

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INTRODUCTION

We want to start this chapter with a comment on the scale of our study and about how our approach comes from the details of the material. Here, strangely, we start with film and not archaeology. Tokyo Story is a 1953 film directed by Yasujirō Ozu about an old man and woman who go and visit their busy children in the city. The scale and topic of this film is not one of spectacle or sweeping action but of the intensity of feeling that comes from us taking the time to see a small group of people together in a room, some of whom have time for each other and some of whom have not.

In one part of the film, Ozu fixed his camera at a very low level as if the viewer were kneeling in the house of the widowed daughter-in-law of the old man and woman (Cousins 2004: 127). The low height of the camera matches the small-scale practice filmed in front of the lens. In the film, the viewer is able to pay close attention to the daughter-in-law unwrapping a gift that her late husband’s parents had brought with them. Old paper wrappings, on which the string had become fixed and was difficult to untie, surrounded a beautiful wooden box that had been kept for generations in the family. Then there was the extra bedding that had been packed on a high shelf and that she reached up for out of the frame of the camera and then brought back down to unwrap for her mother-in-law. Here another piece of cloth enclosed the bedding textiles that had not been used in such a long time. Finally, there were the everyday foodstuffs, wrapped in paper, that were unfolded in order for her to cook a meal for them all.

In these scenes, we witness paper that was more ephemeral than the wooden box that it wrapped, cloth over cloth, and paper that was more durable than the foodstuffs it enclosed. Throughout, the materiality of time is evident—old creased paper and fixed string that revealed that it had not been unwrapped for a long time to newly folded paper and the ease of its undoing.

The understated performances and this particular scale of action revealed two significant details about material crossovers—details that are about the nature of materials and time. Firstly, nondurable materials are often used to surround durable objects, and, of course, then the other way round.

Buildings That Wrap Objects and Objects That Wrap Buildings

Lesley McFadyen and Ana Vale

3


24 Lesley McFadyen and Ana Vale

Secondly, the materials and the practice of wrapping and unwrapping hold to them different but overlapping temporal dimensions.

We do not know at what point we made a connection between film and archaeology, whether we paid particular attention to these details because of the way in which we carry out our archaeology or whether because in our archaeology we were being asked to think about material crossovers and so we remembered the details of the film. But there is a meeting point at which the scale of our archaeology matches the scale of the film. We do not produce grand narratives of the Chalcolithic; we prefer to focus on small things (the detail). And we hope there is a similar sincerity of feeling about practice, one that is about looking in detail at what might also be described as understated performance. But let us show you how that works in our archaeology, how it is a scale that connects to past practice and how it is an effective dynamic in which to consider cross-craft interaction.

BUILDINGS THAT WRAP OBJECTS

There is an understanding within archaeological discourse, and many exam-ples from prehistoric worlds easily come to hand, of how buildings wrap, cover or contain objects. Things would seem to come ordered in the prehistoric worlds that we write about—there is architecture, and then material culture is described in terms of that. It is supposedly simple, a building is designed and built and then it is used—and it is on these terms that objects are discussed. 1 The two enclosure sites that are the focus of this study are normally defined by their walls; there are many other sites like them in the Iberian Peninsula. However, fragments of pottery, as well as slabs of stone, make up these struc-tures—when we look at the detail of past practice, things are not in a simple order. Figure 3.1 is the overall plan of Castelo Velho, Vila Nova de Foz Côa, Portugal; the excavation was directed by Susana Oliveira Jorge (Jorge et al. 1998/1999, 2007). The site dates from 3000 to 1300 BC and is composed of a series of subcircular structures and wall footings made out of schist that once had clay superstructures that were made using a rammed-earth or pisé building technique (Muralha 2011) 2 . The main enclosure wall, with multiple entranceways, is elliptical in shape and contains an inner tower. This is a very simple and static description of a building project that consisted of a series of makings and unmakings, cuttings and blockings, with different durations and scales of change and alteration, over a period of 1,700 years. In this chapter, in order to illustrate a more complex architecture—that is, the actions, movement and changes within architectural practice—we have taken as a case study the small rectangular stone structure on the inner edge of the south-western part of the enclosure entrance, marked W1 in Figure 3.1 . The structure contained an assemblage of sherds of pottery and clumps of charred grain.

The phasing or timing of construction is itself complicated, for the two structures are entwined. The rectangular structure continues and widens


Buildings That Wrap Objects 25

the line of the main enclosure wall, along the western entrance W1, but a cut into the underlying clay also indicates that the lower part of the feature could have been left freestanding for a period of time (see Figure 3.2 ). The rectangular structure was identified in 2001, during the dismantling of the enclosure wall, and it was found that the earlier line of the main enclo-sure followed a different path. Therefore, this is an area of architecture in which the lower part of the walls of the rectangular structure and the main enclosure stand separate, but their upper portions are entwined, and so it is impossible to order the features in time.

Approximately 300 sherds and thousands of charred seeds were recov-ered from the rectangular structure. Through excavation and postexcava-tion studies, it was shown that the sherds did not represent whole vessels and that they did not enter the structure holding grain. From the material and the spatial details, initially it was suggested that wrapped in the stone structure, fragments of pottery and seeds had been handled as dynamic

Figure 3.1 The overall plan of Castelo Velho, Vila Nova de Foz Côa, Portugal (archive element redrawn by Vicki Herring, by permission Susana Oliveira Jorge)



components that referred to the storage of goods but that did not directly materialise as such (Baptista 2003). Material culture was described here in terms of its ‘special’ significance—a symbolic deposit of objects in a build-ing. This is an interesting point, but what about time? What do the different temporal dimensions do to our study?

The feature contained clumps of charred seeds, an indicator of a short time gap before deposition, but the seeds were not contained within the pots. Figure 3.3 is a photograph of the pottery that was recovered from the rectan-gular structure. In general, the assemblage was made up of fresh, unabraded fragments of pottery but also included pieces with worn surfaces (that had occurred prebreakage) and burnt edges (that had occurred postbreakage). There was also a coherency about the assemblage (i.e. no ‘odd’ sherds). And there were 11 sherds from one particular pot, all of which were decorated with the same broadband light comb. The comb decoration was so light it had the appearance of a brushstroke. Four sherds showed definite evi-dence of being burnt postbreakage, as discolouration caused by refiring went across the sherd breaks. These same sherds also displayed patches of external surface wear that appeared to have occurred during the use of the vessel. Significantly, however, an adjoining sherd did not display the same pale grey colouring, suggesting that it had not been burnt, whilst it retained an area of postbreakage abrasion along its refitting edge. Although the period of

Figure 3.2 Rectangular stone structure on the inner edge of the enclosure entrance of Castelo Velho (archive element, photograph by Susana Oliveira Jorge, by permission Susana Oliveira Jorge)



time between the breaking and the depositing of the pottery was short, the assemblage was partial. Furthermore, there were sherds that did refit, but with some of those sherds having been burnt and others not. After the pot-tery had broken, some of the sherds were caught up in activities that involved fire, whilst others were not, but then both types of sherd were collected and deposited in the structure. Although the sherds refit, they demonstrate dif-ferent postbreakage histories. The small details from the fragmentation of the pottery and the nature of the breaks of the sherds remind us of another time (between breakage and deposition) and another space (between pot and structure). Crucially, this evidence upsets the order of things, for these objects and activities came before the design and construction of a building.

We carried out a refitting programme and a study of the fragmentation of the pottery on a context-by-context basis throughout the site. The analysis of the patterns of fragmentation demonstrated that occupation, the playing out of time, was a part of the building project in other areas too and not something that happened afterwards (McFadyen in press). Why are these breakage histories important? Why might they undermine the traditional hierarchy of architecture over material culture? The different temporal dimensions that are involved take us away from a simple story of archi-tecture wrapping material culture, take us away from the more traditional

Figure 3.3 The pottery assemblage from the rectangular structure at Castelo Velho (photograph by Lesley McFadyen)



account of a durable stone architecture as the framing device or container for a more ephemeral material culture. Remember, the small details from the fragmentation of the pottery and the nature of the breaks of the sherds remind us of another time (between breakage and deposition) and another space (between pot and structure). Therefore, the work on the pottery can be used to turn things around; there is a material crossover here, and it allows us to think about building projects at Castelo Velho as a series of activities that emerge out of the rhythm and tempo of occupation (after Lefebvre and Régulier 2004). People were living in and around broken pots, prior to deposition, before they entered structures, but this was not a simple matter of residuality: the relationship was more direct than that. Instead, it was the tempo of occupation, the daily practice of living with things (many in a broken state) which created the conditions for structures. In a sense, the nature of these things, as they already were (after Irwin in Weschler 2008), was a part of the actions of architecture. Clay was as much a building mate-rial as stone, and there was as much time at play in the activities that pottery was caught up in as there was for slabs of stone. The stone structure may, on the surface, look the most durable material, but the practices that clay pots were caught up in were actually setting the terms for how things were understood and engaged with in the past. This is a bit like the everyday foodstuffs that were wrapped in paper from the film—the focus was the contents and the importance of the drawn-out process of acquiring them and bringing them home to cook with. Indeed, the pottery assemblage at Castelo Velho was comprised of fragments of simple ‘domestic’—bowls and cups—and the actual focus of study was the significance of the extended pre- and postbreakage activities that this material was caught up in.

OBJECTS THAT ARE A PART OF BUILDINGS

Figure 3.4 is the overall site plan of Castanheiro do Vento, Vila Nova de Foz Côa, Portugal. The excavations are ongoing and directed by Barbara Carvalho, Sergio Gomes, Vitor Oliveira Jorge, Joäo Muralha and Ana Vale (Jorge et al. 2006, 2006/2007). In 2004, found against the outer edge of the southern part of the second enclosure wall were three interconnect-ing subcircular structures (marked E1, E2 and E6). These buildings shared structural walls—one folded into the next—and there are other material crossovers at work here.

As the upper fill of the middle structure, E2, was being excavated (a con-text of yellow-brown clay with small pieces of schist), the edge of a large bowl was encountered. But the base of the pot was within a lower fill or floor layer (a layer of pale-yellow compact clay; see Figure 3.5 ), and half of a vessel was there in total. If we stopped there, then we might think of this as a foundation deposit. However, this is not the complete story; the half pot did not simply sit within architecture. Figure 3.6 shows that between the


Figure 3.4 The overall plan of Castanheiro do Vento, Vila Nova de Foz Côa, Portugal (drawn by Ana Vale)

Figure 3.5 Sequence of deposition in one of the subcircular structures at Castanheiro do Vento (photograph by Ana Vale)



yellow-brown clay with small pieces of schist and the lower floor made from a pale-yellow compact clay, there was a layer of very thin schist plaques that were laid flat like paving. The side of the fragment of pottery was incorpo-rated into the paving and used alongside the schist plaques. Therefore, the pottery spans through all three contexts—it connects them. It is a fragment of material culture and architectural material at the same time.

In 2009, we excavated the remains of a circular structure that was partly post built (marked G1 in Figure 3.4 ). This ‘roundhouse’ was not empty, since we removed a large amount of pottery in the process of excavation, and, as such, we argue that the sherds make space and have architectural qualities as much as the slabs of stone or the wooden posts (Vale 2012). There is equivalence between these materials—like the matching materials and their shared enduring qualities of cloth wrapping cloth in the fi lm.

OBJECTS THAT WRAP BUILDINGS

We have still to discuss how nondurable materials are used to surround durable ones—a situation in which objects wrap buildings. We discuss the junction between a bastion and the third enclosure wall (marked BW) at

Figure 3.6 Sequence of deposition in one of the subcircular structures at Castanheiro do Vento (photograph by Ana Vale)



Castanheiro do Vento (see Figure 3.4 ). First of all, there is a striking difference in the stone materials that were used in the construction of these two fea-tures. In the enclosure wall, there are long, thin blocks of schist (orientated vertically in the top left-hand portion of the photograph, Figure 3.7 ) and in the bastion, large and broad plaques (orientated horizontally in the top right-hand portion of the photograph, Figure 3.7 ). At this meeting point, the large, broad plaques overlap the long, thin blocks, but things are not that simple. The stone used in the construction of this part of the bastion did not act as a footing or foundation like every other structure on the site but was itself constructed into a thick deposit of orange-red compact clay. The junction was wrapped in clay. At Castanheiro do Vento, we were used to excavating different architectural elements that had been entwined, but this was the first time that we had encountered such a construction technique—clay was wrapping stone. Clay was used as the footing for an otherwise stone building. Furthermore, folded into the orange-red compact clay were items of material culture—large sherds of pottery, a polished stone axe and a flint scraper. It was only through the process of excavation that we were able to fully come to terms with the fact that clay and items of material culture were used to wrap stone. We are not able to show it so explicitly; in the photograph you can see the depth of the clay that the plaques were set within, but while this deposit encased the stone, it also extended outwards for some distance. This situation is like that within the film when the paper was more ephemeral than the wooden box it wrapped.

Figure 3.7 Sequence of deposition between a bastion and enclosure wall at Castan-heiro do Vento (photograph by Ana Vale)



There are other instances that come to mind of nondurable materials, such as fabric, being used to surround more durable ones—situations in which objects undermine the hierarchy of architecture and that range from the private to the public scale. For example, Victor Buchli has argued that curtains were used in the Narkomfin Communal House in Moscow to cre-ate areas of privacy, and in so doing they challenged and changed the open-plan form of the living block (Buchli 2000). On a scale of public spectacle, the artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude created the ‘Wrapped Reichstag’ in 1995—where fabric encased the entire building. However, we argue that there are slightly different qualities to the clay-wrapped stone at the site of Castanheiro do Vento. First of all, on other parts of the site, the footings were of stone with a clay superstructure. Therefore this one junction is all the more remarkable for the way in which it inverts the normative architec-tural order. Secondly, the clay is laid under and over the stone material—this creates a tension or difference that is more than the covering over of an entrance or opening and more than the interplay between the internal and external surfaces of buildings and where furnishings should occur in relation to structure. In both the Narkomfin and Reichstag examples, productions with fabric follow on from construction in stone. What was important at Castanheiro do Vento was not just the way in which the building looked materially but the difference in how the materials related to each other positionally. The clay had been used to undermine the very foundations of the structural—it came first—and so permanence was created not from the durability of the material but from the positioning of the clay. If you remem-ber, at Castelo Velho, the stone structure looked the most durable material, but the practices that the pottery was caught up in were actually setting the terms for how things were understood and engaged with in the past. At Castanheiro do Vento, the clay structure is the most permanent due to the way in which it is positioned, and it sets the terms for the composition of further construction. Finally, the material properties of the clay used in this junction matched those of the good-quality clays employed in the construction of flooring or walling elsewhere on the site. In these terms, the clay itself is also a key item of material culture along with the pottery, axe and scraper (see Salisbury 2012 for his discussion on seeing soil as material culture).

MATERIAL CROSSOVERS AND SITUATED KNOWLEDGE

From past practice to an engagement with fragments of that practice through excavation and postexcavation work, we would argue that a scale of small things and an intimacy about this work make it possible to see how connec-tions were made in a different way, out from the normal order of things. We started this chapter by mentioning a part of Ozu’s film, Tokyo Story , and we said that the understated performances and his particular scale of action



were what revealed details about wrapping and unwrapping. Similarly, it is from the small details of things that we noticed several things about practices of wrapping and unwrapping in archaeology. These crossovers put materials in a different order from small to big or the nondurable over the durable, and they juxtapose different kinds of time together from the short term to the long. Material culture was not simply wrapped in architecture in the rectangular structure at Castelo Velho, but instead, it was always there as a precondition of creativity. Equally, pottery existed as a fragment of material culture and as an architectural material in and of the subcircular structure E2 at Castanheiro do Vento, and material culture wrapped architecture at the junction where a bastion met the inner enclosure wall at that same site. Ozu’s film offered us a scale with which to work. Our accounts are about the importance of detail—detail in which a discussion of the tension between wrapping and unwrapping can be made.

We want to move on to consider the terms on which to discuss cross-craft interaction and the conditions needed for it to occur within the past. First of all, it is important to state that the materials that we have described, whether of stone or of clay (including the conceptual categories that archae-ologists allocate to them of ‘architecture’ and ‘material culture’), were never employed in situations where one set up a hierarchy over the other. On the contrary, our accounts have been of practices in which materials were used in a dependent or equivalent manner (see also Hodder 2012; Till 2009). Furthermore, the schist and clay that we have described and their associated building techniques and pottery styles were of locally acquired materials 3 and regionally specific technologies. Both of the enclosure sites are located on outcrops of schist, and the natural soil of the surrounding area (i.e. the lower valleys around the hills or spurs of schist) is clay rich. We have stated that there are many Chalcolithic enclosure sites throughout the Iberian Pen-insula, but the specific details of the types of building technique that are employed in their construction are regional or, in many cases, site specific (Muralha 2011). Furthermore, the majority of the pottery from the assem-blages of Castelo Velho and Castanheiro do Vento is homogenous in charac-ter and limited to a regional distribution (Baptista 2003; McFadyen in press; Oliveira 2003; Vale 2012). There are then a series of conditions that exist at the site or regional level and through which practices of a specific and particular nature were carried out. The feminist theorist Donna Haraway (1991) would describe these situations, in terms of the nature of the practice and the possibilities for knowledge transfer, as ‘situated knowledge’.

The architectural historian Jeremy Till (2009) has recently made the case for a dependent architecture that is understood in terms of the contingent nature of things. With this way of understanding architecture, he has drawn attention to the ways in which situated knowledge works with the particular:

[S]ituated knowledge sees opportunities in the particular and does not look for problems to be solved in the universal scheme of things—just



as the landscape architect Lancelot “Capability” Brown, when looking at the untamed estate of a new client, would not ask: “So what’s the problem?” but instead would propose: “What are the capabilities of the place?”

(Till 2009: 60).

We would argue that these are also effective terms for understanding material crossovers and the shared practices that they were drawn into at Castelo Velho and Castanheiro do Vento. Technological knowledge at these sites worked with the particular (at the site or regional level), and it was the particular nature of this arena of social action that allowed for knowledge transfer and cross-craft interaction in the making of a different order to the built world. We are not arguing here for a kind of vernacular determinacy; rather, we argue, as Haraway and Till do, that the particular and partial facilitate a more critical knowledge of the web of connections that are possible and that these conditions create knowledge transfer with all of its attendant possibilities for active and transformative intervention (Haraway 1988). Therefore, an engagement with these past conditions should not be perceived in terms of constraints but as points of depar-ture into future and dynamic practices of making. It is precisely because creativity is located in the particular and not the general, the partial and not the universal, that material crossovers/equivalences are able to come about in such a transformative manner. These transformative interven-tions suggest that architecture be perceived in terms of an ongoing and ever-changing practice rather than as a built object—and, where design is not located in the idea of a building but instead through the things one lives with, material culture (McFadyen 2012). Cross-craft interaction and shared technologies did not exist on these sites in a straightforward man-ner from raw material into finished object. Ann Brysbaert (2007: 330) has similarly used cross-craft interaction to critique technological studies that set out the stages of production, circulation and consumption on clear-cut terms and in a linear fashion.

CONCLUDING REMARKS

Most other research outlines networks of contact between people on a much larger scale (however, see Brysbaert and Vetters 2010 for an example of cross-craft interactions in workshops at Tiryns, Greece). For example, we work on sites that have been termed ‘fortified settlements’, and these have been plotted across Spain, Portugal and Southern France. However, we argue that these sites never existed as the clear architectural objects that are mapped out in space as dots on distribution maps or that archaeolo-gists depict so clearly in plan. Neither was there a temporal sequence of a building or a series of buildings that were constructed-used-abandoned. Nor



were there object-biographies independent of these. Instead, the two sites that we work on are a web of actions that were caught up in projects of making and unmaking. This is an architecture that existed through practice and that cannot be unpicked into sequences of built objects. Of interest is that material culture was caught up in those dynamics. Pottery (or clay) was a material used in building as much as stone. Therefore objects were not used in and around buildings, they were a part of architectural prac-tice. We argue that this is an interesting example of knowledge transfer between crafts. Importantly, it offers an alternative temporal sequence to that of construction-use-abandonment, but this social network is at the spatial scale of the site. In order to reveal the different temporal dimen-sions of our evidence, we have explored the small details of things on a site-by-site basis. Perhaps the most important crossover we have made in the three examples that we have presented is the consideration of when things occur in the past. The small scale of our case studies was what allowed us to take the time to see. These are, if you like, our Castelo Velho/Castanheiro do Vento versions of Tokyo Story , and they take inspi-ration from understated performance.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to the directors of the Castelo Velho and Castanheiro do Vento excavations for permission to reproduce fragments of the drawn archive. Thank you to Vicki Herring (Cambridge Archaeological Unit) for drawing Figure 3.1 . Thank you to Katharina Rebay-Salisbury and Jen Baird for com-menting on the text and for their suggested readings.

NOTES

1. There are, of course, archaeological accounts that explore the connections between structural and artefactual evidence with distinctions between found-ing deposits and construction, and closure deposits and destruction—but here too it is the architectural object that sets the spatial and temporal frame for where and when material culture is discussed.

2. This is also the case at the site of Castanheiro do Vento—wall footings made from schist with a rammed-earth superstructure of clay.

3. In the examples that we have discussed, the flint scraper that was found in the clay wrapping was the only object that was made from a material for which it was impossible to find a local source.

REFERENCES

Baptista, L. 2003. A cerâmica do interior do recinto de Castelo Velho. Contributos para a interpretação dos contextos de uso . Porto: FLUP (dissertação de mestrado policopiada).



Brysbaert, A. 2007. “Cross-craft and cross-cultural interactions during the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean Late Bronze Age,” in S. Antoniadou and A. Pace (eds) Mediterranean crossroads. Nicosia: Pierides Foundation: 325–359.

Brysbaert, A., and M. Vetters. 2010. Practicing Identity: A Crafty Ideal? Mediter-ranean Archaeology and Archaeometry 10(2): 25–43.

Buchli, V. 2000. An Archaeology of Socialism. London: Routledge. Cousins, M. 2004. The Story of Film. Hove: Pavilion Books. Haraway, D. 1988. The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial

Perspective. Feminist Studies 14(3): 575–599. Haraway, D. 1991. Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature .

London: Free Association Books. Hodder, I. 2012. Entangled. An Archaeology of the Relationships between Humans

and Things . Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Jorge, S. O., L. Baptista, S. Gomes, L. Oliveira, J. M. Varela, and G. Velho. 2007.

“A construção de um sítio arqueológico: Castelo Velho de Freixo de Numão,” in S. O. Jorge, A. M. S. Bettencourt, and I. Figueiral (eds), A concepção das paisagens e dos espaços na Arqueologia da Península Ibérica, Promontoria Monográfi ca 8. Faro: Universidade do Algarve: 77–86.

Jorge, S. O., M. L. Oliveira, S. A. Nunes, and S. R. Gomes. 1998/1999. Uma estrutura ritual com ossos humanos no sítio pré-histórico de Castelo Velho de Freixo de Numão (V. N. de Foz Côa). Portugalia, Nova Série 19–20: 29–70.

Jorge, V. O. 2006. “Cooper Age ‘monumentalized hills’ of Iberia: the shift from posi-tivistic ideas to interpretative ones. New perspectives on old techniques of trans-forming place and space as results of a research experience in the NE of Portugal,” in V. O. Jorge (ed), “Approaching ‘Prehistoric and Protohistoric Architectures’ of Europe from a ‘Dwelling Perspective’”, Journal of Iberian Archaeology 8: 203–264.

Jorge, V. O., J. M. Cardoso, A. M. Vale, G. L. Velho, and L. S. Pereira. 2006/2007. Problemática suscitada pelas escavações do sítio pré-histórico do Castanheiro do Vento (Horta do Douro, Vila Nova de Foz Côa), sobretudo após a campanha de 2005. Revista da Faculdade de Letras, Ciências e Técnicas do Património, Porto, I série 5–6: 241–277.

Lefebvre, H., and C. Régulier. 2004. “The Rhythmanalytical Project,” in H. Lefebvre (ed), Rhythmanalysis. Space, Time and Everyday Life. London: Continuum: 71–84.

McFadyen, L. 2012. “The time it takes to make: design and use in architecture and archaeology,” in W. Gunn and J. Donovan (eds), Design and Anthropology. London: Ashgate Press.

McFadyen, L. in press. “The breakage and post-breakage histories of the pottery at Castelo Velho,” in S. Oliveira Jorge (ed), Castelo Velho . Porto: Ministério da Cultura, Portugal.

Muralha, J. 2011. Castanheiro do Vento (Horta do Douro, Vila Nova de Foz Côa)—Um Recinto Monumental do IIIº e IIº milénio A.C.: Problemática do Sítio e das suas Estruturas à Escala Regional . Maiorca: Vessants.

Oliveira, M. L. 2003. As primeiras intervenções arquitectónicas no Castelo Velho de Freixo Numão . Porto: FLUP (dissertação de mestrado policopiada).

Salisbury, R. B. 2012. Engaging with Soil, Past and Present . Journal of Material Culture 17(1): 23–41.

Till, J. 2009. Architecture depends. Cambridge: MIT Press. Vale, A. 2012. Modalidades de Produção de Espaços no Contexto de uma Colina

Monumentalizada: o sítio pré-histórico de Castanheiro do Vento, em Vila Nova de Foz Côa . PhD thesis, University of Porto, Portugal.

Weschler, L. 2008. Seeing Is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees. Berkeley: University of California Press.


INTRODUCTION

Considerations of space are fundamental in archaeological research because we study space in relation to time in order to contextualise our findings and imbue them with meaning. Often, space is simply seen as a neutral backdrop for human interaction to take place. The interactive relations of space and time in the production of both a practical and a social environment have often been overlooked, and considering space as an active component in the building of social networks between people and things is only useful if we understand that the neutrality of space is an illusion. Instead, inhabited and other spaces are imbued with memory (we may remember our late grandfather upon entering his living room years later), sensory experiences (the empty school corridors echo our footsteps during summer breaks, the smell of cooking may linger on in the kitchen hours after dinner), emotions (we may feel anxious in a tightly packed lift) and filled with matter (dust, air, objects, humidity). Gibson (1979: 16, 23) describes the inhabited environment from a physical or material perspec-tive, consisting of mediums (for example, the air we breathe), substances (all solid materials surrounding us: rocks, sand, plants) and surfaces. Surfaces are the interfaces between mediums and substances and the loca-tions where all action takes place. The environment’s affordances are thus real, objective and physical since they point in two directions: to the envi-ronment and to the observer (Gibson 1979: 129). Gibson’s emphasis on materials and their physical makeup (see also Ingold 2011) are very useful notions because they indicate the dynamic relationships between materials and people at any given time: how they live together through each motion and how materials may either allow or limit people in what they want to do during any given moment.

Spaces are created by building materials (e.g. stones, tiles), construction techniques (e.g. architectural separators or intersecting insides and outsides by means of doors and windows) and the people who both build and use these spaces (e.g. personal space, preferred patterns of movement, socially excluding and including spaces). Revealing active links between space and

Talking Shop Multicraft Workshop Materials and Architecture in Prehistoric Tiryns, Greece

Ann Brysbaert

4


38 Ann Brysbaert

time while discussing technologies and people’s activities, performances and practices imbues these practices, activities and performances with inter-connected meanings. Spaces, and therefore by extension architecture, are shaped by people but also shape people and afford their communication, not just in monumental and public architecture contexts (e.g. Maran 2006, 2012) but also in settlements and mortuary spheres and, as discussed here, in workshop contexts. The latter contexts in particular have been largely ignored.

This chapter aims to integrate material evidence ranging from the por-table small leftovers to the solid built walls of two specific workshop con-texts from final palatial and postpalatial Tiryns (Greece) to study people’s interactions within and with these workshops over time. While social net-works are often traced through artefact distribution studies, I also aim to illustrate that these workshops can only be fully understood when portable, fixed and built constituents are evaluated in relation to each other and to people. Thus, by understanding spaces as active interfaces and facilitators or inhibitors of each activity, practice, technology, emotion, memory and (skilled) experience, living workshops emerge as something much more than a fulfilment of the criteria of specific workshop models (see what follows). It therefore seems that the boundaries between the artefacts and features, the spaces, the people that formed things and shaped others and themselves through their use, became blurred and then emerged as dynamic entities with potential regenerative forces (Brysbaert in press-a). In following Ingold (2011: 24), who sees people as swimming in an ocean of materials, it seems that people do not form networks through objects and in spaces and in spe-cific times but instead form networks with each other, with materials, with spaces and with time. Furthermore, they do this through skilled and sensory experiences with matter and materials, through their emotions and through interacting with all sorts of materials. Social networks can only be dynamic if their constituents and nodes are too. Materials, objects and features (for example, nonmobile architectural constituents) form, just as humans do, dynamic networks and all seem entangled (after Hodder 2012: 49–50). This is of great interest because it necessarily implies that if one of the elements in such a complex network or entanglement changes, it may involve changes among the other elements as well.

As a starting point, I review the almost 30-year-old Mycenaean work-shop model, designed by Iphigenia Tournavitou in 1986 (Tournavitou 1988: 447–467), which was based on the study of workshop material from Mycenae, Greece, and I evaluate its usefulness in relation to the case study material from the workshops in Tiryns. 1 In order to access this Mycenaean workshop model, this chapter employs the concepts of multiple chaînes opératoires combined with cross-craft interactions as a methodology (see Brysbaert 2007, 2008; on chaîne opératoire : e.g. Dobres 2000, 2010; Leroi-Gourhan 1943, 1945; on cross-craft interaction: e.g. McGovern 1989). This represents a significant improvement from employing single chaînes


Talking Shop 39

opératoires alone, and it covers the gap expressed by Ingold (2011: 24) that most material culture studies focus on consumption rather than on produc-tion. Instead, this approach allows us to analyse technology and aspects of people’s lives such as knowledge transmission, ritual beliefs and conduct but also how people may have moved in space, how they conceptualised it and which values they attributed to their spatial environment during sev-eral stages of the Late Bronze Age at the Tiryns workshops (after Naji and Douny 2009: 414).

In assessing each aspect of this workshop model, the material remains from the workshop spaces in Tiryns are discussed, and their layout and changes are presented and understood in relation to artisans’ physical needs of movement, posture and communication while working. The importance of studying spaces as active agents in relation to the material remains found within and near them is redefined as one of the outcomes.

TOURNAVITOU’S MYCENAEAN WORKSHOP MODEL

An outline of Tournavitou’s workshop model (1988: 447–467) is sum-marised next. In Part I ( Figure 4.1 ), she describes a permanent workshop (which she contrasts with a domestic workshop) as the place where craft activities, executed by specialists, take place most of the year. A special-ist seems to be defined by the amount of time she or he spent doing this

Figure 4.1 Synthesis of Tournavitou’s workshop model, part I

Workshop space identifi cation model

PART I

Permanent >< Domestic

Palatial >< non-Palatial

Type of craft – Location related to palace

1. Room within palace itself 2. Workshop outside but organically connected 3. Workshop at distance of palace

Type A: no built-in facilities, just tools (bone, ivory, stone, textiles, . . .)Type B: need built-in facilities (pottery, metallurgy, faience-glass, . . .)


40 Ann Brysbaert

activity and whether they could live from its output. Tournavitou distin-guishes between:

1: Palatial workshops: directly dependent on palatial administration, in/near or run by the palace, raw materials provided by the palace, and

2: Nonpalatial workshops: only indirectly related to the palace for administration, raw materials are obtained outside the palatial sphere come from elsewhere.

Palatial workshops are subsequently divided according to the specific craft represented and their distance from the palace:

Type A: crafts that do not need fi xed facilities, and Type B: crafts that do need fi xed facilities.

Part II of Tournavitou’s model outlines several criteria ( Figure 4.2 ) to assess whether a given space can be determined, archaeologically, as a work-shop space. These criteria are tested against areas that have been suggested to constitute workshops in the literature and are subsequently evaluated against an ethnographic workshop study (see also comparative ethno-graphic work by Hasaki 2011) in order to determine which bare essentials would constitute a workshop. These data are then compared to what can be expected from archaeological workshops versus what can actually be observed. Tournavitou warns us correctly that conditions may vary from

Figure 4.2 Synthesis of Tournavitou’s workshop model, part II

Workshop space identifi cation model

PART II

Criteria employed to archaeologically determine a workshop space

1. Architecture: a. plan b. construction2. Pottery: types, presence3. Facilities: built-in4. Tools used:5. Material worked: a. raw in storage, b. half worked-unfi nished pieces, c. waste, mistakes, d. fi nished objects6. Connection with central administration: a. position related to administration, b. position related to resources, c. presence of tablets, sealings, . . .


Talking Shop 41

area to area and from site to site and that it is therefore dangerous to gener-alise from the evidence of a single site.

Tournavitou sums up the results of her work as follows (Tournavitou 1988: 459):

1: The study of the architecture by plan or construction is not useful since this may not be uniform or indicative.

2: Pottery presence seems mainly relevant for crafts of Type B (those that need fi xed facilities).

3: The presence of facilities is only relevant in crafts of Type B. 4: The presence of tools is very relevant to crafts of both Type A and B

but needs confi rmation by other materials. 5: The materials worked are crucial in the identifi cation of any work-

shop area and half-fi nished objects, and mistakes or waste would ide-ally be present to determine a space as a workshop.

6: For a palatial permanent workshop, the proximity to the adminis-trative centre is crucial and does not manifest itself by the presence of Linear B tablets and sealings inside such workshops. However, evidence for potential workshop activities under palatial control has been suggested as a consequence of tablets found in the West-House group and the Petsas House in Mycenae and in the Cult Centre.

Tools and worked materials, including waste and debris, are the most crucial and available determining factors for Type A crafts, while for crafts of Type B, all aspects are potentially useful criteria and tend to be more conspicuous, too. Tournavitou’s workshop model is based on a single craft being represented in a specific location. This contrasts with reality, as Tour-navitou herself warns the reader; craft activities are often interwoven with each other (Brysbaert 2007; Brysbaert and Vetters 2010, 2013), and clear evidence for cross-craft interaction and the sharing of technological aspects as part of specific social practices known by artisans can be seen.

TIRYNS’S WORKSHOPS IN THE LOWER CITADEL NORTH

At Tiryns (Figure 4.3), technological activities and social practices were traced in a series of material remains, from obsidian tools to ‘exotica’ (detailed reports in Brysbaert and Vetters 2010, 2013). In the 1980s, Klaus Kilian (1984, 1988) recognised a workshop area in Tiryns Lower Cita-del North, and since 2002, Joseph Maran (2008, 2010) has continued to undertake work there. Chronologically, two distinct workshops can be dated to the final palatial (LH IIIB Final, c. 1230/25–1210/00 BCE) and one postpalatial phase (LH IIIC Developed, c. 1170/60–1150/40 BCE) 2 . Lorenz Rahmstorf (2008) has brought together a very detailed and contex-tualised study of all small finds from Tiryns, including the objects found in this workshop area.


Figure 4.3 Map of Late Bronze Age Tiryns, indicating its main features and the case study area (© Tiryns Archive, by permission of J. Maran)


Talking Shop 43

Detailed investigations through the employment of macroscopy and microscopy have revealed that in the final palatial occupation phase (ca. 1250–1200 BCE), Building XI ( Figure 4.4 ) seemed to have housed a small lapidary workshop in Room 4/02, where half-finished stone materials, such as rock crystal, lapis lacedaemonius and other stone types were found.

The working of obsidian tools, possibly to support other ongoing crafts in the same building (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010), seemed to have taken place in Room 1/02, which also contained several lead sheets with cut marks, possibly involved in the gilding practices as the support material for gold sheet shaping over uneven surfaces (see e.g. Evely 2000), and lead clamps. In Rooms 78a, 78b and just outside Building XI on the contemporary pas-sageway, several fragments of likely two faience rhyta, similar in make and decoration, were uncovered. Such objects are unique to a Mycenaean con-text and have been interpreted as being part of a Humbaba demon mask or, alternatively, as part of a monkey head (full report: Kostoula and Maran 2012). Room 78a also housed evidence for metallurgical activities; a fireplace and scraps of gold foil were found, suggesting that this may have been the place where luxury faience items were embellished with gold foil overlay rather than being produced there (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010; Kostoula

Figure 4.4 Plan of Building XI in the Lower Citadel North with indications of pas-sage ways (© Tiryns archive, adapted figure based on drawing by M. Kostoula, by permission of J. Maran)


44 Ann Brysbaert

and Maran 2012. Near Eastern and Egyptian examples are discussed in Peltenburg 1987: 20; examples from protopalatial Crete in Panagiotaki et al. 2004; and silver overlay on glass beads in Melessanaki et al. 2005).

Furthermore, an exceptional ivory rod with cuneiform writing, initially understood as a tally stick, was found in Room 78a (Cohen, Maran and Vetters 2010; Maran 2004, 2008; see also Dietrich and Loretz 2011; Trop-per and Vita 2011; and Weippert 2011 for an interpretative discussion of this find). Room 78b contained gold foil scrap, while the finds from Room 78c included a bone pin and a marble weight conforming to a Mycenaean mainland standard. These and other objects (see Brysbaert and Vetters 2010, 2013) found within this building can be categorised as finished and half-finished objects and materials, working tools, measuring elements, pot-tery vessels and waste products. No built-in facilities, such as benches, were present, but Maran (2008) found a fireplace and associated ash concentra-tions dating to the final palatial occupation phase in Room 78a.

The picture changed dramatically a generation (or two) later after the occupation of Building XI was terminated by the conflagration at the end of the palatial period, ca. 1200 BCE (details in Maran 2008). The architec-tural layout was drastically changed ( Figure 4.5 ): the sequence of rooms was

Figure 4.5 Plan of the postpalatial phase of the Lower Citadel North workshop (© Tiryns archive, adapted figure based on drawing by M. Kostoula, by permission of J. Maran)


Talking Shop 45

now replaced by an open courtyard layout. A storage bin and some clay installations were permanently fixed. The northern and eastern parts of the courtyard featured a cluster of at least three oven installations, linked to the melting of lead. Whereas the fireplace of the previous workshop phase in this area was indoors, these ovens were clearly outdoors in the later phase. Obsidian tools formed a concentration in the courtyard between the differ-ent oven installations. A second material cluster, of copper alloy fragments and lead, was located between the mudbrick installations No. 78/02 and No. 79/02, in the fill above the floor. Two spilled lead dribbles were found next to installation No. 79/02, and a piece of lead slag came to light close to the steps, which link the courtyard to the passageway on the higher terrace to the east. Small copper alloy tools and objects were also clustered at the southern entrance to the yard (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010).

ANALYSIS AND DISCUSSION

The Workshop Model Part I

Before I asses how useful the six criteria of Tournavitou’s workshop model are to classify the Tirynthian workshops, especially in terms of architecture or spaces, I will discuss some of the main aspects of the model in more general terms. In Part I of her model, Tournavitou (1988: 447) distinguishes between permanent and domestic workshops and gives definitions to support this distinction. From Tournavitou’s model, it seems that it is the specialist, the amount and quality of work they produce and whether this specialist can make a livelihood from their work that separates the two categories. While this may be a useful theoretical means of distinguishing the two workshop types, it is hardly easy to identify the two types based on the material remains, especially if we have to extract information on the amount of work executed based on the material leftovers. Just as with contemporary workshops and houses, people must have cleaned their places and were thus actively remov-ing materials from the workshop space, a common activity but often over-looked. In historical times, it seems that the apprentices in particular also used to live in the actual workshops (K. Rebay-Salisbury 2013: pers comm), which would blur the modern construct of distinguishing between domes-tic and permanent workshops. It is important to consider the role of the specialist, if indeed there was one, who may not only have employed fully trained workers but also trained apprentices. Therefore, apprentices may also have been there full-time, their livelihood depending on what they did and perhaps also on the goodwill of their masters (Άνθρωποι και Εργαλεία 2008). Can these apprentices be considered specialists? Other supportive staff may have worked in these workshops as well without being recognised as specialists; they may have fulfilled tasks that hardly left traces such as bringing water and fuel, making and sharpening tools, and sweeping floors. Moreover, how can we, based on contemporary criteria, judge whether


46 Ann Brysbaert

someone can make a livelihood out of a specialist craft activity? This aspect has not been discussed satisfyingly in the literature, although Linear B evi-dence seems to suggest that people often may have carried out several remu-nerated activities possibly even simultaneously. As the result of focusing on ‘specialists’, the distinction between domestic and permanent is presented too strongly in the model: domestic craft activities may also be undertaken full time by one or several family members and may, as such, be the main activity and source of income too. This main artisan of the family will most likely be more of a specialist in what she or he is doing than several of the younger apprentices we suggested to be potentially present in the perma-nent workshops at Tiryns (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010: 35). While a perma-nent workshop may well have a much larger turnover of production than a domestic one, an open mind towards several other possibilities that will fall in between these two categories is crucial.

One of these ‘in-between’ situations derives from another distinction made: palatial and nonpalatial workshops (Tournavitou 1988: 447). This distinction, while useful, is too restrictive, because, as we have noted in Tiryns, it does not allow for more hybrid-composed palatial workshops. Such workshops depended on the palatial administrative control for their access to metals, glass-like raw materials and any other luxurious materi-als but probably did not depend on this palatial administration to obtain their own tools, bring in water and fuel or find a quick-fix tool (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010: 33). This distinction brings the main material cycle of the workshop under analysis but leaves out other potential technological activi-ties which took place, potentially in the same space, in support of that main activity (and without which it would not have been possible). This impor-tant technological and social issue thus needs teasing out, aided strongly by thinking along multiple chaînes opératoires and their crossing nodes.

The palatial workshops are further divided according to the crafts that were represented and their location in relation to the main palace complex (Tournavitou 1988: 448). These locations are divided as follows:

A: rooms within the palace complex itself, B: workshops located just outside the palace but physically connected, C: workshops situated at a distance from the palace, in separate buildings

or installations that can therefore be diffi cult to identify and locate.

The Tiryns LH IIIB Final (c. 1250–1200 BCE) workshop in Building XI in the northernmost corner of the Lower Citadel is not closely connected to the main palace complex located in the Upper Citadel (see Figure 4.3 ), but it is, nevertheless, enclosed by the fortification walls. Its location therefore falls in between Tournavitou’s types B and C because it is located just outside the main palace complex but is not physically connected to it. The workshop is a little removed from the palace complex but was not hard to identify since there was clear evidence for a fireplace, tools, production refuse and


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half-worked items in the first phase (LH IIIB Final) and fixed installations in the form of three ovens, production waste and tools in the second (LH IIIC Developed). Our earlier study demonstrated that artisans, likely not under palatial supervision, were active there too, such as the obsidian knapper(s) who supported work (gilding faience vessels) that was under palatial con-trol; a similar conclusion for southwest Messinia can be seen in Parkinson (1997). Thus, cross-craft interaction took place under different levels of control. When Tournavitou’s division is tested against the specific Tiryns workshop context, it becomes clear that a more flexible approach is cru-cial in which the location, the architecture and spaces play important roles. The actual shaping of these spaces must have influenced ongoing commu-nication in both phases and, although multiple activities were likely being conducted there at the same time, the specific layout of this workshop area afforded certain specific movements through space. This suggests that the potential social interactions of the obsidian worker(s) in the extreme north corner of the building (Room 1/02) in the LH IIIB Final phase were far more limited than for those artisans who worked in Rooms 78b and 78c, whose connections to the Northern Gate were more direct and possibly provided an easy access to the outside (on the North Gate access, see Maran 2010).

A final division made by Tournavitou (1988: 448) was that between crafts of Type A, that do not require built-in or fixed facilities (for example bone, ivory and wood carving, stone working, spinning and weaving), and crafts of Type B that do (such as firing pots, producing faience and metal-lurgy). While this division is logical (but it is unclear whether it should also apply to nonpalatial workshops), I am not entirely convinced that craft divi-sions can be so strict since individuals may have helped out in more than one craft activity (for example, bringing water and fuel). Moreover, if Type A crafts, based on what survived (thus excluding organic fixtures), do not need fixed facilities (Tournavitou 1988: 451), this is a circular argument.

Let us investigate the case of textile production a little closer (for an excellent and detailed discussion on all steps involved in prehistoric textile production, see Barber 1991). In contrast to the mostly coarse and undeco-rated everyday textiles, there is evidence that high-quality fine linen and well-decorated textiles may have either been produced in palatial contexts or fallen under the palatial central bureaucracy (see Shelmerdine 2007: 43–44 on associations of workers with state officials and even divinities), at least in their final stages of production (but not always; see Nosch 2000: 36 on the finishing workshops delivering to the palace at Knossos). The ill-smelling murex purple production and subsequent dyeing may not have taken place at the palace premises, but if related to textiles, it may again have fallen under the central bureaucracy (Shelmerdine 2007: 44). References to dyes and decorating textiles have been made in the Linear B tablets (e.g. Killen 1984; Nosch 2004: esp. 35; Shelmerdine 2007: 42–44), luxuriously decorated textiles are iconographically documented on many Minoan and Mycenaean wall paintings in palatial and elite contexts (see the paintings


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from Akrotiri, Pseira, Knossos, Mycenae and Tiryns to name a few; see esp. Barber 1991: 394–396), and have been archaeologically attested (Barber 1991: 172). In order to dye either the textiles or the yarns (Barber 1991: 227–243; especially ‘vat dyes’ such as murex purple and indigo; Barber 1991: 235), vats, possibly combined with fixative baths with mordants, or soaking basins and water were needed; thus, certain installations would have been required alongside task divisions in dyeing activities. Such activities would cross over to other crafts which needed colouring, including wood, leather and plaster painting. Bringing water, colouring ingredients and fuel, then heating (Barber 1991: 239) and perhaps stirring the vat and basin content, followed by hanging the cloth or yarn to dry and bringing ready cloth to storage for onwards sale or yarn to workers for processing would bring even more people, in- and outdoor spaces and materials in touch at various stages of production and, to some degree, of consumption. While Tournavi-tou refers to the aspects of spinning and weaving, several Linear B scholars refer to the possibility that a lot, if not all, the work of textile produc-tion was done in villages outside the palatial confines, and possibly some of the dyeing too (e.g. Barber 1991: 239; Nosch 2004: 34, 36; Shelmerdine 2007). Equally, the tools involved in the production of wood, ivory, stone, bone and textile artefacts needed occasional replacement; thus workshops to make these often produced composite objects and people repairing tools for several workshops were probably also present.

Upon dissecting a craft, very little of the Type A and B division remains, since most crafts intersect these largely artificial boundaries. For instance, very few palatially controlled crafts of Type A could have survived without the materials and tools supply that may have come from outside the palace, possibly even outside its control, and without involving at least contact with artisans of Type B crafts. The same argument can be made for crafts of Type B. For the purpose of organising data, it may be useful to divide in these categories, as Tournavitou did in a well-founded way, but these need sub-sequent interweaving by allowing the contextual data to inform potential changes to the model.

The Workshop Model Part II

In applying the six criteria in Tournavitou’s workshop model to the two workshops in Tiryns, several difficulties were encountered, and these war-rant a detailed discussion.

Criterion 1: Tournavitou (1988: 448–449) states that the architecture and its layout are not diagnostic for workshop activities but that crafts which require the use of fire and water and access to heavy raw materials need to be on the ground floor and near open spaces. At Tiryns UB North, architectural remains with specific layouts and construction techniques were noted and differ between the earlier (LH IIIB Final) and later (LH IIIC Developed) phases for which workshop activities were attested. These


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constructed spaces do not reflect workshops in themselves—a comparison with domestic architecture is needed to see how it differs from ‘workshop’ buildings—while the fixed installations in the postpalatial phase were very definitive. In the earlier palatial workshop phase, a fireplace with associated ash deposits, including two bronze spills and glassy materials, was located in Room 78a, while a fragment of a crucible with metallic stain on its rim was found near the ‘supposed’ doorway between Room 1/02 and Room 78a. Thus, some minor pyrotechnological activities may have taken place in Room 78a (details in Brysbaert and Vetters 2010: 30–31), but artisans may not have needed to maintain prolonged and high heat in this fireplace, far from open space. The nearest open space would have only come up after having passed through three doorways, not exactly an easy exit ( Figure 4.4 ). Or, in the case of Tiryns, was it perhaps not that crucial to fix a fireplace near an open space after all?

Whereas Tournavitou (1988: 450, 459) concludes that the constructed architecture is not a very decisive factor in identifying a workshop space, this and related studies have shown, to the contrary, how crucial it is to investigate the spaces and architecture in great detail. While these spaces, the method of their construction, their layout, how they were changed over time and which materials were present may not determine the presence of a workshop, it is the set of workshop activities, both technically and socially, how these were controlled and overseen and the level through which they afforded entangled practices that define the architecture as the physical out-come of artisans’ interaction with spaces. This is demonstrated both for activities that were undertaken during the palatial phase and subsequently, when ‘regeneration’ and transformation occurred during the second phase in LH IIIC Developed, after a hiatus (see Brysbaert and Vetters 2010: 35; on regenerative powers of architecture, see Brysbaert in press-a). In both phases, access to water, fuel and raw material would have been possible via the corridor or road outside the building, leading towards the North Gate. In the second phase especially, fixed installations were present and clearly linked to metallurgical activities (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010: 31–32). Those installations were located in an open courtyard space, confirming that investigating the spaces used at the time is relevant when associating finds with the features. Integrating the architecture, step by step, moves beyond the typological work by Tournavitou, because it teases out the social implications of people working and circulating in specific places, such as workshops, on the basis of a detailed contextual analysis (see also Hasa-ki’s suggestions, 2011). Taking the architecture and the spaces formed into account lets us consider crossovers between architecture and the crafts that went on within and outside built structures.

In discussing the artisans’ multiple and dynamic social identities present in both phases, we expressed the idea (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010) that archi-tecture played an active role in ‘allowing’ for more or less social contact and control among people within and beyond the complexes. People in the later


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phase may have linked themselves to those who were active at an earlier period—some may have been fondly remembered or even blood related—via the materials (the actual stones), which they employed in remodelling the later workshop while incorporating parts of the earlier structure, therefore linking past and present: socially through memory and physically through the materials. On a practical level, the act of constructing these related spaces in the later phase was likely done with the intended work in mind. This for-ward planning, while hypothetical but realistic, demonstrates another link between turning very specific spaces into workshops, on the one hand, and people who interacted within these spaces, on the other. As the postpalatial artisans may also have been linked to earlier people through remembering social practices, this may be recognisable in the potential ritual connotations of some of the nonlocal objects present in the earlier phase. These include the ivory rod with cuneiform signs (esp. Dietrich and Loretz 2011), the faience fragments of a Humbaba demon mask (Kostoula and Maran 2012) and the locally made wall brackets in metallurgical context, connected to ritual prac-tices (Rahmstorf 2008) but also likely to have had practical usage as a lamp or incense burner. And it is this double physical and social linkage among all constituents that forms clear networks and that entangles social practices of people with materials, matter and emotions, through their skilled and sensory experiences. People who returned to this spot during the later phase may have been drawn to this place due to its technical, ritual and social con-notations, all expressed in portable and nonportable material forms.

Cooney (2009: 64) who emphasises that also unworked mundane stones, such as those involved in the makeup of these workshop walls (in contrast to partially worked and massive stones employed in the fortification walls at Tiryns and elsewhere), are actively experienced in people’s lives (see also Brysbaert in press-a). When the materials in themselves are considered, one could argue alongside Cooney (2009: 68) that stones, no matter how mun-dane, played, as matter , a mediating role between people and their envi-ronment and that these stones were the ones that facilitated the actions of constructing, thus making history through memory. This was specifically the case because engaging with these stones had significance for people in a variety of ways: as construction materials, chosen for their physical proper-ties and convenient presence in the landscape, or existing structures used for (re)building and as the elemental constituents of finished buildings, forming indoor and outdoor spaces that facilitated or restricted communication lev-els. This becomes even clearer when stones are engaged in building activi-ties that spanned multiple periods and modified the original layout. In such adaptations, walls may have been opened up into open spaces and older stone walls may have been partially incorporated in later buildings, as noted for the Tiryns Lower Citadel North workshop area. These stones made people walk around and communicate differently in this space in the later phase (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010; see also Hasaki 2011 for similar prac-tical arguments). According to Cooney (2009: 70), these ‘small acts’ (see


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Smyth 2007 for the term) of using mundane stones for several purposes may have represented short-term activities by a small group of people but may have had a potentially larger impacting effect upon the wider social rela-tions that people had at the time. This is possibly reflected in what people at Tiryns during the second phase tried to achieve by opening the workshop complex to a more open court space ( Figure 4.5 ): keeping in remembrance an earlier generation of highly skilled people working in that same location but, at the same time, indicating that tight palatial control was over after these collapsed and ‘blocking out’ memories to a hierarchical domination, now literally opened up.

In analogy with Ingold’s saw experiment (2011: 17–18, 56), I argue that the stones themselves do not contain history or memory but serve as mementos. The relation between the people who handled these stones, who stacked them on top of each other (also remaking earlier work), who made walls or took them down and remodelled the layout and the stones them-selves is asymmetrical. The stones needed these building and shaping hands, hands with previous practice in these activities, for their story to be told. As such, Ingold (2011: 56) sees a strong parallel between tool use and making and storytelling; employing and making tools refers both to the past (exten-sive) expertise that the maker has in employing them to make other items and also how, through the process of making an item, its own story is told, too. As such, acts of tool making and using create forms of communication which often bring people and places closer together. Using and reusing these stones in creating and recreating these spaces can therefore be understood in a similar way.

Criterion 2: Tournavitou (1988: 450–451, 459) mentions that ceramic vessels seem to be present in both Type A and B crafts but that such vessels are more characteristic and indicative of Type B workshops and are also directly related to the actual Type B craft activities. She mentions that large, closed-type storage vessels form the major ceramic type found in such work-shops (Tournavitou 1988: 450). At the Tiryns workshops, where the evi-dence seems to suggest Type B crafts, ceramic containers were present and several were related to the activities conducted within the workshop, such as crucibles and wall brackets, the latter probably having both a practical and a ritual usage. While pottery seems useful mainly for the identification of type B crafts, I suggest that type A crafts may have needed the use of con-tainers of different shapes as well. Considering multiple chaînes opératoires illustrates that vessels used to bring in water and oil, containers for fuel, paints and glues, vessels for personal use (in both types A and B crafts), ves-sels employed to store specific raw and half-finished materials, maybe even to store finished objects before they were taken out of the workshop, were needed in all crafts. Moreover, containers of nonceramic material may have been employed in both types of crafts, too: metal containers (often recycled for their metal), wooden cutouts, baskets woven of reeds, leaves or twigs, leather and skin containers, and textile bags (often not preserved). What


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are now invisible organic materials, such as water and fuel, were required in many crafts.

I also suggest considering the study of lithics and ceramics as an additional pathway to investigating workshop activities in more detail, as it is likely that both find categories would cross over into other types of crafts. One could argue that lithics fall under the category of tools (see criterion 4), but so do ceramics when employed as a ladle, tuyere or kiln test piece. At the Tiryns LH IIIB Final phase, the evidence also showed that the semi-raw material for making obsidian tools was brought into the workshop rather than just the finished tools, thus further blurring Tournavitou’s six criteria.

Criterion 3: fixed facilities, in the shape of clay oven structures, were attested at Tiryns’s LH IIIC Developed workshop and seem to have been used for craft activities rather than food processing since multiple sources of evidence point to such an interpretation. As discussed, their location in the work space does not always seem to fit with ideas expressed in the Tournavitou workshop model. Equally, that fixed facilities are only rele-vant for Type B crafts (Tournavitou 1988: 459) is, in my view, open to further scrutiny. Activities generated by Type B crafts obviously left inor-ganic remains of installations, but what about fixed installations such as wooden workbenches in the form of semi-transportable tabletops and looms for weaving? The Linear B tablets seem to suggest that weaving as part of the palatially controlled textile production activities was carried out in the palatial territories in the villages outside the strict palace complex and that the finished woven cloth then arrived at the palace for final deco-ration and refinement. Such further refined work could have consisted of embroidery, beading, adding tassels and other items to the edges of the cloth and the more complex weaving of finely patterned cloth (for more details, see chapter 15 of Barber 1991). Loom weights have been found in palatial complexes, but so far, no real sets of loom weights have been found together in a secure context that would allow the identification of an upright loom within the palace premises. The situation at Tiryns is no exception (Rahm-storf 2008: 53). However, having noticed several vertical loom installa-tions in outside spaces under rooftops or against and fixed inside the outer mudbrick walls of houses in ethnographic contexts from Africa and India ( Figure 4.6 ), reconsidering the locations of such installations and their por-tability in archaeological contexts may be useful. Moreover, some portable items may become a fixed workshop installation in secondary use contexts, such as the Aeginetan cooking pot sunk in the floor of Room 210 of the LH IIIB Middle Building at Tiryns, likely reused in metallurgical activities (see Brysbaert and Vetters 2013).

One may also wonder whether the sets of weights all really need to have the same weight, to be made of the same materials and to be the same throughout the entire loom. As a simple Web-based search for images on loom weights indicated, ethnographic evidence make clear again that any-thing could have been used to weigh down the warp threads: unworked and


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Figure 4.6 Wooden loom constructed on a house rooftop (North Africa, c. 1943) whereby its wooden beams are stuck into the mudbrick and plaster of the wall of the house (indicated by arrows, after: www.flickr.com/photos/gbaku/3658559236/)

worked stones, ceramic shapes, and reused objects such as pieces of wood, scrap metal, roots and twigs. It is conceivable that the weights on the sel-vedges needed to be heavier in order to ascertain two straight rather than convex selvedges. While conclusions should not be based upon evidence ex silentio, cross-craft thinking aids in pointing out more crossover nodes among people, their practices and performances and their interactions with materials and spaces.


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Criterion 4: the nature of tools (types, variety and number) and their presence depends, according to Tournavitou (1988: 451–452, 459), on the craft conducted and the conditions under which the site was abandoned, whether hastily or otherwise. Tournavitou suggested that more tools are needed for metallurgy and pottery than for some other crafts, such as the first stages of wool production. She also correctly pointed out that tool presence is vital for all crafts but that preservation of tools made of organic materials plays a role in what is recovered during excavation. We only need to consider, for instance, tools that originally had a metal blade and a wooden handle to understand the preservation issues involved in moderate Mediterranean climates. Tools may have been used for several purposes, thus crossing crafts (see Evely 1988: 409). This can make the identification of a craft more difficult if only partial tool sets are preserved or present or if similar or identical tools were found in different workshops. Moreover, human ingenuity seems to have no boundaries in trying a different, often ad hoc tool to get the job done so that several tools may be applied for the same effect (Evely 1997: 463). We only need to think about the different items we tend to use as screwdrivers if we do not have a proper one to hand. This fits very well with the presence of some of the more expedient tools found at the Tiryns workshops, for which uses and users could have varied each time. As Evely suggested, closer work with traditional artisans and the reproduction of craftwork through experimentation is crucial to our learning about different materials and what can be achieved with them. Moreover, Ingold (2011: 51–62), who carried out several craft tasks and described them in great detail, indicated that movements and actions with the same tool that would be considered repetitive to the outsider are, in the hands of the executor, a dynamic flow of actions that change as movements are made; the tool fulfils different roles throughout the entire job and makes the executor change position (see also Høgseth 2012: 102–103). Moreover, the changing position or the movement of the executor may be detected through careful study of preserved tool marks (Høgseth 2012: 100). This is a clear example of how interlinked people (e.g. the carpenter), materials and objects (the saw and wooden plank) and spaces (workspace needed in which the carpenter needs to adjust his or her position) all dynamically form but also restrict each other.

Criterion 5: the worked materials, raw materials which indicate the type of craft conducted, half-finished objects, wastes and finished objects were all, to some degree, present at the Tiryns workshops (see Brysbaert and Vetters 2010, 2013). Even raw materials, such as the lapis lacedaemonius fragments (considered to be a second-rate criterion due to their preserva-tion conditions, their presence in actual workshop spaces and their scar-city; Tournavitou 1988: 452), were attested for, especially in the earlier Tiryns workshop, where an exhausted obsidian core was found in Room 1/02 (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010: 30). Half-finished materials may be rare, but when they are found, they are decisive when combined with other


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evidence, because they indicate active working processes in action. Several half-worked materials were found in both phases, as shown. Evidence of waste, one of the strongest criteria (Tournavitou 1988: 452–453), was pres-ent in the form of slag bits, scraps of gold foil and obsidian waste. Finished objects are, as a last subgroup, not considered very useful as indicators for workshop activities (Tournavitou 1988: 454) since stacks of finished items may have been moved to storage spaces so that the workshop would be ready and spacious enough again for new production activities. In addition, several tools, including the obsidian ones that were used in the craft activi-ties taking place in this space, are actually finished objects, too, and, in the specific case of the obsidian tools in Room 1/02, were probably even pro-duced within this workshop. For this reason, we may need to reconsider the importance of finished objects and look at a workshop not just as the space where a single craft was carried out but, as suggested here, as a hive full of activities, where people, materials, knowledge, tools, installations and their spaces seemed to have crossed over regularly and where partial steps of sev-eral material chaînes opératoires were represented.

Criterion 6: how the palatial workshops were linked to the administra-tive centre has been determined by Tournavitou in terms of their position and distance to the palatial centre and its resources and the presence of Linear B tablets and sealings. Before looking in detail at the Tiryns case, I consider it equally crucial to investigate the configuration of the spaces per se within and around the workshop complex, and not just for the palatial period, as is the focus of Tournavitou’s article, but also beyond. It is the diachronic treatment of spaces by past people that constructs the histories that are formed and are written down.

The location of Tiryns’s Lower Citadel North workshop area is confined within the walled premises of the Lower Citadel and thus controlled by the palace in its earlier phase. The equation of ‘walled premises’ and ‘pala-tial control’ can be deduced from the range of activities that would have required a strongly centralised authority that had (1) a long-term vision for planning, (2) the economic and political capabilities to mobilise (pos-sibly through agents) huge workforces to set up and execute this massive construction project (see Brysbaert 2013b, in press-b) and (3) ownership of the land on which these walls could be built to start with. At Tiryns, the palatial workshops under study were physically firmly situated within the walled confines and were, as such, socially situated under palatial author-ity. Even the room openings and connections located in between and on the street leading to the North Gate hint at strict access and restriction strategies of the workshop by the palace administration. The later workshop was still within the walls, but the room divisions had opened up, suggesting a freer level of movement between people within and towards outside open spaces as explained earlier. From the early phase, no tablets were present, but an ivory rod with cuneiform writing, initially understood as a tally stick, was found in this area, indicating a close link to a centralised authority attracting


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foreign craftspeople (Cohen, Maran and Vetters 2010). Recently, the use of this find has been seen in the light of rhabdomantic practices (Dietrich and Loretz 2011; Tropper and Vita 2011; Weippert 2011). Specialised foreign artisans may have arrived as gifts (Kostoula and Maran 2012) and may have been acquainted with this enigmatic ivory rod. The importance of a marble weight in this discussion has been pointed out elsewhere (Brysbaert and Vet-ters 2010: 33). One or two generations later, a small clay ball with Cypro-Minoan signs found in the postpalatial phase of the workshop area at Tiryns indicates a script of foreign origin in an Aegean context and was most likely connected to metallurgical activities present in the workshop (Vetters 2011). This find indicates either the presence of Cypriot artisans themselves or peo-ple who knew Cypriot lifestyles well enough to have adopted them (Vetters 2011). Whether there is a link among this clay ball, metallurgical activities and the Cypro-Minoan signs in this later phase, on the one hand and, on the other, among the locally made wall brackets, metallurgical activities and Cypro-Minoan signs on vessels of the earlier phase remains to be seen. The ritual connotation to some of the finds from the earlier period may have provided an additional reason for later groups of artisans to go back there.

CONCLUSIONS

For this chapter, I employed a multiple chaînes opératoires and cross-craft interaction framework to demonstrate through studying the material remains of two workshop contexts at Tiryns that people’s interactions within these workshops, with each other and with their surroundings allowed for the exchange and sharing of knowledge, practices, tools and techniques. Both workshops included portable materials, objects and nonportable elements and architectural features; the various production activities that took place there were, to various degrees, choreographed by the spatial and temporal conditions. I demonstrated that not only materials and objects, the portable evidence, are useful in approaching workshop contexts but that the active spaces that are part and parcel of human-object-space networks play an equally important role in these practical, technical and social entanglements in these contexts. Existing workshop models may be useful as a first step to investigate the different categories of materials attested in workshop envi-ronments, as long as they are understood as a starting tool only, not as a set of prescribed boundaries that confines the evidence. Each context will dic-tate the need for a flexible adaptation of such a model in each of its already existing criteria and by encouraging new ones to be added, as the Tiryns workshops illustrated so well.

This chapter investigated materials and spaces which may have formed the bases for practical, social and religious knowledge networks present in the multicraft Tirynthian workshops over time. It demonstrated that people, materials, objects, changing spaces in- and outside and active and dynamic


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interactions among each and all of these played substantial roles in the con-struction and the collapse of such networks and the regeneration of some of these in later periods of occupation of the same spaces.

The material from Tiryns showed that the study of architecture is very relevant as part of the social physicality of the artisans’ environment to assess workshop contexts (contra Tournavitou), especially since the spaces created by people, their architecture, materials (stones, wood) and matter (air, dust and so on) are no mere backdrops where things happen (and thus taken for granted). Instead, work spaces are active participants in the dynamic social practices that went on there over periods of time and may thus also dictate what was possibly executed there. The changing dynamic taskscape of the workshop area at Tiryns Lower Citadel North indicates how useful it can be to investigate the architecture and the indoor and outdoor spaces and how they relate to each other and the people who created them and were created through them. Furthermore, the multiple roles of people and materials in workshop environments derive from interpretations of their material remains. People create, recreate, affirm and reject multiple identities based upon a wide variety of social and technological factors; an important factor is what they do for a living on a day-to-day basis through interaction with multiple materi-als and how they feel about these (see Brysbaert 2008). Through the investi-gation of multiple crafts and their interactions within multicraft workshops and beyond, we may come to a better understanding of how materials were related to each other in any of the steps of the chaînes opératoires , how these materials related to people and therefore how people related to each other and their material surroundings, including their architecture and space interfaces.

In final palatial times, we visualise the closed workshop of specialists, supported by a nondocumented group of helping hands, many (at least the specialists) controlled by the palace, active in one structure but well partitioned from each other. After a gap of one (or two) generations, the architecture was opened up, possibly allowing more contact among artisans who were, by then, relieved from control by the palace. The same architec-tural locale was evidently important enough for the latter group to (re)turn to, possibly because it triggered memories of artisanal work done before; maybe certain kin ties were still present or the original palatial leases of the workshop plots in this northern tip of the Lower Citadel brought descen-dants back there. Linear B tablets do not (yet) provide insights about owner-ship or lease agreements between the palace and employees of plots within the palatial confines, where we may at least assume that the wanax, the Mycenaean king or the palace as institution was ‘owner’ (Stavrianopoulou, pers. comm., 2012). Certainly, the fixed facilities and equipment employed in the earlier phase were not the reason craftspeople came back, since those were never reused. Instead, they were replaced by new installations that integrated parts of some older walls and, as such, these spaces were inviting for use again. These newcomers may have even had ritual practices similar to those of their predecessors in relation to their craft activities.


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Therefore, the importance of the spatial and architectural study lies in the investigation of the physical remains indicating real workshop activities but equally of the social remains, materialised and regenerated memories, nodes of connections and all their implications. For this reason, material studies of spaces and architecture of workshop areas, even if craft installations and features are no longer present, are indeed worthwhile, as they allow social insights into artisans’ lives and their dynamic networks of conduct when unravelled case by case.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Part of this chapter was presented at the ‘Mycenaeans-Up-to-Date’ confer-ence, Athens, November 2010, while this presents the full study. This chap-ter was written while I held a Senior Alexander von Humboldt Research Fellowship at the University of Heidelberg, Germany. Professor J. Maran is warmly thanked for many years of support towards my work, for facilitat-ing a wonderful work environment in Heidelberg and for many inspiring discussions, including over the content of this chapter. I thank Dr. Melissa Vetters for constructive comments on this text and Professor E. Stavri-anopoulou for discussing aspects of ‘ownership’ of land plots, both within the palace confines and beyond. This chapter presents data and thoughts formed during the 5-year funded project ‘Tracing Networks. Craft tradi-tions in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond’ funded by a Leverhulme Trust Research Grant (2008–2013).

NOTES

1. For more information on the project and its outcomes, see http://tracingnetworks.ac.uk/content/web/cross_craft_interaction.jsp, last accessed 17 May 2014.

2. Earlier finds from this location, dating to the LH IIIB Early/Middle phase, are discussed in terms of their workshop potential in Brysbaert and Vetters 2013 and in Brysbaert 2013a.

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Temporality, Materiality and Women’s Networks The Production and Manufacture of Loom Weights in the Greek and Indigenous Communities of Southern Italy

Alessandro Quercia and Lin Foxhall

5

Textile production is one of the oldest craft activities practised in the Mediterranean and beyond since the Neolithic period (Barber 1991). Archaeological evidence, as well as iconographic representations and textual sources, shows how most of the different activities consistent with textile production, primarily spinning and weaving, were prevalently associated with women in many ancient societies (Gleba 2009: 69). Despite the poten-tial of this body of information, archaeological research has rarely focused on textile activities and their accompanying equipment (but see Alfaro et al. 2011; Andersson Strand et al. 2010; Gillis and Nosch 2007; Gleba 2008; Gleba and Mannering 2012; also Burke 2010 with full references for the Aegean area). In particular, the tools for textile activities are quite neglected in the archaeological literature, since they have rarely been the subject of carefully analysis and study, although they provide fundamental informa-tion about textile production. Only recently have specific studies focus-ing on spindle whorls, bobbins and loom weights highlighted the role they played in the different stages of the textile chaîne opératoire and the clues they provide for a better understanding of craft and cultural aspects of the ancient societies and communities (Gleba 2009; Sofroniew 2011).

Our specific research project within the Tracing Networks programme 1 investigates the production and manufacture of the loom weights, which were the tools specifically used for weaving in the ancient Mediterranean, with particular focus on Pre-Roman south Italy and Greece. Their system-atic study in association with the contexts of provenance (houses, burial areas, kilns and sanctuaries) allows us to focus on the following aims:

• to increase our knowledge of technologies of textile production and weaving on the warp weighted loom,

• to better understand the manufacturing processes and life histories of loom weights and other items of weaving equipment, which are far more complex than has generally been recognised and


Temporality, Materiality and Women’s Networks 63

• to reveal clues of sociocultural relationships and emotional ties, as well as personal, familial and group identities—in essence tracing networks of women.

In particular, the study of loom weights not only brings new knowledge about their technological and functional aspects but also allows us to cap-ture some aspects apparently less evident in the archaeological evidence, such as material and emotional ties, which are fundamental in understand-ing the nature of contacts and relationships between individuals and social groups in antiquity. In this regard, recent literature (e.g. Miller 2005; Tilley 2004) has stressed the notion of materiality, the ways in which material objects become imbued with meaning and entangled in human activities and social relationships. In this way, objects can become charged with emotion in their own right, as well as being manifestations of emotionally signifi-cant relationships linking individuals and groups. It has been highlighted (Foxhall 2012: 184–186) how materiality might allow us to see emotion in the past and how emotional and affective attachments might be mani-fested in material objects, such as loom weights. Also, the tools themselves become a deeply embedded part of the profound emotional engagement among women through textile manufacture and literally come to show the marks of these relationships. Since there is strong evidence from written and iconographic sources, as well as from archaeological data (in particular see Gleba 2008: 24–37) to suggest that textile working was mostly an activity of (and associated with) women in the Classical Greek and indigenous Italic worlds, loom weights most likely tell us specifically about women’s activi-ties and relationships.

In this chapter we investigate the interactions that existed between the traditions of making and using loom weights in Greek and indigenous cul-tures located in southern Italy. Specifically, we will focus on Lucania ( Fig-ure 5.1 ), which represents a paradigmatic example of intense and deep contacts between the Greeks, who established colonies on the Ionian coast, and the inland indigenous communities, starting from the Iron Age (9th cen-tury BC) until the 3rd century BC, when the region came under the political and cultural influence of Rome (see also Quercia and Foxhall 2012).

According to Strabo (6.1.4, 255), the ancient region of Lucania was much bigger than modern Basilicata, since it was located between the southern coastal district of Campania, bordered by the Sele river to the north, the northern part of modern Calabria to the west, Apulia to the east and the Ionian coast to the south. However, the definition of this region was not stable, since some sites could be referred to as both Lucanian and Apulian, and a sharp distinction of the cultural boundaries in such an area is historically and culturally incorrect (Isayev 2007: 3). In fact, economic and cultural contacts and interactions between the various communities led to more articulated and shifting relationships and to the phenomenon of hybridisation, which were reflected in many aspects of material culture.


64 Alessandro Quercia and Lin Foxhall

Angela Pontrandolfo Greco (1982: 154–157, 163–164) and Elena Isayev (2007: 9–25, 60) highlighted how archaeological evidence, primarily burial rites, appears to show that Lucanian indigenous communities were quite varied and consisted of a series of ‘ethnically’ different groups occupying different territorial districts. Only in the later phases, after the end of the 5th century BC, can we observe more structured and coherent communi-ties, which are traditionally recognised in the ‘ethnic’ entity of the Lucani-ans from Central Italy. The ‘Lucanians’ were actually the result of a long and multilayered process of transforming different local groups, in which the component from Central Italy was only one element alongside the Iron Age communities already established in the territory, for instance the Oenotrians and Choni cited by the ancient literary sources (Pontrandolfo Greco 1982: 7–19).

Figure 5.1 Lucania, map of ancient sites (after Isayev 2007: fig. 2, reproduced by permission)



The following key research questions will be covered in this chapter:

• Which morphological and technological features, including decora-tion, help us to understand networks, social links and aspects of per-sonal possession and identity linking women over space and time?

• What might loom weights tell us about technological knowledge and how was it transmitted?

• Can we detect selective and mutual forms of adoption and ‘resistance’ to alien cultural practices and objects between indigenous and Greek communities?

As in the greater part of southern Italy, loom weights and spindle whorls are indicators of textile production best documented in archaeological con-texts of Pre-Roman Lucania, with few changes in morphology from the Bronze Age onwards. In Lucania, only a limited number of types are attested among the loom weights: the pyramidal type is clearly predominant from the first millennium, while conical and disc shapes, documented in smaller quantities, occur in later phases. Even if numerically small, pinched and rectangular types seem specific to the indigenous communities of southern Italy, although the pinched form is also attested in Greek towns, such as Metaponto and Locri. The almost exclusive presence of rectangular loom weights in Lucanian contexts of the 7th and 6th centuries BC (for instance from a grave from Alianello-Caiazzola, tomb no. 309; Bianco 1996: 155–157) which show parallels with objects found in Apulia and Campania (from Cavallino, near Lecce, Pancrazzi 1979: 191, pl. 74, nos. 2, 9–12; from Oliveto Citra, along the Sele River, D’Agostino 1964: 56, fig. 13) can sug-gest that this type was used primarily in non-Greek sites during this phase (Gleba 2008: 132–133).

Loom weights were therefore widely used in textile working by the Iron Age indigenous communities of the Lucanian area long before the arrival of the Greeks (Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 369–371). In particular, they occurred in female graves belonging to high-ranking elites, dating to the 9th and 8th centuries BC, and are often associated with spindle whorls (Gleba 2008: 171–172). It is notable that male and female elite graves were gener-ally even more strongly and clearly gendered in this culture than in the Greek world. Examples include the necropolis of San Teodoro and Incoronata, located along the Basento river valley in what later became the countryside surrounding the Greek town of Metaponto. A limited number of decorated and undecorated pyramidal loom weights from a few tombs are dated mainly to between the end of the 9th and the beginning of the 8th centuries BC (Chi-artano 1994: 73, 176–177; tomb no. 209, 199, tomb no. 235, 200–201; no. tomb 255; 1996: 32, tomb no. 462). These tombs were most likely graves of women of high social ranks, as the richness of the burial goods, includ-ing metal ornaments, clearly attests (for example Chiartano 1977: 112–113; tomb no. 112 and 116–120, no. tomb 117; 1994: 73). The decorated loom



weights are characterised by larger specimens but in smaller quantities than the undecorated ones; only 21 of the total of 66 loom weights are decorated, have pseudo meander motifs, parallel lines engraved on the borders, concentric triangles and zigzag lines (Chiartano 1977: 70; 1994: 73). They recall similar but not identical decorative patterns also known from other Oenotrian sites, especially in Calabria, such as Francavilla Marittima and Torre Galli (Gleba 2008: 136–137, fig. 94e). Moreover, similar decorations are documented on loom weights from other settle-ments located on the hills facing the Ionian coast, such as Valle Sorigliano near Santa Maria d’Anglona. There, some female tombs of the 8th century BC necropolis yielded few loom weights—between three and a maximum of eight specimens per tomb. A decoration representing a stylised animal (a deer?) carved on one object (Frey 1991: 20, pl. 3.6) has close parallels to the motifs from the contemporary ‘House of Weavers’, a ritual building unearthed on the Acropolis of Francavilla Marittima (Kleibrink 2006). It is noteworthy that all these decorative motifs documented on the loom weights from the 9th to the 8th century BC in this part of southern Italy do not seem have been ‘personalised’ in the same way as later objects, as we shall see.

From the late 8th to the early 7th century BC, the area of Incoronata was further occupied by a settlement of still unclear nature, although recent research seems to consider it a ‘mixed’ settlement in which Greek and local populations coexisted (Carter 2006: 55–78). Among the material found in the various domestic areas of the settlement, a relatively low presence of pyramidal loom weights associated with a major number of spindle whorls and bobbins (Franchi 1986) led the scholars to assume that the spinning activity was more developed than weaving. The decorated type that charac-terised the graves of the earlier settlement is no longer attested in the newer settlement. The settlement of Incoronata was abandoned shortly before the settlement of the Greek colony of Metaponto on the Ionian coast in the second half of the 7th century BC; Metaponto was one of the most impor-tant and archaeologically most prosperous south Italian Greek colonies (Carter 2006: 51–90, 195–253). Unfortunately, the meagre data available, as well the lack of archaeometric analysis, provide very little information to determine whether the contacts and relations with the newcomers brought changes in the production and manufacture of loom weights in indigenous communities. Nevertheless, production of loom weights occurred in the urban quarter (the kerameikos ) from its beginnings in the second half of the 6th century BC; this production intensified in the later phases of the kera-meikos , especially in the 4th century BC (Silvestrelli, forthcoming ).

Manufacture of pyramidal loom weights is also occasionally recorded for the Archaic period in some indigenous settlements near the territory controlled by Metaponto, for example in Pisticci in the first half of the 7th century BC (Lo Porto 1973: 156) and in Montescaglioso in the 6th century BC. In this latter site, the workshop produced local matt painted pottery,



imitations of ‘Ionian B2 type’ cups, as well as loom weights in the 6th cen-tury BC (Lo Porto 1988–1989: 384–393) 2 . Archaic examples are sporadi-cally attested in another village near Metaponto, Cozzo Presepe, from a context with spindle whorls (du Plat Taylor, Macnamara and Ward Perkins 1983: 381–383).

Even though these scanty data do not represent enough evidence to securely identify a drastic change in the production and distribution of loom weights after the arrival of the Greek settlers, careful analysis of a context recently discovered in inland Lucania sheds light on rapid processes of change which affected not only the manufacturing of the tools but also the technology of weaving. Variations in technology and craft involved the dominant elites of the local communities, most likely by means of cultural contacts and exchanges with the Greek communities inhabiting the Ionian coast. The indigenous centre of Torre di Satriano, located in inland Luca-nia, is a paradigmatic case. The site is situated on a strategic hill between the Basento and Agri river valleys, which in antiquity represented the main routes of communication between the Ionian coast and the Lucanian inland. Its dominant position led the settlement of Torre di Satriano to control a rich and fertile landscape exploited for agriculture, forestry and animal husbandry, as well as serving as a key area for economic, cross-cultural and craft interactions. Recent intensive survey and systematic excavations (Osanna 2009, 2012) have shown how, from the Bronze Age, this landscape was dotted by a polycentric system of small, close settlements based on communities most likely connected by kinship. This polycentric structure was, over time, affected by shifts in the distribution and power relations of the dominant families which controlled the territory. In fact, two residences not so distant in chronological and topographical terms which belonged to familial groups of high social rank provided remarkably different pictures of the weaving activities practiced there. A limited assemblage of loom weights and spindle whorls was discovered in a large apsidal building (22 m × 12 m) dating from the end of the 7th century BC until 570 to 560 BC, when the structure was destroyed. About 31 loom weights and 21 spindle whorls were found in the apsidal building, most of them in the central room, in association with a probable loom located in a loft (Lanza 2009). The loom weights are of two main types: the rectangular type with one or two holes is represented by a few specimens, while the pyramidal type is more frequent. All the loom weights are manufactured in impasto ware (coarse fabric) and they are not uniform in shape, size and weights; their weight sometimes exceeds 1 kg and their very large holes (up to 1 cm in diameter) were likely adapted for thick threads and coarse textile fabrics.

As already observed for the sites of Incoronata and Santa Maria d’Anglona and unlike what occurred in the later building at Satriano (discussed later), the two main activities of textile manufacture, spinning and weaving, were also practiced together in this apsidal building. This picture followed the pattern of ‘single process’ that characterised the production of textiles in



Italy for the earliest phases, when textiles activities seem to have been con-centrated in the same spaces without any evident spatial segregation (Gleba 2009: 72). Furthermore, textile production continues to be characterised as an activity closely linked to the dominant elites; the apsidal residence in question probably belonged to a person of high rank and his family, and it assembled political and religious activities and functions in one place. Ceramic forms related to communal wine consumption are attested, such as the presence of prestigious matt painted wares with organic residues of grapes (Osanna 2009: 308). The central room was dedicated to the activi-ties of women belonging to the same dominant family, as the presence of the loom, a big hearth and some cooking stands shows.

Roughly at the time of destruction of the earlier building, a new elite resi-dence was built not far away (Osanna 2012: 273–296). This building had a short use-life and collapsed at about 480 BC, most likely because of an earthquake. The residence shows nonlocal architectural features and mate-rial culture radically different from the earlier structure. It was a rectangu-lar building divided in to two main rooms which faced a portico; the roof consisted of terracotta tiles and the building was decorated with a terracotta frieze of Greek style. The slabs of this roof revetment were made of local clay by using moulds, as the archaeometrical analysis confirmed. However, the excavators assumed that these slabs were likely produced by nonlocal crafts-men, since Greek letters in Laconian dialect were carved on the back of them. The finds, too, documented the high rank of the family, probably belonging to a dominant group which lived and operated in this building. There were many bronze vessels and pieces of pottery imported from Attica and western Greek colonies, mainly associated with practices of communal wine consumption.

Along with the other artefacts, at least two huge clusters of loom weights, totalling nearly 400 objects, were discovered. One concentration discovered parallel to the wall of the portico was two metres long and included almost 285 pyramidal loom weights (Lanza 2012 3 ), while another set of 108 loom weights was found in the corner of one of the two rooms. In the latter case, the concentration of the items spread out as a strip of 1.70 metres long which ran perpendicular to the wall.

We can conclude that at least three looms were in active use in the por-tico area and enough loom weights for a fourth were in storage in the adja-cent room. Such an impressive number of loom weights in a single context does not find a parallel in southern Italy and Lucania and compares with few archaeological contexts of the Mediterranean. The ‘House of Olynthus’ yielded two sets of loom weights, 247 in the pastas (i.e. the porch) and 50 in one of the rooms; it was interpreted as a textile workshop (Cahill 2002: 174, 250–252). A building in Gordion yielded a total of 2,300 loom weights distributed in assemblages of up to 742 objects, alongside several spindle whorls (Burke 2010: 124–153); the building was interpreted as a factory that produced textiles under the direct control of the nearby palace complex in the 8th century BC. These examples of similar sites illustrate that weaving



might have also been one of the main activities of the inhabitants in the elite residence at Satriano. The three active looms imply the presence of at least 30 women spending much of their time doing textile work.

The loom weights found in this residence are strikingly different from those of the previous building since they are characterised by uniformity and standardisation in shape, size and weight 4 , as well as in manufacturing tech-niques. These loom weights are also made of much finer clay, and they are much lighter in weight. As documented by Margarita Gleba (2008: 169–171, 2009), for Archaic Central Italy, these elements can suggest an increase in the scale of specialisation of the textile production, with a sharp distinction among the different processes and stages of that activity. Unlike in the earlier apsidal building, the rectangular residence yielded few spindle whorls.

These profound changes over the 50-year time span between the two residences could reflect wider social and economic shifts in the communities and groups which lived in the area of Satriano, such as the emergence of a new group among the dominant elites that occupied the new residence and controlled the neighbouring community. Unlike the group which ruled the earlier apsidal building, this new group stood out for its privileged relations and its complex social networks which it developed with the Greek colo-nies. The adoption and acquisition of new, highly specialised weaving tradi-tions and techniques most likely occurred through the exchange of ideas and the learning of different practices among women and suggests the presence of women from these Greek coastal communities in Satriano, whether as slaves, marriage partners or both or in some other capacity. More evidence shows how Greek craftsmen probably played an active role in the con-struction of the rectangular residence. In fact, it was assumed that itinerant craftspeople of Tarantine origin produced the slabs of the figurative frieze with inscriptions in Laconian dialect, bringing their own moulds and using them on local clay (Osanna 2012: 277–279). It cannot be ruled out that some weavers from Taranto or from its neighbouring areas, perhaps related with the ceramic craftsmen across kinship, operated somewhat in the rect-angular residence and transmitted their craft skills to the women who lived there. The role of Tarantine craftsmanship in textile manufacture and in the production of the relevant tools also opens up interesting questions as to whether Taranto was the main Greek centre with which the group living in the rectangular residence of Satriano established relations. The textiles woven in the rectangular residence at Satriano were probably of high qual-ity, and they could resemble precious ceremonial clothes and garments, such as the mantles discovered in the Tomba del Trono at Verucchio, in Central Italy (Gleba 2008: 28–29, 48–50). These garments were a status symbol not only for the privileged members of the local communities who wore them but also for the craftspeople who produced them. The twill fabrics required a large number of production steps and therefore a higher number of loom weights, made from finer materials and more specialised technologies that were the exclusive prerogative of the female members of aristocratic groups.



From the late 6th century BC, the Greek settlements in Lucania, as in the rest of the Greek world, seem to acquire the habit of ‘personalising’ loom weights by marking them in some way: the ‘fashion’ of stamping decora-tions on loom weights peaked between the mid-5th and the 4th centuries BC and was soon taken up by the south Italian indigenous communities. The decorations were made by impressing personal objects and ornaments into the clay before firing. Stamps include carved gems set in finger rings, per-sonal seals, metal objects and ornaments used for dressing (fibulae, earrings) and body care (tweezers). It has already been pointed out (Foxhall 2011: 545–547, 2012: 201–205, 2013; Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 371–372) that these marks indicated personal possession. They were impressions of objects probably belonging to the owners of the loom weight, most likely women, and impressed into the clay before it was fully dry. The loom weights, there-fore, have not only a practical and technological function in textile manu-facture but also appear to have been valued as personal objects. Their use and movement probably reflect familial and group identities and relation-ships; in fact, this could suggest that women owned these particular loom weights as their personal property, and they identified closely with the tools of their trade. Specific loom weights may thus have become material mani-festations of personal identity and, to some extent, ‘fashion items’ (Foxhall 2011: 539). Moreover, the intimate relationship between these tools and their owners draws attention to the role the women played in the manufac-ture and the production of the loom weights; if we assume that the women personally provided the objects to be impressed in the loom weights, it would be likely that they also participated actively in the chaîne opératoire of loom weight production. Unfortunately, at the moment, the available archaeological and literary evidence does not allow us to specify the spe-cific roles of women in production; they could just have chosen the objects and given them to the potter to mark the loom weights. Alternatively, it is possible that they played a more active role in moulding, impressing and firing loom weights. Ethnographic studies of Berber pottery manufacture in modern North Africa (Peacock 1982: 24–27), for example, suggest women themselves worked in and led domestic production.

A wide repertoire of impressions and marks by personal objects has been documented on loom weights from Metaponto. One of the most distinc-tive features of this settlement is the presence of an extensive countryside ( chora ) of about 27.2 km 2 . The chora has been the subject of a long-stand-ing and multidisciplinary programme of intensive survey and excavation by the Institute of Classical Archaeology of the University of Texas at Aus-tin (Carter and Prieto 2011). Among the huge quantity of artefacts discov-ered in the countryside, the loom weights represent a significant aspect of the Metapontine material culture; they consisted of a conspicuous group of loom weights coming from many different sites, especially domestic residences and farmhouses, but also from sanctuaries and, in far smaller quantities, from graves. Their careful analysis, focusing on technological,



morphological and decorative aspects, has provided information about the networks of women resident in the landscape and their personal and famil-ial identities (Foxhall 2011, 2012: 199–206, 2013).

A significant number of loom weights found in the countryside of Metaponto (Foxhall 2011: 452, 2012: 201–205), as well as in the city (Adamesteanu 1980: 58–62, 106; D’Andria 1980: 443; Liseno 2004: 67–68; Lo Porto 1966: 153, pls 4–5), carry decoration. The decorative repertoire includes four categories: (a) impressions of finger rings, gems and personal ornaments; (b) inscriptions of letters and names; (c) lines and geometric motifs; (d) relief decorations with floral or figurative motifs.

The first category is most often attested in the chora. The oval and circu-lar impressions deriving from gems and seals show an abundant and varied repertoire of figurative motifs: male and female figures in various postures, athletes, gods, satyrs, maenads, animals, mythological beings, stars, objects such as vases or wheels and floral elements such as rosettes. It does not seem accidental that two identical impressions rarely appear in the Metapontine repertoire, since they derived from different gems and different owners. In some instances, finger rings or gemstones could remain in circulation for generations, as is suggested for the stamp impressed on a 4th-century BC disc loom weight (Foxhall 2011: 546, no. 27) that represents a deity with a crown of rays between two horses in profile ( Figure 5.2 ). This stamp is much older than the object bearing it and it could be dated to the 6th century BC. It is

Figure 5.2 A heritage stamp on a 4th-century BC loom weight from the Metaponto survey (309-L6, after Foxhall 2012: 205, fig. 11.5)



not fanciful, then, to interpret this stamp as an heirloom that passed through the generations between different female members of the same family. As we shall see later, this motif is known elsewhere in Lucania and in southern Italy from seals different in size and shape, confirming the role of these objects as items of personal possession and perhaps family identity. Moreover, these stamps were also indicators of households with women sufficiently wealthy to own such jewellery.

Among the most frequent impressions, the footprints ( Figure 5.3 ) are almost exclusive to the Metapontine countryside (Foxhall 2011: 546, nos. 20 and 30; Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 372, fig. 3) and the city (Adames-teanu 1980: 222, fig. 233, b–c; Liseno 2004: 67–68, pl. 31, g–f; Lo Porto 1966: 153, pl. 4, no. 5). They are nearly absent in the rest of Lucania and southern Italy in general. Another common motif is the rosette from the 4th-century BC Metapontine disc loom weights ( oscilla ). It sometimes occurs in identical stamps, stressing close links between the owners. Unlike the footprint stamps, the rosette motif is documented in different variants of size, shape and number of petals from other Greek cities of the Ionian coast,

Figure 5.3 A loom weight with footprint stamp from the Metaponto survey (221-L2, after Foxhall 2012: 203, 11.2a)



such as Herakleia, located in the modern village of Policoro (Meo 2011: 2–3, fig. 4), on a few disc loom weights from indigenous sites close to the Metapontine chora (Cozzo Presepe: Morel 1970: 105, fig. 29a, c and d), as well as on pyramidal examples from inland Lucanian settlements, such as Pomarico (Sartoris 1997: 229, no. 9, pl. 91). As pointed out elsewhere (Fox-hall 2011: 546–547), this decoration appears to have close parallels with gemstones dating to the 7th and 6th centuries BC, when the rosette decora-tion was common. Similar to the footprint stamps, it cannot be ruled out that these loom weights were impressed with ‘heirloom’ stamps. The occur-rence of identical stamps of footprints and rosettes at different locations in the Metapontine chora could indicate how mobility as well as personal and familial relationships linked the women in the Metapontine countryside over time and space. The spatial distribution could be ‘the result of inheri-tance, movements of residence upon marriage, or even simply lending and borrowing or the giving of gift’ (Foxhall 2011: 547).

Other objects of personal jewellery were frequently represented on the Metapontine loom weights, though clearly in smaller quantities than gems and seals. While rings and earrings are documented by some impressed examples that have parallels in the jewellery repertoire of Taranto, impres-sions of fibulae on loom weights are relatively uncommon in the Meta-pontine repertoire (Foxhall 2012: 202, fig. 11.1a ), contrasting with their abundance and variety on indigenous Lucanian and Apulian sites (Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 373). If we consider the inland indigenous sites beyond the territory directly controlled by Metaponto, the archaeological evidence shows that the take-up of the Greek habit of ‘personalising’ loom weights by local women was widespread from at least the 5th century BC. Objects from Oppido Lucano, located in a plateau along the Bradano Valley, repre-sent the clearest examples (Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 373). Loom weights decorated with lines and personal ornament impressions are present in a few graves dating from the early 5th century BC onwards (Lissi Caronna 1980: 131–45, tombs 24, 32 and 36). Much more abundant are examples of pyramidal loom weights in household contexts from 350 to 280 BC. The wide range of decorative motifs on the loom weights of Oppido is most striking, as they recall the Metapontine repertoire and do not appear to have parallels in other Lucanian sites. The motifs from Oppido Lucano repro-duced the categories documented in Metaponto, but they are never identi-cal to Metapontine examples, since the impressions derived from positives belonging to different owners. For instance, the motif showing a frontal figure crowned by rays between a pair of horses, interpreted as Helios driv-ing horses, occurred in three examples from different stamps at Oppido (Lissi Caronna 1980: 236, fig. 133h, 1983: 332, fig. 125, 7; Lissi Caronna, Armignacco-Alidori and Panciera 1992: 284, no. 46, fig. 108). Similar motifs deriving from different gems were found in the Metapontine chora, as well as in other south Italian contexts (Venosa in Apulia: Salvatore 1991: 129, no. 1; Himera in Sicily: Adriani et al. 1970: 310, fig. 1.g). Sometimes



impressions deriving from the same gem were reproduced on more than one loom weight found in the same household assemblage, most likely a whole set of weights for a loom. A stylised eagle, for instance, was impressed on 7 of 58 loom weights clustered in room 3 of House D at Oppido Lucano (Lissi Caronna, Armignacco-Alidori and Panciera 1992: 276, no. 13–20, fig. 109). Loom weights with very similar impressions of fibulae , with or without tweezers ( Figure 5.4 ), discovered in House D could perhaps have belonged to the same owner (Lissi Caronna, Armignacco-Alidori and Pan-ciera 1992: 239, fig. 66, 277–279, fig. 105.1–3, 284, fig. 108.32, 34–35).

The same types of fibulae with plain or double bow and elaborated catch-plate’s edge, which was quite common in Apulia and in Lucania in

Figure 5.4 Oppido Lucano, House D: loom weight with fibula and tweezers stamps (reworked after Lissi Caronna, Armignacco-Alidori and Panciera 1992: 239, fig. 66)



the 4th and 3rd centuries BC, regularly appears impressed in loom weights (Gleba 2008: 135, n. 24). A silver fibula with plain bow and knob at the catch-plate’s edge was discovered in a pot together with silver coins and other jewels from a domestic context of Oppido Lucano, even though not in close association with the concentrations of loom weights mentioned above (Lissi Caronna 1980: 247, fig. 184). It is notable that loom weights with impressions of fibulae and tweezers seem to be much more widespread in Oppido Lucano but less in other indigenous settlements of Lucania and Apulia than in the Greek sites of the area. This could suggest that the habit of impressing these kinds of personal items was perhaps indigenous in ori-gin and spread to Greek communities because of cross-cultural networks involving both indigenous and Greek women. In this regard, the regular occurrence of fibulae and other small metal tools in Metapontine tombs has recently been interpreted as a possible indication of an indigenous presence (perhaps of native women) and of the ‘mixed’ communities which lived in the countryside of Metaponto (Prohászka 1995: 189–194).

A large number of loom weights from Oppido Lucano are decorated with a series of graffiti —plain motifs, such as crosses, lines and zigzag deco-ration. They seem to be very common in other Lucanian settlements and less frequent on loom weights from the Greek sites. It does not seem to be accidental that one of the best-represented motifs, the diagonal cross made with dots and lines (Lissi Caronna 1983: figs. 89–90), is documented on the loom weights from the extra-urban sanctuary of Hera near Paestum, the Greek town on the Tyrrhenian coast ruled by Lucanians from the end of the 5th century BC (Zancani Montuoro, Schläger and Stoop 1965–1966: 73, pl. XVI.c). At this stage of the sanctuary’s use, textile manufacture was probably related to ritual purposes, as illustrated by the discovery of more than 250 loom weights within a building interpreted as a place where weav-ing was practised (Greco 1997: 192–196). As in other Iron Age indigenous communities, the Lucanian women belonging to the dominant elites in Paestum frequently seem to be involved in textile production. This is also documented by a contemporary funerary painting, in which a woman is depicted holding a distaff on one of the stone slabs of a tomb (Gleba 2008: 35, fig. 16). These objects were traditionally considered to be ‘temple keys’ but should probably be interpreted as distaffs in some cases (Di Giuseppe 1996: 34, fig. 5; Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 374). Numerous examples of these possible distaffs have been found in the same building of the Paestan sanctuary where loom weights were found (Zancani Montuoro, Schläger and Stoop 1965–1966: 152–158, pl. XLIV), as well as in other Lucanian and Greek contexts.

From the second half of the 4th century BC, there is a massive influx of disc loom weights, conventionally called oscilla , in the Greek towns (Gleba 2008: 132; Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 374–376). These are characterised by two holes and by flattened or slightly convex surfaces. They coexisted alongside the pyramidal type, and their form and decoration patterns seem



to be affected by cultural and technological changes: at this time a horseshoe-shaped type was also introduced in even smaller quantities (Wuilleumier 1932: 36, pl. 4, nos. 3 and 4). Some of the oscilla and the horseshoe-shaped loom weights from Metaponto (Adamesteanu 1980: 62, fig. 48, 288, fig. 300; Foxhall 2011: 553, no 34; Lo Porto 1966: 153, pls. IV.1–4, V.1–3, 5) and Herakleia (Meo 2011: 2–3, fig. 4) are decorated with motifs in relief that have close parallels in nearby Taranto (Bejor 1973; Wuilleumier 1932: pl. IV.1, 3–6). Common motifs include gorgoneia , theatrical masks, erotes , heads facing each other, palmettes with volutes and geometric ele-ments. Moreover, some Greek names stamped in oscilla from Herakleia on the Ionian shores of southern Italy also occur in specimens from Taranto ( Ferrandini Troisi 1986; Giardino 2005: 420–422; Wuilleumier 1932). Unlike what has been observed for the previous impressions of personal items, it seems most likely that these stamps on reliefs derived from moulds belonging to ceramic or textile workshops rather than being the personal possession of the owner of the loom weight. Points of contact between these three Greek towns regarding the production and decoration of loom weights can be assumed, which could be part of the political, cultural and artistic influence that Taranto seems to exert on Herakleia and Metaponto from the 4th century BC. In this regard, the role of Taranto, where a large number of decorated and inscribed oscilla were found, could have been important in the transmission of the new loom weight type and the associated decorative patterns to other Greek cities located on the Ionian coast. Literary sources regularly mention the Tarantine wool industry in the Hellenistic and Roman period, even though Morel’s study has reduced the scope of this manufac-ture to the production of raw wool and dye rather than to a large-scale industry for garments and cloth (Morel 1976: 296–298).

It seems evident that the new kinds of decoration were consistent with a different mode of production of loom weights. Users of these objects were most likely further removed from their production process, since some oscilla were not personalised with objects belonging to the owners but were instead decorated using the moulds and stamps of the ceramic workshops. Furthermore, some of the relief decorations on disc and pyramidal loom weights, such as the concentric rows of lotus flowers, palmettes and mean-der patterns, are identical to those impressed in large disc clay stamps from Metaponto, conventionally named stampi per pani votivi (Lo Porto 1966: 156–157, fig. 17, pl. VI; Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 376, fig. 10). It cannot be ruled out that rather than shaping sacred bread or cakes, these stamps were used as moulds for the decoration of loom weights.

Unlike what we have observed for impressing personal objects in loom weights, Lucanian communities clearly did not show interest in adopt-ing the Greek disc loom weights with their relief decoration (Quercia and Foxhall 2012: 375–376). In fact, they are very rare in indigenous settle-ments, while the pyramidal form continues to be the most common type. Oscilla were sporadically documented only in the sites immediately beyond



the Metapontinian countryside, such as in Cozzo Presepe (du Plat Taylor, Macnamara and Ward Perkins 1983: 382, fig. 151.5–7), Pomarico ( Sartoris 1997) and Montescaglioso. Lucanian women did not seem to like the new type, and this is further highlighted by the fact that the same types of impres-sions stamped on Metapontinian oscilla were reproduced on their local pyramidal loom weights. That is, Greek and indigenous women used the same types and modes of marking, but on different shapes of loom weights. In some cases they adopted the objects but reused them for other purposes in the textile manufacturing process. A few oscilla from the Metapontine chora , as well as immediately beyond the territory controlled by Metaponto (Cozzo Presepe, Montescaglioso 5 ) that present a third central post firing perforation in addition to the usual two made ante cocturam , were probably used as spindle whorls.

This ‘resistance’ to the new type by the indigenous communities could result from technological, functional or cultural reasons. As recently observed in ethno-archaeological studies and experimental weaving tests (Mårtensson, Nosch and Andersson Strand 2009: 382–391), the thickness and the weight of the loom weights, as well as the combination of the two, play an important role in their distribution along the vertical frame and affect the process of fabric weaving and the type of fabric produced. More-over, the type of loom weight affects the position of warp threads across the loom. In fact, the disc type has two holes, and its thickness is evenly distributed along the whole of the object, so that the threads can be tied quite vertically. By comparison, the truncated pyramidal specimens have only one hole and two bases of different sizes, thus causing the spreading of these loom weights on the loom. Can technological reasons related to specific traditions of weaving, the production of preferred types of cloth, or local habits of tying the weights to the warp explain the rarity of the oscilla in indigenous contexts? Or should we rather think of cultural resistance by the Lucanian communities, which adopted the Greek custom of marking loom weights as personal objects, but not the new shape, which seems to have been alien to their mode of craft production? These two explanations need not be mutually exclusive.

In conclusion, the analysis of multiple aspects of the production and use of loom weights in Lucania can tell us much about the traditions of making and utilising these objects in a region where cross-cultural contacts and rela-tionships between different communities and social groups were intense and profound at various levels. The picture from the Iron Age to the Hellenistic can be summarised as follows:

• In the earliest phase (8th to early 6th centuries BC), long before the arrival of the Greeks, pyramidal loom weights were widely used in indigenous settlements according to technological, morphological and decorative traditions common to a wider area which comprised the neighbouring communities of Calabria and Apulia. Nevertheless,



technological changes in the manufacture of loom weights and in indig-enous traditions of weaving were rapidly stimulated by the arrival of the newcomers on the Ionian coast and generated forms of specialisa-tion in textile production. In the indigenous cultures, textile produc-tion is closely associated with women, especially those of high social status. At this stage, loom weights were ‘personalised’ neither in the Greek nor in the indigenous communities.

• From at least the late 6th century BC, if not before, the habit of marking and impressing the loom weights with personal ornaments developed in the Greek world. The analysis of important contexts such as the chora of Metaponto showed how this new fashion is not purely deco-rative but transforms the loom weights to objects with a personal and emotional relationship with their owners, who were mostly women. They also provide clues for understanding networks of women and their personal, familial ties and identities. Moreover, this habit shows that the owners were to some extent engaged in the production of the loom weights.

• The Lucanian communities rapidly adopted the Greek custom of per-sonalising loom weights, at least from the 5th century BC. Although there seems to be clear evidence of the exchange of ideas and habits, Greek and indigenous women nevertheless appear to have had their own traditions regarding the personalisation and use of loom weights. Some specifi c decorations, such as the impressions with brooches and tweezers and the geometric motifs, seem to be specifi c to Lucanian communities and are later also adopted by the Greeks.

• The introduction of decorated disc loom weights in the Greek world from the late 4th century BC represented a signifi cant change not only for the weaving technology but also in the perception of these items by the people who employed and dealt with them in antiquity. The new type is associated, even if not exclusively, with new decorative patterns produced by serial moulds in workshops, where the owners of the objects did not seem to have played an active role in this new mode of production. Different from what occurred for the Greek mode of marking loom weights with personal objects, the Lucanian women did not adopt this new Greek type and its standardised decorations for technical and functional reasons, as well as for cultural habits and beliefs. Instead, they continued to use the pyramidal loom weights. In rare cases, the oscilla were manipulated and reinterpreted for different purposes in some of the Lucanian settlements.

Such differential approaches to adopting, rejecting and reinterpreting specific elements of Greek material culture by indigenous communities were mediated through a complex combination of technological, functional and cultural choices, accompanied by emotional and psychological components that encompassed many aspects of everyday life. Although the Lucanian



women largely rejected or creatively adapted the oscilla , they simultane-ously acquired the Greek repertoire of cooking wares fully and willingly, suggesting complex attitudes of local communities towards Greek material culture and customs (see also Quercia and Foxhall forthcoming ). It seems evident that the mechanisms of cultural transmission in areas of contact between different ‘ethnic’ communities, such as in Lucania, were varied and complex: new ideas moved in both directions and reflected the active and creative entanglement of social and personal identities.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We are grateful to Massimo Osanna and Dimitris Roubis for permitting us to study the loom weights from their excavations in Torre di Satriano and Montescaglioso-Difesa San Biagio and for allowing us to publish some preliminary notes in this chapter. We are also grateful to Antonio De Siena, director of ‘Soprintendenza per i Beni Archeologici della Basilicata’, and Annamaria Patrone, director of the Archaeological Museum ‘Domenico Ridola’ at Matera, for granting us permission to study the loom weights from the excavations of the kilns in Montescaglioso.

NOTES

1. The project, called ‘Weaving relationships: loom weights and cross-cultural networks in the ancient Mediterranean’, is directed by Lin Foxhall and sup-ported by Alessandro Quercia.

2. A recent revision of the material discovered in the workshop area, stored in the National Museum ‘Domenico Ridola’ at Matera, documented the presence of about 40 pyramidal loom weights. It is notable that at least two specimens were misfired and overfired (with blisters on surface) in the kilns, confirming the likely production in situ of this class of artefacts.

3. A preliminary analysis of this concentration was in Lanza 2012; Lanza iden-tified 295 loom weights, but the revision of this context reduced the actual number of the loom weights.

4. The main weight classes are from 65 to 80 g, from 80 to 94 g, from 100 to 116 g and from 114 to 125 g; the height is between 5.5 and 7.2 cm, and the maximum thickness ranges between 3 and 5.3 cm.

5. One loom weight was recovered from excavation of Montescaglioso, Difesa San Biagio, a second was found in Cozzo Presepe (du Plat Taylor, Macnamara and Ward Perkins 1983: 382, fig. 151.5).

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Lanza, M. 2012. “Tessere a palazzo: telai e pesi fittili a Torre di Satriano,” in M. Osanna and V. Capozzoli (eds), Lo spazio del potere II. Nuove ricerche nell’area dell’anaktoron di Torre di Satriano. Atti del terzo e quarto convegno di studi su Torre di Satriano (Tito, 16–17 ottobre 2009; 29–30 settembre 2010) . Venosa: Osanna Edizioni: 87–98.

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INTRODUCTION

It has been argued that, within socially stratified societies of the ancient Mediterranean, extensive and far-reaching networks were established among the aristocratic elites through mechanisms such as gift exchange and intermarriage. In the latter case, women served as a link between aristo-cratic families of different communities, creating powerful alliances among them—a situation not unlike that lasting for many centuries among the royal families of medieval Europe. These networks were instrumental in movement of objects as well as transfer of techniques and fashions. Women were closely linked with cloth manufacturing activities, and they certainly took their tools with them when moving far away from home. Textile equip-ment therefore allows us to track their movements, as well as the diffusion of textile technology and fashion. This chapter examines the various modes of textile circulation, the transmission of textile craft through these net-works, and the role of women in the transfer of technological knowledge involved in textile craft. First I will consider circulation of textiles as traded commodities, gifts, dedications, prizes and elements of dowry, ransom and booty. Circulation of textile tools will then be discussed, since they can be used as a proxy for tracing new techniques and technologies. I will then look at the knowledge networks created through the circulation of women, the agents of these techniques and technologies, and the wider implications of technological change through information exchange and imitation. Some of these modes of circulation leave more evidence than others, but all were fundamental for the transmission of fashions, patterns and designs, as well as in the transfer of techniques.

PRODUCTION AND CIRCULATION OF TEXTILES

The acquisition of textiles is an economic necessity that has confronted all societies in the past. Although different cultures have found different solu-tions to the problem, most have combined production and trade to varying

Cloth Worth a King’s Ransom Textile Circulation and Transmission of Textile Craft in the Ancient Mediterranean

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degrees. Whereas much textile manufacture happened on a household level, some textiles were traded over long distances—depending on raw material supply, labour skills and the costs of both, as well as tradition (Jenkins 2003: 4–5). As items of consumption, textiles range between luxury and necessity and can become specialised products, the manufacture of which may be narrowly localised. Such a localisation creates demand and neces-sitates redistribution, resulting in textiles moving sometimes substantial distances from their place of origin, and so developments in two directions can be observed. The first is towards the creation of luxury items needed for status display and (long-distance) gift exchange among the elites, which leads to the development of highly specialised and skilled craftsmanship and a network of exchange and resource and object circulation. This can sometimes be traced archaeologically through the distribution of objects. The second is directed towards the quick manufacture of necessity goods, which are particularly in demand by the urban communities. In turn, this leads to a development of more organised modes of production and trade in these necessity products. This second mode can also be detected archaeo-logically, for example in the standardisation of textiles and tools used to make them.

Archaeological evidence from the Bronze and Iron Ages points to the development of new or more effective production processes, standardisa-tion and the manufacture of objects for specific purposes in the Mediter-ranean area. Such transformations occurred primarily under the patronage of elites and were motivated by the need to produce status markers and prestige goods (e.g. Nijboer 1997). Textiles were undoubtedly among the most important of these status markers, being a medium which made up perhaps the largest proportion of the visual environment of antiquity. As Horden and Purcell (2000: 357) pointed out,

the spending of very large sums of money on textiles was a perennial aspect of ancient elite behaviour, and the accumulation of textiles has, in much of Mediterranean history, been integral to maintaining a high social standing—a spectacular, easily quantifiable, and pleasing form of real estate.

(see also Schneider and Weiner 1989: 2)

Easily transportable and universally used, textiles served as repositories for both precious materials and skilled labour and as a means of exercising access and control over them. The conspicuous consumption of these trea-sured items is reflected in the ancient sumptuary laws of ancient Greece and Rome (Hunt 1996). The earliest Roman sumptuary regulation, the Oppian Law of 216 BC, forbade women to wear multicoloured dress (Livy 34.1). Later, during the early Roman Empire, men were forbidden to wear silk, and the details of clothing, such as colour and width and number of stripes, were regulated according to social rank.


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The display of luxury and prestige goods as seen in the archaeological record is closely mirrored in the behaviour of warrior aristocracies described in the Homeric poems and reflects the ideological system underlying the behaviour, beliefs and values of Mediterranean elites (Duplouy 2006; Riva 2005). The common culture and ideology are particularly reflected in their burial customs, indicating that the horizontal ties which bound people of similar social status were much more important than the vertical ties link-ing them with their own communities (similar to the later European royal houses). The central role of women in the establishment of aristocratic ties through intermarriage and the fact that textiles in Early Iron Age Mediterra-nean Europe were produced mostly by women lead to important questions regarding the modes of transmission of textile technologies.

Throughout history, textiles not only circulated through trade but also were an important part of the gift-exchange system: they formed a signifi-cant part of the dowry, were used for ransom and were taken as booty. Due to the cloth’s perishable nature, however, there is little direct evidence remaining of these interactions compared to more durable metal, ceramic and stone artefacts. In the cases when textiles do survive, nonlocal finds are usually identified on the basis of an exotic raw material, exotic technique or close comparison with items found elsewhere. Yet even if their nonlo-cal nature can be demonstrated (for example, by using recently developed isotopic tracing techniques; Frei et al. 2009a, 2009b), it is impossible to know how they were exchanged. An example at hand is the linen fragment, originally embroidered with striding lions, found at Koropi near Athens and dated to the 5th century BC (Spantidaki and Moulherat 2012: 195). The oriental, indeed Persian, nature of the motif and the material (the embroi-dery was executed in metal thread), has prompted its identification as an import, but the means by which it ended up in a tomb near Athens must remain in the realm of speculation. As Foxhall (2005: 231) aptly stated, archaeological material provides ‘far more abundant and direct evidence of consumption than of production, “demand”, or trade.’ We must thus turn to the written sources to understand the different modes and mechanisms of textile-exchange networks.

Traded Commodities

Textile trade was certainly already well established during the Bronze Age and may have involved the textiles themselves as well as raw materials like wool and linen, dyes and mordants; the latter were special substances, such as alum, used to set some of these dyes on fabrics. Among the most-detailed and best-studied documents of long-distance textile trade are the records of the Old Assyrian traders found in the Anatolian city of Kaneš (mod-ern Kültepe in Turkey), dated to the 19th to 18th centuries BC (Veenhof 1972). The traders imported vast quantities of wool textiles largely made in Assyria, and the records found in Kaneš document the daily realities of the


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trade and associated legal transactions. These textiles were of standardised size and quality and often had recognised regional provenance, leading Bevan (2010: 57–59) to discuss them as ‘branded’ commodities. It should be noted that, while the textiles were produced by women, the trade was a male activity, and men in fact wrote instructions as to the specific types of textiles they required (Michel 2001).

In the Mediterranean regions, Mycenaean documents provide a similar picture of exchange in standardised textiles (e.g. Del Freo et al. 2010). Here too, textile production appears to be primarily associated with women, and some occupational titles even derive from the names of the specific types of cloth they produced (e.g. Luján 2010). In Egypt, existence of standardised textile commodities is documented not only in written and iconographic evidence but also in commodity labels (Jones 2010) and textiles bearing woven, embroidered or inscribed ‘brand’ marks (van’t Hooft et al. 1994, Vogelsang-Eastwood 2000). The evidence for textile trade is especially abundant for the Roman times, well documented by the archaeological finds and written sources. Documents such as Periplus Maris Erythraei (Casson 1989) or Diocletian’s Edict of Prices (Giacchero 1974; Graser 1940) illustrate the typological and geographical diversity of textile com-modities, some ‘branded’, that circulated within (e.g. Benda-Weber 2013; Liu 2013) and well beyond the Roman Empire (Albaladejo 2013; Droß-Krupe 2013).

Gifts

The traditions of gift giving in ancient societies were generally related to marriages, births, funerals and guest-friendship. The royal administrative archives of the ancient city of Ebla (modern Tell Mardikh in Syria) docu-ment the large quantities of textiles given as gifts on occasions of interdy-nastic marriage, the birth of a royal child or grandchild or the funeral of a high-ranking official (Biga 2010: 164, 168). The textiles were not only used locally but also sent to far-off lands. Meanwhile, the Late Bronze Age tablets from Amarna in Egypt provide extensive evidence of textiles sent from Egypt to Hittite and other courts as greeting gifts ( Feldman 2006: 120).

Gift exchange linked to the traditions of guest-friendship ( xenia ) was practiced among the elite members of communities (see Morris 1986; von Reden 2003; Wagner-Hasel 2006) and involved luxury materials that cer-tainly included clothing and textiles but also implements that held a sym-bolic value, such as spindles and distaffs, as we shall see later. Thus, gifts of clothing are given to Odysseus by the Phaiakians, on orders of their king (Homer, Odyssey 8.392–393). In fact, as noted by Mueler (2010: 2), ‘the gift of a cloak and a tunic becomes a convenient shorthand for the whole range of xenia transactions’. This meaning of textiles given as gifts may go back to the Bronze Age in Greece, since the Linear B adjective of ke-se-nu-wi-ja is



also attested with textiles at Knossos and interpreted as qualifying them as ‘gifts for guests’ (Ventris and Chadwick 1973: 477–478).

The Odyssey also provides us with glimpses of the xenia networks through which aristocratic women of the Iron Age forged social alliances that were complementary to yet separate from those of their husbands. Tex-tiles were typical gifts that women could give; Helen gave Telemachos a splendid peplos for his future bride which she herself had woven and which should be kept by his mother until his marriage (Homer, Odyssey 15.135). Mueler (2010: 1) argues for the ‘woven objects as coded acts of communi-cation between women and as sources for the production of female kleos [glory] in the Odyssey’. Even goddesses in Homeric epics give precious tex-tiles as gifts, such as the purple cloak given by Athena to Jason (Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica 1.721–767). Indeed, weaving activities gave women an active role in Homeric hospitality traditions and enabled communica-tion at a distance. At times, they even used these gifts for subversive pur-poses, as in the case of Medea sending a poisoned wedding gown to Jason’s new bride Glauce (Euripides, Medea ). Whatever the intention of the textile gift, it could travel significant distances and accumulate social history and therefore status and power, just like precious metal objects, whose biogra-phies are recounted in minute detail in Homeric poems (Crielaard 2003). In the mostly illiterate world, textiles were used as mnemonic and storytelling devices, exemplified by the episode of Helen weaving episodes of the Trojan War (Homer, Iliad 3.125–127) or the description of the magnificent mantle of Alkisthenes (Pseudo-Aristotle, De mirabilibus auscultationibus 96,838a). Attic vase painting (e.g. Ghedini 1995) and the statue of Despoina from Lykosoura illustrating a figured veil (Wace 1934) illustrate just how elabo-rate such textiles could be.

Dowry

Penelope’s gift to Telemachus brings us to another way textiles could cir-culate over long distances—as part of a dowry or a bride price, which can be seen as a distinctive tradition of gift giving. Written evidence indicates that during the Old Babylonian times (20th to 16th century BC), dowries included textiles and garments, often in significant quantities (Dalley 1980). The trusseaux given to the princesses of Ebla also contained many and varied textiles (Biga 2010: 164). The tradition is also documented in Neo-Assyrian (936–609 BC; Villard 2010: 390) and Neo-Babylonian times (625–539 BC; Roth 1990) and certainly much later; dowries of garments and jewellery are common in Graeco-Roman Egypt (Legras 2007: 114). Indeed, Lyons (2003: 96) noted that ‘women’s power derived from the dowry they bring into marriage’ (also see Foxhall 1989: 32–39 on dowry in Classical Greece). The bridal dress itself was an expression of the bride’s economic and reproduc-tive value (Hersch 2010). An ability of a family, particularly a wealthy one, to provide an impressive dowry would raise its status among its peers. The


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display of status and wealth through textiles included as part of the dowry was part of aristocratic conspicuous consumption. Even the sumptuary laws made an exception here: the first Greek written code of laws, the Locrian Code of the 7th century BC, forbade any woman to wear clothes woven of gold or silk, unless at her wedding.

Dedications at Sanctuaries

Textiles were also among the items dedicated to gods (see Osborne 2004 for a discussion of votive gifts). In ancient Greece, the use of the sanctuary as a context for the disposal of wealth largely replaced earlier practices of destruction in burials and sacrifices and ‘was linked to a need to represent aristocratic competition as having a wider communal value’ (Morris 1986: 13). Unlike destruction through burial, which removed objects from circula-tion, the practice of dedication put them on public display and significantly increased their circulation.

Clothes are frequently mentioned in Greek temple inventories (Foxhall and Stears 2000; Kleijwegt 2002). An inscription from Miletos gives a long list of textiles present in the Temple of Artemis Khitone (Günther 1988; SEG 38 1210). Pausanias describes a large wardrobe of multicoloured gar-ments stored at the Temple of Hera on Samos ( SEG 45 1163, Shipley 1987: 157). Probably the most extensive list survives in the form of inscriptions cataloguing the garments of the Temple of Artemis Brauronia in Athens (Cleland 2005; Linders 1972). The gods received the best and most splendid textiles, as exemplified by the story of Hecuba, who chose the largest and most beautiful peplos to dedicate to Athena (Homer, Iliad 6.347–350). We know that other objects at sanctuaries often came from faraway locations (for example, Italic artefacts in Greek sanctuaries; see Naso 2000, 2006), so it is likely that textiles could also stem from foreign lands. Herodotus (3.47.2–3) recounts of an exceptionally detailed linen corselet given by the Egyptian king Amasis to Sparta; the corselet was captured en route by the Samians and exhibited in the Temple of Hera. Another example is that of a magnificent tapestry decorated with Assyrian weavings and Phoenician pur-ple dedicated by Antiochus IV at the Temple of Zeus at Olympia ( Pausanias 5.12.2). In both cases, textiles were sent considerable distances and were greatly admired by their observers. In the case of more mundane examples, textiles, being consumable and more perishable gifts, were likely to be used by the sanctuaries in an active way, in gift exchange, redistribution and spe-cial ceremonies, further continuing the circulation of these objects.

Ransom and Booty

Because of their value, textiles could be used for ransom or payment or could be captured as booty, as in the case of the precious corselet of Amasis. For example, Priam pays 12 brocaded robes, 12 cloaks, 12s blankets and as



many capes and shirts to Achilles to ransom Hektor’s body (Homer, Iliad 24.272–75). In AD 169, Emperor Marcus Aurelius raised money for a war campaign by selling his wife’s silk and golden clothes (Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Marcus Aurelius 17.4). Textiles certainly constituted an impor-tant element of booty taken in war, piracy or through simple theft. A large part of the booty taken by Alexander at Granicus and Susa consisted of pur-ple-dyed textiles (Plutarch, Alexander 16.18, 36). Antiochus VI is reputed to have seized a Babylonian curtain woven in linen and decorated in blue, scarlet and purple from the Temple in Jerusalem in 169/8 BC (Vickers 1999: 25). The thieves in Apuleius’s Golden Ass (4.7) stole silk clothes woven with gold thread in addition to coins and other precious objects.

Prizes

Finally, textiles were also given as prizes at competitions. According to Pin-dar’s Pythian IV, the Argonauts received a large precious cloth after hav-ing participated in Lemnian games. It has been suggested that the story is depicted on a bucchero olpe found in Tomb 2 at San Paolo in Cerveteri dated c. 630 BC (Rizzo 2001: 170–171). The lower register of the vase shows a large cloth labelled kanna being carried by six men.

CIRCULATION OF TEXTILE TOOLS

We have seen the many and different modes of textile circulation, but this same ‘mobility’ can be observed in the case of certain tools used in textile production. Textiles were finished objects which were regarded as appropri-ate gifts for both women and men. Textile tools, on the other hand, were considered to be particularly suitable gifts for women. When the wife of the ruler of Cyrene, Battus Pheretima, who took refuge in Salamis on Cyprus after a civil unrest, kept asking the local king Euelthon for an army, the lat-ter instead sent her a golden spindle and distaff with wool, saying that this, rather than an army, was an appropriate gift for her sex (Herodotus 4.162). The symbolism of spinning tools continued well into the Roman period, when brides carried a spindle and a distaff during wedding processions (Pliny Naturalis Historia VIII.194). In Homer’s Odyssey (4.125–32), we are told that Alcandre, the wife of Polybus, king of Egyptian Thebes, presented Helen with a golden spindle and a luxuriously crafted silver basket. The spindle was used for spinning purple wool, while the basket was used for keeping yarn prepared for weaving. The gift implies the assumption of the recipient’s familiarity with the technology behind the tool and affirmation of her skill in using it. Textile tools were symbolic of the female sphere of life in many Mediterranean cultures (even goddesses weave in the Odyssey ), and women not only regarded them as appropriate gifts but also certainly took their tools along when moving far away from home.


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Archaeological evidence indicating long-distance movements of loom weights exists from the Bronze Age. Small but consistent numbers of nonlo-cal discoid loom weights have been noted at several Aegean sites, for exam-ple Miletos on the Ionian coast of Turkey, Ayia Irini on Keos and Nichoria on the southern Greek mainland (Cutler 2012). This type of loom weight is generally associated with Minoan culture, and its presence has been regarded as an indicator of the adoption of Cretan weaving technology throughout the Aegean ( Figure 6.1 ). Since it is generally believed that textiles were produced by women in Minoan society, Joanne Cutler has argued that the presence of nonlocal loom weights indicates that ‘there was a degree of mobility among women in the Aegean’ (Cutler 2012). Whether the mechanism of this mobil-ity was intermarriage, migration or slavery is impossible to determine, but the fact remains that textile equipment allows us to track women’s move-ments, as well as the diffusion of textile technology and fashion.

A later example of textile tools being transported long distances is that of distaffs in protohistoric Italy. In this case, the tools in question are not mun-dane everyday items but prestige objects. A distaff is an implement designed to hold the prepared fibre during spinning. Distaffs and spindles expressed the identity of Early Iron Age elite women as textile workers (Gleba 2011)—as such they are depicted on the Verucchio Throne (von Eles 2002) and

Figure 6.1 Bronze Age discoid loom weight from Miletos, Turkey (Photo: © Margarita Gleba)



the Bologna tintinnabulum (Morigi Govi 1971). It is likely that in daily life, distaffs were made of wood; even a simple forked stick would have been sufficient for the task. While none of the wooden distaffs have sur-vived in archaeological contexts, numerous examples of objects identified as distaffs made of luxury materials such as bronze, silver, glass, amber and bone have been found in Etruscan and Italic tombs ( Figure 6.2 ; see Gleba 2008: 108–122, 2011). These distaffs are objects with both intrinsic and symbolic value, and it is hardly surprising that they are predominantly found in rich female burials. To give just one example, the exceptionally rich female burial HH 11–12 in Veio-Quattro Fontanili contained a ban-queting set, a rich assortment of personal jewellery, 34 spools and a bronze distaff (Bartoloni 2001: 101 no. I.G.5.28; Cavallotti Batchvarova 1965: 132 aa, fig. 54). The majority of precious distaff finds are associated with areas of Etruscan influence, but their wide distribution throughout most of the Italian peninsula and even further afield (e.g. in Austria; cf. Moser 2010) indicates that these objects were part of wider aristocratic koiné. This is further highlighted by the presence of distaff types associated with a specific production centre located outside and sometimes at a considerable distance from this area. Thus, distaffs of the type probably produced in the northern Etruscan settlement of Felsina (now Bologna) are found in Venetic Este; northern Etruscan Volterra; southern Etruscan Bisenzio, Cerveteri, Tarquinia, Vulci and Veio; Faliscan Narce and Capena; Picenean Novilara; and even in Rome (Gleba 2008: 112, map 5). All of these sites were already becoming major centres during the Early Iron Age, and their aristocratic families had extensive connections and probably familial ties with each other. At present, it is impossible to know whether the precious distaffs circulated as gifts or as possessions, but hope remains that DNA and iso-topic analyses of the bones of the women associated with such imported distaffs may provide an indication of whether these individuals were local or exogenous.

Another curious case of textile tools circulating long distances involves the epinetron —a Greek, specifically Attic, type of ceramic object, which was used as a knee guard during preparation of wool for weaving (Mercati 2003). Black and red figure epinetra have been found primarily in Athens and Attica ( Figure 6.3 ), with later production also documented on Rhodes, Lemnos, Thasos and Cyprus. Outside Greece, a few examples are known from Hellenic contexts in Selinunte on Sicily and in Cyrene in North Africa. It is therefore surprising to find two examples in Spina (Mercati 2003: 151 no. 9 and 156 no. 28), one in Adria (Mercati 2003: 119 no. 26), both located on the north Adriatic coast of Italy, and another example at Pyrgi (Mercati 2003: 116 no. 15), on the Tyrrhenian coast of southern Etruria. The presence of epinetra in these Etruscan emporia implies ‘not only the knowledge of its use but also the attachment to specific technical tradition; they could hardly have travelled without the persons who could require and manipulate them’ (D’Ercole 2011: 437). Alternatively, it may imply the


Figure 6.2 Bronze distaff with three disks, Italic, 8th century BC, British Museum no. 1873,0820.237 (© Trustees of the British Museum)



presence of Greek women in these emporia ; scientific bone analyses may help to resolve this issue in the future.

The long-distance circulation of distaffs and epinetra may thus be asso-ciated with gift exchange practised among the elite women of these com-munities (as in the case of Alcandre and Helen), which involved luxury and symbolic goods. The presence of single bronze distaffs in the Calabrian Iron Age cemeteries of Torre Galli and Pantano di Cleto–Serra Aiello may indicate such an exchange, as both sites have been shown to have exten-sive ties with many regions throughout Tyrrhenian Italy but especially with proto-Etruscan areas (Gleba 2011). Furthermore, given their singularity, these examples may even be local products imitating high-quality distaffs imported from other areas. Another likely explanation for the move-ment of tools is intermarriage, which certainly existed among neighbour-ing groups and areas throughout the Mediterranean, in particular among the elite members of these communities. This ensured that the wealth and power remained within a certain strictly defined circle (Bartoloni 2000: 275). Women thus served as a link between aristocratic families of different cities, creating powerful alliances between them. Textile equipment there-fore allows us to track their movements, as well as the diffusion of textile technology.

Figure 6.3 Black-figured epinetron (thigh guard) with depiction of a wool-working scene, Athens, c. 500–480 BC, British Museum no. 1814,0704.1205 (© Trustees of the British Museum)


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CIRCULATION OF WOMEN

The circulation of tools brings us to the core of textile technology transmis-sion: while textiles carried new techniques and designs passively (although see what follows for a discussion on imitation), tools indicate active transfer by the textile producers themselves. Circulation of women was fundamental in past societies. Besides intermarriage, long-distance movement of women involved their gifting, purchase or capture. As Lyons notes (2003: 96), ‘A tradition going back to the Iliad portrays women not as economic actors— agents of exchange—but as the objects of exchange: gifts to be traded among men, prizes to be won in war or in an athletic contest, daughters to be given in marriage’ (see also von Reden 2003: 49–51). Thus, Eurykleia is bought by Laertes for 20 oxen (Homer, Odyssey 1.43), and Eurymedousa is given to Alkinoos from the spoils of her city ( Odyssey 7.8–11). Even Penelope is destined to the suitor who offers the best gifts. Yet women’s economic value, while clearly equivalent to any other object of exchange, was closely tied to their skill in handiwork (see examples in Lyons 2003: 100). Female prison-ers taken during the military campaigns by the Neo-Sumerian armies were largely employed in the state textile production industry (Pomponio 2010: 187). Mycenaean records from Pylos record the presence of slave women who originated from Asia Minor, many of whom were involved in textile work (Chadwick 1988). A large portion of the female slave labour force of the Roman Empire was involved in textile production (Harper 2011: 128–135).

Some of the women were probably skilled in the textile crafts and were captured or exchanged for those skills; Homeric Paris brought women from the Phoenician city Sydon, renowned for its textiles, so that they could fill the Trojan storerooms with beautiful brocaded fabrics ( Iliad 6.341–44). The exploitation of female textile workers continued well into medieval times and beyond, with the trans-Mediterranean slave trade that accompa-nied the production of luxury textiles in the Middle Ages (Burns 2009). The specialist skills these women possessed were certainly based on knowledge and experience (see Hurcombe 2000: 100). It is highly likely that they trans-ferred the knowledge to others once in their new place of residence.

INFORMATION EXCHANGE

The last and most complex mode of exchange existed on the level of information.

Movement of textiles, tools and women was instrumental in the transfer of textile-related knowhow involving ideas, symbols, inventions, fashions, values and, consequently, the technology associated with them. Bier (2004) noted that modes of the transfer of knowledge include books, observation and travel, instruction and, finally, crafts or experiential learning.



Aristotle ( Athenaion Politeia 4.9.3) described the council of citizens ( boule ) having to judge the models ( paradeigmata ) for the peplos (dress) made of the statue of Athena Polias every year, indicating that before a textile was executed, a pattern was drawn up (Ghedini 1995: 130). By the Roman times, tapestry pattern cartoons circulated among the various work-shops. Many such cartoons are preserved on papyri dating from the Graeco-Roman to Islamic periods ( Figure 6.4 ; Stauffer 1993, 2008a, 2008b). It is

Figure 6.4 Textile cartoon with ‘inhabited scroll’ pattern of figures placed in vegetal interstices, papyrus fragments E 16450 and E 16305Q, University of Pennsylvania (© University of Pennsylvania)


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likely that they were fi xed behind the warp and served as guidelines for the weavers. The patterns are often rather schematic, and the painter of the cartoon frequently offered options for the particular designs of borders or other elements (Stauffer 1993: 228). Textiles themselves may have served as a medium for the cartoons used for copying paintings and mosaics in Roman times (Thompson 1973: 35). Before the appearance of such car-toons, other objects may have served as a medium of transfer for designs and patterns.

During the Orientalising period (7th century BC) in the Mediterranean, the time of great movement of people and things, certain motifs spread over very long distances. One example is the oriental lotus flower pattern found on the mantle border on a female Etruscan statue from the Poledrara or Isis Tomb at Vulci dated 570–560 BC (Bonfante 2003: 189). The lotus pattern, which is decorated in blue, black and red (Verri et al. forthcoming), has close parallels on the Assyrian ivories (and see Bubenheimer-Erhart 2012: 17–24, who argues for Phoenician origin of the statue). It is likely that the pattern was inspired by one of the oriental prestige objects circulating at the time in Etruria (Riva 2010), and the possibility of textiles imported from the Near East that served as prototypes for local crafts should not be discounted. Indeed, textiles themselves transmitted both the pattern and the technical information about their construction. While a textile is a two-dimensional object, its creation is dependent on the knowledge and understanding of how its various components interact in three dimensions. To a knowledge-able weaver, careful observation of a finished textile would therefore con-tain much information about the quality of raw materials, methods of yarn preparation, weave construction and finishing process (Bier 2004: 181–2). It has even been suggested that certain other types of knowledge were trans-mitted together with textiles. In her study of textile tools from Etruscan Cerveteri inscribed with some of the earliest letters in Italy, Bagnasco Gianni (1999) suggested that women as weavers may have been instrumental in transmitting writing in Etruria since, on a cognitive level, both technologies were understood and transmitted by similar mechanisms, the technique of weaving serving as a technical metaphor for the acquisition of the technique of writing. Meanwhile, Bier (2004) proposed the potential role of textiles in the transfer of mathematical knowledge from the Indian subcontinent to the Islamic lands and, eventually, Europe. Yet another way of transmitting textile patterns has recently been suggested by Tuck (2006, 2009). Based on the observation of present-day carpet weavers in India who were creat-ing a pattern which was being chanted to them, he proposed that songs as mnemonic devices for memorisation of weave patterns existed in antiquity. They emerged alongside the development of complex textiles among the speakers of Proto Indo-European languages and spread with the dispersal of population, culminating in a development of distinct textile traditions which ‘preserve these song-like mnemonic structures to record and relate pattern information while weaving’ (Tuck 2009: 154). Frequent association



of weaving and singing in Homeric epics, as in the cases of Circe (Homer, Odyssey 10.220–28) and Calypso ( Odyssey 5.59–62), suggests that the songs in these situations may have had more significant function than sim-ple entertainment.

In all these modes of information transfer, the primary requirement is that the weaver knows how to read the ‘technology of transfer’, be it a pat-tern drawing, an original textile or a song. The ultimate outcome depends on the skill and imagination of the craftswoman.

Skill acquisition is a complex question which has recently been exten-sively discussed in anthropological studies (e.g. Wenger 1998; and see summary in Cutler 2012). With regard to textile technology, technical expertise would require an extended period of apprenticeship under the supervision of an already skilled craftswoman. Therefore, the modes of information transmission discussed, which do not involve a person pos-sessing the full knowledge of a particular craft or technique, would only work among users of similar technologies. Transfer of new patterns among communities who wove on the same kind of loom (e.g. a warp-weighted loom in the case of the communities of the northern Mediterranean dur-ing the Iron Age) would be more likely than among populations using different types of loom. Furthermore, the transfer of motifs would only work if the audience is receptive; as Ariane Marcar has argued (2001: 105), despite well-documented trade and exchange in textiles among the Aegean, Egypt and the Near East during the Bronze Age, there is little evidence that Aegean fashions or textile patterns influenced the neigh-bouring regions.

CIRCULATION THROUGH IMITATION

Nevertheless, the splendid textiles that circulated through various means of exchange were probably not only admired but also imitated by those who observed them. The famed mantle of the rich Sybarite Alkisthenes was displayed for many years in the sanctuary of Hera Lacinia, before being taken as booty by Dionysius the Elder of Syracuse and then sold to the Carthaginians for an astronomical sum of 100 talents (Pseudo-Aristotle De mirabilibus auscultationibus 96,838a; Heurgon 1966; Jacobsthal 1938). It is more than likely that it was imitated by Greek and Carthaginian weavers who had an opportunity to see it (Ghedini 1995: 131). Imitation therefore provides another indirect means of textile circulation and craft transmis-sion, during the process of which the object has often been transformed through adaptation to the local limitations and requirements. Imitation is often based on the necessity to satisfy demand for a particular type of com-modity, when other modes of obtaining it—by importing it (trade), stealing it (booty) or getting skilled craftspeople to produce it (as in the case Sydo-nian women brought to Troy)—are impossible or impractical. The aspects


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to be imitated could be the use of valuable materials, particular methods of working them, skilled craftsmanship or artistic designs. The restrictively expensive mollusc or Tyrian purple dye was imitated by various methods, for example by means of combining red madder dye with blue woad dye or by using lichen dyes. The women of Aššur appear to have imitated certain kinds of textiles produced in southern Mesopotamia (Michel and Veenhof 2010: 225). A particular type of a short cloak, simple or embroidered with silk, produced in Laodikeia was an imitation of the fine wool fabrics of Modena ( Edictum Diocletiani 19, 26; 20, 4; 22, 20; Lauffer 1971: 268). Decorative motifs were imitated not only in textiles but in other crafts as well, such as vase painting (Barber 1991: 365–372, 374; Lukesh 1999), mosaics and wall painting (Ghedini 1996; Osborne 1992). Textiles are among goods most often designed by specific regional origin: Hurrian tex-tiles are singled out in Late Bronze Age Egyptian gift inventories (Feld-man 2006: 107); Milesian wool had a high reputation in Classical times (Athenaeus 12.519b; Strabo 12.3.13); and Diocletian’s Edict of Prices lists numerous textile types associated with specific locations. The names do not necessarily indicate that they were made there but rather may have designated the type of textile or its decoration (Ghedini 1995: 131; Michel and Veenhof 2010: 225).

CONCLUSION

Since prehistoric times, ideas, objects and people travelled across the Medi-terranean and the Near East, generating knowledge networks. Textile pro-duction and consumption resulted in networks that stimulated the mobility of goods, people, ideas and technologies, particularly in the context of developing urbanisation (see Riva 2010). Textiles themselves, tools used to make them and women who were involved in their manufacture circulated as objects of trade, gifts, booty and prizes. Knowledge of textile craft circu-lated through these networks, although little, if any, archaeological evidence remains to document them. Given the economic, social, political and reli-gious importance of textile production in ancient societies, it is my hope that this overview of the various modes of textile circulation and transmission of textile craft will provide a starting point for further discussion of the topic of ancient textile craft traditions.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the editors for the invitation to contribute to this vol-ume, which has encouraged me to think about textile circulation networks. I am also grateful to Françoise Rougemont, Joanne Cutler and Susanna Harris for their most useful comments on the first draft of this chapter.



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INTRODUCTION

Objects are rarely made and used in isolation; by looking at them in broader terms than within the confines of individual crafts and relating them to products of other crafts, we can better understand the developments and creative processes that took place in craft traditions in the past and the social aspects behind these practices. Craft interaction can take many forms (McGovern et al. 1989: 1): the interrelationship between crafts can be a result of contacts among workshops and their craftspeople working with different materials. Examples of such workshop interactions are known from many places and periods, for example from Late Bronze Age contexts in Amarna, Egypt, where recycled bronze metal scraps were used by glass makers to colour their glass; the metal and glass workshops were situated next to each other, which explains the interaction between materials and knowledge (Shortland 2000: 72). In Mycenaean palatial centres in Greece, workshops operated in close proximity to each other. Clear evidence for cross-craft material connections has recently been presented from Tiryns (Brysbaert and Vetters 2010; Brysbaert in this volume). A unique alabaster vase inlaid with gold ornaments found in a Mycenaean tholos tomb at Ano Dranista (Ano Ktimeni), Thessaly, is an eye-catching example of how indi-vidual objects can provide evidence for such multicraft workshop contacts in palatial centres (for illustrations, see Hourmouziadis 1982: 55, fig. 27; Stamatopoulou 2011: 74, fig. 117). Another example, this time from an Early Iron Age context, is known from Oropos in Euboea, where a building first associated with metalworking later became a site for ceramic production, with evidence for kilns (Doonan and Mazarakis Ainian 2007: 371). The clay for the building of both the furnace and the ceramic firing kiln had the same composition (Doonan and Mazarakis Ainian 2007: 371). In this context, not only is the technological knowledge shared by two crafts, but also the loca-tion of the workshops attests to their close relationship. Such clear archaeo-logical evidence of technology and knowledge transfer between craftspeople through workshop contacts was until recently described as considerably rare and necessarily restricted to crafts working with durable materials and fixed

Interactions between Basketry and Pottery in Early Iron Age Attica, Greece

Judit Haas-Lebegyev

7


Interactions between Basketry and Pottery 105

workshops, such as metal- and glassworking (McGovern 1989: 6). Besides that, the observations taken were mainly based on the evidence for crafts that have aspects of their procurement and production technology in common, such as is the case with pottery and metallurgy or glass-making. In recent years, however, more scholarly attention has been paid to understanding how knowledge and technology transfer worked in the past, and specifically to the ways in which it was shared between artisans across crafts; the variety of interconnections seems far larger than was previously thought (see for example the detailed analyses of A. Brysbaert on a wide range of cross-craft interactions observed in the Aegean painted plaster craft, Brysbaert 2007: 338–343, 2008).

Craft products can also be cross-connected without the direct contact of craftspeople, through adaptations, imitations or borrowings (McGovern 1989: 1). Due to its widespread use and preservation, one of the most com-mon mediums seen through archaeology is pottery; others can be metal, stone, wood, textiles or basketry. Scholarly attention has for a long time focused only on interactions between crafts of which the products have sur-vived into the present day, and most of all on imitations of precious metal objects in ceramics (Borell 1978; McGovern 1989; Vickers and Gill 1994; Walsh in this volume), sometimes equating imitation with emulation (Vickers 1989; Vickers and Gill 1994; for a critique of such approach, see Crielaard 1999: 51). Due to the relative invisibility of industries using organic, perish-able materials such as basketry (Ananiades 2011; Evely 1999, 2000; Nakou 2000; Rutter 1988) and textile working (Barber 1991; Brown 1989), the interaction processes between these crafts and pottery production have gained much less attention so far, or at least until recently, when a growing interest in their role in cross-craft interactions is attested.

Besides ceramic vessels, baskets were the most widely used containers in antiquity, as is attested by the rich Egyptian evidence (Wendrich 1997: 43, 1999) and by finds from caves in the Judean desert (Yadin 1963, 1971). In mild climatic conditions, such as those in the Aegean, baskets and other organic materials are only preserved under exceptional circumstances. In Bronze Age contexts, several baskets were found in carbonised condition under the ashes of the volcanic eruption which destroyed the settlement of Akrotiri on Thera (Belogianni 2004: 434–450, 2006: 290–295). Apart from this special case, only a small fragmentary twined basket was recovered from a tomb in the Late Minoan cemetery at Armenoi (Belogianni 2004: 432, fig. 4; Paterakis 1996: 179–182, Figs. 1 and 3). In later periods, the survival of baskets is equally due to fortunate rare instances, such as sealed contexts combined with dry conditions. This was the case in some stone sarcophagus burials in Thessaly dating to the Late Classical and Hellenistic periods (Adrymi-Sismani 1983: 29–36, Tziafalias 1980: 281). 1

Basketry, a craft that can be undertaken without specialist tools in any location, was probably not considered a high-status activity. The value of its products in terms of raw materials is negligible, although the collection of


106 Judit Haas-Lebegyev

material and the weaving itself all require skill and specialised knowledge, which would have increased its perceived value (Nakou 2000: 49). As dem-onstrated by Georgia Nakou in her analysis on skeuomorphic relationships among metalwork, basketry and pottery in the Aegean Early Bronze Age, the relative cultural value of basketry (like that of other crafts) and its relationship to pottery is largely determined by the social context (Nakou 2000: 49–50).

One of the questions this volume aims to explore is whether materials can be seen as traces of relationships that once existed, and this question remains in the centre of enquiry of this chapter. I will examine interaction processes between pottery and basketry in Early Greek cultural contexts, and more specifically in Early Iron Age Attica. I will aim to explore which kinds of baskets were imitated in ancient times and why specific types were selected. The research tools used for this inquiry are contextual data com-bined with ethnographic analogies and experiments. An analysis that aims to reconstruct the interaction processes between pottery and crafts involv-ing organic materials in the ancient Greek context has to rely on second-ary sources. In the case of basketry, this means impressions of mats and baskets left in the soft clay and representations and imitations of baskets in other media, mostly pottery (Ananiades 2011; Evely 1999: 243). The act of imitation translates essential characteristics from one medium to another; thereby it assumes a key role in cross-craft interaction. As Jan Paul Cri-elaard (1999: 52) remarked, the plastic property of clay makes it an ideal medium for the ‘borrowing’ of organic and inorganic designs. In the specific case of basketry, this means that not only weaving designs and patterns are adapted in ceramics of various periods, but basket shapes too.

BASKET IMPRESSIONS

Before the appearance of the potter’s wheel, pieces of mats, textiles or vine leaves were sometimes used to turn larger hand-coiled vessels during their manufacture, which preserved their imprints on the bases of the pots. This practice was widespread in Neolithic and Early Bronze Age Greece and is even attested from vessels dating to the Middle and Late Bronze Age (Carington Smith 1977: 118–125—a thorough discussion of the practice with earlier literature; for later finds, see Belogianni 2004: 435, pl. 1; for more recent finds from the Cyclades, see Renfrew 2006, 2007 and 2013). In many cases, these mat impressions show traces of heavy use, for example the mat impressions found on the bases of pots at the Early Bronze Age settlement site of Dhaskalio Kavos. Jane M. Renfrew observed that ‘all show signs of being at the end of their useful life: most are torn or have holes in them, so that it appears that they had been much used before they were employed in the processes of pottery production, and had not been specially made for that purpose’ (Renfrew 2013: 645). In later periods, however, bas-kets were sometimes also deliberately used to decorate ceramic vases.



BASKET IMITATIONS

On technological grounds, we can distinguish two types of ceramic skeuo-morphs of basketry in ancient Greek pottery: replicas and imitations. Ceramic basket replicas were made using actual baskets as moulds; when soft clay was pressed into them, the basket features became faithfully pre-served in the fired vessels. This practice is known from two different periods in Greek history. In the Middle Minoan II–III (c. 1800–1600 BCE) settle-ment context in Mallia (in the Quartier Mu), small baskets made by the coiled and twined technique were used in a two-step moulding process to make ceramic replicas. Firstly, clay was pressed around the outer surface of a basket, which—after the firing process—acted as a mould. In a second step, soft clay was pressed into this mould, thus making the pattern appear in positive on the surface of the fired vessel (Polinger Foster 1989: 37; Poursat 1980; for more details on the technical aspects, see Evely 1999: 245, 2000: 515). These baskets represent a single group of finds unparalleled in other settlements. The exact function of the context in which they were found is not known and the purpose of these replicas therefore remains unidentified. The second period from which basket replicas are known is the later part of the Early Iron Age, more precisely Late Geometric Attica (c. 750–700 BCE).

In general, baskets were less frequently used in the making of ceramic vases, but potters borrowed or adapted characteristic basketry features in the shaping or decoration of their vases. The degree of imitation of bas-ketry forms and weaving patterns can be highly variable. Good examples are basket shape rhyta (pierced ritual vessels used for libation) made in Late Minoan IB–IIIA2 Crete (c. 1500–1300 BCE; Koehl 2006: 205–207): their curving, sometimes ‘baggy’ shape and horizontal handles which rise above the rim resemble the woven baskets made with plaiting. Their deco-rations, however, are composed of well-known Minoan motifs, such as rows of double axes, palm trees or animal representations, such as fish or goats. They do not, therefore, imitate the weaving patterns of the original baskets.

BASKET IMITATIONS IN LATE GEOMETRIC ATTICA

A group of ceramic basket replicas and vases which imitate baskets faithfully, both in their form and in their decoration, provides us with the possibility to analyse the nature of cross-craft interaction between basketry and pottery in a geographically and chronologically well-defined cultural context. The Athenian ceramic production of this period reached a high standard of qual-ity and its unprecedented creativity was expressed in a great variety of vessel shapes and new decorative patterns, many of which were clearly inspired by other crafts such as metalwork, basketry or textile weaving (Boardman 1998: 23, 54; Brann 1962: 14; Crielaard 1999: 50–51).



Basket Replicas

Small baskets in simple twined technique (a twist of two wefts round the warps) were used as moulds for making and decorating the outer surface of small clay vessels (Ananiades 2011 , Fig. 7.1; Bouzek 1969: 266–269; Lebegyev 2010: 102–105). They were made in a one-step moulding process: when soft clay was pressed onto the inner surface of a basket, the negative imprint of the basket appeared on the surface of the vessel. The insides of the vessels were usually decorated with lines crossing at the centre, thus imitat-ing the basket construction. More than 20 examples of this type are known so far, of which 14 have a known provenance; their distribution pattern is restricted to Athens and the Attic countryside, represented by sites such as Anavyssos, Kallithea, Laurion, Merenda and Thorikos (see appendix). The slight differences in size, shape and surface pattern of the extant vessels sug-gest that they were made of different baskets, with an average height of 6 cm and 9 to 10 cm in diameter. Based on modern experiments conducted by the author, the vessels produced by this technique are approximately 1 cm smaller in size than the original baskets (Lebegyev 2010: 102–103, pl. 28.2). The basket replicas from their original contexts were found in graves, with the exception of two pieces coming from wells at the Athenian Agora (Brann 1962: 62, no. 271; Camp 1999: 262, no. 6, Fig. 9). Based on the burial con-texts and grave good associations, they were produced during a period of c. 50 years in the Late Geometric Ib–II period (c. 750–700 BCE). Although no anthropological analyses were conducted, the grave size and/or grave good associations of some of the burials containing basket replicas indicate that they belonged to children or women. 2 The find context, the small size and some special features, such as the small pierced holes on their base, all

Figure 7.1 Basket replica. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek, Inv. 8597, reproduced by permission



suggest that these basket replicas were made to be placed in graves and had no practical function for the living; they most likely acted as symbols of real baskets.

Ceramic Imitations of Plaited Carrier Baskets

Another group of vessels, numbering 25 extant examples, was produced dur-ing the same period (Late Geometric Ib–II: 750–700 BCE) and geographical area (Athens and Attica). They are wheel-made imitations of one- or two-handled baskets most likely made with the plaited technique (Ananiades 2011; Moore 2004: 29; Lebegyev 2010: 106–109), a weaving technique using rush or soft grass, for making mats and flexible carrier baskets (Wright 1977: 110, Figure 7.2 ). 3 Some morphological characteristics of the vessels, such as flat struts bridging the ends of the handle at the rim and small knobs below the rim at the end of the long sides, have no functional role on the clay vases, but on the original plaited baskets they help to stabilise the otherwise too soft and flexible basket construction.

Figure 7.2 Two-handled basket vase. Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum der Universität Würzburg, Inv. 5337, reproduced by permission



The decorations of the vessels frequently include checkerboard and verti-cal zigzag patterns which can be considered imitations of different types of weaves: the checkerboard pattern is made with a simple 1/1 plain weave (the weft passes over and under adjacent warps—of possibly other colour—in a row), while the zigzag motif is created with a 2/2 twill when the weft passes over and under two warps producing a diagonal step pattern; with regular sequences of reversed twill a zigzag pattern is achieved; Figure 7.3 ).

When modelling the Würzburg piece (Cat. no. 25, Hölscher 1975: Pl. 11, 1–2; Figure 7.2 ), an experimental reconstruction of a plaited basket woven with 1/1 plain weave was made which, even though using one type of rush, clearly confirms the technological reconstruction of the original baskets (Figure 7.4). The ceramic imitations of plaited carrier baskets are on average 7 to 8 cm in height without the handle and 13 cm in length. The original baskets were most probably larger, as suggested by similar plaited baskets produced in ancient and modern Egypt and the Near East. Today they are mainly used for collecting, transporting and storing various kinds of goods (Wendrich 1999: 180–181, pl. 10–3, 215–217, 397–400; Wright 1977: 132–134; Yadin 1971).

All the vases from original contexts were found in graves in Athens and the Attic countryside (sites include Anavyssos, Spata and Thorikos; see appendix). The only anthropologically analysed burial belonged to a child, approximately seven years of age (Athens, Kerameikos grave 5; Kübler 1954: 243) who, based on other grave goods, a pomegranate model and a horse-pyxis, was probably of female gender (Bohen 1988: 9). Grave 3 at Spata and grave VI recovered at the junction of Erysichtonos and Nileos street in Athens each probably also contained a female burial on the basis of the gold jewellery found in them (Philadelpheus 1920–1921: 135 and Alexandri 1967: 80, respectively). The small size and the fact that they are

Figure 7.3 Simple 1/1 plain weave and 2/2 twill weave (drawing by the author)



exclusively found in funerary contexts suggest that this vase type, as was also the case with basket replicas, was also intended to be placed in graves as a model and symbol of the original plaited basket.

Other Vase Types Imitating Baskets

Besides the two groups of vessels discussed previously, there are some other ceramic shapes from the period which can also be considered as more or less faithful imitations of baskets. Of these, the kalathos , a vase type character-ised by a narrow flat base and concave, flaring sides, clearly imitates a bas-ket shape (which is also indicated by its name). Its production, however, is not restricted to Attica and it is not as typical for the Late Geometric period as the two vase types discussed earlier. Ceramic kalathoi were made during a long period of time and in a wide geographical area; they are first attested in the Late Mycenaean period (Late Helladic IIIC: 1200–1050 BCE), reap-peared in the Late Protogeometric period (950–900 BCE) and continued into the Early and Middle Geometric period (900–750 BCE) and beyond. They are found in Attica and other regions, such as Euboea, Corinth, Argolid and

Figure 7.4 Reconstruction of a two-handled plaited basket made with 1/1 plain weave (made by Éva Richter, photo by the author)



Crete (Ananiades 2011; Coldstream 2010: 36 [comments related to no. 97]; Connor 1973: 61–63 [Type A kalathos]; Dehl-von Kaenel 2009: 20–21; Lemos 2002: 55–56 [concerning the Protogeometric period]; Williams 1961: 27). From the Late Geometric period, only a few specimens occur in Attica: one vessel from a known context was found in the Dipylon cemetery in Athens dating to the Late Geometric II period (Brückner and Pernice 1893: 115–117, pl. 8.1). The shape and the lineal, sometimes cut-out, deco-ration suggest that the originals were openwork baskets, probably made in the coiled technique (on the technique, see Wright 1977: 128–129). Similar decorative baskets, the ‘panieri rafto’, are still made today by women in Crete (Leontidi 1986: 54–67). Based on pictorial representations and other testimonies, kalathoi were principally used for holding wool when spin-ning and as such allude to the household activities of women (Langdon 2005: 12; van Beek et al. 1997: 33). Contextually, ceramic kalathoi are generally known from early sanctuaries of Demeter and Kore (Persephone) and of Hera (Anderson-Stojanović 2002: 77; Coldstream 2010: 36, Pl. 50, 97; Pemberton 1989: 19–25; on the find contexts in general see Langdon 2005: 12). In funerary contexts, they are usually associated with burials of children and females of various ages, but occasionally they could also accompany male burials (Kalaitzoglou 2010: 64–71, Beilage 1; Lemos 2002: 55; Popham, Sackett, and Themelis 1980: 304–307; Strömberg 1993: 56, 66–67, 73, 86).

Another vessel type imitating a basket, produced in Attica and Boeotia in the Late Geometric period, has a similar shape as the basket replicas, namely a broad flat base, and a low body with a slightly flaring rim. Both the outside and the inside of the vase was painted all over or decorated with painted motifs, such as vertical or horizontal stripes or zigzags on the out-side and lines crossing at the centre of floor on the inside (Ananiades 2011; Connor 1973, Type B kalathos; Lebegyev 2010: 105–106). The shape and decoration give no indication of the specific basket type these vases imitate. Examples with known provenance are all associated with burial contexts and more precisely with burials of children and young females (Ananiades 2011; Lebegyev 2010: 10).

DISCUSSION

Ceramic basket replicas and imitations of plaited carrier baskets represent a small group of vases produced in a short period of time (750–700 BCE) in a restricted geographical area (Athens and Attica), probably by a limited num-ber of potters and workshops to meet specific demands. They were made for funerary use and placed in usually well-equipped burials of children and females, probably as symbols or substitutes for real baskets. The distribu-tion and usage of the basket vases suggest a local Attic invention, production and significance. Several questions emerge from this short summary of the



production, circulation and consumption of these two vase types. Why were these baskets in particular imitated in ceramic? What was the function of the original baskets and their ceramic imitations? Why were the imitations associated only with the burials of children and women? What is the reason for the short-term production and restricted distribution of these vase types?

As a culturally defined set of symbols, mortuary rituals give expression to different aspects of personal identity (for example age, gender, social sta-tus); thus grave goods and especially objects with symbolic value should have meanings pertinent to those in whose graves they were placed (Whitley 1996: 210). In Early Iron Age Greece, pottery played an especially active role in constructing and structuring social identities in burial contexts (Crielaard 1999: 63–65; Whitley 1991). Accordingly, the original baskets, as well as their clay models, should have held symbolic meanings appropriate to girls and young women with whose burials they were associated. The two types of baskets probably had different functions: the small twined baskets could have been used to hold small substances, while the plaited baskets with one or two handles were suitable for carrying larger amounts of goods. As these vases were found only in graves associated with children and women, they could have had a function which was especially connected to this age and gender category.

In several graves, these two types of basket-imitating vases were found together with other objects of symbolic nature, such as terracotta pome-granates and granary models, also known only from child and female buri-als (for example, in grave 50 in the Kerameikos cemetery, in grave VI at the junction of Erysichtonos and Nileos street in Athens and in grave 19 in Merenda). 4 The pomegranate, a symbol of fertility with a strong chthonic character, can be related to Aphrodite, to the cult of Hera (its many seeds symbolising life and fertility) or the abduction myth of Persephone and thus to the Underworld (Immerwahr 1989: 408–409). The granary models, whether interpreted as containing grain (Morris and Papadopoulos 2004: 226–228; Smithson 1968: 11–13) or honey (Cherici 1989: 224–226), sym-bolised abundance of the land and as such could be related to Demeter. Grain symbolised fertility. The bee, besides having a chthonic significance, was also considered as a symbol of the good, hard-working wife (Williams 2000: 394). It might thus be possible that the two types of baskets also had similar symbolic meanings related to the female gender.

Ethnographic data can provide useful hypotheses regarding the func-tion and social context of the ceramic shapes and the original baskets they imitate. Regarding the small-scale production and distribution of basketry replicas, we might look for analogies in traditional household production (Sinopoli 1991: 99). The small twined baskets might have had a similar function to special baskets used in wedding ceremonies in several regions in modern Greece. In Crete, small, richly decorated baskets (the coiled panieri rafto) made exclusively by women had a ceremonial function: with great pomp they are used to carry the dowry of the bride and gifts for the married



couple to the groom’s house. After the ceremony they are hung on the wall of the house as decoration (Leontidi 1986: 57). In other regions, candies are placed in small baskets which are distributed after the wedding ceremony (Danforth 1982: 75). The basket replicas might thus be interpreted as copies of baskets used for wedding rituals and thereafter hung on the wall of the house to indicate the new social status of the newlyweds. The pierced holes at the base of the basket replicas might refer to this last use in the social biography of the baskets. Furthermore, the replicas are also suitable for use as votives and are hung up in sanctuaries (Williams 2000: 394).

Modern analogies for baskets made with plaiting are known, for exam-ple, from Egypt: in New Nubia (north of Aswan), lavishly decorated baskets with patterns of three or four colours are made by women and used for shopping, for displaying goods in shops or for storage purposes inside the house, while in Middle Egypt, similar but simpler baskets used in agricul-ture are made by men. In both regions, baskets are produced on a semipro-fessional basis (Wendrich 1999: 215–217, 397–400). Based on the function of the preserved ancient baskets and the modern examples used to carry and store various amounts of goods, we can assume that the small-size imita-tions of the carrier baskets might signify wealth and abundance in general or, more specifically, represent the dowry, which could have been carried in such baskets to the groom’s house. Based on the myth of Kore–Persephone, who was seized by Hades while picking up flowers in her basket, Susan Langdon proposed that the handled basket vases might denote this mytho-logical connection and relate the girls buried with these baskets to Kore (Langdon 2005: 19, 2007: 188). Although the shape of the baskets is indeed suitable for such purposes, the original baskets could have served several other functions as well. Nevertheless, we can imagine that richly decorated baskets were special, individual items and handed down by mothers to daughters as gifts or heirlooms. As such, they were likely charged with extra symbolism, for instance drawing on myths like the basket of Europa or the precious basket of Helen given to her by Alkandra, the wife of Polybos ( Odyssey IV 125–131; Tzachili 2005: 117). Burying unmarried persons in wedding clothes and surrounding them with wedding fineries is a custom known throughout the world and was, at least until recently, practiced in modern Greece. At the funeral of such young people, wedding songs are sung, and in the instance of unmarried girls and women, a part of the dowry is buried as well (Danforth 1982: 79–80; for a well-written account on this custom from Maramureş, Transylvania, see Kligman 1988). These basket vases, like other symbolic objects known from child and female burials of the period, might symbolise aspects related to the unmarried status and thus the unfulfilled role of wife and mother of the dead person.

If the ancient Greek basket imitations carried a similar symbolic func-tion, how can we explain their relatively short time span and restricted geo-graphical distribution? Placing bridal fineries and objects (or their models) connected to the wedding ceremony in the graves of young girls and women



of marriageable age was a widespread custom in ancient Greece and also in later periods; the type and composition of the objects placed in their graves, however, varied from time to time and place to place. Susan Langdon related the appearance and disappearance of a symbolic package, including the bas-ket vases which characterised the burial assemblage of young females, with historical processes taking place in Athens at the second half of the 8th century BCE. In the changing social order of the time, at the onset of the political state, a set of concerns such as marriage and property became the focus of burial expression reflected by valuables and symbolic objects of ritual dimension placed in the graves of children and young women. After the establishment of the state, however, the emphasis shifted to adult males, resulting in the loss of concern for young females and thus in the disap-pearance of symbolic objects related to their burial (Langdon 2005: 19–20, 2007: 188). The pattern could indeed reflect changing symbolic codes in the burial sphere, but it is difficult to see such a direct relationship between artefact variability and socio-political changes. Cultural variables such as gender and age change meaning through time and space, and so does the material record in its role as a medium in shaping and structuring social identities.

CONCLUSION

The case study on cross-craft interaction between basketry and pottery in Early Iron Age Greece reveals a small and selective window into a whole industry otherwise lost due to the perishable nature of basketry. Although the social role of basketry in ancient Greece is still very poorly understood, it appears from the analysis of vases imitating baskets in Early Iron Age Attica that the decisive factor in the interaction of basketry and pottery in this period—at least judging from the two vase types analysed in detail—was the symbolic qualities of the baskets and not economic or social reasons: ceramic imitations of baskets in Late Geometric Attica were in some way connected to the female life-circle. As symbols and substitutes of the origi-nals, these vases could play a role in marking the social identity of young, possibly unmarried, girls and women in graves.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the editors, Katharina Rebay-Salisbury and Ann Brysbaert, for their invitation to contribute in this volume and for their comments and many useful suggestions on earlier drafts of the paper.



Appendix

CATALOGUE OF ATTIC LATE GEOMETRIC BASKET REPLICAS

1. Athens—Agora, Well M 11.1. Agora Museum, Inv. P 17189. Hesperia XVI (1947) 210, pl. 46, 4. Brann 1962: 62, no. 271, pl. 16. H. 6.9 cm; Drim. 11.1 cm. Interior: multiple cross of three glazed bands.

2. Athens—Agora, Well J 13:1. Agora Museum, Inv. P 32731. Camp 1999: 262, no. 6, Fig. 9. H. 5 cm; Drim. 9.3 cm. Interior: multiple cross of three glazed bands. Glazed dots on rim.

3. Athens—Sapphou str. 12, Grave III. Akropolis Museum. O. Alexandri, Σαπφούς 12, Archaiologikon Deltion 23 B1, 1968 [1969], 91, pl. 50a.—H. 5 cm. Interior: crossed glazed bands. Glazed dots on rim.

4. Athens, Pireus str. Königsberg, Inv. A.17. R. Lullies, Antike Kleinkunst in Königsberg (Königsberg 1935) 13–14, no. 17. H. 5 cm; Drim. 8.5 cm. Interior glazed. Short strokes on rim. Base pierced by two small holes.

5. Athens, Kallithea, Grave 2, Piraeus Archaeological Museum, Inv. 2008. B. Kallipolitis 1964, Καλλιθέα Αθηνών, Archae-ologikon Deltion 19 B1, 1964 [1966], 65, pl. 62a. H. 6,5 cm. Interior: cross of two glazed bands.

6. Athens. Tübingen, Antikensammlung des Archäologischen Instituts der Universität, Inv. 5566. K. Wallenstein, CVA Tübin-gen (2), pl. 25, 9–10. H. 4.7 cm; Drim. 8.6–8.9 cm. Interior: multiple cross of three glazed bands. Dots on rim. Base pierced by two small pierced holes.

7–8. Anavyssos, Grave 11. Athens, National Archaeological Museum, Inv. NM 14455, 14456. P. Kastriotis—A. Philadelpheus, A. Phila-delpheus, Ανασκαφή Ανάβυσσου, Praktika 1911, 126, fi g. 30, 31. Interior: multiple cross. Pierced holes near the rim.

9. Anavyssos, Grave XI. Brauron Museum. Themelis 1973–1974, 108, pl. 85g right.

10. Laurion. Dresden, Albertinum Skulpturensammlung, Inv. ZV 1775. P. Herrmann, Erwerbungsbericht der Dresdener Skulpturen-Sammlung, Archäologischer Anzeiger 1902, 115, no. 24, fi g. 9. H. 9.2 cm; Drim. 18.1 cm. Interior: multiple cross of fi ve glazed bands. Two painted band on rim. I thank Dr. Kordelia Knoll Dresden for additional information on the vase.

11–13. Merenda, Grave 19. Brauron Museum, Inv. 71, 72, 73. A. K., Orlandos, Ergon 1960, 34, fi g. 46. M. Xagorari-Gleißner 2005, 68, cat. no. 151; cat. no. 152 (pl. 20d); cat. no. 153. Inv. 71 (cat. no. 151): H. 4.9 cm, Drim. 6.8 cm; Dbase. 4.7 cm.



Interior: multiple cross of four glazed bands. Row of dots and two pierced holes on rim. Inv. 72 (cat. no. 152): H. 5 cm; Drim. 7 cm; Dbase. 4.7 cm; same decoration. Inv. 73 (cat. no. 153): H. 4.4 cm; Drim. 7.8 cm; Dbase. 5.5 cm, same decoration.

14. Thorikos, Grave 93. Laurion Museum, Inv. TC 66.215. Bingen 1969, 96–97, fi g. 99. H. 4.8 cm.

15–17. Athens, National Archaeological Museum, Empedokles Collec-tion, Inv. NM 18454; NM 18506; NM 15807.

18. Athens, National Archaeological Museum, Vlastos collection. www.beazley.ox.ac.uk/record/F9E3ABCC-2586-4AA0-87F4-1C8D1677ED76. Painted band on rim. Interior: multiple cross.

19. Adolphseck, Schloss Fasanerie. Inv. 92. F. Brommer, CVA Adolphseck, Schloss Fasanerie (2) pl. 56: 12. H: 3 cm; Drim: 5 cm. Interior: multiple cross of three glazed bands. Short strokes on rim.

20. Berlin, Antikenmuseum, Inv 31391. W.-D. Heilmeyer, Antiken-museum Berlin (Berlin 1988) 35:9. Dehl-von Kaenel 2009, pl. 40, 2. 5. H. 5.3–5.6 cm. Drim. 9.5 cm. Volume: 0.28 l. Holes on bottom. Interior: cross of two glazed bands.

21. Bonn, Akademisches Kunstmuseum, Inv. 1635. Unpublished, mentioned in B. Schweitzer, Untersuchungen zur Chronolo-gie und Geschichte der geometrische Stile in Griechenland II, Athenische Mitteilungen 43, 1918, 99, n. 3.—H. 3.8; Drim. 5.9 cm. Pierced hole on the base. I thank Dr. Wilfred Geominy, Bonn, for additional information on the vase.

22. Munich, Staatliche Antikensammlungen und Glyptothek, Inv. 8597. R. Lullies, CVA München (3) pl. 129, 8. H. 5 cm; Drim. 9 cm. Painted band on rim. Interior: multiple cross of four glazed bands. Base pierced by two small holes. ( Fig. 7.1 ).

CATALOGUE OF ATTIC LATE GEOMETRIC IMITATIONS OF PLAITED CARRIER BASKETS

1. Athens, Kerameikos. Athens National Archaeological Museum, Inv. 727. S. Wide, Geometrische Vasen aus Griechenland, Jah-rbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 14, 1899, 213, fi g. 94. M. Collignon−L. Couve, Catalogue des Vases peints du Musée National d’Athènes (Paris 1904) 87, pl. XVI, no. 362. H. without handle 7 cm; L. 13 cm. Two handles attached at the top. Decoration: horizontal zigzags, checkerboard pattern. Row of short strokes on handles.

2. Athens, Kerameikos, Grave 50. Kerameikos Museum, Inv. 1307. Kübler 1954, pl. 118. L. 14.7 cm. One refl ex handle with



strut. Panelled decoration: cross-hatched triangles (wolf tooth); hatched leaves, checkerboard pattern, on the short side nar-row metope with M-chevron pattern. Row of dots on handle, strokes on strut.

3. Athens, Erysichthonos and Nileos str., grave VI, Akropo-lis Museum. Alexandri 1967, 80, pl. 80e. One refl ex handle. Panelled decoration: below the rim along the vase horizontal checkerboard pattern, below handle narrow zone of vertical checkerboard pattern, on the rest of the body row of hatched vertical leaves.

4. Athens, probably Dipylon. Amsterdam, Allard Pierson Museum, Inv. 1635 (Formerly The Hague, Museum Scheurleer). C. W. Lunsingh Scheurleer, CVA La Haye, Musée Scheurleer (1), pl. 2,7 .; De Oudheid Verpakt 1997, Cat. 38, Fig. 56. H. 8 cm; L. 10 cm. Handmade. Two handles attached at the top. Decora-tion: in two horizontal panels: row of lozenges, and four-limbed sigmas. Row of dots on handle. Small bird fi gure (H. 4 cm) was found in the vase.

5. Anavyssos, Grave 13, Brauron Museum, Inv. BK 3015. Unpub-lished. Mentioned in Hölscher 1975, 17–18 (as parallel cited to Pl. 104–106 and Pl. 11, 1–2).

6. Anavyssos, Grave 22, Brauron Museum, Inv. 3079. Unpub-lished. Mentioned in Hölscher 1975, 17 (as parallel cited to Pl. 10, 1–3), Langdon 2007: 183, Table 9.1.

7. Anavyssos, Grave 33, Brauron Museum, Inv. BK 3180. Unpub-lished. Mentioned in Hölscher 1975, 17 (as parallel cited to Pl. 10, 1–3), Langdon 2007: 183, Table 9.1. One refl ex handle.

8. Anavyssos, Grave 34, Brauron Museum, Inv. BK 3216. Unpub-lished. Mentioned in Hölscher 1975, 17 (as parallel cited to Pl. 10, 1–3), Xagorari-Gleißner 2005, 41.

9. Anavyssos, Grave 47, Brauron Museum, Inv. BK 2988. Unpub-lished. Mentioned in Hölscher 1975, 17 (as parallel cited to Pl. 10, 1–3). One handle.

10. Spata, Grave 3. Philadelpheus 1920–1921, 135, fi g. 8.3, 138, no. 12. H. 15 cm; L. 17 cm. Two long handles attached at the top.

11. Thorikos, Grave 85. Laurion Museum, Inv. TC 66.195. Bingen 1969, 92–93, fi g. 86–88. H. 12.1 cm; L. 13.7 cm. One han-dle with strut. Small knobs below the rim at the two ends of the long sides. Decoration: parallel vertical zigzags. Diagonal stripes on the handle and strut.

12. Thebes. Heidelberg, Antikensammlung der Universität, Inv. G. 9. F. Canciani, CVA Heidelberg (3), pl. 114, 6, 7. H. 7–7.6 cm; H. with handle 11.8 cm, L. 13 cm. One refl ex handle with strut. Decoration: geometric motives arranged in narrow metopes, on



the long sides checkerboard pattern, vertical zigzags and vertical herring-bone pattern, on the short sides two concentric triangles.

13. Athens, National Archaeological Museum, Empedokles Collec-tion, Inv. 18495. One handle with strut. Small knobs below the rim at the two ends of the long sides. Decoration: checkerboard pattern. Stripes on handle.

14. Athens, National Archaeological Museum, Empedokles Collec-tion, Inv. 18626. Miniature, handmade. One handle. Decora-tion: groups of vertical wavy lines, between them wheel motif.

15. Athens, N. P. Goulandris Museum of Cycladic Art, Inv. 47. L. Marangou, Benaki Museum, N. P. Goulandris Collec-tion (Athens 1978) 230, no. 98. H. with handle 17 cm; Drim. 8–15.3 cm; Dbase. 7.8 cm. One handle without strut. Decora-tion: vertical chevron, wavy band, dotted rosette.

16. Erlangen, Antikensammlung der Friedrich-Alexander-Univer-sität, Inv. I 231. O. Drager, CVA Erlangen (1) pl. 15, 1, 2. H. 10.8 cm; Drim: short side 7.7 cm, long side 13.2 cm, Dbase. short side 4.5 cm, long side 4.9 cm; volume: 0.30 l; weight: 170 g. One handle with strut. Small knobs below the rim at the two ends of the long sides. Decoration: vertical zigzags, below the rim dot-line. Short strokes on handle, diagonal cross on strut.

17. London, market. Charles Ede London Ltd. Sale Catalogue 89 (1.12.1972) no. 10. I thank K. Ananiades for drawing my attention to this piece.

18. Melbourne, Collection of the University of Melbourne at the Ian Potter Museum of Art, Inv. MUV 60. P. Connor−H. Jackson, A Catalogue of Greek Vases in the Collection of the University of Melbourne at the Ian Potter Museum of Art (Melbourne 2000) 40–41, no. 9. H. with handle 11.5 cm; H. without handle 6.2 cm; Dbase. 4.85–4.6 cm. One handle with strut. Decoration: paint almost totally abraded. Linked dotted lozenge pattern. Continuous dots on the rim. Broad band at the base. Row of dots on handle, crossing diagonal lines on strut.

19. Munich, Museum Antiker Kleinkunst, Inv. 6186. R. Lullies, CVA München (3), pl. 119, 2. H. with handle 12 cm; L. 14.5 cm. One refl ex handle with strut. Decoration: paint on body abraded, short strokes on handle.

20. Munich, Museum Antiker Kleinkunst, Inv. 6182. R. Lullies, CVA München (3), pl. 121, 2–4. H. with handle 21.5 cm. Two long handles attached at the top. Decoration: goat and goat-bird composition on one short side, dense geometric pattern of chevrons, romboids, leaf cross.

21. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Inv. 36.11.10. J. L. Benson, Horse, Bird and Man (Amherst 1970) pl. XVI,7. M. Moore, CVA USA (37), Metropolitan Museum of Art (5),



pl. 22.4–5, 7. H. 5.8–6.8 cm. Drim short side 6 cm, long side 12.5 cm, Dbase short side 4 cm, long side 4.6 cm. Frag-mentary, handle and parts of the body missing. (Probably originally with one handle.) Decoration: row of reclining goats interrupted by metopes, below checkerboard pattern, at the base dotted lozenge chain.

22. Reading, Ure Museum of Greek Archaeology, University of Reading, Inv. 26.8.1. P. N. Ure—A.D. Ure, CVA Reading (1), pl. 8.4. H. 6 cm; H. with handle 10 cm; L. 13 cm. One refl ex han-dle with strut. Dense geometric decoration arranged in narrow metopes: checkerboard pattern, herringbone, cross-hatched loz-enges, chevrons, horizontal and vertical zigzags. Interior black glazed.

23–25. Würzburg, Martin von Wagner Museum der Universität Würzburg.

23. Inv. H 5330. From one grave. Hölscher 1975, pl. 10, 1–3. H. 6.3−7.2 cm; H. with handle 11.5 cm; Drim. 12.7 cm. One handle with strut. Small knobs below the rim at the two ends of the long sides. Decoration: vertical zigzags. Row of short strokes on handle.

24. Inv. H 5336, ibid. pl. 10, 4–6. H. with handle 14.6 cm; H. without handle 7.2 cm; Drim. 12.1 cm. One handle with strut. Decoration: panelled, row of water birds, checkerboard pattern framed by two narrow metopes of horizontal zigzags. Linked dots on handle, row of dotted lozenges on strut.

25. Inv. H. 5337. ibid. pl. 11, 1–2. H. 8.1 cm, H. with handle 18.5−18.9 cm; Width between the handles 7.3 cm. Two long han-dles. Decoration: checkerboard pattern, below handles alternating hatched triangles. (Fig. 7.2).

NOTES

1. Several organic finds were preserved in two stone sarcophagus burials in Velestino (Pherai) dated to the end of the 5th century BCE: a large basket filled with autumnal fruits (pomegranate, hazelnut and chestnut) and a small, empty, lidded basket were placed in grave 12, the burial of a five- to seven-year-old girl (Adrymi-Sismani 1983: 29–31; the gender identification is based on a bone doll placed next to the hands, age determination is made on the basis of the length of the long bones as documented on the drawing of the burial using the method described in Stloukal and Hanáková 1978). In grave 17, containing a female burial, a lidded basket was found filled with cosmetic utensils, namely two wooden combs, a bronze strigil, a spoon, a pin and a wooden pyxis (Adrymi-Sismani 1983: 29–36). In Larissa, a stone sarcophagus burial (grave 5, no information on age or sex is available) dated to the middle of the 2nd century BCE contained a small lidded basket filled with autumnal fruits (almond, hazelnut, pomegranate and fig; Tziafalias 1980: 281).



2. On the basis of the small size of grave XI at Anavyssos, the excavator suggested that originally it may have contained an infant burial (Themelis 1973–1974: 109). In the case of grave 19 at Merenda and grave 93 at Thorikos, the associa-tion of some of the grave goods found with female and/or child burials led to the suggestion that they may have held a child burial (Xagorari-Gleißner 2005: 34, 63; and Bingen 1969: 94). Parallels to the granary model found in grave 19 at Merenda are only known from female and child burials. Smithson (1968: 93, no. 4) and Strömberg (1993: 50) associated granary models in general with female burials; they are, however, also known from child burials from Athens (Kerameikos grave LZB 1, von Freytag gen. Löringhoff 1975: 81, Nr. 11, 12 and Marathon, Nea Makri grave 6, Mazarakis-Ainian 2011: 704). The only parallel to the wheeled horse found in the same grave is associated with a burial belonging to a c. seven-year-old child (Athens, Kerameikos grave 50, Kübler 1954: 245). The three handmade vases found in the Merenda grave are also considered to be characteristic of female and child burials (Kourou 1988: 318–320; Langdon 2005: 13). Moreover, in both the Merenda and Thorikos graves, terracotta figurines were found, which according to Xago-rari are mostly known from child burials in the Late Geometric period (1996: 64). This connection is recently further strengthened by a horse figurine found associated with a child burial at Marathon, Nea Makri grave 7 (Mazarakis-Ainian 2011: 704).

3. Outside Attica, only one comparable piece is known: a Boeotian Late Geo-metric small handmade basket vase with one handle decorated with two water birds with hatched bodies on each side, in the collection of the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford (Inv. G. 52, H. W. Catling and T. Mannack, CVA Oxford Ashmolean Museum (4), pl. 52, 10–11, fig. 11.5–6).

A piece of uncertain attribution and therefore not included in the catalogue is a fragmentary vase with curving walls but without handles. It was found with a group of other small vases during the excavation of C. W. Blegen in a deposit at the sanctuary of Zeus on Mt. Hymettos; now in New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art (Inv. 30.118.67, Moore [2004] 53, Pl. 27, 21). It is not certain whether the vase originally had a handle at all, but a projection at the rim at the end of one of the longer sides could suggest a vertical basket handle placed on the same side.

A basket vase in Boston (Boston Museum of Fine Arts, 03.780, illustrated in Fairbanks 1928, 84, cat. no. 281, pl. 24) with fenestrated wall and without handles was classified by Mary B. Moore among the handled basket vases (Moore 2004: 29). Even though its oval shape resembles the group of vases imitating plaited baskets, the cut-out decoration and the lack of handle attri-butes it rather as an atypical kalathos , or a hybrid of the two shapes.

4. It is worth noting here that pomegranate models are only associated with vases imitating plaited carrier baskets in burial contexts. Up to now, five such contexts are known: Kerameikos, grave 50; Erysichtonos–Nileos str.; grave VI in Athens; Anavyssos grave 22 and 33 (unpublished, cited in Langdon 2007: 183, table 2.1); and an alleged grave group now in Würzburg. Granary models were found together with basket replicas in grave 19 in Merenda (two granary models and three basket replicas) and also with kalathoi in earlier contexts: the burial of the ‘rich Athenian lady’ in the Agora from the Early Geo-metric II–Middle Geometric I transition (Smithson 1968) and the Isis grave in Eleusis of the Middle Geometric I period (Skias 1898: 106–10), but not with vases imitating plaited carrier baskets. Real twined baskets filled with pome-granates and other fruits found in a Late Classical and a Hellenistic period grave in Thessaly (see note 1) might provide further support to the connection between baskets and pomegranates.



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28–122. Smithson, E. L. 1968. The Tomb of a Rich Athenian Lady, ca. 850 B.C. Hesperia

37: 77–116. Stamatopoulou, M. 2011. Thessaly (Archaic to Roman), Archaeology in Greece

2010–2011. Archaeological Reports 57: 73–84. Stloukal, M., and H. Hanáková. 1978. Die Länge der Längsknochen altslawischer

Bevölkerungen unter besonderer Berücksichtigung von Wachstumsfragen. Homo 29: 53–69.

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van Beek, R., G. Jurriaans-Helle, and R. F. Docter (eds). 1997. De Oudheid Verpakt: catalogue of the exhibition on ancient packing materials in the Allard Pierson Museum Amsterdam 10 October 1997—1 February 1998 . Voorhout: Topa Holding.

Vickers, M. 1989. “The cultural context of Ancient Greek ceramics: an essay in skeuomorphism,” in P. E. McGovern, M. D. Notis, and W. D. Kingery (eds), Cross-Craft and Cross-Cultural Interactions in Ceramic , Ceramics and Civilization 4 . Westerville, OH: American Ceramic Society: 45–63.



Vickers, M., and D. Gill. 1994. Artful Crafts. Ancient Greek Silverware and Pottery . Oxford: Clarendon Press.

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Craftsmanship at Athens in the 11th Century BCE Improvisation, Networking and Pottery Making

Rik Vaessen

8

INTRODUCTION

We find pottery so often and yet we tend to understand so little of it. When we look at the current scholarly debate regarding the pottery from the Late Bronze and Early Iron Age Aegean, strong emphasis is placed on the chronological and technological characterisation and synchronisation of material from different regions or individual sites. A good example of the first is the ongoing discussion as to whether ‘Submycenaean’, con-ventionally placed in the first half of the 11th century BCE ( Figure 8.1 ), can be regarded as a distinct chronological phase and, if so, whether it is possible to subdivide this period even further (for a recent discussion, see Papadopoulos, Damatia and Marston 2011). Submycenaean pottery has not had the best press over the years. The pottery is generally character-ised as ‘bad’ (Whitley 2001: 79), ‘unambitious in range and poorly exe-cuted’ (Osborne 1996: 24) and ‘utterly derivative’ (Snodgrass 1971: 34). Consequently, the appearance of this pottery is often taken as a sign of cultural decay and a general loss of skill.

Some remarks are needed, however, in respect to these characterisations. Firstly, the very use of the prefix ‘sub’ implies that Submycenaean pottery is supposed to represent a degenerative form of Mycenaean ceramics, auto-matically providing this type of pottery with negative connotations. This image is further reinforced by the fact that it is followed by Protogeometric pottery, which Vincent Desborough (1952, 1964: 263) has argued to be a sign of the arrival of a new creative (Greek) spirit. As a result, Submyce-naean pottery has long been regarded as a style ‘in between’ that is neither fully Mycenaean nor part of the ‘new spirit’. Although we might not think explicitly in these terms anymore, they still tend to influence our perception of this style of pottery today. Secondly, as Jeremy Rutter (1978) pointed out more than three decades ago, Submycenaean pottery is predominantly found in cemeteries. This picture has not really changed over the years. In fact, even though there are many settlement sites on the central and south-ern Greek mainland with uninterrupted sequences from the Bronze into the Iron Age, a well-defined and stratified Submycenaean phase has still not


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been convincingly identified (Lis 2009: 213–216; Papadopoulos, Damatia and Marston 2011: 191–194). This makes the claim for a distinctive Sub-mycenaean phase controversial at best.

On the other hand, as Oliver Dickinson (2006: 125) notes, there is in general no reason to deny that pottery classified as of Submycenaean style is frequently fired unevenly, the decoration carelessly applied in paint that is often streaky or matt and even the shaping of the pots could be poor. In this chapter, I argue that these characteristics do not have to be viewed in negative terms, nor do they necessarily suggest the existence of a distinctive chronological, let alone a historical, phase. In making this argument, I will particularly focus on Athens. I realise that this choice could be somewhat dangerous given the prominent position that has been assigned to Athens in the development and production of Submycenaean as well as Protogeomet-ric pottery (see Desborough 1952, 1964), but the abundance of (published) material from the cemeteries and the potters’ quarter in the area of the Clas-sical Agora provides us with a wealth of information. However, before mov-ing to Athens, we first need to think about what change and innovation actually mean.

Figure 8.1 General chronological table of the Aegean Early Iron Age

Dates (BCE) Ceramic Phase Historical periodis ation

1200

1150/1140Late Helladic IIIC Early

Post-Palatial1150/1140

1100/1090

Late Helladic IIIC Developed

Late Helladic IIIC Advanced

1100/1090

1050/1025

Late Helladic IIIC Late/ Submycenaean

1050/1025

1000Early Protogeometric

Early Iron Age

1000

950Middle Protogeometric

950

900Late Protogeometric

900 Early Geometric


Craftsmanship at Athens in the 11th Century BCE 129

RETHINKING CHANGE AND INNOVATION

The primary reason for the establishment of ceramic chronologies is to get an idea of the relative chronology at a site and its chronological links to other sites in the region. No doubt, this is an essential aspect of archaeologi-cal investigation, but it has its potential pitfalls. One of them is that typolog-ical-chronological systems assume a linear process of development that can be divided up into clearly demarcated phases. Of course, for chronological reasons, such an assumption is necessary, but it has the danger of obscur-ing the fact that in everyday life, multiple styles of pottery can be produced and used alongside one another. Moreover, the art-historical approach that underlies the classification systems we use, which in Greek archaeology is inherited partly from traditional culture-history concerns and the preoccu-pations of Classical archaeology, often conceives of stylistic change as being of paramount ethnic, cultural and historical significance. As such , the ‘start’ or ‘end’ of what is normally an arbitrarily ‘defined’ pottery ‘phase’ is sup-posed to correspond to the ‘start’ or ‘end’ of a historical phase. It is this rela-tionship between ceramic and historical phases that poses most problems.

To argue that pots are a direct reflection of human intent, the assumption has to be made that the making of a pot starts out as a preformed idea in the mind of a potter and comes to an end once the material has taken on the intended form. Tim Ingold (2013: 20–21) notes that this perspective on mak-ing, in which form is being imposed on matter, is known as hylomorphism , from the Greek hyle (matter) and morphe (form). The role of human or individual agency in the transformation of material culture has recently come under scrutiny. For instance, Julian Thomas (2004: 119–148) argues that the focus on individuality is a modern construct that assumes that there is only one legitimate way to be human, and that is ours. This modern perspec-tive on the individual would as such be both anachronistic and ethnocentric when applied to the distant past. In contrast, Knapp and van Dommelen (2008) argue that experiencing oneself is part of the human nature and that therefore we should take into account the social, spatial and ideological importance of individual people (not individualism). This is not the place to engage in a much deeper debate. A primary reason for concern here is that the assumed relationship between agency and people reinforces the Cartesian divide between ‘passive’ things and ‘active’ people. In an attempt to close this divide, various archaeologists have, influenced mainly by the works of Alfred Gell (1998) and Bruno Latour (2005), recently been arguing for a form of material agency in which emphasis is placed on the effect things can have on people. Chris Gosden (2005: 194–197) argues that as material culture is relatively long lasting, people are socialised into particular material worlds which exist prior to their birth, and as such they will be structured by the education of their senses and the objects surrounding them in childhood. Therefore, it is not the mind that imposes its forms on material objects, but rather it is the latter that give shape to the forms of thought.


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Of course, it is highly problematic to assign intentionality to objects, particularly as intentionality and agency are not quite the same. Carl Knappett (2005: 22) argues that artefacts such as traffic lights, sleeping policemen or cat flaps might be described as possessing a kind of agency, yet it would be much harder to argue that they manifest intentionality. One could say that the agency that objects possess is only that which people have given them. On the other hand, if we think a bit further about the production of pottery, for example, we can easily recognise a wide range of people that are involved in the production process. Crown (2007) points out that in the production of pottery, different individuals may carry out different tasks, and sometimes multiple individuals work cooperatively to complete the same task. From that perspective, if we think of agency as the medium by which things are accomplished, we are immediately confronted with the question of whose agency is respon-sible for the production of a vessel. The answer would be that it is the whole network of people rather than a single individual. But the picture gets even further complicated when we realise that people cannot act without their tools and materials. Knappett (2006: 241) even points out that tools are used to such an extent that they are almost part of the individual, as an organism, an agent and a person. Consequently, agency would be distributed throughout a hybrid network of humans and things rather than being embodied in the individual actor.

This network perspective goes a long way in getting around the human/thing dichotomy, yet Tim Ingold (2010: 95) points out that ‘paradoxically, these attempts to move beyond the modernist polarisation of subject and object remain trapped within a language of causation that is founded on the very same grammatical categories and that can conceive of action only as an effect set in train by an agent’ [original emphasis]. To get around this issue, it is useful to refer to remarks made by Sander van der Leeuw (2008). He points out that pottery making is a creative activity in which potters are faced with many and constantly changing opportunities and challenges and have to use their skills to ‘manage’ both. For the potter, the process of pottery making is not defined in terms of cause and effect but in terms of possibili-ties and probabilities. Moreover, it could be argued that the aim of pottery making is not to reach a terminus in the form of a finished object but rather is to generate the right (material) conditions for everyday practices to be sus-tained (Barrett 2012). To achieve this, craftspeople have to bring together and combine flows of materials, energy and information in an ongoing and essentially open-ended movement. As Ingold (2013) shows convincingly, in this process craftspeople work together or ‘correspond’ with their materials and steer them in the intended direction rather than impose form on them. However, precisely because materials are not disposed to fall into the shapes and configuration required of them, let alone to stay in them indefinitely, craftspeople will have to improvise and innovate constantly in order to keep the process going.



Such a perspective on making challenges our perception of material change over time, because it implies that innovation occurs in the moment, is unpredictable, and forms the rule rather than the exception. It also sug-gests that material reality is much messier than traditional classification sys-tems allow for. I would, therefore, propose that instead of seeing stylistic development as a linear process, we might want to think of it as a wave that is constantly changing shape and character as it picks up, incorporates or lets go elements whilst on the move. To follow this wave, I suggest we shift our focus away from the archaeological object as a self-contained and inert thing that can be studied ‘objectively’ and in isolation and find ways to investigate how materials take shape as part of an ongoing and impro-visatory process in which people try to maintain continuity in life through the making, conserving and abandoning of ceramics. My intent in the rest of this chapter is to try and expose (some of) the dynamics that allowed the kind of pottery that archaeologists have caught under the headings of ‘Submycenaean’ and ‘Protogeometric’ to take shape at Athens at the dawn of the Early Iron Age.

BECOMING SKILFUL

To start the investigation of the dynamics that stimulated stylistic change at Athens, it would be useful to start with the still very dominant view that Submycenaean pottery is a reflection of cultural decay and a loss of skill. Indeed, the ability to effectively manage flows of materials is closely related to the skills of people handling them. No one is born a fully skilled potter; producing pottery requires learning a sequence of tasks, and each task involves motor skills and knowledge of materials. This process often starts at a young age and is thought to go through various phases, which are cumulative by nature (Crown 2007; Kamp 2001). Not all skills are neces-sarily acquired through participation in the production process. As Crown (2007: 684) notes, some of the motor skills used in pottery production are also used for other daily activities, such as food processing. But other more specific skills, such as those required to operate a potter’s wheel effectively and competently, are more difficult and take longer to acquire than, for instance, the skills needed for coiling. These skills are usually learned within the more formal context of direct instruction often provided by a workshop environment (Loney 2007: 198).

It is important to remark that learning how to produce pottery is not a matter of simply transmitting some preconfigured package of knowledge from master to novice but can perhaps best be described as a generative process in which the novice becomes knowledgeable through an ongoing engagement with both materials and people. Of course, extensive train-ing and practice, involving observational learning and imitation of skilled craftspeople, form the most common way of learning and transmitting


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knowledge, but at the same time novices will do this under different circum-stances and with different materials than their masters. This means that, even though they receive guidance from those who came before, novices will still have to make their own way through the world and develop their own personal styles of doing things (Ingold and Hallam 2007: 12–15). The con-sequence of this process is that the level of skill and experience that people possess will have a significant effect on the material outcome. A different level of skill will ultimately result in a different material manifestation.

This observation could throw some new light on the production of Sub-mycenaean pottery. When we take a closer look at the pottery, it can be observed that, in terms of the shaping of vessels, there seems to be a strong continuity in 11th-century Athens, as most shapes were already in produc-tion in previous times (Lemos 2002). Furthermore, there are no indications of any major technological changes in terms of shaping pottery. In fact, there are indications that most ‘wheel-made’ shapes for both the Bronze and the Iron Age are first coiled and then wheel shaped (pers. comm. Š. Rückl and J. K. Papadopoulos, 2010; cf. Knappett 1999). Yet, from a rather sub-jective point of view, the overall quality of Submycenaean pottery decreases. One factor that could have affected this development is that, if there is a dis-tinctive Submycenaean phase, the lines along which knowledge was trans-ferred were disrupted. In respect to their Middle Bronze Age material from Százhalombatta (Hungary), Budden and Sofaer (2009: 216) explain a simi-lar pattern by referring to Herzfeld (2004), who, in his study of craftspeople on Crete, has revealed a hegemonic system in which masters have almost unlimited power over their apprentices and are reluctant to show their apprentices all the skills of their trade. This is partly because it is expensive in time and materials but also because passing on all their knowledge would create new masters who would constitute a threat to the existing ones. Bud-den and Sofaer (2009: 216) suggest that if ‘knowledge is power’, it may be that existing power structures surrounding the control of potting knowledge became almost too effective. Apprentices were therefore unable to acquire nondiscursive knowledge because the access to knowledge channels was cut off. New potters were therefore unable to maintain socially sanctioned per-formances, resulting in change in ceramics.

It is possible that a similar process was going on in Athens during the late 12th and early 11th centuries, but I would like to suggest a different scenario. For this we turn to a small belly-handled amphora (P30305) from Grave I 5:3 excavated beneath the floors of the Royal Stoa in the Athenian Agora ( Figure 8.2 ; Papadopoulos, Vedder and Schreiber 1998: 516, fig. 6; Shear 1975: 373, note 103, pl. 85:I). In many respects this pot is a ‘typical’ Submycenaean pot. Its central decoration in particular looks a bit sloppy; the individual sets of concentric semicircles are drawn by hand rather than with a pivoted multiple-brush, and the number of semicircles in each set dif-fers. Moreover, there are blobs of paint marking the beginning of each indi-vidual line. Also, the lines of dots above are not straight and the individual



dots are placed at irregular distances. At the same time, however, the main body decoration generally shows remarkably straight bands. These were most likely painted with the help of the wheel rather than freehand. The contrast between the banding and the central decoration could suggest that in decorating this pot, it was not deemed necessary to put much effort into the central decoration or that this area was filled in by an individual with still limited experience and skill. This latter suggestion is further strengthened when observing that in painting the sets of semicircles, the painter seems to have drawn over or followed preformed ridges on the surface ( Figure 8.2b ). As ethnographic studies have shown, such a technique is often applied in teaching children how to paint pottery (Kamp 2001: 428). Based on this observation, I would like to suggest that Submycenaean pottery at Athens was a kind of pottery which was (partly) made by people who worked prob-ably alongside experienced potters but were still in the process of acquiring the necessary skills and knowledge to produce high-quality pots.

Such an apparent ‘failure’ to comply fully with the general standards of shaping and decorating pots cannot be ascribed to a single individual. Both master potters and consumers must have accepted that not all ceramic ves-sels were uniform, recognisable products with specific dimensions, volume, colour or other technological characteristics. The question, however, is why such an acceptance existed. For this we will have to consider both produc-tion and consumption. To start with production, it is potentially significant that towards the end of the 12th century, a new pottery production industry was established at Athens in the area of the Classical Agora outside the actual settlement, which itself was most likely located on the Acropolis at that time (Papadopoulos 2003). It may also be significant that in general, elaborate and pictorial decorations so characteristic of the Late Helladic

Figure 8.2 Belly-handled amphora (P30305) from Grave I 5:3 excavated beneath the floors of the Royal Stoa in the Athenian Agora: front and detail of the reverse side (photo © Rik Vaessen, published with permission of J. K. Papadopoulos).


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IIIC Middle period were increasingly replaced by largely monochrome painted pots with simpler and standardised geometric motifs. In respect to the almost complete lack of pictorial representations on Protogeometric pottery, Irene Lemos (2000) has argued that the ‘word’, in the form of sto-ries and songs, had become more important than the ‘picture’ in the forma-tion of identities. She suggests that the period from the middle of the 10th to the middle of the 9th century was an important stage in the formation of poetry, and especially of poetry with heroic narrative. Therefore, Lemos argues that one of the reasons for the lack of images might have been that geometric decoration still carried the powerful expression of the elite groups which formed and manipulated the taste of the period.

This is an intriguing suggestion but difficult to prove. More important is that, from a producer’s point of view, the drawing of more or less stan-dardised and simple geometric motifs can be executed relatively quickly. In combination with the difficulty of defining a distinctive Submycenaean phase in settlements and the foundation of a new and centralised production centre in the area of the Classical Agora, it could be suggested that what we see at Athens during the late 12th and 11th centuries is not so much a decrease in skills or cultural decay but a sign of a process in which potters, for whatever reason, were struggling to meet the demand for pottery and because of that were exploring possibilities to make the production process unfold more efficiently. Such a suggestion sets the production of Submyce-naean pottery in a completely different light, because one of the possibilities to meet the daily need for pottery would have been to increase the training intensity. However, since teaching novices is a difficult and relatively long process that can take 10 to 15 years (Roux 2003: 15), this training could not take place overnight. Therefore, in order to overcome the time lapse needed to train a sufficient number of potters, it was chosen to temporarily allow pots which had been partly produced by novices into circulation.

Significantly, this circulation generally appears to have been rather short lived. Although found in settlement contexts, these ceramics have turned up most prominently in burial contexts. This implies that this kind of pottery only had a short life cycle and that many of the pots were probably depos-ited in burials a short time after their completion. This could mean that the pots were especially made for funerary use, but it is also possible that, if potters were indeed struggling to meet the demand for everyday ceramics, people were less inclined to deposit the relative few good pots they had in the cemeteries and as such remove them from circulation. Indeed, it is strik-ing that the 11th-century graves at Athens are characterised by only a small number of pots deposited in each grave and that the pots deposited repre-sent only a limited range of shapes (see Ruppenstein 2007). In addition, it could be noted that because of their low quality, these pots did not represent any significant economic value and therefore formed ideal grave goods. The fact, then, that these pots dominate in the cemeteries does not mean that good-quality pots did not exist but that they were simply not deposited. As



a matter of fact, the point that no clearly defined Submycenaean ceramics have yet been detected stratigraphically clearly indicates that Submycenaean pots were not the only ceramics in circulation. Consequently, rather than being the standard kind of pottery, Submycenaean pots complemented and in some contexts replaced higher-quality ceramics and perhaps containers made of other materials, such as metal or wood, in fulfilling the basic func-tions in everyday practices.

CROSS-CRAFT INTERACTION AND SKEUOMORPHISM

To see the appearance of Submycenaean pottery as an attempt by potters and consumers alike to deal with an emerging shortage of ceramics does not just shed new light on Submycenaean pottery as such but also provides an intriguing context to understand a number of other innovations. One of the main characteristics of Athenian pottery is that, whereas Mycenaean as well as many Submycenaean pots show no uniform attempt to achieve a good glossy black—red, brown and black colours can often be found on one and the same pot—Athenian pottery from the second half of the 11th century onwards came to be defined by the application of a consistent glossy black paint that provided the pots, and particularly the inside of open vessels such as cups and deep bowls, with a metallic look that might very well have imitated (oxidised) silver (cf. Vickers and Gill 1994: 123–129). Ceramic skeuomorphism is an issue that has been extensively explored by Vickers and Gill (1994) in relation to Classical pottery, but here I would like to refer to a paper by Carl Knappett (2002: 102–106).

Based on the work of the philosopher Charles S. Peirce, Knappett makes a distinction between signs as icon, index or symbol. He argues that ‘the sign is an “icon” when its relationship with that to which it refers is one of perceived similarity’ (Knappett 2002: 102). An example of such an icon is the command ‘print’ on the computer screen, which is represented by a simplified graphic representation of a printer. The sign as an ‘index’, on the other hand, conveys meaning in a different way. Knappett gives the example of smoke. Smoke does not physically resemble fire, but it is caused by and usually contiguous with fire. As such, the sign (smoke) can be seen as an ‘index’ of the referent (fire; see also Gell 1998: 13–16). Finally, the third type of sign is the ‘symbol’, ‘in which sign and referent are mediated by some formal or merely agreed-upon link irrespective of any physical characteristics of either sign or refer-ent’ (Knappett 2002: 103). Based on this distinction, Knappett subsequently argues that ‘[i]n Minoan contexts it appears that elaborate and very rare silver cups were an index of an elite group’s prestige and status probably used in acts of conspicuous consumption such as public feasting’ (Knappett 2002: 110) and that ‘[b]y imitating a metal original, the artisan intends the ceramic imitation to have some influence over the metal original, and indeed over the whole elite network of which it is an index’ (Knappett 2002: 111).


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Knappett’s conception of skeuomorphism focuses very much on human agency as its instigator, but this is problematic when it comes to the skeuo-morphic characteristics of Protogeometric ceramics from Athens. Certainly, it can hardly be denied that the metallic shine of the gloss of the pots must have been aesthetically appealing to consumers, but on a more practical level, the solid coating also effectively protected the fabric from disintegra-tion as a result of regular use and washing up. Especially in times of stress, this was a very useful characteristic, as it allowed ceramics to be used for longer. The intriguing point, however, is that essentially the paint used on Mycenaean, Submycenaean and Protogeometric pottery is the same. What seems to have made the difference is a better control over the three-stage fir-ing process (oxidation-reduction-oxidation) by means of test pieces (Papa-dopoulos 2003). Test pieces were cut from pots that had been damaged before firing. Before they were placed in the kiln, these pieces were smeared with samples of the actual paint that was to be fired, although there are instances in which pieces were either canonically decorated or partly deco-rated. During a firing session, these pieces were removed with a hook or rod at certain intervals through a small spy hole or opening in the kiln. By doing this, the potter could check the temperature and atmospheric conditions generally and learn whether the paint had fired the required black without having to open the kiln and disturb the firing process (Papadopoulos 2003: 210–214). This technical innovation (indirectly) enhanced the quality of the ceramics as well as increasing the efficiency of pottery production, as it helped to reduce the risks of the firing process, which was one of the most costly, lengthy and risky aspects of the pottery production process due to the fact that once sealed and heated, the kiln could not be reopened, nor could pots be removed without damage, until the firing was completed. Given the historical conditions in which test pieces were introduced, I would argue that the idea to use test pieces was primarily a product of practical consid-erations fuelled by the need to sustain everyday practices in which ceramics were implemented; the skeuomorphic characteristics of the pots were, at least initially, merely a useful side-product rather than the initial intent.

Test pieces clearly formed an important technical innovation that gave shape to Protogeometric and later pottery at Athens, but to come up with the idea and to make it effective, potters would have needed to bring together and combine flows of materials, energy and information. Important in com-ing to an understanding of this process is that pottery is not produced in iso-lation. In fact, it is now increasingly realised that potters often work closely together with other craftspeople. For instance, in respect to metalworking, Doonan and Mazarakis Ainian (2007: 371) have pointed out that ceramic production, like metalworking, relies on pyrotechnical knowledge, whilst metalworking, like ceramic production, uses ceramics for hearth construc-tions, crucibles, moulds and tuyères. Moreover, potters and metallurgists both need water and a good knowledge of minerals. As such, they would have drawn on similar materials and to some extent similar techniques.



From this perspective, it is potentially significant that the wells excavated in the Athenian Agora not only contain evidence for pottery production but also yield some industrial debris, including a very small quantity of discarded metalworkers’ moulds (Mattusch 1977: 341, n.2, 373; Papado-poulos 2003: 3, 107, fig. 2.48; Smithson 1982). It is important to emphasise that the contents of the wells in which these moulds and other industrial debris have been found have not yet been fully studied and published; for example, slag has only been reported for the Archaic period (Shear 1936: 191; cf. Mattusch 1977). It is therefore questionable whether the moulds signal early metalworking activity in the Agora or whether they were dis-carded by potters. That other crafts were carried out in the Agora during the Early Iron Age is suggested by the presence of a number of loom weights and spindle whorls in the wells (Papadopoulos 2003: 172–175) and a frag-ment of a scapula of a fin whale (BI 115) found in the Early Geometric well K 12:2 that was possibly used as a cutting surface in the working of leather (Papadopoulos and Ruscillo 2002). Furthermore, both the wells and the nearby Eridanos River provided water. As such, it is not impossible that metalworking was carried out in the Agora, but there is little reason to suspect this to have taken place on any substantial scale before the Archaic period.

Still, it is of interest that there appear to be some resemblances between the practice of using test pieces and the practice of ironworking. For this, it is important to highlight the rather isolated position iron has in relation to other metals. As Gosden (2012: 15) points out, a key contrast between bronze, gold, silver and glass on the one hand and iron on the other is that the former substances could be taken from a solid to a liquid state before solidifying. Iron, on the other hand, is essentially worked in a solid state, although it can be made malleable by the effects of heat (a process known as smithing). Moreover, during the Late Bronze Age, bronzes were usually cast in moulds, whereas iron is normally worked and shaped in open fire and involves smelting and then working the material by hammering in a hot and semiliquid state (Whitley 2001: 80). Although it is possible to use moulds for the production of ceramics, Late Bronze and Early Iron Age ceramics were shaped by means of hand and wheel. Certainly, the materials, tools and knowledge required for both crafts are obviously different, but it is potentially significant that, like iron, the clay used for the making of pot-tery remains in a more or less solid state throughout the shaping process, although it is made malleable by water. As such, it could be suggested that the overall shaping processes of ceramics and iron are perhaps, on a some-what superficial level, not dissimilar.

Iron objects are already found in Greece during the Late Bronze Age and regularly produced, albeit in small quantities, in Anatolia in the Old Assyr-ian and Hittite periods (Yalçin 1999) but only started to gain momentum at the very end of the second millennium, perhaps as a result of Cypriot involvement (Sherratt 1994). This is around the same time as we see test


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pieces being introduced at Athens. This may be a coincidence, but it is intriguing that an important element in the ironworking process is to moni-tor closely the changing atmosphere by looking at texture and colour. This is exactly what the test pieces allow for: the close monitoring of the atmo-sphere inside the kiln. Of course, iron is worked in the open, whereas the kiln forms a closed environment, but essentially the test pieces helped to ‘open up’ the kiln and to bring the firing process into the open. Could this suggest that the idea of using test pieces was (in)directly derived from iron metallurgy? This is an intriguing yet speculative idea, but at least the timing seems right. If there is indeed some truth in this suggestion, it would be pos-sible to argue that iron had an indirect yet defining role in the emergence of this style of ceramics, even to such an extent that it could perhaps be argued that if iron had gained momentum at a different time, stylistic developments might have followed a very different path.

Be that as it may, the ability to look inside the kiln had first and fore-most practical advantages and helped to advance the production process and the quality of the pots, but could it also have significance in social terms? The use of test pieces and the associated knowledge had the interest-ing side effect that potters (indirectly) mimicked and transformed one of the most important and mysterious elements of the metalworking process: the processes and knowledge behind the changing colour and form of metal and fire throughout the process. It is this knowledge that has been suggested to play an important role in the creation of a powerful identity for metalwork-ers surrounded with mystery (Doonan, Day and Dimopoulou-Rethemiotaki 2007: 116–117). However, I doubt this potential was realised consciously by potters at a certain point in time and space and that they therefore cre-ated an active link with metalworking practices through the transformation and implementation of metalworking techniques. Rather, my suspicion is that in exploring ways to make the production process unfold more effi-ciently, potters were first and foremost concerned with the practical applica-tions of being able to look inside the kiln rather than with the skeuomorphic connotations or potential ideological advantages this ability could have.

Essentially, this point has two implications. First, although the consistent coating of many pots with often a dark paint during the 11th century might have been a conscious attempt to imitate (oxidised) silver, the actual glossy look of the pots, at least at first, was a side effect of a better control of the firing stages rather than a prime concern. In fact, it could perhaps even be argued that the introduction of test pieces helped to create the conditions for a clear form of ceramic skeuomorphism to take shape. In this case, cause and effect are turned around. The second point is that any social advantages that the transformation and use of metalworking techniques might have offered to the potter developed gradually in the course of everyday practice, if they did at all. Consequently, even though the imitation of metal objects in ceramics is often considered a conscious act in the construction of social identities, there is reason to believe that in the case of Athenian pottery, the



role of human agency in the making of pottery and the forming of social identities is of limited relevance. Therefore, I would argue that if our aim is to understand skeuomorphism, we should focus not just on the physical appearance of objects but also look closely at everyday skilled practice and the difficulties and possibilities that craftspeople were faced with and tried to deal with.

DECORATING POTS AND THE PIVOTED MULTIPLE BRUSH

If indeed, as was argued previously, the solid coating on the interior of open vessels and the glossy paint provided ceramics with skeuomorphic connota-tions, it would seem logical that in choosing their decorative motifs, potters looked at motifs that complemented or enhanced the skeuomorphic charac-ter of the ceramics. It is, therefore, interesting that typical metal motifs, such as dog-tooth and zigzag patterns on the rims of cups and deep bowls, come to adorn Protogeometric pots (cf. Lemos 2002). However, the most diagnos-tic feature of 11th-century Athenian (Protogeometric) pottery is the sets of concentric (semi)circles. These sets of mechanically drawn concentric circles appear to be the successor of the rather difficult-to-draw hand-drawn run-ning spirals (Lemos 2002: 10). Good illustrations of this are provided by two Early Protogeometric deep bowls ( skyphoi ) from the Athenian Kerameikos ( Figure 8.3 ). The first one shows two tangentially joined hand-drawn run-ning spirals, whereas the second is decorated with sets of concentric circles that are linked together by crossed lines, as if they were two tangentially

Figure 8.3 Two deep bowls from the Kerameikos in Athens. On the left, (a) a deep bowl with two tangentially joined hand-drawn running spirals and on the right, (b) an example with sets of concentric circles that are linked together by crossed lines (photos are not to scale; after Kraiker and Kubler 1939: pls. 30.525, 48.518; © Deutsches Archäologisches Institut Athens, Neg.Nos. D-DAI ATH-Kerameikos 2519, 3179)


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joined running spirals. The relationship between concentric circles and run-ning spirals that is shown on these examples is intriguing, because the tan-gentially joined running spiral motif closely resembles a bronze finger ring with a bezel in the form of a double spiral found in one of the tombs in the early 12th- through early 11th-century BCE cemetery at Perati, situated on the coast of East Attica (Iakovides 1980: 82, fig. 97). Alternatively, it is possible that the concentric (semi)circle motifs echoed those of incised metalwork. An example of such a motif can be seen on a 7th-century BCE skyphos from Marsigliana d’Albergna (Italy; Vickers and Gill 1994: 114, fig. 5.7). In either case, however, the sets of concentric circles seem to have enhanced the skeuomorphic connotations of Protogeometric ceramics.

An aesthetic function is, however, not the only advantage of the sets of concentric circles; they also signal an important practical innovation. Experimental research by Papadopoulos, Vedder and Schreiber (1998) has shown that the concentric circles were most likely drawn with the help of a pivoted multiple brush, which could be fairly simply produced from a few basic materials. The pivoted multiple brush used by Papadopoulos and his colleagues was made of a hand-carved, olive-wood shaft with a slotted end in which a multiple brush could be pivoted. But perhaps even more important is that the pivoted multiple brush, as such, transforms the run-ning spiral into an easy-to-apply and pleasing decoration on the surface of a pot. From a purely classificatory approach, this observation might not have much significance, but it makes much more sense when seen in rela-tion to the other innovations discussed so far. As argued, all of them seem to have been geared at increasing the efficiency of the production process. The introduction of the multiple brush is no exception to this, because, in addition to enhancing the skeuomorphic connotations of Protogeometric ceramics, the introduction of the pivoted multiple brush also helped pot-ters to increase the efficiency of the production process by speeding up the decorating of pots.

Given the apparent early application of concentric circles in Athens, the ease and efficiency with which the tool could be produced, and the circles (as well as other decorative schemes) applied, it is rather surprising that on Submycenaean (and earlier) pottery, concentric (semi)circles or arcs were drawn by hand and that the number of circles or arcs in individual groups often varies, even when they are painted on a single pot ( Figure 8.2 ). Clearly, the pivoted multiple brush was not used to paint these pots. The question is why not? One option would be that, if ‘Submycenaean’ constitutes an independent chronological phase, it was simply not yet invented. A second possibility is that if indeed Submycenaean pots were partly produced by novices and predominantly geared towards tombs, well-executed decora-tions might not have had any priority. In fact, it could be suggested that the very potential of using these pots for teaching novices the basics of how to apply painted decorations to pots was more important than the actual decoration. A third and potentially complementary scenario is that, at least



at Athens, the use of the brush was originally restricted and only applied by skilled people. This restriction could have been based on functional reasons and for the sake of speed, but, at the same time, the advantage of such a restriction was that it allowed a good-quality pot (in terms of shape) to be associated with symmetrically drawn sets of concentric (semi)circles. As a consequence, skilled craftspeople were not only able to distinguish them-selves from novices within the workshop but could also show their skills to other members of the community in which they lived and perhaps even keep competition at bay. In that case, Budden and Sofaer (2009: 211) are prob-ably right in stating that ‘if potters and pots are physically created through the act of potting, then potters are socially created through the performance of potting’. From this somewhat speculative perspective, the use of a pivoted multiple brush not just allowed a quicker and more efficient way of decorat-ing pots but also potentially functioned as a tool in the transformation of social ties.

Whatever scenario may be the case, it is beyond doubt that the introduc-tion of the pivoted multiple brush clearly created many new possibilities in practical if not in social terms. In this light, it would be interesting to specu-late on how potters might have come up with the idea of using a pivoted multiple brush. In this respect, perhaps one of the most useful aspects of the experimental study on the pivoted multiple brush by Papadopoulos, Ved-der and Schreiber (1998) is that it clearly sets out how they bring together various materials and pieces of knowledge in order to achieve the intended outcome (i.e. the drawing of concentric [semi]circles). In their search for a tool with which they could draw similar sets of concentric circles to those on ‘Protogeometric’ pottery, they tried various compasses, including mount-ing a casing of a pen on a pair of compasses (Papadopoulos, Vedder and Schreiber 1998: 521, fig. 14). In the past, this process of experimentation would not have been much different. It is, for instance, intriguing that at Torone in the Chalkidiki (northern Greece), a sherd from a large Early/Middle Protogeometric, wheel-made, closed vessel, probably an amphora, has been found on which a single concentric circle was incised after firing (T113–10: Papadopoulos 2005: 204–205, 551). Incising decorative motifs on the surface of objects is perhaps best known from metals and bone (see, for bone from Athens, Ruppenstein 2007: pl. 32). It is, therefore, possible that (some) inspiration for the multiple brush was found in, for instance, metalworking techniques and subsequently transformed to suit the potter’s purposes. Of course, there is currently no way to prove such a relation for Athens (or indeed anywhere else), but the close relationship between run-ning spirals and concentric circles implies that potters must have experi-mented with different tools. In this process, cross-craft interaction may very well have played an important role, even though this is not directly apparent in the material.

Overall, however, there is little doubt that the invention of the pivoted mul-tiple brush as such ‘belongs in the potter’s workshop’ (Papadopoulos, Vedder


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and Schreiber 1998: 529; see also Lemos 2002: 10). Because mechanically drawn concentric circles appear early on Athenian pottery, it has long been maintained that the pivoted multiple brush was an Athenian inven-tion ( Desborough 1952; for an overview of various locations suggested, see Papadopoulos, Vedder and Schreiber 1998: 511–512). However, I find it difficult to believe that it is possible to identify such a specific location. In the first place, as Papadopoulos, Vedder and Schreiber (1998: 514) point out, ‘A close examination of hundreds of Protogeometric pots from various parts of the Mediterranean reveals an incredible uniformity in the manner in which concentric circles and semicircles are drawn’. This is true for regions as far apart as Athens, Crete, the Peloponnese, central Greece, Thessaly, the various parts of Macedonia, and the west coast of Asia Minor. Such a quick and widespread acceptance and use of the pivoted multiple brush is, in my opinion, difficult to assign to a single origin. Moreover, Dickinson (2006: 130) suggests that it is perfectly possible that the idea of using a piv-oted multiple brush based on the compass as an implement for decorating pottery spread independently of the Attic style. Besides, even if there was a specific location where the brush was invented, it will be very difficult if not impossible to locate it, as our archaeological methods are simply not fine grained enough to detect it. For these reasons, I would suggest that, instead of trying to locate a specific point of origin, we explore the mecha-nisms that allowed the tool to become so widely used in the Aegean in such a short period of time.

Such an exploration goes beyond the present purposes, but it will be important to take into consideration the level of Aegean entanglement as a result of a high level of maritime mobility of people. Along the lines of what can perhaps best be seen as a meshwork of movements, all kinds of information moved in a variety of directions. People subsequently picked up on some of these flows and combined them with other flows of information, materials and energy in an attempt to deal with the challenges they faced. In this light, it should be kept in mind that the pivoted multiple brush can be fairly simply produced from a few basic materials and that a novice can become able to efficiently decorate a large number of pots similar in size and shape within a short period of time (Papadopoulos, Vedder and Sch-reiber 1998: 525). Without doubt, this must have increased the attractive-ness of the tool to potters living along the Aegean shores. I have explored the dynamics that stimulated Protogeometric-style pottery to appear more or less simultaneously along the Aegean shores more extensively elsewhere. It can be noted here, however, that even though grouped under a single ban-ner, Protogeometric pottery from various Aegean regions developed out of particular local entanglements, and at the same time, as a result of Aegean (and perhaps even Mediterranean) entanglements, tied in together (Vaessen 2014). We are therefore dealing not so much with a model of diffusion from a single source but with a complex dynamic. Unfortunately, this is still little understood and requires further exploration.



CONCLUSION

Traditionally, scholarly debates concerning innovation in pottery styles are dominated by issues of chronology, style and origins. In this chapter, I have tried to move beyond this and suggested a rather different approach with respect to the 11th-century pottery from Athens, by which it was not the aim to trace back innovation to a single source but rather to understand the dynamics of everyday life that stimulated ceramic styles to change over time. The overall argument was that what is now caught under the sepa-rate headings of ‘Submycenaean’ and ‘Protogeometric’ did not form isolated and clearly demarcated events following each other in time but were (partly contemporary) material manifestations of an ongoing process of improvisa-tion and situational problem solving that aimed to increase the efficiency of the production process and, as such, generate the right (material) condi-tions for everyday practices to be sustained. Cross-craft interaction played a particularly important role in this process. The consequence of the overall argument is that the ceramic chronologies we use do not necessarily repre-sent historical or material reality and that we need to be careful in creating an automatic link between the beginning of a new ceramic phase and the beginning of a historical phase. I would therefore suggest that if we are to understand why ceramics look and develop the way they do, we might want to spend less effort and time in refining endlessly existing typological-chronological systems in the hope that at some point we will reach some-thing approaching a reliable ‘historical’ chronology and instead explore how craftspeople used their skills and connections to bring together and combine flows of materials, energy and information in an attempt to generate the material conditions for life to be sustained.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The first ideas for writing this chapter came to life while studying some of the Early Iron Age pottery from the Athenian Agora as a fellow at the Netherlands Institute at Athens in the spring of 2010. These early ideas were subsequently presented at the EAA conference in The Hague in the same year. This chapter, which was written mostly as a junior fellow at the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations of Koç University (Istanbul), represents a complete revision of that original paper. I am grateful to the editors for giving me the opportunity to publish my thoughts in this vol-ume. Permission to study the material from the Athenian Agora stored in the Agora museum was given by Professor John K. Papadopoulos, who is responsible for the publication of this material, and the 1st Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Archaeology. I am thankful to both as well as to the responsible staff of the Agora excavations, in particular Jan Jordan, for their assistance during my presence. Finally, I owe my gratitude to Sue


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Sherratt and John Papadopoulos for useful discussion and comments on earlier drafts of this chapter. I remain, however, responsible for both the opinions expressed and mistakes remaining in this chapter.

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INTRODUCTION

Scholars working on the Bronze Age Mediterranean seem to have accepted some time ago that many pottery shapes follow metal prototypes. When Wright (2004: 137–145), for example, commented on the close relationship between Mycenaean ceramic cups and their metal counterparts, he indicated that the relationship was either obvious or settled fact, and there was no need for further justification. Admittedly, metal vessels have been found more frequently by archaeologists in this period than in later ones, a phe-nomenon that can probably be attributed to the tendency of Mycenaeans to bury their elite in easily identifiable monumental tombs, as well as to their frequent use of gold, silver and electrum vessels as grave goods in those tombs (as at Peristeria and Vapheio; Korres 1976, 1977, 1978). As a result, we know many of the shapes Mycenaeans used for metal vases, for example stemmed chalices with everted rims and short handles at the rim, in loops or with spool-like mouldings. Examples include the gold chal-ices from Grave V of Mycenae’s Grave Circle A (Athens NAM 656, pub-lished in Marinatos 1960 as no. 192 above), from the southern edges of the grave circle (NAM 957, Marinatos 1960 no. 189), or the so-called cup of Nestor (NAM 412, Marinatos 1960 no. 188) from Grave IV, or deep cups (kantharoi) with carinated sides and high-swung handles, for example NAM 440 (Marinatos 1960 no. 192 below). Numerous clay examples, such as British Museum 1912,0626.307 (Cat. A283) and 1912,0626.35 (Cat. A284), show how people in Greece copied formal elements from metal, going back to the Middle Helladic fabrics known as Grey Minyan Ware (Philippa-Touchais et al. 2010, especially the paper by Sarri 2010, with ref-erences). Even decorative motifs show some relationship between media: for example, the electrum cup found in Grave IV of Grave Circle A at Mycenae (Athens National Archaeological Museum [NAM] 390) has a single image inlaid in gold, without surrounding frame lines, of a container of flowering plants located centrally on the upper part of the cup’s bowl. The place-ment and lack of framing for this motif are echoed on ceramic ‘Ephyrean’ goblets and stemmed chalices. Perhaps even more compelling evidence for

Skeuomorphic Pottery and Consumer Feedback Processes in the Ancient Mediterranean

Justin St . P. Walsh

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148 Justin St. P. Walsh

skeuomorphism comes in the form of the vessels discussed by Wright (2004: 145): a set of silver cups found in a tomb at Dendra in Attica and another set from elsewhere at the same site that were of almost precisely the same shape but made of clay covered in tin.

For archaeologists of the Greek archaic and classical periods, however, merely taking up the topic of a possible relationship between ceramic and metal vessels is seemingly to court controversy. While the suggestion that similar shapes in the two media might be related is now at least 80 years old (Lamb 1929: 186), some scholars of metallurgy or of Greek imports in Etruria (such as the well-known Nikosthenic amphorae) have utterly denied a relationship (Hill 1947; Tosto and van der Woude 1984: 163). Others—especially Vickers and Gill—have argued the reverse: that the formal debt of pottery to metal is so great, and the gulf between the relative importance of one medium and the other in ancient Greek culture so vast, as to render the study of ceramic vases, if not exactly worthless, then at least effort expended in the wrong direction (most prominently Vickers and Gill 1994, but see also Vickers 1985 and Vickers, Impey and Allan 1986). The positions of Vickers and Gill inspired such a backlash in the 1980s and 1990s from ceramologists of the previous generation, such as Boardman (1987, 2001: 248–250), Cook (1987) and Johnston (1991), that trying to resuscitate a serious conversation on the topic appears almost dangerous.

In trying to understand the distribution of Athenian pottery at the Sicilian site of Morgantina, however, my colleagues and I have discovered that the presence of metallic features on ceramic vases, the meanings associated with these features and their geographic spread all seem to be of critical importance (Walsh and Antonaccio 2014). Further, the relationship between the two media in the hinterland of Sicily seems to reflect broader consumption patterns for both local and imported pottery in Mediterranean Europe more broadly dur-ing the second and first millennia BCE. I will begin by outlining the features that I take to be typical of metal construction. I will then discuss some spe-cific imported pottery shapes found at Morgantina with those features and place them in the larger context of long-standing local traditions. I will also make some brief comparisons with the consumption of imports in other parts of the western Mediterranean. This contextual analysis will show how non-Greek consumers specifically selected ceramic vases for their resemblance to metal ones—particularly of the kind that existed in their own culture. I will conclude by making some comments about the possible existence of a system of feedback from pottery consumers to producers over long distances.

METAL FEATURES ON CERAMIC VESSELS

There are several formal design features to be found on ceramic vessels which I suggest were derived from metal prototypes. Most obvious are the decorative elements that actually reproduce metal forms, such as false


Skeuomorphic Pottery and Consumer Feedback Processes 149

rivets and other appliqué-like ‘attachments’. These appear rarely on Greek shapes, apart from the flanges found on some early oinochoai (jugs) like the Chigi Vase, where the handle meets the rim. More commonly, they are found on Etruscan products such as bucchero kantharoi. One example with clay nodules representing ‘rivets’ is in the British Museum (GR 1953.4–26.1). Other kantharoi, such as Ibiza 10007/26/1, have diagonally incised lines on the carination, thereby referring to (rather than actually depicting) rivets. Greek versions of Etruscan shapes like kyathoi and kantharoi do have ‘appliqués’ and ‘metallic’ projections like spurs on their handles (New York 21.88.93, Hamburg 1965.60; Eisman 1975: 79–81). Other promi-nent features include carinations, or sharply raised ridges at the point where concave and convex profiles meet; flaring rims (which can be considered the reflection of a carination, often producing a raised ridge on the interior profile of a vase); stamped decoration; and ribbon-like high-swung strap handles.

The likelihood of a metallic origin for these features results from several notable points. Carinations, for example, were not solely aesthetic on metal vases but were a product of the methods used in these vessels’ production. At least originally, they might be made from multiple pieces, especially one convex and one concave (which would present problems for hammering), which had to be joined through riveting or welding, and those joins yielded a thickened, often sharp-edged ridge. Where vessels were made from a sin-gle sheet of metal, the carination emphasized the structural possibilities offered by a relatively rare and strong material that was both malleable (during production) and rigid (when finished). Carinations became an aes-thetic element on clay vessels—one that might have had an added value in ceramics precisely because it called back to prestigious metal shapes. Strap handles, too, are likely to have been developed first in a medium in which they were truly viable; pottery vases with such a feature faced a significant risk of catastrophic breakage which would have been much less likely in metal.

Surface treatment could also make reference to metal: I have already mentioned the Bronze Age examples of pottery vessels from Dendra that had metal added to their surfaces, but one could also point to the dark glosses added to archaic and classical Greek wares—most obviously Athe-nian, but Lakonian and Corinthian, too, not to mention the imitation black glosses found abundantly throughout the Mediterranean—as likely having been developed to copy metal. I do not want to argue in favour of Vickers and Gill’s theory that black gloss explicitly copied tarnished silver—Boardman’s article titled ‘Silver is White’ (1987) quite effectively demolished that notion—but there can be no denying that the reflective surface of a black gloss cup is evocative of metal, without appearing to be actually made of metal. There are other aspects of surface decoration that, while rare, also clearly refer to metal; we will see a few examples of these a little later.



THE EVIDENCE FROM MORGANTINA

As I noted at the beginning of this chapter, our interest in the possible impor-tance of skeuomorphism at Morgantina emerged from the study of pottery from the archaic and classical settlements—two towns that were both geo-graphically and chronologically contiguous. The first town was founded by an indigenous group, known as Sikels, who inhabited the island around 1000 BCE (Leighton 1993: 127). The settlement consisted of longhouses scattered in various locations around the hilltop known today as Cittadella (Antonaccio 1997; Leighton 1993, 2012). The second town was founded on the neigh-bouring ridge, Serra Orlando, following the destruction of the first one in 459 BCE (Diod. Sic. XI.78.5; see also Bell 2010). Serra Orlando’s plan was in the Greek style, with an orthogonal grid and space reserved for a marketplace and sanctuaries (Bell 1984–1985). My research has focused on the unpainted Athenian pottery from the latter stages of Cittadella’s occupation and the ear-liest stages of Serra Orlando’s—roughly 550 to 400 BCE (Antonaccio, Neils and Walsh forthcoming). The beginning of that period coincides with the first evidence for strong Greek influence on or at Morgantina, although Athenian imports did not become common until about 500 BCE.

The distribution of shapes in Athenian black gloss reflects the ways local consumers created assemblages to serve their needs (Walsh 2011–2012). Specifically, they seem to have been interested in Greek imports almost exclusively for cups, but not in shapes for pouring or storage. To a lesser extent, they did buy kraters, particularly Lakonian ones, but the preference for Athenian cups is clear. Of these cups, the vast majority of them have features also typically found on metal vessels. The most common cups on Cittadella were stemmed cups, or kylikes, of Bloesch’s Type C (particularly his ‘Large Cups’ and ‘Kalliades-Brygos Group’), the kind characterized by a concave flaring rim rising from a carinated bowl (Bloesch 1940: 130–137). This shape is ultimately derived—and there has been little argument about this—from Near Eastern metal bowls first introduced to Greeks in Ionia by the Persians (Boardman 2001: 246–247; Miller 2011).

Almost as popular on Cittadella as the Type C kylix (and extremely common on Serra Orlando as well) was a very particular type of heavy-walled stemless cup whose most distinctive feature was a sharp offset about two centimetres below the rim edge on the cup’s interior. In addition to the offset, the exterior profi le shows a slightly concave profi le. Thirty years ago, Brian Shefton designated this type the Cástulo cup, after an indig-enous Iberian site in north-eastern Andalusia where hundreds of examples were eventually discovered (Shefton 1982, 1997). Many other scholars working in that region since have commented on the popularity of this shape there, but in fact the distribution extends broadly across the west-ern Mediterranean, to Catalonia, southern France, southern Italy, Sicily and north Africa, particularly at non-Greek sites (Blanco Freijeiro 1959;



Bonghi Jovino 1982: 69–70; Domínguez and Sánchez 2001; Gassner 2003: 48–50; Gracia 2003; Hatzidakis 1984: 26; Valentini 1993: 24–25; Villard 1959; Walsh 2014: 160–161). Around 100 fragments of Cástulo cups have appeared at both settlements at Morgantina ( Figure 9.1 )—and hardly any stemless cup sherds were from types other than Cástulo cups.

A shape related to the Cástulo cup, though not as well known, is a cup-skyphos that also has an offset inside and a concave lip, which we have taken to calling a Morgantina cup ( Figure 9.2 ) for its prevalence there rela-tive to other sites (Walsh and Antonaccio 2014). Dozens of examples of this type were found at Morgantina. In essence, the only distinction between the two types is their relative proportions of diameter to depth. Perhaps this is a sign that modern nomenclature for these cups is too restrictive. Examina-tion of publications of Athenian black gloss pottery (ABG) shows few other

Figure 9.1 A Cástulo cup (Museo Archeologico di Aidone inv. 80–195) found at the archaic settlement of Morgantina on the Cittadella hill (drawing by the author, © Morgantina Archaeological Expedition, used by permission)

Figure 9.2 A Morgantina cup (inv. 09–11) from Cittadella. Rim diameter 10 cm (drawing by the author, © Morgantina Archaeological Expedition, used by permission)



sites where these have been discovered, apart from Gravisca, in Etruria, and Elea, in Campania. Indeed, none are published in the fi nal publication of Attic black gloss from the Athenian Agora (Sparkes and Talcott 1970), although there is an intriguing comparandum from Athens, an offset-rim cup-skyphos found in a pit in the Agora in 1996 (P32631; Camp 1999: 274). This piece has unusual proportions, being squat like a stemless cup, but with a narrower rim relative to its foot diameter—more like a cup- skyphos. Undeniably the most inte resting feature is the graffi to on its under-side: ΞENON (‘foreigner’). Was the owner a foreigner? Or was the shape of the cup associated with foreignness?

A third type of cup, somewhat less popular, though still quite visible in the material record, is the mug. The standard type at Morgantina in both periods is the Pheidias shape, named for the mug found with a graffito of the sculptor’s name in the workshop at Olympia (Sparkes and Talcott 1970: 72–73). This type has a low strap handle attached to a broadly flaring concave rim. The exterior is sometimes decorated with incised vertical ribs similar to repoussé work on metal mugs. Incised grooves at the join of the body to the rim seem intended to give the idea of a carination.

There are a few other singletons from Morgantina with metal antecedents. First, we have a kantharos (inv. 95–180, Figure 9.3 ) of a kind with Greek ceramic and metal predecessors going back into the Protogeometric period (Brann 1962: 49–53). This example has a wonderfully shiny and smooth gloss on its surface and two mug-like strap handles attached to a fl aring rim. The relationship to mugs and to metal is enhanced by the reserved triangles on the handle tops, a treatment found on two mugs in an indigenous burial at Sabucina, some 30 km west of Morgantina (Panvini 2006: 88–89), and

Figure 9.3 A kantharos (inv. 95–180) from Cittadella. Rim diameter 14 cm (drawing by the author, © Morgantina Archaeological Expedition, used by permission)



on an Athenian mug from Rhodes, now in the British Museum (BM E568). This design is undoubtedly meant to mimic metallic double handles, and a ceramic imitation with real moulded double handles, found at Capua, is also in the British Museum (BM G90; see also Sparkes 1968).

Lastly, we found a cup rim (inv. 09–22, Figure 9.4 ) at the Cittadella settlement that seemed to come from a smaller colonial imitation of an Athenian offset-rim cup-skyphos like the ‘Morgantina cups’ described earlier. It is almost certainly an example of a rare type of skyphos, called a mastoid cup, frequently found at indigenous settlements around Metaponto, in Basilicata (Adamesteanu 1971: 39–44). This shape has an indented flaring rim and canted or horizontal handles. The earliest examples I have been able to discover of this type of cup are found in a local grey ware, with vertical handles, in many of the tombs excavated in the 1870s at the Certosa outside Bologna (Zannoni 1884). These tombs date to the 7th century BCE. No metal examples have been found in Italy (to my knowledge), but the shape does show the distinctive metallic features.

If the idea for this shape began in Italy but then was brought to Greece, where Greek potters began to produce their own variation, which they sold back to Italian consumers, then the mastoid cup would be just the latest example to be identified of a system of feedback from consumers to producers. The work of Nikosthenes and his workshop in producing a type of amphora that originated in Etruria, with ribbed body and broad strap handles, has been well established; the kyathos, or

Figure 9.4 The rim of a mastoid cup (inv. 09–22) from Cittadella. Rim diameter unknown; preserved height 3.7 cm (drawing by the author, © Morgantina Archaeo-logical Expedition, used by permission)



dipper shape, with its high-swung strap handle, was similarly Etruscan in origin. In 1953, Pierre Courbin demonstrated conclusively that the kantharos shape most familiar to Greek archaeologists—the type with a carinated body and high-swung handles, so common in vase painting as to have become emblematic of Dionysos himself—was actually Etrus-can, too. The point here is that whatever the deficiencies of Vickers and Gill’s arguments concerning the relationship between metal and ceramic vases—and there are certainly some which have already been pointed out—when we look at proven examples of long-distance consumer feed-back in the ancient pottery trade, the evidence shows that these types either originally existed in metal or they purposely included features that evoked metal vases.

THE TRADITION OF SKEUOMORPHISM

As it turns out, the same interests can be seen in Sicilian indigenous tradi-tions too. A marked interest in carinated shapes among Italic populations generally, including the Sikels of Morgantina’s region, extended at least to the Middle Bronze Age, if not earlier. Ceramic cups with high-swung handles and carinations appeared in the so-called Rodí-Tindari-Vallelunga complex and Capo Graziano facies of Early Bronze Age northern Sicily, and these can be compared to the handle of a contemporary bronze bowl from Grotta Maccarone (Leighton 1999: 142). Carinated bodies and flaring or everted lips became extremely popular in the Middle Bronze Age Thapsos culture (Voza 1973: 47–48). Most notable of these were the extremely large and well-known zoomorphic pedestalled bowls now in the Syracuse Museum. Some large cook bowls from Serra Orlando at Morgantina even had moulded ‘rings’ dangling from lug handles as if they were metal cauldrons.

There is strong evidence that metal objects seem to have had great sym-bolic significance in ancient Sicily, especially among non-Greeks. The Men-dolito hoard, to mention just one spectacular example, dated to the 8th or 7th century BCE and consisted of almost a ton of bronze. There were more than 1,000 objects including spearheads, plaques and other ornaments (Orsi 1909a, 1909b). Similar (if smaller) hoards have been found at Castelluc-cio, Polizello and elsewhere on the island starting at the end of the Middle Bronze Age, around the time when Sikels first arrived on the island. Unlike hoards of coins and valuables found in other periods and places, there is no sign that these were related to an urge to hide treasured items from attack-ers or thieves. While the vast amount of metal found at Mendolito seems to have been votive in nature (perhaps a grouping of multiple deposits), the deliberate accumulation of metal objects may not always have been reli-gious but were perhaps related to the display of wealth or the collection of communal resources.



DISPLAY AND PREFERENCE

It is now clear that people in Sicily (and elsewhere) wanted ceramic vases with metallic features, especially those features which were common to their own local traditions, even when those features implied a greater risk of catastrophic breakage. Producers served those desires, adapting their products to take on specific characteristics or even copying whole shapes. So why did consum-ers want these pots? While it is likely that ceramic vases which had metallic features held some claim to prestige because the gold, silver or bronze vases with which they shared similarities were prestigious, the relationship between the two was not equal or even necessarily proportional. After all, no one who bought the ceramic vases could have been confused into thinking that they could be converted directly into a fungible, even precious, raw material with its own value, like metal vessels could be (and frequently were). The pottery vases’ shapes and decorations must have been of primary importance to consumers, as demonstrated by their preferential selection over other types which lacked metallic features. The emphasis on their appearance suggests that they were used in arenas of display, either in public or in private settings in which guests from outside the home or the community would be present and could see them. The creation of massive versions for public ritual occasions in Sicily, such as the oversized examples just mentioned from the Thapsos culture, reinforces the significance of these features as ‘special’ in that region. Such arenas would also have included banqueting, given the prominence of shapes for drinking, as well as funeral rituals, since many of these vases were found as grave offerings. It is possible that the marketplace in which these vases were traded and acquired formed another public opportunity to be seen with them.

The possession and use of vases with metallic features was of some increased utility because it presumably signalled something positive about the owner to spectators. As such, these vases could be used either to rein-force or to increase personal status. This kind of communication has been explored by anthropologists and archaeologists for decades, most recently by scholars who see the expenditure of resources on costly items as a kind of wasteful advertising (Boone 2000; Neiman 1997). In another study, I have used this perspective to help explain the consumption of costly imports over locally made vessels (Walsh 2014). Here, the issue of increased cost is less clear because the selected vases could be either imported or locally made. The clear preference for skeuomorphism, however, shows an interest in the qualities of metal vases, which must have been associated with status. The specific meanings of both metal vases and skeuomorphs would have been locally determined, since it has been demonstrated that meanings are not inherent to objects but change according to the people who regard and use them (Bhabha 1994). In societies throughout history, including the ancient western Mediterranean, people fit the goods they acquired into their lives according to their own preexisting cultural structures (Dietler 1999; Sahlins 1987, 1996). The work of Brenda Bowser in Peru (2000) can form a useful



ethnographic analogy, since she has carefully plotted the way decorations on pottery can be endowed with social or political meanings within a commu-nity, linking the possessors of specific types to one another in much the same way as a uniform identifies people with similar roles or occupations. Viewers of vases in the town were Bowser carried out her research were able to cor-rectly identify the ethnic identities and political allegiances of the owners of vases on the basis of their design and decoration alone. In modern Western culture, too, the kinds of objects we associate ourselves with are often seen as indicative of our social standing and class allegiances (Bourdieu 1984).

CONCLUSION

In short, while vessels made of precious metals were much more costly and, apparently, more prestigious, consumers in the ancient Mediterranean also purchased massive quantities of ceramic vessels. When they purchased pot-tery, they seem to have preferentially acquired vessels which were skeuomor-phic. This fact was true both for vases which were locally produced and for imports, especially those which were manufactured in the Greek world. It has been clear for some time that ideas about the design of vases could be transmitted from one culture to another over long distances and even that pottery producers adopted foreign designs in order to sell them in the areas where those designs had originated. Examples of this process of feedback are the Etruscan kantharos and kyathos cups and the so-called Nikosthenic amphorae (all of which themselves had metal antecedents). From the survey of pottery from Morgantina, it can now be seen that Greek potters were also interested in serving the desire for different kinds of skeuomorphs in other parts of the Mediterranean, most clearly in Sicily and southern Spain. The reasons consumers wanted ceramic vases with features derived from metal were undoubtedly related to the prestige associated with gold, silver and bronze. At the same time, skeuomorphism did not comprise a kind of rote mimicry, since the vases were not slavish copies of metal but only employed certain features in various combinations. Moreover, the specific reasons for preferring skeuomorphs probably differed from place to place on the basis of locally determined interests and needs, especially the utility of the vases for signalling positive information about the user or owner, whether that was his or her taste, conformity to etiquette or simply the ability to marshal resources for expenditure on fancy imported pottery; or else connoting ‘spe-cialness’ for a specific occasion, such as worship or funerary rites.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am deeply grateful to Carla Antonaccio, with whom I have been collabo-rating on research into skeuomorphism and pottery from Morgantina, for her ideas and support.



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INTRODUCTION

Representing the human body on mundane as well as ritual objects made of different materials and in different technologies becomes increasingly popu-lar during the early Iron Age in Central Europe. Figurines are amongst the objects specifically produced to represent the human form; they vary in size, even if they are most commonly adjusted to handling by and holding in a human hand. Figurines are formed of clay, cast in bronze or lead or carved in bone; some are also further decorated in a range of different techniques. On the one hand, the shape of the figurines follows the conventions of depict-ing humans in the early Iron Age in general; on the other, style and shape of the human form are additionally influenced by the process of their making. The material properties, affordances and practicalities of production that add details to the outcome are of interest in this chapter, which aims to sur-vey early Iron Age figurines in Central Europe using the chaîne opératoire approach. Thinking through the steps of production, use and deposition of the figurines, the chapter investigates the impact of human–material–object relations to understand why Hallstatt figurines take the form they take.

CONVENTIONS OF HUMAN REPRESENTATIONS

After a period of relative absence of human representations in the late Bronze Age ( c. 1300 to 800 BC), they appear on a range of different object types, materials and technologies in the early Iron Age of Central Europe (also referred to as the Hallstatt Culture, predominant in parts of France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Austria, Hungary, Slovakia, the Czech Republic and Slovenia between c . 800 and 400 BC). Most often, they decorate the surface of containers for food and drink; ceramic vessels are decorated with human images that are sketched, punched in or painted on sheet bronze vessels. Amongst these are the famous situlae , decorated in repoussé and chasing or with punched points and dents. Other objects

Materials Make People How Material Properties and Technologies Contribute to Figurine Shapes in Early Iron Age Central Europe

Katharina Rebay-Salisbury

10


Materials Make People 161

with human images include belt plates made of sheet bronze, scabbards of swords and daggers, axes, fibulae and loom weights. Anthropomorphic pendants, designed to be attached to fibulae or bronze vessels or worn as an ornament, are often highly abstract and ambiguous objects, hinting at the human form rather than being concrete and faithful human representations. Furthermore, there are anthropomorphic appliqués made of bronze, tin and lead, which were made to decorate the outside of ceramic or wooden con-tainers. Anthropomorphic pendants and appliqués share many properties with figurines in terms of production technologies, and indeed the bound-aries between these groups of objects are not very clear cut. Figurines are defined as ‘small moulded or sculptured figures’, ‘small statues of a person’ or ‘models of a bodily form’ 1 , focussing on the size as a defining property. In contrast to some of the other objects mentioned, the human image is not a decorative addition; the intention and purpose of the figurine is the repre-sentation of a person.

Human images have triggered the interest of generations of researchers (e.g. Dobiat 1982; Eibner 1982, 1993; Frey 1969; Gallus 1934; Hoernes 1893; Huth 2003; Reichenberger 2000) but primarily focussed on inter-preting the narrative content and meaning of the images. Generic human images aside, most representations can be classified as belonging to a spe-cific and recurrent figure type. Types of people are differentiated through details of the human image such as gestures and postures, dress and associ-ated objects; they play particular roles and engage in specific tasks, which provide insights into how identities were understood and played out in the early Iron Age. Scenes of people acting include feasts with drinking, sport and music competitions, funerary processions, sacrifices, hunting and weav-ing. The narratives of the Hallstatt area are often related to similar motifs known from the Mediterranean (see, e.g., Aigner-Foresti 1980; Fischer 1973; Hase 2005; Jerem, Schönfelder and Wieland 2008; Kimmig 2000; Kossack 1969; Kromer 1986; Siegfried-Weiss 1979), but they are not one-to-one copies; rather, images change as they are transmitted over distance, and, mixing foreign and local elements, ‘creolized’ versions emerge 2 .

Making Figurines

Figurines, as a specific subset of human images of the Hallstatt culture, also draw from this image world. Individual representations dominate, although sets of figurines or collections with shared properties are found in specific contexts. About half of all figurines were identified as naked, and only about one eighth appear dressed. Male figurines are about three times more com-mon than female ones, regardless of whether only figurines with explicit sexual parts are counted or if other gender indicators such as weaponry and dress are also taken into account. If a specific type of person could be identi-fied, it was most often a rider on horseback; orants, warriors or carriers as recurrent figurine types occur much less frequently. Many of the figurines,


162 Katharina Rebay-Salisbury

however, are just generic human forms without further characteristics or details that would point to their specific identity.

Hallstatt figurines vary widely beyond these common characteristics, and a number of factors, from the idea to produce a figurine to its produc-tion use and deposition, contribute to this variation. Thinking through all the steps of the chaînes opératoires (e.g. Brysbaert 2011; Dobres 2010), including their social embedding and associated beliefs and traditions, helps to clarify some points. Before we even consider material and tech-nological implications, we need to ask by whom and for which purpose they were made. Skill and the level of craftsmanship is one issue that has to be considered: the context of figurine production ranges from casual to formal, the place of production from the home to the workshop, and the skill level of the artists also varies widely. Figurines comprise a wide range of objects, which may be intended to be used as children’s toys, centrepieces, ritual objects, votive offerings or grave goods; some of the objects were produced to perfection, whilst quite a number of them were produced in a way that shows quality was not prioritised; it was the sym-bolic value that counted and not the level of craftsmanship. Some figu-rines could have been produced ad hoc by anyone, whilst others clearly showed the hand of a skilled craftsperson and a considerable amount of planning.

In this chapter I will look at ceramic figurines, bronze figurines made using three different technologies and lead figurines to consider the mate-rial properties, constraints and technological implications separately for each figurine group. The notion of affordances is useful here (Gibson 1979), in that it foregrounds the relation among materials, things and humans. Affordances are not independent properties; they are not con-stant but change according to the situation in which they are found and the agents that are engaged with them. A classic example is the door han-dle that affords opening the door to adults but not to children who can-not reach it (Knappett 2004). At the interface between the artist and the figurine, the affordances of different materials are crucial: clay lends itself to different treatment than wax or wood. The properties of the materials (e.g. malleability, crystalline structure, ability to absorb water) afford par-ticular ways of treatment and result in specific forms. Some of the stylistic features of figurines derive directly from the materials and the technolo-gies employed to work them. Each craft therefore develops its own ‘lan-guage of design’ (Blakolmer 1999), but there are no absolute constraints. Simply, some shapes, forms and details naturally and easily fall into place when working one particular material, whilst the same features might be difficult to achieve in a different material. Cutting the outline of a human figure out of sheet bronze, for example, is quite easily doable; cutting it out of the wall of a ceramic vessel in similar detail is virtually impossible. The morphology of objects is intertwined with the underlying production processes.



CERAMIC FIGURINES

Ceramic figurines appear across the continent in the late Bronze and early Iron Age. Whilst those from the late Bronze Age are typically found in set-tlement contexts and appear to be made in an ad hoc fashion (e.g. Lac du Bourget, France, or Kreuznach, Germany; for details, see Uslar 1964), early Iron Age figurines most often come from graves and sanctuaries. They appear as individual objects or parts of formalised assemblages that share principles of construction and decoration.

The 126 Central European ceramic fi gurines in my database 3 come from 37 sites across Austria, Germany, Hungary, Italy north of Bologna, the Czech Republic, Poland, France and Croatia ( Figure 10.1 ). The fi gurines with fully preserved lengths are on average 8 cm tall, measuring from 4 to 19 cm, which makes them an ideal fi t in any person’s hand. The torso is either cylindrical, made of a piece of clay rolled between the palms of the hand, or a fl at slab. The body’s core is usually the most prominent feature of the fi gurine, whilst the head and the extremities are much smaller than actual body proportions would propose. Heads can be cylindrical, conical or globular in shape, and

Figure 10.1 Map of sites mentioned in the text (1: Altino, 2: Ampass-Demlfeld, 3: Bernhardsthal, 4: Bourges, 5: Este, 6: Fellbach-Schmiden, 7: Frög, 8: Gemeinlebarn, 9: Hochdorf, 10: Idrija pri Bači, 11: Keszthely-Dobogó, 12: Kreuznach, 13: Lac du Bourget, 14: Landeck, 15: Langenlebarn, 16: Mechel, 17: Nesactium, 18: Nyergesúj-falu, 19: Pillerhöhe, 20: Saône à Seurre, 21: Šmarjeta, 22: Somló, 23: Strettweg, 24: Stuttgart-Uhlbach, 25: Süttő, 26: Turska kosa, 27: Unterlunkhofen, 28: Vače)



most often the neck is either absent or quite broad and elongated. The pro-portions of the head and extremities are adjusted to the material of which the fi gurines are made—to avoid obvious points of breakage during the process of drying and fi ring, the proportions are usually kept to a minimum.

Three basic techniques are used to shape the figurines further: drawing on the plasticity of the clay, they can be moulded and pressed into shape with fingers and simple tools, pieces of clay can be added for further elaboration, or clay can be subtracted through impressions or incisions. These techniques are employed for the little details that give the figurines more than a human shape—a face, a gender, a social categorisation. About half of the figurines indicate some facial features; most often, the eyes and nose are shaped first. This can easily be done by pinching the head with two fingers, creating the eye sockets and, at their joint, a nose. The nose thus sometimes appears like the beak of a bird, which has caused some speculation of possible human-bird hybrids; except for some cases (for example, the figurine from Süttő, Hungary; Horváth 1969), the birdlike features might instead result from the properties of the soft clay in combination with the moulding technique. Ears are often constructed in a similar way, by drawing out small slabs from the head. In addition, eyes are often further emphasised through circular impres-sions and incision in the clay, but mouths are formed much more rarely.

Although it is sometimes impossible to determine whether the figurines are supposed to appear dressed or naked, only 20 from the sample are defi-nitely wearing a tunic or cloaklike garment. A few only wear belts, but the great majority are naked. Their sex is indicated by drawing out or adding the relevant body parts: breasts for women (28), penises for men (11). Gender is further marked by dress and jewellery as well as postures, such as sitting on a horse. But even taking these markers into account, female figurines out-number male ones considerably. Necklaces, either added in the form of small, plastic bands or subtracted by incisions across the neck, are the most common type of jewellery; belt buckles, belts and arm and leg rings as well as earrings appear in similar fashion. Other attributes are rare—some figurines wear hats and helmets, carry vessels or shields. Most figurines are depicted in a stand-ing position (95), with parallel legs, straight or in reverse u-shape. Others were designed to sit on the back of a horse. Sitting other than on a horse is extremely rare and only known from the Turska kosa (Croatia) assemblage.

This brief outline has summarised the most common shapes and features overall, but to illustrate the impact technological choices have on the shape of the figurines and to differentiate these from the results of material affordances, we will look at specific sets of figurines from Central European contexts.

The sets of ceramic fi gurines from Gemeinlebarn and Langenlebarn ( Figure 10.2 ; Kromer 1958; Preinfalk 2003), both in Lower Austria, date to c . 600 BC and were found in monumental burial mounds, located about 20 kilometres apart along the Danube. Similarities in the grave construc-tion and furnishing, including almost identical pieces of pottery, suggest strong connections among the communities that built the mounds, if not the same craftspeople or a common place of production. Tumulus 1 (of three)



from Gemeinlebarn was a mound of 50 metres in diameter with a large wooden chamber. Although no human remains were recovered, the 19th-century excavation revealed a sword and horse gear alongside a large set of elaborately shaped and decorated pottery (Dungel and Szombathy 1903); a horse burial, remains of a funerary pyre and a wagon were found outside the central chamber in subsequent excavations (Neugebauer-Maresch and Neugebauer 1996). The set of fi gurines from Gemeinlebarn comprises at least 14 human fi gurines and a number of animal representations, including a horse and seven four-legged animals of different sizes, one of which can almost certainly be identifi ed as a stag. Both human and animal representa-tions have traces of resin on their legs and feet, suggesting they were fi xed to an object such as a wagon of organic material or a large vessel and were intended to be viewed from various sides. Tumulus 3 from Langenlebarn had already been reopened several times before the set of fi gurines was dis-covered in one corner of the chamber in 1981 (Preinfalk 2003). The set seems slightly less complete but included at least eight human fi gurines, one of them a rider, as well as a horse and four other four-legged animals.

Those figurines preserved in full length are about 10 cm tall. Their body core is a slab, with rolled arms and legs. The heads of the Gemeinlebarn figu-rines are globular, and breakage points suggest they were added and merged with the core body at the forming stage. The facial features include moulding of eye sockets, nose and ears; eyes are circular stamps and the mouth is indi-cated by a horizontal incision. One figurine even has incised nostrils. Neck-laces are rows of small, round stamps or horizontal incisions. Five figurines have attached breasts; curiously, it is only the right breast that is carried out as a clay addition, whereas the left breast is painted on. Many if not all of the figurines are painted in red and black, like the rest of the pottery in the grave. Where preserved, the painting is either done in horizontal bands over the body, perhaps indicating clothes, or splits the figurine at the central symmetry line

Figure 10.2 Ceramic figurines from Gemeinlebarn and Langenlebarn (Austria, c. 9.5 and 9 cm, after Preinfalk 2003: 91, Taf. 34, 10; Taf. 31, 3) and Turska kosa (Croatia, c. 8 cm each, after Balen- Letunić 2004, 333, No. 17.1 and 205, fig. 23)



in a red and a black half. Some figurines of the Gemeinlebarn set are clearly marked as females, but other figurines appear sexless. This pattern is repeated with the Langenlebarn set; this time, however, there are three clearly male figu-rines, as indicated by the addition of a penis. Their bodies are again painted black and red, split at the central line, and their arms are raised to the head. This construction makes longer extremities possible, as the connection of the arms with the head stabilises them. Other figurines do not have any sexual markers and appear not to have been painted; their shape differs from the oth-ers through an elongated neck. Their heads and particularly faces are not very well preserved. In contrast to the Gemeinlebarn figurines, the core shape of the heads is cylindrical. Eyes and noses are indicated in a similar fashion, but the region of the mouths is elongated, broken off and not preserved, so ultimately, the form cannot be determined. Only the rider’s face is complete, very rudi-mentary in form with a pinched nose and stamped eyes.

The cores of all the figurines from Gemeinlebarn and Langenlebarn, except perhaps the riders, are flat slabs. The back side is usually not further elaborated but remains plain. They were certainly dried and fired while lying on their backs. All legs and most of the arms are therefore in that horizontal plane, except for arms bent towards the front of the body with some figu-rines from Gemeinlebarn. The Gemeinlebarn set is clearly the more elaborate of the two; shaping and decoration show more attention to detail. Neverthe-less, they remain very closely matched assemblages in both the technologies used in their construction and the types of persons they represent.

Amazing numbers of fi gurines have recently appeared from a sanctuary near a funerary site at Turska kosa, Croatia ( Figure 10.2 ; Balen-Letunić 2004; Čučković 2008). Cult Location I’s oldest layers date between the 9th and 7th centuries BC and contain a number of fi replaces that might be explained through the local cremation of the dead and associated offerings. Subsequent layers contained cremated animal bones, indicating a shift in burial rites and offering practices. The layers ranging from approximately 600 to 300 BC contained evidence of ironworking such as slag and ceramic bellow tubes as well as numerous sherds from broken vessels and a range of miniatures such as spindle whorls, spools, small representations of loaves of bread and boats as well as animal and human fi gurines (Čučković 2004: 199).

The 49 human figurines published in recent exhibition catalogues (Balen-Letunić 2004; Čučković 2008) give good insights into the principles of con-structing the bodies in this area. Features are rudimentary at best; if they have been added, they centre on markers of identity such as sex and dress ele-ments. In most cases, the body core is made of a thick, flat slab of clay, which is little worked at the back, indicating that the figurines were designed to be placed on their backs rather than to be shown in three dimensions. There are, however, a number of seated figurines with clearly modelled buttocks and bent legs (e.g. Balen-Letunić 2004: No. 19.2, 19.3, 22.21 and 29.2) and figurines of riders with legs shaped in a way that means they can easily sit on a horse figurine (e.g. Balen-Letunić 2004: No. 22.24 and 22.25).



The heads of the figurines appear small and conical and are barely sepa-rated from the body. Most figurines have a beak-shaped nose as their only elaborate feature, whilst other facial features are missing. The arms and legs of the figurines are kept short and small and appear as conical additions to the body. Their anatomy is not further elaborated; at best, hands and feet are modelled by squeezing the ends of the arms and legs a little to shape the clay into flatter slabs. Arms are slightly set off the core of the body, pointing diagonally to the floor.

The majority of the figurines do not show sexual parts as indicators of sex and gender; gender seems to be more often indicated via dress elements and gestures. Breasts were added in the form of lumps of clay in 12 cases, but male sexual parts are mostly absent from the Turska kosa sample (but are present in the area, e.g. from Mikleuška; Balen-Letunić 2004, No. 9). One figurine combines female and male features (Balen-Letunić 2004: No. 21) to construct an androgynous body. Another figurine is characterised by the addition of a large, round slab on her abdomen; the figurine has been interpreted as a representation of a pregnant woman (Čučković 2008: 99, No. 68). Smaller additions of round clay slabs at the centre of the abdomen are, however, common features and seem to depict belt buckles; very small ones might indicate bellybuttons. They often co-occur with breasted figu-rines and thus seem to be an indication of femininity; fully plastic, broad belts also most often occur with breasts (e.g. Balen-Letunić 2004: No. 17.2 and 20.4). The belt is, in fact, a typical marker of high-status females across the Hallstatt area, although in many areas both men and women wear belts. Symmetrical sets of arm and leg rings are another component of the jewel-lery set for women and have been accurately depicted on some Turska kosa figurines as well (e.g. Balen-Letunić 2004: No. 20.6). Thirty-eight of the figurines wear necklaces of some variety, ranging from simple bands across the neck to elaborate double and triple constructions hanging on the chest in v- or u-shape with one or multiple pendants. Interestingly, necklaces are added in the form of clay bands, often additionally decorated with incised or impressed stripes, and are not merely incised or imprinted on the body. Necklaces are clearly central to the social understanding of the role of the depicted person, most likely indicating wealth and status. Their common occurrence across all figure types points to their nongendered nature.

The Turska kosa figurines have to be understood as individual represen-tations, made to be deposited in a sanctuary, and each individual figure is constructed to communicate certain aspects of identity: first and foremost, status and wealth, and only secondarily gender. The body almost fades into the background and becomes the carrier of status symbols. The Gemein-lebarn and Langenlebarn figurines, in contrast, need to be understood as part of a set, in which each figurine plays a role in telling a story relevant in the framework of the funerary practices. What kind of story this might be can only be guessed with analogies of similar bronze sets, such as those from Strettweg (see what follows; Egg 1996). These figurines are gendered



and gestures appear more varied, but much less emphasis is placed on metal dress elements (which is consistent with the relative rarity of metal dress ele-ments in graves in the area north-east of the Alps).

As we have seen in this section, ceramic figurines vary in form and func-tion across the regions. The malleability of the clay makes any shape pos-sible in principle, but the drying and firing process puts constraints on the final form of the figurine. Sizes are adjusted to easy forming and handling with human hands. The figurines made of clay change the bodies’ propor-tions in favour of the trunk and at the expense of the extremities. The head is usually barely offset from the body, as to do otherwise would create an obvious breaking point. Arms and legs are often both thicker and shorter than actual body proportions would suggest.

BRONZE FIGURINES

Bronze is the material that Hallstatt figurines are made of most frequently. There are 208 objects classified as bronze figurines in my database (see end-note 3), but boundaries between this object type and appliqués, pendants or decorative elements and attachments to other objects are naturally blurred. North of the Alps, they are primarily stray finds or grave goods; in Alpine areas and south of the Alps, they are most often found in sanctuaries that date from the late Bronze Age well into the Roman period ( c . 1300 BC to AD 400); precise dating of the figurines is often impossible, as stratigraphic details were rarely recorded at the time of excavation and dating figurines on stylistic grounds is extremely unreliable. Unsurprisingly, bronze figurines occur more often where the material is more readily available, such as in the areas in close vicinity to the Alps and in and around ‘princely seats’ of the Hallstatt culture; bronze is both less readily available than clay and more expensive. Fully preserved bronze figurines range from 3 to 19 cm in height when fully preserved, which is surprisingly close to the ceramic figurines; their average size is 1 cm less than for the ceramic figurines at 7 cm tall.

To work bronze, a greater level of expertise is needed, and bronze fi g-urines were probably produced by experienced craftspeople, perhaps in workshops. There are, however, a range of different technologies employed in the making of human representations in bronze, ranging from very sim-ple to extremely complex. Therefore, the level of craftsmanship has to be taken into account in analysing how material properties infl uence the way humans are depicted. Bronze fi gurines can be cut out of old pieces of sheet bronze or be cast in open or composite moulds, but the most commonly employed technology is probably lost-wax casting. To produce a fi gurine in this technology, a wax positive is formed and embedded in a mould of clay, which is subsequently dried and fi red at a high enough temperature to melt the wax out. This process leaves a negative which is fi lled with molten bronze. The mould is used only once, as it has to be destroyed to retrieve the



bronze object, resulting in a unique fi gurine for each casting process. Several levels of complexity can be added to this principle, especially when several close copies of one template are desired. For the bronze couch from Hoch-dorf, Germany ( Figure 10.3 ; Biel 1985), for example, eight similar fi gurines were produced to bridge the space between the seat level and the castors. Despite their similarities, minute differences show that they could not have come from the same moulds. Most likely, the two halves of the fi gurines were made separately by fi rst carving them into wood; the wooden halves would then be fi lled with wax and joined after embedding a clay core. The wax fi gurines were then fi nely reworked before they were embedded in clay moulds. The fi nal fi nish of the Hochdorf fi gurines includes fi ling and pol-ishing as well as drilling small holes for the coral inlays that mark the eyes, necklace, belt and arm and leg rings and join the bronze pearls representing the breasts (Binggeli and Sander 2012).

At this level of complexity, any desired form can be achieved. Free form-ing aside, anything from a carved wooden model to a preexisting bronze figurine or a template of clay can be the starting point for a figurine in lost-wax technique, but the most important step in achieving the form is making the wax model. Wax as a malleable material shares some properties with clay, and yet clay figurines look rather different from bronze figurines. What are the reasons for these differences? An important factor is certainly the value of bronze. Although availability and cost of bronze differed through-out the Hallstatt area, it was without doubt a valuable material that was not

Figure 10.3 Bronze figurines produced in lost-wax technique from Strettweg (Austria, c. 12 cm, after Egg 1996: pl. 8.1) and Hochdorf (Germany, c. 32 cm, after Biel 1985: pl. 30)



wilfully wasted. The cost of bronze probably favoured shapes for which lit-tle material was needed, such as slim bodies or, as in the previous example, bodies cast around cores of other materials.

The material properties of wax, clay and bronze contribute to the final shape of the figurine. Shaping the extremities of a figurine in wax is much easier than in clay, as the material does not dry out in the same way and is less prone to breaking. Thin and long arms and legs can therefore be easily achieved, creating a marked difference from the shortened arms and legs most ceramic figurines have. The body proportions of clay and bronze figu-rines come out markedly different; even very thin necks that join the head and body do not jeopardise the head in the working process. The fact that the fragile necks, arms and legs are then embedded and stabilized in the clay mould makes three-dimensional arrangements quite easily possible, such as arms raised forwards and upwards. Figurines with this gesture, also known as orants, are particularly popular in the early Iron Age. Once the bronze is cast, the end product is still stable despite the obvious breakage points of a full-body representation. While some surface decorations are often already anticipated in the wax model, additional decoration can be added to the finished, filed and polished form by incising the material; dress elements and fabrics are often indicated this way.

The fi gurines that comprise the Cult Wagon of Strettweg ( Figure 10.3 ) were worked so well after casting that almost no traces of the production processes remain (Egg 1996: 19). The wagon was found in a very rich grave in Styria, Austria, and dates to c . 600 BC. The fi gurines were arranged on a wheeled, square platform and hold a central female fi gurine, which, at ap-proximately 23 cm in height, is much larger than the rest of the fi gurines. At her feet, the scene of a sacrifi ce is repeated in mirror image. A male fi gurine shouldering an axe and a female fi gurine follow a pair of sexless fi gurines leading a stag by the antlers; they are fl anked by a pair of armed horsemen. The body proportions follow natural and artists’ conventions of body pro-portions in some respects; the head of the fi gurines is about one eighth of the length of the whole body, the legs start at about half the length of the fi gurine, and the arms extend to the middle of the thighs (Bammes 1990). The torso and waist, however, are much slimmer than expected and the extremities are slightly elongated. This is particularly visible in the central female fi gurine; instead of the conventional eighth of the body length for the waist (23/8 × 1 = 2.9 cm) and one and a half times the eighth of the body length for the hips (23/8 × 1.5 = 4.3 cm), the fi gurine’s waist measures 1.6 cm across at the waist and 2.8 cm at the hips, only slightly more than half of the expected values. Figurines of similar elongated shapes are known from the Circum-Alpine region—for example, from the Pillerhöhe, Austria (Tschurtschenthaler and Wein 1998: fi g. 20), Somló, Hungary (Patek 1984: pl. 22, 7) or Altino, Italy (Tirelli 2000: fi g. 137, 3). I argue that this might be an effect of both the value of bronze and using a combination of free-formed wax and bronze as materials to give these fi gurines shape.



The heads of bronze figurines are often disproportionally large, especially when two conditions are met: facial features are shown and the figurine is small overall. Eyes, nose, mouth, chin and ears are the most commonly modelled facial features; hair, hats or helmets are represented in about half of these figurines (e.g. from Idrija pri Bači, Slovenia; Guštin 1991: pl. 22, or Bernhardsthal, Austria; Nebehay 1987: 219). The eyes, round or almond in shape, are often placed off centre and slightly too high on the head to appear natural, probably to use the available space more fully for details of the facial features. This might also be the reason the heads are enlarged in the first place. Although disproportionally large heads are a developmen-tal feature of babies and children, it is unlikely that age is represented this way; other bodily proportions such as limbs are not adjusted to children’s proportions, and the size and functionality of sexual features are often exaggerated (e.g. the figurines from Bourges, France; Echt 1999: fig. 25; Stuttgart-Uhlbach, Germany; Huth 2003: pl. 21, 1; Unterlunkhofen, Swit-zerland; Schmid-Sikimić 1996: pl. 101, 4).

Other than lost-wax casting, bronze fi gurines can also be cast in open moulds. A range of different materials is suitable for the production of the moulds, including clay, wood, compressed sand and sand- and soapstone; only the latter two are really suitable for multiple reuse. The casting tech-nique creates a relief fi gure with a fl at back, which, in most cases, remains unrefi ned. It is relatively rare to produce fi gurines this way (only 18 fl at-cast fi gurines are in my database (see endnote 3), although of course pendants and appliqués with anthropomorphic features are primarily cast in this tech-nique). The fi gurines are thus designed to be viewed from the front and have to be shaped with a particular perspective in mind; most often, human bodies are represented from the front, and only a handful of fi gures are rep-resented in a turned perspective, in which part of the body is shown from the front and part from the side (e.g. the fi gurines from Landeck, Austria; Figure 10.4 ; Egg 1980). Relief fi gurines are most often found in sanctuar-ies; they are votive objects designed to be dedicated. The small fi gurines from Keszthely-Dobogó, Hungary (Patek 1984: pl. 26, 1) and Šmarjeta, Slovenia (Dular 1991: pl. 40), all stray fi nds, have good parallels in central Italy, where they seem to be votive offerings in a sacred landscape (Stoddart and Malone 1994). Their form includes elongated bodies and very straight limbs: arms are stretched out horizontally from the body and legs are ex-tended in an open triangle. This kind of shape can most easily be achieved when carving a wooden or sand- or soft-stone mould; the affordances of the materials employed in the making of the moulds may in this case contribute to the form of the fi gurines.

Finally, there is one more technique employed in making human images in bronze: cutting the human form from sheet bronze. Bronze cutouts are also primarily known from sanctuaries, where they comprise votive offerings of various shapes, including full bodies and body parts. The raw material, the sheet bronze, is rarely new; rather, old sheet bronze objects such as belts and



vessels are recycled and reworked into new objects. The height of the figure from Ampass-Demlfeld, Austria (Tomedi 2009: fig. 2), for example, is 6 cm, just the same as the width of the sheet bronze belt it was cut out from. The figurine most probably shows a female with horse heads instead of arms, interpreted as the goddess Raetia; a number of small pendants are attached to the bottom of the figurine with rings. It is these pendants that are most often found in sanctuaries around the Alps. Sometimes, figurative situlae are reworked into votives, and the original image may be preserved. There are cases in which the cutout clearly respects the image, for instance, at Mechel, Italy, where the pendants are usually cut exactly around one or several per-sons participating in a procession (Lucke and Frey 1962: pl. 27, 9), but in other cases, the recyclers cut through all motifs, drilling holes through a person’s head or turning the figures upside down (Lucke and Frey 1962: ibid.). The human shapes of the cutouts are usually very simple. They again avoid the obvious breaking points such as necks or overly large limbs and focus entirely on the core of the body. Amongst the figures of the Mechel sanctuary are a number of cutouts in the shape of humans, some plain, some with reinforcing punches at the edges or simple incisions and punches to give the image some decoration and elaboration (see Marzatico 2001: fig. 75, for examples). Interesting are the anatomical votives, representations of body parts such as arms and legs, which become much more common fur-ther south and into the Classical periods (e.g. Recke and Wamser-Krasznai 2008; van Straten 1981).

Anatomical votives made of sheet bronze have also been unearthed from the Santuario Sud-occidentale of Este, Italy (Dämmer 2000; Gambacurta 2000), in many cases representations of male genitalia, although breasts, hands, a leg and a face are also part of the assemblage. The sanctuaries around Este, a major centre of the Veneti from the late Bronze Age to the Roman period, seem to cater to different groups of people, as some sanc-tuaries contain primarily images of warriors, while others contain images of females or anatomical parts (Ruta Serafini 2002). In the Santuario Sud- occidentale plaques with representations of armed warriors, horsemen as well as men and women in processions were found, too, and the way in which the images are produced varies widely. The image of an armed horse-man, for instance, was carefully carried out in repoussé and chasing and then cut out around the outline; the spear has been cut off in the process, which suggests that the image previously had been part of a larger composi-tion (Dämmer 2000: fig. 108, 2). The figure of a naked male, in contrast, which has been interpreted as a participant of a jumping contest (Dämmer 2000: fig. 108, 4), was given shape through the cutting out of sheet bronze only. Other plaques use stamps or incisions to create human representa-tions, some of which appear very informal or ‘self-made’.

Cutting a human image from an existing bit of sheet bronze is certainly the technically least demanding way to make a human figure. The context in which these kinds of representations were found suggests that they did



not need to be durable; they were made for dedication and not to be viewed and handled. Furthermore, they could be produced by almost anyone with access to a bit of old sheet bronze and a few tools; the way in which some of them were carried out suggests that they were not always made by profes-sional craftspeople.

LEAD FIGURINES

Lead, which is widely obtainable in Central Europe, is easy to smelt and work. It had a certain amount of significance in the late Bronze and Iron Age economy as a component of bronze alloys before iron was widely available; it changes the properties of bronze, lowering the melting point, making it softer and easier to work but less durable and hard. This is an advantage when it comes to casting but a definite disadvantage for forging, particularly sharp weaponry and knives, and rarely matters for objects like jewellery and figurines. Adding high amounts of lead changes the colour of bronze, which makes the presence of lead macroscopically identifiable. It is widely believed that lead was not particularly valuable, which is underlined by the fact that it was used in forgeries in pretence of other metals and to fix ceramic ves-sels (Tomedi 2002: 246–254). With one notable exception, lead figurines are very rare in the Central European early Iron Age 4 : the cemetery of Frög, Austria ( Figure 10.4 ; Tomedi 2002), datisng to c . 800 to 600 BC, yielded several hundred figurines. Although many have been lost since the time of the antiquarian excavations and details of the contexts were not recorded, they formed a part of the inventory of cremation graves in burial mounds.

Figure 10.4 Bronze and lead figurines from Landeck (Austria, c. 6.5 cm, after Höck 1997: nr. 101b) and Frög (Austria, c. 9.5 and 3 cm, Tomedi 2002: pl. 94 and pl. 11)



Most of them are not strictly figurines, but small appliqués to decorate the outer surface of large ceramic vessels. The most popular type is the rider on horseback (approximately 200 such figurines are published in Tomedi 2002), going towards the right; only a handful of riders go the other way. To indicate masculinity and virility of the riders, the horses are often charac-terised as stallions—given the size constrictions on appliqués that are rarely more than 3 cm in height, some details of the riders themselves had to be omitted. The riders’ arms are joined to the horses’ reins and their legs to the horses’ forelegs; this creates figures that lean back slightly, which is typical for bareback riding. With the exception of a few fully cast riders, they are all flat casts, presumably cast in open moulds or sand (which might explain the uneven surface of many figurines). Although traces of forging, cutting and bending survived, most were put in the graves as raw casts, including casting mistakes and fuzzy edges resulting from too much lead poured into the moulds.

Of the 123 human figurines other than horsemen, there are nine heads, 75 male figurines and 38 female figurines. The naked bodies range from c . 3 to 10 cm in size and from normally proportioned to elongated figures; they are gendered through breasts and male genitals. A group of long, male figures has been interpreted by early excavators as representations of dead bodies in the graves due to their lifeless appearance (Tomedi 2002: 256, see pl. 94 for examples). The heads are globular and the eyes and sometimes the nose are the most commonly preserved facial features; the poor state of preservation does not allow any more details to be recognised. Legs and arms are rarely preserved in full length, but it seems that they, too, were elongated. Whilst legs appear straight and parallel, the arms are bent into various gestures: some hang parallel to the body, some are crossed in front of the chest and some carry various objects or are raised. This indeed seems to be one of the crucial advantages of using lead as a material: the same basic forms can be cast over and over and varied as well as being adjusted by bending the soft metal carefully into the desired shapes.

OTHER MATERIALS: SANDSTONE, BONE, IVORY, ANTLER AND WOOD

It is rather surprising that despite a considerable number of life-sized statues and stelae used as monuments and grave markers in Central Europe (e.g. Stary 1997), to the best of my knowledge, stone is not used to carve figurines in the early Iron Age. A handful of human representations were made of bone or antler, such as the surprisingly similar horsemen from Nesactium, Croatia, Vače, Slovenia and Mechel, Italy, or pendants in the shape of females from Vače (Marzatico 2009; Teržan 2004). Preservation might of course be an issue here, just as it is for wood, which is only preserved in exceptional circumstances. Occasional finds like the wooden carvings from



the Viereckschanze of Fellbach-Schmiden, Germany (Wieland 1999), or the wooden statue from Saône à Seurre, France (Chaume and Reinhard 2003: 265, fig. 13), show just how much we may be missing. Wooden figurines similar in size and shape to figurines in other materials have, however, not been found so far. For antler and bone, the structure of the bone tissue is something to consider when giving figurines shape; similarly, the fibrous structure is of importance when working wood. The dimensions of the raw materials are also constraining factors for the shape of the figurines. Although arms and legs can be joined to the body relatively easily, carving figures out of one piece affords slim bodies and slender extremities, or gener-ally figurines of smaller size.


Early Iron Age figurines from central Europe are highly variable in their appearance. In order to understand how and why they take the shape they do, we need to understand how material properties and aspects of technol-ogy were related to the style and shape of the figurines. Through under-standing materials and the way they are worked, tendencies towards cer-tain forms and shapes can be explained; the basic points are summed up in Figure 10.5 . There are, however, no absolute constraints, and with the right level of skill, shapes that are more difficult to achieve in a certain material might become possible. It is the hallmark of good craftsmanship to work with the material, not against it, and understanding multiple materials and their affordances is certainly necessary for more complex procedures. An element of cross-craft interaction comes in here: comparing the production sequences of multiple crafts and identifying overlaps in which they impact each other technologically and socially, we might be able to understand innovation and knowledge exchange (Brysbaert 2007). Casting bronze in lost-wax procedures, for instance, presupposes knowledge about building, drying and firing ceramics.

It has proven to be extremely important to look at the possible social contexts of production and use. The questions of ‘who made them?’ and ‘what were they made for?’ can be addressed though the context in which the figurines were found. Although figurines are often stray finds, many have been discovered in settlement, funerary and ritual contexts. Variation in the level of skill employed in the making of figurines is noticeable; in particular, figurines that were deposited in sanctuaries and graves are often produced in a careless manner. This leads to the conclusion that a consider-able number of these objects were made specifically for funerary and ritual use and either did not have a previous use-life of being viewed and handled (as the raw casts from Frög would suggest, for instance) or were recycled and deposited at the very end of a long use-life (such as the cutouts made of old scraps of metal from Alpine sanctuaries). In addition, it might suggest


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that not all figurines were made by professional artisans, if such persons even existed in the early Iron Age. Some figurines could be made ad hoc, at home, with minimum levels of skill or even by children, whilst very detailed understandings of multiple technologies are necessary to produce complex figurines (such as the figurines supporting the Hochdorf couch). Clearly, not all depositional contexts warranted the application of high levels of skill to the production process.

Finally, it is important to remind ourselves that representations of human bodies remain bound up in the cultural, regional and temporal context in which they were produced, despite other contributing factors considered in this chapter. Figurines arise out of the social understanding of what a human body, a specific type of person or a particular individual should look like, and through making, viewing, handling and depositing figurines, this understanding becomes reinforced, shaped and refined. Figurines are thus not merely a reflection of identities in the early Iron Age but have an effect on society (cf. Gell 1998; Wells 2008); ideas about social identity and the classification of persons play a role in the making of figurines just as bodily ideals and ideas about sickness and health do. The extensive varia-tion of the appearance of figurines shows that ideas about the human body remained in flux and were constantly constructed and negotiated, in part through art.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The research conducted for this chapter was funded by the Leverhulme Trust within the framework of the research programme ‘Tracing Networks: Craft Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean and Beyond’ based at the University of Leicester and directed by Lin Foxhall.

I would also like to thank Sheila Kohring, Jessica Hughes and Roderick Salisbury for many stimulating discussions on topics in relation to this text and Marianne Mödlinger for discussions on metal technology.

NOTES

1. www.thefreedictionary.com/figurine, accessed 8 June 2012. 2. Creolization refers to the mixture of indigenous and foreign cultural elements,

as well as traditional and modern ones, leading to the formation and develop-ment of new identities (Cohen 2007). Rather than emphasising the fusion (as by the term ‘hybridisation’), creolization emphasises the innovative process in which cultural elements are selected from more than one culture and endowed with different meaning to create something new.

3. The figurines discussed in this paper are a subset of the data of human repre-sentations that I compiled in a database within the framework of the ‘Tracing Networks’ project. The database aimed at a full coverage of all known human images dating to the early Iron Age of central Europe, ranging from eastern



France to Hungary and from central Germany to Italy north of Bologna; despite this aim, the vast amount of available data makes omissions inevitable.

4. A female lead figurine from Nyergesújfalu, Hungary, seems to be a Picenian import (Egg 1996: 50, fig. 28).

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A Bronze Age Ornament Network? Tracing the Herzsprung Symbol across Europe

Marion Uckelmann

11

INTRODUCTION

This chapter examines shields made from different materials, originating from different regions and used for differing functions, but all are connected through the same symbol. The family of shields of Type Herzsprung dates to the Late Bronze Age (c. 13th–9th centuries BC) and comprises a leather shield from Ireland, shield depictions in stone on Iberian steles and bronze sheet shields from southern Scandinavia. In addition, there are further ‘rela-tives’ in wood in Ireland, more depictions on stelae and younger versions in bronze and ceramic in the eastern Mediterranean, mostly found in ritual places. The name derives from the eponymous findspot Herzsprung, in Saxony-Anhalt, Northern Germany, where two bronze shields were found together in 1844 (Uckelmann 2012: 59–60). The Herzsprung symbol is a shield boss, round or oval in form, which is encircled by three ribs or rings. The inner ring has a gap and the two outer rings each have a U- or V- shaped notch located in the same position ( Figure 11.1 ). In this chapter, the evidence for the Herzsprung symbol is reviewed systematically across Europe accord-ing to the material, manufacturing technique, organisation of the decoration and archaeological context. The purpose is to explore the degree of coher-ence in the organisation of the Herzsprung symbol across space and time. This chapter will demonstrate that the Herzsprung symbol was probably invented in Ireland before the 13th century BC and was subsequently trans-mitted south to Iberia and north to Scandinavia. The symbol has a distinc-tive meaning which was known to the makers or bearers of the shields but is lost today for us. It is only later, during the 8th century BC and onwards, that the final echoes of the Herzsprung symbol can be seen in the Eastern Mediterranean; here the symbol is more abstract and has most likely lost the connection to its specific meaning.


Figure 11.1 The Herzsprung Symbol and examples of shields. Eastern Mediterranean votive shields: 1. Delphi, ‘ Sacred Road ’ (after Lerat 1980); 2. Idalion, Cyprus (after Perrot and Chipiez 1885); 3. Heraion, Samos, made of clay (after Eilmann 1933); 4. Samos (after photo, DAI Athens); 5. Delphi, ‘ East Bath ’ (after Homolle 1908). — Nordic bronze sheet shields: 6. Nackhälle, Sweden; 7. Fröslunda, Sweden; 8. Svenstrup, Denmark. — Shield of group Plzeň: 9. Denmark. — 10. Leather shield from Cloonbrin, Co. Longford. — Iberian Stelae: 11. Fóios; 12. Brozas (both after Harrison 2004). — Irish wooden shields and formers: 13. Former from Churchfield, Co. Mayo; 14. Shield from Cloonlara, Co. Mayo (6–10, 13, 14 after Uckelmann 2012).


184 Marion Uckelmann

THE SHIELDS

Leather Shield from Cloonbrin

Organic materials such as leather or wood rarely survive in the archaeologi-cal record, despite the fact that the majority of objects in prehistory were made from them. The leather shield that was found during peat digging in 1908 in Cloonbrin, near Abbeyshrule, Co. Longford, Ireland ( Figure 11.1 , 10), is therefore an exceptional discovery and in an outstanding state of pres-ervation. The finder handed it over to the landowner, who donated it to the Royal Irish Academy. Since then, it has been kept in the National Museum of Ireland, Dublin (Inv. No. 1098: 156; Uckelmann 2012: No. 85). When the shield was found, it had a diameter of c. 61 cm, but due to drying processes over the years, it shrank slightly and today measures 58 × 57 cm. It is deco-rated with the Herzsprung symbol with the three ribs around the shield boss, the inner rib with a gap, the outer ribs with V-notches and groups of bosses between the ribs. The shield was manufactured in one piece of 5 to 6 mm thick leather, and the central shield boss was reinforced through a sewn-on leather cap. On the back of the shield, a leather grip was sewn on. In his study on shields, John M. Coles carried out experimental work on how this leather shield was manufactured, and his work is still the basis for further experiments (Coles 1962: 160, 175–179). In Coles’s study and later experi-ments by Barry Molloy, the leather was first soaked in water and then ham-mered into a wooden mould, which was sometimes secured with weights to keep the leather from shrinking while drying. After the shield had dried, various methods of hardening and, most importantly, preventing it from getting wet and therefore soft, were undertaken: waxing the shield using beeswax was the most effective (Coles 1962: 175–179; Molloy 2009). The leather shields were tested in various experiments, and all were very durable and capable of protecting their bearer from spear thrusts and sword blows (Molloy 2004: 33–34, 2009; cf. Uckelmann 2012: 70, 175–176). Leather shields were most likely widespread across Europe but, for the most part, are not visible in the archaeological record.

Wooden Shield Formers and Shields

Shield formers in which such leather shields could have been produced were found while peat was being cut in two places in bogs in Ireland. Neither is very well preserved, but the shield former from Churchfield, Co. Mayo ( Figure 11.1 , 13), most likely carries the Herzsprung symbol, with two hollows for ribs with V-notches and the inner rib probably having a gap. The present dimensions, where the wood has shrunk while drying out, are 53.4 × 45.7 cm (National Museum Dublin, Inv. No. 1942: 1844; cf. Uckelmann 2012: no. 82). The other fragment comes from Kilmahamogue, Co. Antrim, Northern Ireland, and it has two hollows carved into the wood for forming the decora-tion on the leather shield; the inner hollow has a gap, the outer hollow has


A Bronze Age Ornament Network? 185

a U-shaped notch. The dimensions of the now heavily distorted wood are 42.5 × 29.5 cm, but when found, it was round in shape and had a diameter of 45.7 cm (Ulster Museum Belfast, Inv. No. A 483.1916; cf. Uckelmann 2012: no. 84).

Two wooden shields, again from Ireland, have also survived. These are decorated with carved-out ribs with U-notches, a carved-out central boss and a handle, all made from one piece of wood. Neither demonstrates the Herzsprung symbol, although the design is evidently closely related. The shield from Annadale, Co. Leitrim, measures at present 65 × 44 cm (and when found 67.3 × 53.3 cm), is between 0.9 and 3 cm thick and bears seven ribs with slight U-notches (National Museum Dublin, Inv. No. 1863:1754; cf. Uckelmann 2012: no. 81). The far thicker and heavier shield from Cloonlara, Co. Mayo ( Figure 11.1 , 14), is 47 × 40.5 cm and has a thickness ranging between 2.6 and 6.6 cm. It must have been carved out of one piece at least 12.5 cm thick, because that is the surviving thickness of the shield’s body and central boss. It has four ribs with U-notches encircling the cen-tral boss. They leave free space towards the rim, which also has a slight U-notch. The handle is carved out of the wood and is preserved under the carved-out central boss (National Museum Dublin, Inv. No. 1934: 5604; cf. Uckelmann 2012: no. 83).

The wood used in all four cases is alder, which was a common tree in Bronze Age Ireland. Less common is the size that was needed for the shields and formers, as the tree needed to have a minimum diameter of more than 50 cm, and only a fully grown alder tree could deliver such wood. Alder grows fast and can live up to 120 years. The wood used was cut out vertically from the trunk, like a plank, and not from a horizontal disc slice through the trunk. The use of the other parts of the alder tree, the bark, shoots, leaves and catkins for leather tanning and textile dyeing, is known from historical times. If this usage was known in the Bronze Age, the alder tree was perfect for the making of leather shields, as most parts of the tree could have been used during the various steps of manufacture (cf. Uckelmann 2012: 71–72).

Bronze Sheet Shields of Type Herzsprung

The distribution of the bronze shields of Type Herzsprung is restricted to the Nordic Bronze Age, mainly in the region of southern Scandinavia, with an additional site in northern Germany (Herzsprung). Eighteen of the 24 known shields of this type come from one site, a dried-up bay of Lake Vänern, near Fröslunda, Sweden. The dimensions of these slightly oval shields are around 71 × 67 cm, with a metal thickness of 0.4 to 0.5 mm and a weight of 1.4 to 1.5 kg. One disc was skilfully hammered out to form the bronze sheet, with multiple (probably more than 200) rounds of annealing, to keep the sheet from turning brittle. The distinctive Herzsprung ornamen-tation in the centre of these shields is the main feature for the type: three



wide and plain ribs running around the oval shield boss, the inner rib has a gap and the two outer ribs bear a U-shaped notch ( Figure 11.1 , 6–8). This ornament was carefully planned and is outlined on the back of the shields. Three lines run through the rivets of the handle and to the rim. This creates the area for the band of bosses and ribs that cuts at an angle through the circular running rows of bosses and ribs of the outer zone. The outer zone on the shield body is decorated differently, with alternating ribs and rows of bosses forming three identifiable groups of decoration of the outer zone. These rows have been prelined as well, but the craftsperson did not always follow the directions closely. Calliper points are still visible in the middle of the U-notches where the calliper was used to create the roundness of the U-notches. The handle is formed out of a rolled tube of bronze sheet, which is riveted onto the body with three rivets over a smaller rectangular piece of sheet. Only the middle rivet connects the shield, handle and sheet, with the outer two securing the handle from being torn off. The central boss is much shallower than on other bronze shields, but the handle is heavily bent and gives enough room for the shield bearer’s hand (Uckelmann 2012: 50–62).

Bronze Sheet Shields of Group Plzeň

Bronze sheet shields of Group Plzeň do not constitute a coherent type, but due to close similarities in decorative motifs, the three shields form a group. One was found in the Czech Republic (Plzeň-Jíkalka) and the other two probably come from Denmark but are unprovenanced. The shields are oval in form and are related to the Type Herzsprung through their decoration, with the two Danish finds bearing the exact Herzsprung symbol ( Figure 11.1 , 9). The dimensions are between 51 × 48 cm and 68 × 61 cm. The metal thickness is high at 1 to 1.3 mm and explains the heavy weight of 2.4 to 3.4 kg for the shields. They were also hammered into a sheet but from a thicker disc. The combining element in the decoration is the circular notch in the central shield boss; the rest of the shield body is rather plain and adorned only with ribs or boss rows. The handle and tabs are all fitted in different ways; the shield from Plzeň shows some resemblance to the Type Nipperwiese shields in this respect (Uckelmann 2012: 73–76).

Iberian Stelae

From the Iberian Peninsula, few original finds of bronze fittings suggest the use of shields, but more than 70 shield engravings can be found on the so-called warrior stelae. These stone stelae come mostly from the region of the Extremadura and western Andalusia, with centres in the Sierra Morena and area of the river Guadiana. The stelae date to the final phase of the Atlantic Bronze Age (Bronze Final I–III, c. 1280–820 BC) and are all engraved into the stone surface and rarely into rock. The use of these stelae is not fully under-stood. The main interpretations describe them as landmarks along trade



routes or as created in connection with a cult devoted to the ancestors. They were probably not used as grave markers (Galán Domingo 1993; Harrison 2004: 2–3; Jorge 1999: 122; Mederos Martín 2012: 424–425, 443).

The stelae have been researched by many scholars, and most group them by the objects depicted and subsequently try to establish a chronological sequence (see overviews in Harrison 2004: 18–20; Mederos Martín 2012: 418–424). Roughly, the sequence that all agree upon goes from stelae with shield, sword and spear to stelae with a few more added objects like a comb or a fibula to more complex motifs with wagons and figures. The chrono-logical depth of the sequence remains unclear, since only few comparable objects depicted are datable. The shields with V-notches, however, can be found already on the oldest stelae. Of the 70 shields depicted, more than 40 are decorated with V-notches in the rings and almost 30 shields have concentric rings. Due to the presence of these V-notches, many of the shields on the stelae look similar to the Type Herzsprung shields. Three depicted images show an especially close resemblance to the leather shield from Cloonbrin (Uckelmann 2012: no. 85, pl. 134, fig. 16). These are the stelae from Brozas ( Figure 11.1 , 12), Aldas del Rey I and Trujillo (El Caneril, cf. Harrison 2004: C13. C66. C15). A further four stelae must be seen as part of the Type Herzsprung shields as well: Albuquerque, Cabeza del Buey II, Fóios ( Figure 11.1 , 11), EL Viso II (Harrison 2004: C14, C33, C5, C55). Many of the other shield depictions with V-notches are comparable but do not show the exact Herzsprung symbol. This might be due to the nature of the stone material, the skills of the craftsperson who made the image, a loss of the knowledge of the exact symbol or that only an abstract symbol was needed to transfer the meaning of the message.

In more than 40 cases, the shields are depicted from their ‘inner side’ with the grip being visible. Therefore, the shields were depicted from the per-spective of the shield bearer and not of the oncoming warrior. This specific feature can probably be interpreted as a sign of protection rather than of aggression. Furthermore, the hilt of the sword, the handle of the shield and the notch and the grip of the spear are mostly positioned in the same way, as if ready to pick up and ‘use’. The direction of the weapons was deliberately chosen and was not arbitrary. The exact way of placing the objects on the stelae seems to symbolise a set of metaphors, with their meaning lost to us today. It also needs to be considered how the stelae were placed. Only very few have been found in situ ; some have a free space at the bottom, which suggests that the lower part was buried, as they were placed standing. Oth-ers are decorated all over and could have been originally placed lying down. These stelae could also have been put over a grave, with the image facing the grave, and could then be interpreted as grave goods. A further interpretation points to a different direction: it is possible that the objects are engraved as a representation of the ‘otherworld’—which in later Celtic times is thought to be a mirror reflection to the present world and the dwelling place for the ancestors (pers. comm. J. Waddell).



Eastern Mediterranean Votive Shields

The Eastern Mediterranean shields are put side by side with the Type Herzsprung shields in many publications (Borchhardt 1977: 39–44; Canciani 1970: 43–45; Gräslund 1965: 40; Hencken 1950: 303–304; Snodgrass 1964: 55–56; Sprockhoff 1930: 6–7) and are sometimes seen as their ori-gin. However, recent research can rule this out, because they are consider-ably younger than the Herzsprung shields. Since they are always stated as Herzsprung shields but never closely described in relation to the shields from Type Herzsprung, each decoration is here explained in detail to explore the differences from the pieces studied earlier. All of the Mediterranean shields bear a V-notch rather than the U-notch, which is more common on the Herzsprung Type. None of them shows the exact motif of three ribs around the boss, the inner one with a gap and the two outer ones with a U-notch. Most of them are made from bronze sheet, with slightly fewer made in ceramic, as models. The bronze shields show possible fittings for a handle and are rather real shields; whether they were useable in battle or were spe-cially made for the depositions has not yet been researched.

Two pieces are known from the temple in Delphi, Greece, two more from graves on Cyprus, one from the Cave of Zeus on Crete and one from Samos, as well as one piece of unknown provenance, now in the British Museum. Furthermore, in the Heraion on Samos, small ceramic model shields were discovered, and there were miniature shields (now lost) from Rhodes which were made in either bronze or clay. During the excavations at the temple of Delphi, a large number of votive finds were unearthed, and the frag-ments of two differing bronze shields with V-notch decoration were among them. From the northern area of the east thermae (baths) comes a piece with a round-domed shield boss surrounded by three ribs, all of which have a V-notch at the same position, as well as at least two rows of bosses and a further rib around the boss ( Figure 11.1 , 5). Rivet heads are visible and were most likely used to fasten the grip to the back of the shield. The grip would have been positioned in line with the V-notch, as with the Herzsprung shields (Hencken 1950: 297, fig. 7; Homolle 1908: 25, fig. 99; Lerat 1980: 96, fig. 4). In 1935, a trench was dug under the pavement of the ‘sacred road’ in the temple and a probable initially complete shield could only be extracted in parts ( Figure 11.1 , 1). On this second shield, four ribs run concentrically around the central boss; the outer rib and the second from the centre have sharp pointed V-notches. The inner V-notch cuts the boss well over its middle. In the outer area of the shield are further concentric ribs, and faint decorative bands are visible in between. This shield was not manufactured from one piece of bronze sheet but from five parts which are riveted together. Its diameter is c. 92 cm and the metal thickness is c. 2 mm. Due to the general bad condition of the central part of the shield, it cannot be assessed whether rivets for a grip were attached (Gräslund 1967: fig. 8; Lerat 1980: 93, fig. 1–3).



In the collection of the British Museum, a further shield is known, but unfortunately it is unprovenanced. More than a quarter of the shield has survived, including the centre with the boss and surrounding ribs with com-plete V-notches. From the centre to the rim, the fragment measures 26.5 cm, and therefore the overall diameter can be estimated at 53 cm. The broadest part of the fragment measures 40 cm. The boss has a diameter of 16 cm, and the inner V-notch cuts through up to its middle. The metal thickness is 0.7 to 0.8 mm. Four 1.6- to 1.7-cm broad ribs run around the boss, and the outer and second inner ribs (as with the second shield from Delphi) bear V-notches. There is a further rib, near the rim, only 0.5 cm wide. The distances between the ribs differ. The rim is flat and pierced with holes. A potential further part, an outer rim, was riveted on, in a similar fashion to the Delphi shield. One rivet is corroded to the sheet around the hole. There are no further decorations. On the inner side between the V-notches, a strip of bronze sheet has been riveted on. In folded state, it measures 2.4 cm, but it is 3.3 cm when unfolded. The rivet-pin has a square section that probably belongs to the grip construction. Only through analogies with other shields, such as the find from Delphi and other pieces presented here, can the origin of this shield be placed in the Aegean or East Mediterranean region, most probably in the 7th century BC, maybe even in the late 8th century BC (Brit-ish Museum Acc. No. 1970.0720.1; Johnston 1981: 145–146, pl. 3).

Two grave contexts from Cyprus contained similar bronze shields. The shield from the cemetery of Idalion could only be recovered in fragments ( Figure 11.1 , 2). Despite the fragmentation, the ornamental design can still be reconstructed and is similar to the second shield from Delphi. The shield boss is encircled by four ribs, and the second and outer ribs are cut by sharp V-notches. The shield boss is cut as well by the V-notches over its centre. In the outer area, the shield is decorated with three sets of wavy ornamental bands. Its overall diameter would have been about 83 cm (Borchhardt 1977: Fig. 5c; Hencken 1950: 295, fig. 2; Lerat 1980: 97–98, fig. 5; Perrot and Chipiez 1885). The shield is currently lost.

Two fragments of a bronze shield were found in a richly furnished war-rior grave from Palaipaphos, Cyprus. This shield does not have the com-mon plain ribs around the shield boss but has instead two ornamental wavy bands, in a slightly altered form to the shield from Idalion. The inner band of these is also cut by a V-notch, but it does not reach the shield boss. The diameter can be estimated at 32 cm. The grave dates to the Cypro-Archaic I phase (750–600 BC; Borchhardt 1977: 40–41, fig. 5 d; Karageorghis 1963: 273–274, fig. 10. 11, 299).

Greek mythology tells the story of the goddess Rhea, who hides her infant son Zeus in the Cave of Zeus on Mount Ida, Crete, where he was guarded by dancing warriors who were making noise using their shields and weapons to distract the god Kronos from the cries of the child (Matthäus 2000: 518). This ritual cave became in time the most important sanctuary on Crete, and following the legend, it is not surprising that the votive gifts from the early



1st millennium BC are dominated by shield finds, votive as well as miniature shields and metal vessels. In his extensive study, Emil Kunze lists more than 80 shields or fragments; due to the more recent excavations, about 2,000 fragments of shields can be added, and the main part of these shields can be dated to the 8th century BC (Kunze 1931; Matthäus 2000: 520–521, 535–536). One of these shields, preserved only in fragments, shows three concentric ribs with V-notches, which are closely set next to each other around the shield boss as well as four concentric rows of bosses. The space next to the shield rim is decorated with friezes of palmettes, braided bands and fishbone pattern and shows as well a possibly scenic frieze of a lion hunt (Hencken 1950: 297 no. 9 fig. 8.9 ; Kunze 1931: 30, no. 67 pl. 43, 67).

On the Greek island of Samos, a further shield fragment was found deco-rated with two broad ribs around the shield boss and a rather wide, undeco-rated area towards the rim ( Figure 11.1 , 4). A pointed V-notch from the inner rib cuts through a third of the depth of the shield boss. Further information on the context is not known. In the Heraion on Samos (the temple honouring the goddess Hera), fragments of small votive shields were found. They were made of ceramic and originally had a diameter of 15 to 19 cm. The frag-ments belong to 35 shields, and at least 6 show a decoration with V-notches. Five of these come from the filling layer of the so-called Hekatompedon II, a temple construction, and one was found near the altar V (Eilmann 1933: 118–120, sup. 36, 13. 16; 37, 2–4; Hencken 1950: 294, fig. 3–6, 295. 297). Probably due to the material, these fragments are decorated in relief. Three or four concentric ribs with pointed V-notches run around the flat central boss ( Figure 11.1 , 3). In two cases, the central boss is cut by the notches, and in one case, the boss is still round. One fragment shows three grooves around the boss, all with V-notches, and the inner V-notch cuts the boss. The finds from the area of altar V are all geometric and can be dated to the end of the 8th century BC. Also geometric are the finds from Hekatompedon II, and through the find of a lekythos vessel a terminus ante quem of c. 650 BC is given (Canciani 1970: 43–44; Lerat 1980: 103).

In the following, the shields mentioned earlier are compared regarding their ornamentation. A round and uncut central boss is shown on the pieces from the Cave of Zeus, the first shield from Delphi and one of the ceramic shields from the Heraion on Samos. All have three concentric ribs around the boss as well, like the Type Herzsprung shields, except that these have all V-notches and no gaps. The V-notch has a much wider angle than the rest of the East Mediterranean shields. The shields from Idalion and the second from Delphi are very similar in the decoration of the V-notches as well as there being three bands in the further decoration, which is formed in different ways—one with waves and the other two with braided bands. Similar to this ornamentation is the decoration on the ceramic shields from the Heraion. The bronze shield from Samos also has a V-notch that is cutting the boss, but the decoration of the rest is different. The shield from Palaipaphos takes up a middle position; the shield boss is round, but the outer area is decorated with wavy ornamental



bands. These shields date from the 8th century BC to the first half of the 7th century BC (Lerat 1980: 103; Matthäus 2000: 135–136). The ornamentation shows that there is a certain similarity to the design of the Type Herzsprung shields but that the original ornament has changed significantly. The exact meaning of the symbol has been either lost through time or it was no longer necessary to present it in an exact way. Perhaps the abstract form was enough to show the meaning (as happened to other Bronze Age decoration elements, for instance the ‘bird-sun-boat’; cf. Wirth 2006), or was only used then as an ornament detached from its meaning.

ORIGIN AND MEANING OF THE SYMBOL

Shields of Type Herzsprung are already found on the oldest pieces of the Iberian warrior stelae, dated mainly by the objects depicted on them to the 12th and 11th centuries BC, maybe as far back as the 13th century BC.

Figure 11.2 Distribution map of the family of Herzsprung shields (after Uckelmann 2012).



This early date is supported by the new 14 C date of the leather shield from Cloonbrin (Gr-45808: 2880±35 BP, 1194–934 cal BC; Uckelmann 2012: 159, fig. 27). The invention of the Herzsprung symbol is hard to trace, and it is not clear which area used it first, but due to the early dating of the Irish wooden shields and formers, it was probably invented in Ireland. The bronze shields of this type date at the latest to Period V (end of 10th/9th cen-tury BC) of the Nordic Bronze Age, where a fragment was part of a hoard of that period. Due to the earlier dating of the stelae and the leather shields, as well as other bronze shields in southern Scandinavia, this fragment was most likely already old when deposited and this is only a terminus ante quem for the type. The two Danish shields of group Plzeň might be older as well, since they bear the Herzsprung symbol but also have a close resemblance to the Plzeň shield. The shield from Plzeň, Czech Republic, is now also 14 C dated (Gr-40666: 3005±40, 1386–1126 cal BC; Uckelmann 2012: 159, fig. 27). This is only a faint hint of a northern origin of the symbol, since the prov-enance of the two Danish pieces is not secure. The votive shields in the Eastern Mediterranean are all dated from the 8th century BC onwards and therefore later. There, the clear meaning of the symbol was either lost or did not need to be depicted in detail, so these can be seen as the last echo of these kinds of shields (Uckelmann 2012: 67, 68, 167).

The precise meaning(s) of the Herzsprung symbol is lost. However, the detailed examination of each occurrence, together with a comparison to other contemporary symbols found throughout Late Bronze Age Europe, can provide broad insights. The Herzsprung symbol was invented in one place, most likely Ireland, and spread from there rather than being invented in multiple locations. The Herzsprung symbol is only associated with shields and does not appear on any other object type, even those objects which may have been used with shields such as swords, spears or helmets. There is no variation in this pattern, despite a pan-continental spatial distribution and a temporal span of more than half a millennium. This specific attach-ment of the Herzsprung symbol is not found in other contemporary sym-bols which appear upon a variety of Late Bronze Age bronze object types. The uptake of the Herzsprung symbol is therefore directly related to the production, use and veneration of the Bronze Age shield, but shields can and do exist independently of the Herzsprung symbol. This would appear to rule out any straightforward association of the Herzsprung symbol and the shield. The physical characteristics of the shields upon which the Her-zsprung symbol appears, as opposed to those on which it does not, reveal a bias towards larger and thinner shields. However, this is not a consistent pattern and there are exceptions. Therefore, there does not seem to be an equation between the Herzsprung symbol and shields that are more likely to have been used in combat, thus ruling out a defensive interpretation. The presence of the Herzsprung symbol on shields placed in bogs, on com-memorative stelae and in religious sanctuaries perhaps indicates that it had more of a ritual meaning. Given the geographical and temporal proximity,



it seems likely that the meaning of the Herzsprung symbol was consistent from southern Scandinavia to southern Iberia. However, given the broad expanse in space and time before the symbol occurs in the eastern Medi-terranean, it is unlikely that this meaning was still consistent. However, it nonetheless appears to have been capable of adaptation and adoption by a broad range of societies across the continent as it was transmitted from west to east and north to south.

The meaning of this symbol is very difficult to understand, but it had most likely a distinct and clear connotation, but not a graphical meaning like a street sign. A few interpretations will be presented and discussed in the fol-lowing. One interpretation sees the meaning and development of the symbol in a technological rudiment, a design feature no longer necessary for the func-tion of the object but preserved as a characteristic that ‘belongs’ to the object where the U- or V-notches derive from older (than the bronze sheet ones) leather shields. The notch was thereafter cut into the leather so the corners of the cut could be laid over each other to achieve a doming of the shield body (Bouzek 1985: 96–97; Derrix 1997: 518–519). The Cloonbrin shield is given as an example, but there the notches are not cut in but rather shaped through the drying process, and like most Bronze Age shields, it is rather more flat than domed. The V-notches could also derive from different layers of leather, where smaller bits were placed over the larger ones and, through that, formed notches or rims (Waddell 1998: 241). Both interpretations seem unlikely when one compares the leather shield and the wooden formers and shields and takes the results of experiments with leather shields into account. For instance, no cut is needed to dome them; a cut would probably reduce their defensive properties, and one layer of leather is sufficient to guard against sword hits and spear thrusts (Coles 1962: 175–179; Molloy 2009).

Another hypothesis sees the development of the Herzsprung symbol as follows: the leather shields with notches are the predecessors of the Myce-naean figure-of-eight shields, for which two shields were merged as one and the notches at the sides of these shields were ornamental. The shields of Type Herzsprung are again developed from these figure-of-eight shields, which were once more parted into two shields, and the notches remain as rudimentary features (Bouzek 1968: 315–316, 1985: 30; Derrix 1997: 515–526). This leaves a wide range of speculation, but it seems somehow too far fetched from the original finds. It explains neither why the only com-plete leather shield shows the same ornamental symbol as the later bronze shields nor why there is a need for the three ribs surrounding the bosses, two with a notch, one with a gap.

One of the oldest interpretations of the U-notches suggests a derivation from a famous ancient shield which was hit with a sword that left a scar on the shield and that this scar was copied onto other shields for remembrance and to receive an apotropaic character (Sprockhoff 1930: 28–29, after I. Undstet n.d.). However, it is difficult to see a resemblance between a sword hit and the U/V-notches of the exact symbol.



The symbol together with the outer decoration of the bronze shields could be compared to a labyrinth-like image or the entrance to a labyrinth (albeit not a true labyrinth), as seen in the Scandinavian Troy Town stone carvings or the decoration on an Etruscan oinochoe from Tragliatella. The later one is also interpreted as the ornamental image of a labyrinth dance (Hagberg 1994: 61–64; Uckelmann 2012: 55–56, 139–140, 184–185).

A general trend to see decorated bronze or gold objects in relationship to a calendar system has also influenced the interpretation of shields of Type Herzsprung. They have been interpreted as moon calendars, where every boss in the decoration was counted as one day and where the bosses with rings around them were markers of special events (May and Zumpe 1998: 571–574, 2002: 172–174, 2003: 253–258). Although the U-notches bear a certain resemblance to the crescent of the moon, a calendar function is not supported by more detailed examinations (Schlosser 2003: 45–51; Uckelmann 2012: 182–183).


As we have seen, none of the interpretations put forward so far delivers a suitable explanation of the symbol. But how can the different regions of the symbols’ distribution be connected ( Figure 11.2 )? The easiest explanation is that leather shields with this symbol were widespread across Europe, but only one has survived. This is easy to assume but extremely hard to verify due to the lack of evidence.

The connections between the communities in the Atlantic Bronze Age were multiple and multilayered and will only briefly be discussed in terms of Irish–Iberian and latterly east–west Mediterranean connections. There are very few objects or features which only appear in Iberia and Ireland, like the shields with notches. The majority of other objects are distributed over a wider space, including Britain and France. Especially in terms of bronze objects, evidence for regular contact through networks between Ireland and Iberia is scarce. Direct contact is seen in the use of cauldrons and flesh hooks, which are shaped differently but suggest similar festive rituals ( Needham and Bowman 2005), a few finds of spearheads, and most obviously the use of open-socketed sickles (Coffyn 1985: 125–127, 271–273, maps 55–56). Further, gold objects seem to show connections between Ireland and Iberia (Pingel 1992), such as the excep-tional form of round bowls or hats, which show an exchange of valuable and rare objects between Ireland and Iberia (Gerloff 1995: 153–194).

The possible direct connections between these two Atlantic regions can be found in the objects of high standard rather than in objects of daily life, which may indicate contact between the leading groups of these areas who were connected through trade and used similar rituals, like the fes-tive meal with cauldrons and flesh hooks (Almagro Gorbea 1995: 140–144; Uckelmann 2008: 263–266).



Another way these communities might have been connected was via the metal trade network. A recent study connects the appearance of the warrior stelae with tin mines in southwest Iberia. The stelae could be then inter-preted as signs along trade routes of mineral resources along the rivers Tajo, Guadiana and Guadalquivir (Mederos Martín 2012: 443–449). If the cop-per that was used in Iberia was imported from Ireland, then it would be possible that the idea of round shields with notches—either purely orna-mental, with a symbolic understanding or with an informative content (e.g. a myth)—was transported as well. The alloy of Irish or Iberian copper and Iberian tin was then traded into the Nordic Bronze area, since in that region, copper was not locally sourced (Ling et al. 2012). This argument seems to be strengthened by a new approach in research that links some Herzsprung shields from Sweden to metal ores from south Iberia (Ling et al. 2014: 123, 126). The idea of round organic shields with the specific Herzsprung symbol came along as well and was then transformed in bronze (Uckelmann 2012: 166–167).

It remains striking that exclusively shields were decorated with this sym-bol and it is not found on other objects such as ceramic or bronze vessels. This is maybe due to the fact that a lot of material is lost today and that either this symbol or the whole shield was indeed depicted in paintings or wall decoration, like the Mycenaean figure-of-eight shields, which became part of the standard decoration motifs. The votive shields of the Eastern Mediterranean, which lost the exact Herzsprung symbol, are rather the last echoes of the type, dating to the 8th century BC and later. This coincides with the ‘orientalising’ phase of the southern Spanish coast, a time when influences of the Eastern Mediterranean became locally absorbed. The votive shields show that ideas travelled not only from east to west but also in the other direction. The shields might have been offerings of barbarian warriors from the west who brought their gifts to the great ‘antique’ gods in the temples of the east (Harrison 2004: 131).

The shields were made from wood, leather and bronze, a few votive shields were made of ceramics and some were engraved in stone. The materials used differ a lot, and different techniques were applied. It is therefore most likely that different craftspeople produced these objects, but they must have understood the meaning of the symbol. That leaves further questions: did only the symbol or its story travel, or the shield bearer rather than the maker of the objects? If the spread of the symbol is related to the metal trade, it might be that the traders of the metal wore them for protection, as markers of prestige or as a signal that they were accompanied by armed guards or warriors. Unfortunately, the archaeo-logical record delivers not enough material to explain or evidence such a detailed organisation of this part of the Bronze Age societies in western and northern Europe. One can perhaps take an analogy from the famous shipwreck of Uluburun, off the Turkish coast, where personal items like weapons have been interpreted as the belongings of important passengers



(for example, Mycenaean swords and other personal items potentially indi-cate Mycenaean envoys; cf. Pulak 2005: 96). The exact means by which the symbol, or rather the shields bearing the Herzsprung symbol, reached regions so far apart from each other will remain for the moment uncertain. However, the consistent replication of this symbol repeatedly on the same object over such a large expanse in space and time surely highlights that direct encounters between people of these regions must have taken place. The people bearing these shields in Ireland, southern Iberia and southern Scandinavia would all have understood the meaning of the symbol or the story behind it.

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Since the inception of archaeology as a systematic and rigorous discipline, the study of technology has been its bedrock. And the study of ancient crafts, no matter the raw material transformed nor how complex or simple the end product, continues to be a gateway to appreciating not only the rational-ity and practicality of ancient object making and use but also (and perhaps more importantly) the social, symbolic and political dynamics involved. The 21st century is an especially exciting time for those who study the past, for we are now crossing a critically important threshold in making sense of the less-than-empirical facets of ancient technologies. This threshold takes us beyond last century’s materialist, empiricist and processual paradigms that claimed we could not (and therefore should not) waste our time chasing after the symbolic and social aspects of technology because we could neither see nor ‘test’ them empirically (overviews in Dobres 2009a and 2009b).

Fortunately, on strong theoretical and philosophical grounds, we now understand the imperative of understanding ancient tekhnē in terms of how ancient people gave meaning to—and derived meaning from—their engage-ment not only with the material world but also with the interface of practical and esoteric knowledge coursing through the minds and hands of variously skilled craftspeople working in differently constituted settings. Similarly, and as this volume ably shows, we cannot fully appreciate the material, the practical and the economic dimensions of ancient craftwork without simul-taneously understanding how relationships were forged through embod-ied practice. And by relationships, I mean not only those created between individuals and groups of workers but relationships between different craft communities (e.g. those working clay and those working metal or stone). In turn, this concern with materially mediated relationships—with networks of knowledge and craft and material transformations—requires that we take seriously what is obvious to most practicing craftspeople today, such as blacksmiths (Keller and Keller 1991), weavers (MacKenzie 1991) and pot-ters (Gosselain 1998): that it is through the embodied, skilful and knowl-edgeable art of object making and use that technicians and workgroups create, reaffirm and contest relationships both with the raw materials they are working and with macro-scale systems of trade and exchange.

Concluding and Future Thoughts on Material Crossovers

Marcia-Anne Dobres

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200 Marcia-Anne Dobres

Throughout this volume, we see a decidedly humanistic concern with what I have elsewhere called ‘meaning in the making’ (Dobres 2001). That is, as much as technicians make and remake the world through their skilful crafts, those endeavours make and remake technicians and the communities and networks within which their work unfolds. What is critical but also exciting to acknowledge about this 21st-century humanistic approach to understanding the most ancient of material endeavours is that such research cannot and must not forsake the empirical, material and physical aspects of artefact production and use. The physical properties, the affordances and the limits of particular natural resources, the geomorphology and accessi-bility of raw materials, the physics of fire and clay and even the movement of materials and products across vast expanses of space are central—indeed necessary—to understanding how making and use were meaningful, how knowledge was shared (or not) and how relationships unfolded on both micro and macro scales.

Importantly, and as a bellwether of just how far technology studies have come in archaeology, through this necessary respect for the material condi-tions of object making and use we are beginning to appreciate just how central the ‘ephemera’ of social, political, symbolic and relational concerns were both to everyday craft endeavours and to the larger ‘systems’ of which they were a part—whether played out at the most intimate scale of elite women spinning thread in their homes or a potter’s apprentice stoking a fire in a dark and close workshop to the more impersonal (but nonetheless meaningful) scale of the wholesale exchange of raw materials and finished products between ancient polities. Focusing on the interplay of material, social and ideational networks spun between people, knowledge and objects (which is the central focus of this volume) allows us to break free of the typological stranglehold that has constrained technology studies for almost two centuries.

And thus ‘crossovers’ loom large in this volume, and rightly so. Crossovers matter to understanding ancient technologies and craft systems, whether the crossovers are between different types of raw materials applied to the pro-duction of a single end product, between different tools of the trade applied across different craft traditions, between different chaînes opératoires or between different types of objects made using similar chaînes opératoires . Crossovers matter to variously organised taskscapes making different kinds of objects in close quarters where knowledge and skills are readily shared, between different but overlapping bodies of technoknowledge and of course among producers, go-betweens and consumers. And crossovers matter if for no other reason than because technicians usually do more than one thing at the same time and because they make cognitive, knowledgeable and skill-based connections between different kinds of chaînes opératoires and between different kinds of materials.

The case studies in this volume demonstrate that when we follow the gestures, the skills and the geographical movement of raw materials and


Concluding and Future Thoughts on Material Crossovers 201

products, we find that crossovers abound. Crossovers abound when we follow the trails of the knowledge, artifice and know-how it took to craft leather shields, textiles, ceramics, bronze vessels and even walls. And finally, crossovers abound when we identify these intersections through the detailed empirical study of their different or overlapping chaînes opératoires . And just as we can, through such materially grounded analyses, appreciate (for example) how pyrotechnical knowledge was shared, innovated, applied and replicated across different craft communities, we can also ‘see’ ancient net-works of technoknowledge in action.

Throughout human history, knowledgeable technicians and differently situated communities of craftspeople made material and knowledgeable connections among different ‘categories’ of raw materials (such as between clay, wood, stone, bone, ivory and mineral ores). And they made crossovers between the skills and knowledge of one ‘type’ of technical endeavour to another (such as stone working in the production of leather shields or mak-ing and firing of clay moulds to create three-dimensional bronze objects). For example, as several chapters point out (thus demonstrating their own crossovers), to make (or at least to mark) spindle whorls and loom weights, a weaver needed to know at least a little something about metalworking and thus pyrotechnology; to craft iron or bronze vessels (for local use or for export), metallurgists needed to understand at least a little something about carving wood or shaping and properly firing clay moulds; and most ancient craftspeople probably knew at least a little something about how to work stone—if for no other reason than to sharpen their other tools. And as my own work has tried to demonstrate (for a much ‘simpler’ time well before any compelling evidence for craft production, specifically the Late Upper Palaeolithic), there are demonstrable material, skilful, gestural, aesthetic and knowledgeable crossovers and networks interweaving the hunting of ibex (for dinner), accomplished with weapons made of (ibex) bone, while the remains of (ibex) dinner became the material supports for beautifully crafted visual images (of ibex)—all of which necessarily entailed a working knowledge of stone. Why? Because it was the same hands, the same minds, the same skills and the same body of knowledgeable gestures working across what we inappropriately designate as different ‘categories’ of work (i.e. hunting, tool making and art) and across different ‘categories’ of raw material (most notably stone and bone; Dobres 2010).

When ‘meaning in the making’ is the explicit focus of attention, and when technicians and communities of craftspeople (however organised) are taken as central to understanding how technical activities unfolded, then crossovers and relationships become ‘visible’ in the archaeological record. The lesson to take from the serious and sustained exploration of such rela-tionships and networks, especially through the rigorous methods of chaîne opératoire research, is that crossovers are necessary to explaining why par-ticular crafts, craft networks and wholesale technological systems took the shape they did at particular times in the past.



What is especially exciting to me about this 21st-century focus on the socio-symbolic dynamics of materiality, on the agency of ‘meaning in the making’, on material, social and knowledge crossovers in craft production and on the humanity of craft networks and relationships is that none of this forsakes rigorous attention to the physical realities of material trans-formations and to the affordances and limitations of particular raw materi-als. But by moving beyond older and narrowly conceived studies tracking chrono-stylistic or functional ‘types’ through time and space, we more fully understand how technicians plied their trade(s), how they taught (or kept secret) their tricks and techniques and how they learned to work with (or against) the ‘dictates’ of nature. Thus the more we focus on the meaning-ful and relational nature of craft production and the more we work to put a human face on knowledge networks (both micro and macro scale), then the more accurately we can understand the larger techno-economic ‘sys-tems’ that enabled ancient polities in all their social, economic, material and political complexity.

Sustained attention to identifying the inner workings of ancient mate-rial crossovers and to the complex knowledge networks and systems that enabled ancient craft production leads to a host of additional questions we are now in a position to study empirically. For example,

• For particular times and places in the past, what precisely was the relationship between the ‘knowledge networks’ identifi ed and the craftspeople creating, employing and commodifying such knowledge? In other words, were these networks akin to a ‘structure’ within which technicians and craft communities shared their knowledge and thereby expressed some form of agency? Or were the networks themselves a kind of agent enabling particular crafts and socioeconomic relation-ships to develop?

• Does it matter if such ‘knowledge networks’ were understood as such by those involved in them? In other words, is their conscious partici-pation a prerequisite to understanding the crossovers made between different craft traditions and how the people in them interacted with, learned, shared, borrowed and imitated each other’s techniques, tools and knowledge? Or were craftspeople involved in ‘knowledge net-works’ across vast expanses of space without ever realising it? And does this matter?

• Once intersecting craft networks and crossovers are identifi ed, pre-cisely how was the sharing (of technical knowledge, techniques, etc.) actually accomplished? In other words, how did skill, techniques, aes-thetics and the like ‘transfer’ between elite and slave (women) weav-ers, between potters and metallurgists and between lithicists and those crafting leather objects? Precisely who carried what sorts of knowledge and tricks of the trade with them as they traversed the ancient land-scape? Under what conditions were they enticed to share (or horde)


Concluding and Future Thoughts on Material Crossovers 203

their knowledge and skills? And what social and work conditions enabled (or hindered) experimentation, innovation, borrowing and/or imitation?

• And as we turn our (anthropological) lens on the seemingly less- embodied aspects of ancient craft ‘networks’ and ‘systems’, how can we simultaneously maintain a (necessary) concern with the socially consti-tuted bodies of the craftspeople ‘in’ them? In other words, how do we avoid losing sight of our recently crafted (phenomenological) focus on embodied practice and meaning in the making? For my money, this is perhaps the single most diffi cult (and important) question we need to address—although we may fi nd inspiration in some of Robb’s recent work, with its focus on long-term ‘envelopes of traditions’ (after Joyce and Lopiparo’s 2005 ‘envelopes of possibilities’) and how the mate-riality of object and house making intersected with and was shaped by the meaningfully conceptualised landscape (e.g., Robb 2009; also Michelaki, Chesson and Robb 2013).

We now have the theoretical and philosophical frameworks, the analytic methods and the laboratory tools to carry out this work. And while we must continue to pay rigorous, detailed attention to the material factors of the crafts, the relationships and the networks identified, we must also and simultaneously maintain explicit focus on the people doing the crafts, the people forging the networks, the people giving value to the work and its results and thus the people materialising crossovers. If we don’t, if we lose sight of the embodied humanity of such crossovers and networks, then the disembodied ‘system’ will take on a life of its own and transform the craftspeople, the apprentices, the slaves, the weavers, the metallurgists, the go-betweens and the consumers into little more than cogs in the wheel (e.g. as in Bijker, Hughes and Pinch 1994; Callon and Law 1989; or Schiffer 2004). It seems to me we’ve ‘been there and done that’—with little interpre-tive satisfaction.

As knowledgeable but imperfect agents, people must never be an after-thought in technology studies, no matter how hard it is to find them in the archaeological record. Thus, as we cross the threshold into the 21st century, research on ancient tekhnē and craft production must take the best from earlier generations of research (e.g. on types, on artefact physics and even on techno-economic systems) but reinvigorate and remake them through the insights, the philosophical and interpretive frameworks, the analytic meth-odologies and the questions of this generation. We must, therefore, forge our own crossovers by staying grounded in materials science while explicitly researching the interplay of habitus and networks, the interplay of people and things and the interplay between individuals, collectives and macro-scale political and economic systems. If the studies in this volume are any indication of the future, then we are surely on a worthwhile path to both understanding and explaining the crossovers and networks characterising



the material, the meaningful and the human face of ancient tekhnē, crafts and productive systems.

REFERENCES

Bijker, W. E., T. P. Hughes, and T. Pinch (eds). 1994 [1987]. The Social Construction of Technological Systems: New Directions in the Sociology and History of Technology. Cambridge: MIT Press.

Callon, M., and J. Law. 1989. On the Construction of Sociotechnical Networks: Content and Context Revisited. Knowledge and Society 9: 57–83.

Dobres, M. A. 2001. “Meaning in the making: agency and the social embodiment of technology and art,” in M. B. Schiffer (ed), Anthropological Perspectives on Technology. Dragoon and Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press/An Amerind Foundation Publication: 47–76.

Dobres, M. A. 2009a. Archaeologies of Technology. Cambridge Journal of Economics 34(1): 103–114.

Dobres, M. A. 2009b. “Technologies,” in B. Cunliffe, C. Gosden, and R. A. Joyce (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Archaeology. Oxford: Oxford University Press: 115–141.

Dobres, M.-A. 2010. “The phenomenal promise of chaîne opératoire: mindfully engaged bodies and the manufacture of personhood in a regional perspective,” in R. Barndon, A. Engevik, and I. Øye (eds), The Archaeology of Regional Technologies . Lampeter: Edwin Mellon Press: 51–67.

Gosselain, O. P. 1998. “Social and technical identity in a clay crystal ball,” in M. T. Stark (ed), The Archaeology of Social Boundaries. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institute Press: 78–106.

Joyce, R., and J. Lopiparo. 2005. Doing Agency in Archaeology. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 12(4): 365–374.

Keller, C. M., and J. D. Keller. 1991. Thinking and Acting with Iron. Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois: Beckman Institute for Advanced Science and Technology.

MacKenzie, M. A. 1991. Androgynous Objects: String Bags and Gender in Central New Guinea. Chur: Harwood Academic Publishers.

Michelaki, K., M. Chesson, and J. E. Robb. 2013. “Problematizing Technological Traditions to Examine Long-Term Technological Change,” unpublished Proposal to the National Science Foundation (Washington, DC).

Robb, J. E. 2009. People of Some: Stelae, Personhood and Society in Prehistoric Europe. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 16(3): 162–183.

Schiffer, M. B. 2004. Studying Technological Change: A Behavioral Perspective. World Archaeology 36: 579–585.


Ann Brysbaert (author and editor) is PI for the ‘Cross-craft interaction in the cross-cultural context of the late Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean’ project—one of the ‘Tracing Networks’ projects—which focuses on cross- craft interaction and multiple chaînes opératoires within specific multicraft workshops in Tiryns, Greece. Her PhD incorporated these meth-odological concepts (Glasgow University, 2004, published in 2008 as ‘The Power of Technology in the Bronze Age Eastern Mediterranean. The Case of the Painted Plaster’). Together with Lin Foxhall, she initiated the Tracing Networks programme in 2007. In 2009, she became honorary lecturer at the School of Museum Studies, University of Leicester, after having been a lecturer there since 2004. In 2008 through 2012, she was professor in archaeology and ancient materials and technologies at DIKEMES, Athens, Greece. From 2010 through 2013, she held a Senior A. von Humboldt Research Fellowship at the University of Heidelberg, Germany, and pres-ently she works at the Universiteit Leiden, Faculteit Archeologie under a Senior Gerda Henkel—Marie Curie Research Fellowship.

Bleda Düring is associate professor in Near Eastern archaeology. He has obtained a European Research Council Starting Grant for a research proj-ect titled Consolidating Empire: Reconstructing Hegemonic Practices of the Middle Assyrian Empire at the Late Bronze Age Fortified Estate of Tell Sabi Abyad, Syria, ca. 1230 to 1180 BC. Formerly, Bleda directed the Cide Archaeological Project: a 3-year survey project in the Turkish Black Sea region that aims to elucidate the occupation of the western Black Sea region in Turkey from the Palaeolithic up to the Ottoman period.

Marcia-Anne Dobres received her PhD in Anthropology from the University of California, Berkeley. Her research focuses on Palaeolithic and contem-porary hunter-gatherers, technology, social agency, gender, and Ice Age art and symbolism. For the University of Southern Maine, her courses include archaeopolitics; the relationship between museums, archaeology and pop culture; prehistoric art; gender; human evolution; and science, technology and society. Her books include Technology and Social Agency:

Contributors


206 Contributors

Outlining a Practice Framework for Archaeology (Blackwell), Agency in Archaeology (with J. E. Robb, Routledge) and The Social Dynamics of Technology: Practice, Politics, and World Views (with C. R. Hoffman, Smithsonian Institution), and she is currently working on Fifty Key Twen-tieth Century Archaeologists (for Routledge).

Lin Foxhall (author and editor) is professor of Greek archaeology and history at the University of Leicester. She was educated at Bryn Mawr College, the University of Pennsylvania and the University of Liverpool. She has also held posts at Oxford University and University College London. At present she is the principal investigator of the large collaborative research programme ‘Tracing Networks’ funded by the Leverhulme Trust. Her research expertise falls squarely between archaeology and ancient history, with a focus on archaic and classical Greece, in the areas of (1) Mediterranean landscapes, land use, agricultural technologies and economies, (2) gender in the set-ting of wider social, economic and ideological structures and (3) material cultural theory (the ‘social life of things’ in their larger cultural settings), pursued in her articles on consumption and fashion in archaic Greece and her work on Greek notions of time and on aspects of ‘domestic’ housing.

Margarita Gleba is an expert in archaeological textiles and technological, economic and social aspects of textile production in antiquity. Her pri-mary research area is the first millennium BC Mediterranean. She is par-ticularly interested in the use of natural science methods in archaeology. From 2009 to 2011, she was Marie Curie Research Fellow. She is cur-rently European Research Council Principal Research Associate at the University College London working on ‘Textile Economy and Urbanisa-tion in Mediterranean Europe 1000–500 BCE’.

Judit Haas-Lebegyev has studied archaeology and cultural anthropology at the University of Budapest and completed her PhD in 2010 with a study on child burials in Mycenaean Greece. She currently works on a post-doctoral project on cross-craft interactions of pottery in Late Bronze and Early Iron Age Greece.

Lesley McFadyen is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Porto, research grant from the Science and Technology Foundation, Portugal (FCT), and a member of the Centre of Archaeological Studies of Coim-bra and Porto Universities (CEAUCP). Her research examines what hap-pens when material culture studies are directly connected to histories of architecture in prehistoric studies, and she works between British and Portuguese approaches to the evidence.

Alessandro Quercia read archaeology in Turin, Lecce and Milan. His MA and PhD research focused on Punic pottery from the sanctuary of Tas-Sil


Contributors 207

(Malta). He has been studying and analysing pottery and material culture from different classical sites of the Mediterranean, especially from Italy (Roma, Torino, Ostuni, Metaponto, Lecce) and Greece (Antikythera). In 2010 he became an inspector in the Superintendence of Archaeological Heritage of Piedmont and Museum of Egyptian Antiquities (Italy). At the moment, Alessandro works as postdoctoral fellow in the School of Archaeology and Ancient History of the University of Leicester (UK). He focuses on analysing loom weights across the Mediterranean from the Late Bronze Age to the Hellenistic period within the ‘Tracing Networks’ project.

Katharina Rebay-Salisbury (author and editor) received her PhD from the University of Vienna, Austria, in 2005 and subsequently worked as a research associate in the Department of Archaeology, University of Cam-bridge, within the Leverhulme-funded project ‘Changing beliefs of the human body: A comparative social perspective.’ In 2009, she joined the School of Archaeology and Ancient History in Leicester as project man-ager and research associate within the Leverhulme-funded project ‘Trac-ing Networks: craft traditions in the ancient Mediterranean and beyond’. Her research at Leicester centred on studying human representations, identities and social relations in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages of Central Europe. Her current project ‘The social status of motherhood in Bronze Age Europe’ is conducted at the Institute for Oriental and European Archaeology of the Austrian Academy of Sciences in Vienna from 2015.

Rik Vaessen is currently a PhD student at the University of Sheffield. He is particularly interested in the transition from Bronze to Iron Age in the Aegean and wider Mediterranean. His PhD thesis questions the rela-tionship that has been established by modern scholarship between the appearance of ‘Greek’ Submycenaean and Protogeometric pottery on the west coast of Asia Minor during the eleventh century BCE and the story of the Ionian migration mentioned in later textual sources and intends to suggest some new insights into the production of pottery in western Asia Minor by moving beyond the standard classifications and investigating the networks behind the pot. During the autumn of 2010, he was visiting researcher at the Free University Amsterdam, and he has been awarded scholarships at the Netherlands Institute in Turkey (autumn 2009) and the Netherlands Institute at Athens (spring 2010).

Ana Vale is a PhD researcher at the University of Porto, research grant from FCT, and a member of CEAUCP. Her research is on the Chalcolithic walled enclosure of Castanheiro do Vento, Alto Douro, Portugal. She brings together material culture studies and architectural histories in order to produce an understanding of the nature and temporality of the occupation of this site.


208 Contributors

Justin Walsh is assistant professor of art history at Chapman University. He teaches Greek and Roman art and archaeology and is interested in pot-tery, cross-cultural interactions and the ancient economy. He has worked for more than a decade at Morgantina (Sicily), where he has studied the Athenian unpainted pottery from the archaic and classical settlements (forthcoming from Princeton University Press). He recently published Consumerism in the Ancient World: Imports and Identity Construction (Routledge Press, 2014), a book exploring the relationship between the importation of Greek pottery from 800 to 300 BCE and the construction of local identities in western Europe.

Marion Uckelmann is a research associate at the University of Exeter since 2009 and works within the Leverhulme-funded project ‘Tracing Net-works’. Together with Anthony Harding, she researches Bronze Age con-nections through a range of material evidence, including salt, amber, handmade burnished-ware and bronze sheet objects. She completed her PhD on the shields of the European Bronze Age at the Westfälische Wilhelms-University Münster, Germany in 2008 and has worked as an editor of the Prähistorische Bronzefunde in Frankfurt/Main, Germany.


Acropolis 66, 133 activity 27–8, 38–41, 43, 45–52, 55–8,

62–3, 66–9, 83, 86–7, 105, 112, 130–1, 137, 201

adaptation 2, 50, 56, 97, 105, 193 adoption 2, 18, 65, 69, 90, 193 aesthetic 9, 16, 18, 140, 149, 201–2 Afghanistan 17 agency 2, 4, 129–30, 136, 139, 202 Agora 108, 128, 132–4, 137, 152 alabaster 104 amber 8, 91 Anatolia 8, 11–12, 15, 17, 137 antler 174–6 apprentice 45–6, 132, 200, 203 apprenticeship 97 Apulia 63, 65, 73–5, 77 architecture 3, 24–5, 27–8, 32–5, 37–8,

40–1, 45, 47–9, 57–8 arsenic 16, 18 artisan 39, 41, 46–50, 54, 56–8, 105,

135, 177 Asia Minor 3, 7–13, 15–18, 94, 142 Athens 4, 85, 88, 91, 93, 108–10,

112–13, 115, 127–9, 131–43, 147, 152, 183

Attica 68, 91, 104, 106–7, 109, 111–12, 115, 140, 148

basketry 4, 104–7, 109, 111, 113, 115

bastion 30–1, 33 bird-sun-boat 191 bobbins 62, 66 bone 39, 44, 47–8, 91, 93, 141, 160,

174–6, 201 booty 83, 85, 88–9, 97–8 borrowing 73, 105–6, 203

breakage 27–8, 149, 155, 163, 165, 170

bride price 87 bronze 5, 16–18, 49, 68, 91–3, 104,

137, 140, 154–6, 160–3, 167–73, 175–6, 182–3, 185–6, 188–90, 192–5, 201

Bronze Age 5, 15, 65, 67, 85–6, 90, 97–8, 104–6, 132, 137, 147, 149, 154, 163, 168, 172, 182, 185–7, 189, 191–5

building 3, 23–8, 30–5, 37, 43–4, 46–7, 49–52, 66–9, 75, 104, 175

building material 28, 37 burial 62, 64–5, 85, 88, 91, 105, 108,

110, 112–15, 134, 152, 164–6, 173

Calabria 63, 66, 77 Castanheiro do Vento 28–35 Castelo Velho 24–8, 32–5 Central Europe 5, 160, 173–5 ceramic 1–2, 4–5, 51–3, 68–9, 76, 85,

91, 104–7, 109–13, 115, 127–9, 131–40, 143, 147–9, 152, 154–6, 160–6, 168, 170, 173–6, 182, 188, 190, 195, 201; see also clay; pottery

Chalcolithic 3, 7, 13, 15–16, 18, 24, 33

chaîne opératoire 1–3, 11, 14, 38, 46, 51, 55–7, 62, 70, 160, 162, 200–1

chipped stone artefacts 9, 12 choice 1–2, 78, 128, 164 chora 70–1, 73, 77–8 circulation 34, 71, 83–4, 88–9, 93–4,

97–8, 113, 134–5

Index


210 Index

clay 3–5, 17, 24–5, 28, 30–3, 35, 45, 52, 56, 68–70, 76, 104, 106–9, 113, 137, 147–9, 160, 162–71, 176, 183, 188, 199–201; see also ceramic; pottery

commodity 1, 8, 11, 83, 85–6, 97 communication 5, 38–9, 47, 50–1, 67,

87, 155 community 1, 3–4, 17, 62–7, 69–70,

75–9, 83–6, 93, 97, 141, 155–6, 164, 194–5, 199–202

complex society 17–18 consumer 4–5, 9, 15, 133, 135–6,

147–51, 153–6, 200, 203 consumer feedback 4, 147, 149, 151,

153–5 consumption 13, 34, 39, 48, 68,

84–5, 88, 98, 113, 133, 135, 148, 155

control 41, 46–9, 51, 55, 57, 67–8, 84, 132, 136, 138

copper 16, 18, 45, 195 copy 114, 149, 156, 161, 169 craft: interaction 1–2, 4–5, 24, 34, 38,

41, 47, 56, 67, 104–7, 115, 135, 141, 143, 175; product 7–9, 13–18, 105; specialisation 14, 16; traditions 2–3, 98, 104, 200, 202

craftspeople 1, 3, 9, 14, 56–7, 69, 97, 104–5, 130–2, 136, 139, 141, 143, 164, 168, 173, 195, 199, 201–3

cross-craft interaction 1–2, 4–5, 24, 34, 38, 41, 47, 56, 105–7, 115, 135, 141, 143, 175

cuneiform writing 44, 55 Cyprus 16, 89, 91, 183, 188–9

debris 41, 137 decay 127, 131, 134 decoration 4–5, 26, 43, 52, 65–6, 70–1,

73, 75–6, 78, 98, 107, 110, 112, 114, 128, 132–4, 140, 149, 155–6, 163, 166, 170, 172, 182, 184, 186, 188–91, 194–5; see also motif

dedication 83, 88, 173 Delphi 183, 188–90 deposition 5, 26–31, 160, 162, 176,

188 design feature 148, 193 diffusion 4, 83, 90, 93, 142

display 26, 84–5, 88, 154–5 distaff 75, 89–92 distribution 1, 3, 5, 7–9, 14, 33–4,

38, 67, 73, 77, 84, 91, 108, 112–14, 148, 150, 185, 191–2, 194

dowry 83, 85, 87–8, 113–14; see also bride price

dye 47–8, 76, 85, 98

electrum 147 elite 4, 17, 47, 65, 68–9, 84, 86, 90, 93,

134–5, 147, 200, 202 embodied practice 199, 203 emotion 37–8, 50, 63, 78 emulation 105 enclosure 24–6, 28, 30–1, 33 engagement 32, 34, 63, 131, 199 epinetron 91, 93 Epipalaeolithic 7, 9–10 exchange system 12, 85 exotic 7–9, 11, 13, 17, 85 experience 38, 94, 132–3 experiment 51, 106, 108, 184, 193 exploitation 12, 94 export 8, 12, 201

faience 39, 43, 47, 50 family 23, 46, 68, 72, 87, 182, 191 fertile crescent 3, 7, 10–12 figurine 3, 5, 7, 9, 13–16, 160–77;

bronze figurine 162, 168–71; ceramic figurine 162–5, 168, 170; Kilia figurine 9, 13–16; lead figurine 162, 173

fireplace 43–6, 49 foundation deposit 28 fragmentation 27–8, 189 Frög 173, 175 fuel 45–9, 51–2 funerary context 111–12; see also

burial

Gemeinlebarn 164–7 gender 110, 113, 115, 161, 164, 167 gesture 161, 167–8, 170, 174, 176,

200–1 gift 4, 8, 23, 56, 73, 83–9, 91, 93–4,

98, 113–14, 189, 195 gift exchange 4, 83–4, 86, 88, 93 glass 1, 9, 39, 44, 46, 91, 104–5, 137 gold 5, 8, 17–18, 43–4, 55, 88–9, 104,

110, 137, 147, 155–6, 194


Index 211

Greece 34, 37–8, 62, 84, 86–8, 91, 104, 106, 113–15, 137, 141–2, 147, 153, 188

guest-friendship (xenia) 86

habitus 203 heirloom 72–3 Herzsprung 5, 182–8, 190–6 Hochdorf 169, 177 human: body 5, 160, 177; intent 129;

interaction 37; representation 160–1, 168, 172, 174

hybridisation 63 hylomorphism 129

Iberia 24, 33, 182, 186, 193–6 ibex 201 identity 4, 7, 17, 49, 57, 63, 65, 70–2,

78–9, 90, 113, 115, 134, 138–9, 156, 161–2, 166–7, 177

imitation 67, 83, 94, 97–8, 105–7, 109–15, 131, 135, 138, 149, 152–3, 203

improvisation 127, 143 Incoronata 65–7 information 45, 62, 66, 71, 83, 94,

96–7, 128, 130, 136, 142–3, 156, 190, 195

Ingold, Tim 37–9, 51, 54, 129–30, 132

innovation 1–2, 4, 128–9, 131, 135–6, 140, 143, 175, 203

installation 45, 52 intentionality 130 intermarriage 4, 83, 85, 90, 93–4 Ireland 182, 184–5, 192, 194–6 iron 137–8, 166, 201 Iron Age 4–5, 63–5, 75, 77, 85, 87,

90–1, 93, 97, 104, 106–7, 113, 115, 127–8, 131–2, 137, 160–1, 163, 170, 173–5, 177

ivory 39, 44, 47–8, 50, 55–6, 174, 201

Kerameikos 66, 110, 113, 139 kiln 52, 62, 104, 136, 138 know-how 14, 201 knowledge 1–4, 17, 32–5, 39, 55–6,

62–3, 65, 83, 91, 94, 96–8, 104–6, 131–3, 136–8, 141, 153, 174–5, 187, 199–203

knowledge transfer 33–5, 104 Kulaksızlar 13–17

labour 3, 7–9, 14–15, 17, 84, 94 Landeck 171, 173 Langenlebarn 164–7 language of design 162 lead 43, 45, 85, 160–2, 173–4, 176 learning 54, 69, 94, 131 leather 5, 48, 51, 137, 182–5, 187,

192–5, 201–2 Levant 7, 10–11, 16 linen 47, 85, 88–9 lithic 1, 11, 52 loom weight 3–4, 52, 62–3, 65–78, 90,

137, 161, 201; disc loom weight 71–3, 75–6, 78; pyramidal loom weight 65–6, 68, 73, 76–8

lost-wax technique 169 Lucania 3, 63–5, 67–8, 70, 72, 74–5,

77, 79

Macedonia 142 marble 13–16, 44, 56 master 131, 133 material crossover 1–3, 5, 23–4, 28, 32,

34, 199, 201–3 material culture 3, 24, 26–8, 30–5, 39,

63, 68, 70, 78–9, 129 material properties 32, 160, 162, 168,

170, 175–6 material transformations 199, 202 materiality 1–3, 23, 62–3, 65, 67, 69,

71, 73, 75, 77, 79, 202–3 meaning in the making 200–3 medium 84, 96, 106, 115, 130, 148–9,

176 memory 37–8, 50–1, 57–8 Mesopotamia 8, 12, 17, 98 metal artefact 3, 7, 16–17 metallurgy 16, 39, 47, 54, 105,

138, 148 Metaponto 65–7, 70–3, 75–8, 153 migration 90 mimicry 156 Minoan 47, 56, 90, 105, 107,

135 mordant 48, 85 Morgantina 148, 150–4, 156 morphology 65, 162 motif 66, 71–3, 75–6, 78, 85, 96–8,

107, 110, 112, 134, 139–41, 147, 161, 172, 186–8, 195; see also decoration

mould 68–9, 76, 78, 107–8, 136–7, 168–71, 174, 176, 184, 201


212 Index

movement 2–4, 24, 37, 39, 47, 54–55, 70, 73, 83, 90, 93–4, 96, 130, 142, 200

multiple brush 139–42 Mycenae 3, 38–9, 41, 43–4, 47–8, 57,

86, 94, 104, 111, 127, 135–6, 147, 193, 195–6

necessity 83–4, 97 Neolithic 7, 9–12, 18, 62, 106 network 1–5, 7–9, 11–13, 15–18, 34–5,

37–8, 50, 56–8, 62–3, 65, 67, 69, 71, 73, 75, 77–9, 83–5, 87, 98, 130, 135, 182, 185, 187, 189, 191, 193–5, 199–203; elite network 135; exchange network 7, 9, 12–13, 15–18, 85; hybrid network 4, 130; knowledge network 1, 56, 83, 98, 199, 202; metal trade network 195; network of women 3, 62–3, 65, 67, 69, 71, 73, 75, 77–9; social network 1–2, 37–8, 69

obsidian 3, 7–13, 17–18, 41, 43, 45, 47, 52, 54–5

Oppido Lucano 73–5 organic material 52, 54, 105–6, 165,

184 oven 45, 47, 52

Palaeolithic 3, 201 patronage 84 performance 23–4, 32, 35, 38, 53, 132,

141 personal object 70, 76–8 physical properties 12, 50, 200 plain weave 110–11 pointed beaker 9, 14–16 Portugal 3, 24–5, 28–9, 34 posture 39, 71, 161, 164 pottery 4–5, 10–11, 24–8, 30–3, 35,

39–41, 44, 51, 54, 66, 68, 70, 104–7, 109, 111, 113, 115, 127–43, 147–51, 153–6, 164–5; see also ceramic, clay

power 67, 87, 93, 132 practice 1–3, 17, 23–4, 28, 32–5, 38,

41, 43, 49–51, 53, 56–7, 65, 68–9, 88, 104, 106–7, 130–1, 135–9, 143, 166–7, 199, 203; see also embodied practice

preference 150, 155

prehistory 3, 7–11, 13, 15–17, 184 prestige good 11, 84–5 prizes 83, 89, 94, 98 problem solving 143 process 1–4, 14, 17, 28, 30–1, 51, 55,

62, 64, 67, 69, 76–7, 84, 96–7, 104–8, 115, 129–34, 136–8, 140–1, 143, 147, 149, 151, 153, 155–6, 160, 162–3, 168–70, 172, 177, 184, 193

procurement 1, 3, 7, 105 producer 5, 9, 15, 94, 134, 148, 153,

155–6, 200 production 1–5, 7, 9, 11–17, 34, 37,

39, 46–8, 52, 54–6, 62, 65–70, 75–8, 83–7, 89, 91, 94, 98, 104–7, 111–13, 128, 130–4, 136–8, 140, 143, 149, 160–2, 164, 170–1, 175, 177, 192, 200–3; production process 1, 4, 76, 130–1, 134, 136, 138, 140, 143, 177

Protogeometric 4, 111–12, 127–8, 131, 134, 136, 139–43, 152

prototype 96, 147–8 pyrotechnology 201

quality 5, 8–9, 16–17, 32, 45, 47, 69, 86, 93, 96, 107, 132–6, 138, 141, 162

ransom 83, 85, 87–9, 91, 93, 95, 97

raw material 1, 8–9, 11, 13–15, 17–18, 34, 40, 46, 48–9, 54, 84–5, 96, 105, 155, 171, 175–6, 199–202

redistribution 84, 88 refitting 26–7 refuse 46 relationship 2–3, 7, 28, 37, 63, 70, 73,

77–8, 104, 106, 115, 129, 135, 140–1, 147–8, 152, 154–5, 194, 199–203

religious 56, 68, 98, 154, 192 replica 107–9, 111–14 repoussé and chasing 160, 172 resistance 65, 77 resource 16–17, 40, 55, 84, 154–6,

195, 200 ritual 5, 39, 50–1, 56–7, 66, 75, 107,

115, 155, 160, 162, 175–6, 182, 189, 192


Index 213

sanctuary 5, 62, 70, 75, 88, 97, 112, 114, 150, 163, 166–8, 171–2, 175, 189, 192

Scandinavia 5, 182, 185, 192–3, 196 sensory experience 37–8, 50 settlement 12, 34, 38, 66–7, 70, 73,

75–8, 91, 105–7, 127, 133–4, 150–1, 153, 163, 175–6

sheet bronze 5, 160–2, 168, 171–3, 176 shield 5, 164, 182–96, 201 shield former 184 Sicily 73, 91, 148, 150, 154–6 silver 5, 44, 75, 89, 91, 135, 137–8,

147–9, 155–6 situla 160, 172 skeuomorphism 135–6, 138–9, 148,

150, 154–6 skill 11, 14, 17, 89, 94, 97, 106, 127,

131–3, 162, 175–7, 200, 202 slag 45, 55, 137, 166 slavery 90 social rank 67, 84 social status 17, 78, 85, 113–14 space 27–8, 30, 34, 37, 39–41, 45–47,

49–52, 55–7, 65, 73, 115, 138, 150, 169, 171, 182, 185, 187, 190, 193–4, 196, 200, 202

specialist 39, 45–6, 57, 94, 105 spindle whorl 62, 65–9, 77, 137, 166,

201 stamp 70–4, 76, 165, 172 standardisation 69, 84 stone 3, 7, 9, 11–18, 24–6, 28, 30–3,

35, 39, 43, 47–8, 50, 75, 85, 105, 171, 174, 182, 186–7, 194–5, 199, 201

Strettweg 167, 169–70 supply zone 11, 15 symbol 5, 69, 111, 113, 135, 182–7,

191–6

Tajikistan 17 taskscape 57, 200 technology 1–5, 11–12, 16, 33–4, 38–9,

62, 67, 69, 78, 83, 85, 89–90, 93–4, 96–8, 104–5, 160–2, 166, 168, 175, 177, 199–200, 203

technological change 1, 12, 76, 78, 83, 132

technological rudiment 193 tekhnē 199, 203–4 temporality 3, 62–3, 65, 67, 69, 71, 73,

75, 77, 79

test piece 52, 136–8 textile 3–4, 9, 47–8, 51–2, 62–3, 65,

67–70, 75–8, 83–7, 89–91, 93–8, 105, 107, 185

Thessaly 104–5, 142 tin 17–18, 148, 161, 195 Tiryns 3, 34, 37–9, 41–4, 46–52, 54–7,

104 tool 4, 14, 16, 39–41, 43–8, 51–2,

54–6, 62–3, 67, 69–70, 75, 83–4, 89–91, 93–4, 96, 98, 105–6, 130, 137, 141, 163, 173, 200–3

Torre di Satriano 67 Tournavitou, Iphigenia 38–41, 45–9,

51–2, 54–5, 57 trade 7–8, 70, 83–6, 94, 97–8, 132,

154, 186, 194–5, 199–200, 202

tradition 15–17, 84, 87, 91, 94, 154 transfer 1, 3, 12, 33–5, 83, 94, 96–7,

104–5, 187, 202 transformation 49, 129, 138, 141 transmission 1–2, 39, 76, 79, 83, 85,

94, 97–8 Turkey 8, 13, 85, 90 Turska Kosa 164–7 twill 69, 110–11

Uluburun 195 use-life 68, 175 Uzbekistan 17

value 2, 7–9, 15–16, 18, 86–8, 91, 94, 105–6, 113, 134, 149, 155, 162, 169–70, 176, 203

value regime 7–9, 15, 18 votive 88, 114, 154, 162, 171–2, 183,

188–90, 192, 195 votive gift 88, 189 votive shield 183, 188, 190, 192,

195

wall 24–5, 28, 30–1, 33, 47, 50–1, 53, 56, 68, 98, 114, 162, 195

waste 14–15, 40–1, 44, 47, 55, 199 water 45–9, 51–2, 136–7, 162, 184 wax 162, 168–71, 175–6 wealth 88, 93, 114, 128, 154, 167 women 3–4, 62–3, 65, 67–73, 75,

77–9, 83–7, 89–91, 93–4, 96–8, 108, 112–15, 164, 167, 172, 200, 202


214 Index

wood 1, 5, 47–8, 53, 57, 91, 105, 135, 140, 162, 169, 171, 174–6, 182, 184–5, 195, 201

wool 8, 54, 76, 85, 89, 91, 93, 98, 112

workshop 3, 11, 16, 34, 37–41, 43–52, 54–8, 66, 68, 76, 78, 95, 104–5,

112, 131, 141, 152–3, 162, 168, 200; domestic workshop 39; palatial workshop 40, 46, 49, 55; permanent workshop 39, 41, 46; workshop model 3, 38–41, 45, 48, 52, 56

wrap 3, 23–5, 27, 30–1, 33, 35


Knowledge Networks and Craft Traditions in the Ancient World: Material Crossovers

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