Authority  and  the  Production  of     Knowledge  in  Archaeology              Tera  C.  Pruitt  Trinity  College        This  Dissertation  is  Submitted  for  the  Degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy      Department  of  Archaeology  University  of  Cambridge    2011     ii Abstract  Authority  and  the  Production  of  Knowledge  in  Archaeology  by  Tera  C.  Pruitt     This   thesis   examines   the   role   of   authority   in   the   production   of   archaeological  knowledge.   It   examines   how   fluid   ideas   and   observations   formed   in   the   field   become  authoritative,   factual,  solid  archaeological  products,   like  scientific   texts,  reconstructions  or  museum  displays.  It  asks,  what  makes  a  person,  a  thing  or  an  account  of  history  something  that  is  authoritative?  What  makes  someone  an  authority  on  the  past?  What  is  archaeological  authority?   This   thesis   deconstructs   and   exposes   authority   in   archaeological   practice.   It  targets  how  practitioners  of  archaeology  actively  enact,  construct  and  implement  authority  in  the  process  of  producing  knowledge.  Formal  representations  of  the  past  rely  heavily  on  an  underlying  notion  of  the  ‘authoritative  account’.  The  entire  process  of  reconstructing  the  past  in  archaeology  is  dependent  on  individuals  and  institutions  existing  as  authorities,  who  actively   or   passively   imply   that   artefacts,   sites   and   final   interpretations   are   ‘authentic’   or  have   ‘fidelity’   to   the  past.  This   study  examines  how  authority  and  acts  of   legitimation  are  employed  and  distributed  through  the  medium  of  science,  and  how  they  need  to  be  actively  performed   in   order   to   acquire   and   maintain   status.   This   thesis   not   only   argues   that  authority   is   embedded   in   every   stage   of   the   archaeological   process,   but   importantly,   it  identifies  how  this  authority  manifests  through  the  medium  of  scientific  acts.    This   thesis   is   structured   around   two   comparative   case   studies:   one   case   of  professional  archaeology  and  one  case  of  alternative  archaeology.  Both  are  archaeological  sites   that   produce   their   own   ‘authoritative’   accounts   of   the   past   through   practices,  publications  and  presentations.  The   first   case   is   the  professional   archaeological  project  of  Çatalhöyük   in   the   Republic   of   Turkey,   under   the   direction   of   Ian   Hodder   at   Stanford  University.  This  case  offers  insights  about  how  the  processes  of  inscription,  translation  and  blackboxing   establish   and  maintain   authority   in   archaeological   practice.   It   also   addresses  how   physical   and   intellectual   space,   as   well   as   issues   of   access   in   localised   knowledge-­‐producing  social  arenas,  affect  archaeological  authority.  The  second  case  is  the  controversial  pseudoarchaeological   project   in   Visoko,   Bosnia,   commonly   referred   to   as   the   Bosnian  Pyramids.  This  project,  under  the  direction  of  amateur  archaeologist  Semir  Osmanagić,  has  successfully  created  an  account  of  prehistory  that  has  been  received  by  the  general  Bosnian  public   as   authoritative,   despite   objections   by   the   professional   archaeological   community.  This   case   demonstrates   how   authority   can   be   constructed,   mimicked   and   performed   by  drawing   on   academic   arenas   of   scientific   practice   and   by   eager   public   participation.  Specifically,   this   case   study   highlights   the   importance   of   socio-­‐politics,   authoritative  institutions  and  performative  behaviour  in  the  construction  of  archaeological  authority.       iii   Declaration    This   dissertation   is   the   result   of   my   own   work   and   includes   nothing   which   is   the  outcome  of  work  done  in  collaboration  except  where  specifically  indicated  in  the  text.    This   thesis   does   not   exceed   the   limits   set   by   the   Faculty   of   Archaeology   and  Anthropology,   including   a   25,000   word   extension   approved   by   the   Archaeology   and  Anthropology  Degree  Committee  and  the  Board  of  Graduate  Studies  at  the  University  of  Cambridge. All images in this dissertation are property of the author unless otherwise indicated. Images from the original unpublished thesis for which the author does not permission to publish or copyright appear in this online thesis as placeholders, which include information about where the reader can find the original image.   iv Acknowledgements       I  am  extremely  grateful  to  Robin  Boast  for  advising  and  supporting  this  research  from   conception   to   completion.   Thank   you   for   giving   me   so   many   intellectual   and  practical  opportunities  to  grow.  I  also  thank  Marie  Louise  Stig  Sørensen and  Neil  Brodie  for   their   support   and   expert   commentary,   especially   during  my   early   research.   I   also  thank   Catherine   Hills   and   Nicholas   Postgate   for   being   attentive   when   unforeseen  circumstances  arose  early  in  my  doctoral  career  and  for  helping  me  to  find  a  stable  place  in   the   department.   I   am   forever   grateful   to   Roderick  McIntosh   at   Yale   University   for  being  such  an  inspiring  mentor,  starting  me  on  this  journey  into  archaeology  in  the  first  place.   I   also   thank   Caroline   Quenemoen   at   Rice   University   for   leading   me   to  Mediterranean  and  Balkans  archaeology.  Grateful  thanks  goes  to  Trinity  College  and  Cambridge  Overseas  Trust   for  their  social  and  financial  support.  I  am  unable  to  thank  the  C.D.  Broad  Scholarship  enough  for  giving  me  the  opportunity  to  study  at  Cambridge  in  the  first  place.  The  C.D.  Broad  fund  has   changed  my   life,   and   I   am   forever  grateful   to  Frank  and  Nancy  Abraham  and  Rice  University  for  starting  the  fund,  allowing  students  like  to  me  to  experience  scholastic  life  in  Cambridge.    I  am  also  very  grateful  to  Ian  Hodder  and  Shahina  Farid  for  opening  the  doors  to  Çatalhöyük  and  allowing  me  to  study  their  site.  On  this  journey,  I’ve  found  few  people  so  open  to  ethnography  or  so  willing  to  be  scrutinised  for  the  sake  of  academic  inquiry;  I  admire   that   greatly.   I   am   very   thankful   for   the   opportunity   to   attend   the   site   of  Çatalhöyük  for  my  research.  I  also  thank  David  Orton,  Sheena  Ketchum,  Amanda  Watts,  Elizabeth  Wessells,  Chris  Doherty,  Freya  Sadarangani,  Michael  House,  Tiffany  Cain,  Yildiz  Dirmit,  Tristan  Carter,  Josh  Sadvari,  Nerissa  Russell,  Başak  Boz,  Lori  Hager,  Julie  Cassidy,  Lisa  Guerre,  Roseleen  Bains,  among  so  many  others,  for  your  conversations,  interviews  and  friendship  during  fieldwork.  I  offer  the  sincerest  thanks  to  my  Bosnian  translator  and  friend,  Amna  Hađziabdić,  whose   help   and   guidance   gave   me   the   opportunity   to   better   engage   with   and  understand  Bosnian  culture.  I  give  special  thanks  to  her  family,  especially  Hajrudin  and  Aida   Hađziabdić,   for   their   friendship   and   support   during   my   fieldwork,   which   went  above  and  beyond  hospitality.    I   also   wish   to   thank   all   of   my   Bosnian   informants   in   both   Sarajevo   and   Visoko,  particularly   Semir   Osmanagić,   Sanel   Silajdzic,   Mirsad   Huseinovic,   Nedzad   Secerovic,  Phillip   Coppens,   Haris   Delibasic   and  Merima   Bojic.   I   would   particularly   like   to   thank  Adrian  Incledon-­‐Webber,  Chris  Norman,  John  Agnew  and  Sanela  for  their  friendship  and     v company   during   the   ICBP   conference;   you   greatly   opened   my   understanding   of   the  world,   and   I   thank  you   tremendously   for   that.   I  would  also   like   to   thank  Mubera  Pulo  and  other  members  of  the  Visoko  Museum  staff,  as  well  as  Zilka  Kujundzic-­‐Vejzagic  and  members   of   staff   from   the   National  Museum   in   Sarajevo,   for   showing  me   around   the  museums  and  responding  to  my  emails  and  questions.  Thank  you  to  Anthony  Harding  at  the  University  of  Exeter  for  your  discussions  and  insight  at  the  European  Association  of  Archaeologists   Conference,   and   for   inspiring   me   with   your   determination   to   help   a  country   in   need.   I   also   thank   the   Bosnian   Embassy   in   London   for   giving   me   the  opportunity   to   attend   their   hosted   presentation.   I   thank   the   administration   of   the   1st  International  Scientific  Conference  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  for  the  chance  to  be  a  guest  at   their   2008   conference,   and   similar   thanks   goes   to   the   Histories   &   Mysteries  Conference   in  Edinburgh   for  a  memorable  experience.   I   also  wish   to   thank   the  SOROS  Language  School  in  Sarajevo  for  the  Bosnian  language  classes;  I  learned  a  great  deal,  and  thank  you  for  the  opportunity.  I  give  thanks  to  Bea  Hermann  for  your  friendship  during  my  stay   in  Sarajevo,  and   to  Sanela  at  MD  Apartments   for  your  hospitality,   enthusiasm  and  help  with  translation.  I  give  special  thanks  and  an  enormous  hug  to  Donna  Yates,  who  was  always  there  for  me  in  the  ups  and  downs  of  research.  You  are  an  inspiration,  and  I  am  so  thankful  for  your   friendship.   I  also  give  tremendous  thanks  to  so  many  peers   in  the  Department  of  Archaeology,   particularly   Katherine   Leckie,   Robin   Inglis,   Naomi   Farrington,   Emma  Lightfoot,   Britt   Ballie,   Dacia   Viejo   Rose,   Benjamin   Morris,   Paul   Ewonus,   Nisha   Doshi,  Lindsey   Friedman,   Alex   Pryor,   Hugo   Oliveira,   Monique   Boddington,   Mark   Sapwell,  Dominic  Walker,   Skylar   Neil,   Isabelle   Vella   Gregory,   Ali   Klevnäs,   David   Klingle,   James  Holloway,   Jennifer   Goddard   and   Shadia   Taha   for   their   company,   advice,   help   and  support  during  this  project.  I  also  thank  the  Archaeological  Review  from  Cambridge,  the  Archaeology   Graduate   Society,   and   First   and   Third   Trinity   Boat   Club   for   all   of   the  welcoming  distractions  and  the  learning  opportunities.  I  could  not  have  finished  this   journey  without  Amna  Hađziabdić,   Johanna  Tudeau,  Robert  Millar,  Anjali  Sarin,  Nidhi  Kumra,  Ed  Paul,  Sebastian  Pancratz,  Dominik  Vu,  Chris  Eagle,  Oliver  Kroemer,  Chelsea  Clynes,  Laura  ten  Bloemendal,  Laura  Marie  Kershaw  and  Anthony  McClosky.  You  are  the  best  friends  a  person  could  ask  for.    Above  all,  I  thank  my  parents,  Deborah  and  Tom  Pruitt,  and  my  brother  Nathan,  for  supporting  me   literally   to   the   ends   of   the   earth.   There   are   no  words   to   describe   how  grateful  I  am  for  your  unfailing  love  and  support.  Finally,  I  thank  David  Price,  with  all  my  love,  for  absolutely  everything.  Thank  you  for  being  with  me,  every  step  of  the  way,  on  this  great  adventure.     vi                  FOR  MY  FAMILY       vii Table  of  Contents       Chapter  One                                                                             Introduction:  Archaeological  Authority  and  the  Mangle  of  Practice  1.1    Introduction:  Authority  and  Archaeology....................................................................................... 1  1.1.1    Authority  and  the  Production  of  Knowledge  in  Archaeology ....................................... 1  1.1.2    Defining  ‘Archaeological  Accounts  of  the  Past’.................................................................... 2  1.1.2.1    Defining  a  ‘Final  Product’  Account  of  the  Past ............................................................ 3  1.1.3    Major  Themes:  Blackboxing,  Translation  and  Epistemic  Dependence ..................... 4  1.2    A  Crisis  of  Authority  in  Archaeology? ............................................................................................... 7  1.2.1    The  Importance  of  Addressing  Authority  in  Archaeological  Practice ....................... 7  1.3    Thematic  Structure  of  this  Thesis....................................................................................................... 9   Chapter  Two                                                               Concepts  and  Theory:  Authority  and  the  Social  Construction  of   Archaeological  Knowledge  2.1    Introduction .............................................................................................................................................. 11  2.1.1    Introducing  Theory  and  Concepts.......................................................................................... 11  2.1.2    Introducing  Authority  and  the  Social  Construction  of  Knowledge .......................... 12  2.2    Defining  Authority  and  the  Social  Construction  of  Knowledge.......................................... 14  2.2.1    Defining  Authority......................................................................................................................... 14  2.2.1.1    The  Difference  Between  Power  and  Authority........................................................ 14  2.2.1.2    Traditional  Approaches  to  Defining  Authority........................................................ 16  2.2.2    Categories  and  Deconstructing  Authority .......................................................................... 19  2.2.2.1    Categories  of  Authority ...................................................................................................... 19  2.2.2.2    Executive  Authority............................................................................................................. 19  2.2.2.3    Epistemic  Authority............................................................................................................. 21  2.2.2.4    Intellectual  Authority.......................................................................................................... 21  2.2.2.5    Auctors  and  Auctoritas....................................................................................................... 22  2.2.3    Authority  as  an  Accomplishment  or  Effect,  rather  than  a  Quality............................ 24  2.2.4    Authority  of  Things,  Instruments,  and  Ideas ..................................................................... 26  2.2.5    Authority,  Social  Constructivism  and  Scientific  Knowledge....................................... 28  2.2.5.1    Archaeology  from  a  Social  Constructivist  Perspective......................................... 30  2.2.6    Social  Constructivism:  Power  Relations,  Social  Organisation  and  Knowledge .. 34  2.2.7    Social  Constructivism:  Transparency  in  Conflict  and  Contestation......................... 37  2.3    Authority  in  Archaeological  Theory ............................................................................................... 37  2.3.1    Introducing  Authority  in  the  Discipline  of  Archaeology............................................... 37  2.3.2    Authority  in  Processual  and  Postprocessual  Theory..................................................... 38  2.3.3    Authority  in  Archaeological  Subdisciplines ....................................................................... 41  2.4    Chapter  Conclusion:  But  What  is  Authority  in  Archaeological  Practice? ....................... 43             viii Chapter  Three                                                               Methodology  and  Case  Studies 3.1    Introduction .............................................................................................................................................. 45  3.1.1    Introducing  Methodology .......................................................................................................... 45  3.1.2    Introducing  a  Case-­‐Based  Methodological  Approach............................................... 46  3.1.3    Chapter  Themes  and  Structure................................................................................................ 48  3.2    Methodological  Considerations........................................................................................................ 49  3.2.1    Methodological  Sources.............................................................................................................. 49  3.2.1.1    Science  and  Technology  Studies  (STS),  Material  Inscriptions  and                              Translations,  and  the  Actor-­‐Network  Theory............................................................ 50  3.2.1.2    Archaeological  Ethnography ........................................................................................... 53  3.2.2    Central  Methodological  Theory:  Contestation .................................................................. 56  3.3    Methodology  in  Fieldwork  and  Data  Collection ........................................................................ 58  3.3.1    Case  Study  Parameters:  Aims  and  Delimitations............................................................. 58  3.3.2    Case  Studies:  Data  Collection.................................................................................................... 61  3.3.2.1    The  Bosnian  Pyramids  in  Visoko,  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina ....................................... 61  3.3.2.2    Çatalhöyük  in  the  Republic  of  Turkey ......................................................................... 63  3.3.3    Research  Strategy.......................................................................................................................... 64  3.3.3.1    Document  Collection ........................................................................................................... 65  3.3.3.2    Participant  Observation..................................................................................................... 65  3.3.3.3    Informal  Interviews............................................................................................................. 67  3.3.4    Ethical  Research  Guidelines  and  Issues............................................................................... 70  3.3.4.1    Informed  Consent................................................................................................................. 70  3.3.4.2    Confidentiality........................................................................................................................ 71  3.3.4.3    Consequences......................................................................................................................... 71  3.3.4.4    Role  of  the  Researcher........................................................................................................ 72  3.3.5    Limitations  and  Difficulties  Encountered  in  the  Field................................................... 73   Chapter  Four                                                                       Authority  as  Accumulated,  Translated  and  Stabilised:                                                               Çatalhöyük  as  a  Case  Study  4.1    Introduction .............................................................................................................................................. 77  4.1.1    Introduction:  Authority  as  Accumulated,  Translated  and  Stabilised...................... 77  4.1.2    Case  Study  Parameters:  Relevant  Project  Background................................................. 78  4.2    Authority  from  Social  Structure  and  Interaction...................................................................... 82  4.2.1    The  Social  Construction  of  Facts  and  the  Factual  Construction  of  Social  Agents............................................................................................................................................................................ 82  4.2.2    Social  Arenas  of  Authority  and  Practice  at  Çatalhöyük................................................. 85  4.2.2.1    Structure  and  Space............................................................................................................. 85  4.2.2.2    The  Çatalhöyük  Excavation  Site  as  a  Social  Arena  of                              Knowledge  Production......................................................................................................... 87  4.2.2.3    The  Çatalhöyük  Dig  House  as  a  Social  Arena............................................................ 92  4.2.2.4    Public  Spaces:  Onsite  Expert  Witnessing  and  Public  Engagement  at                              the  Dig  House  and  Excavation  Sites................................................................................ 97  4.2.2.5    Offsite  Social  Arenas:  Laboratories,  Museums,  Press  and  Virtual  Spaces.... 99  4.3    Authority  from  Access,  Spatial  Constraint  and  Consent......................................................101  4.3.1    The  Authority  of  Spatial  Constraint  and  Consent..........................................................101  4.3.1.1    Physical  Access  and  Control...........................................................................................101  4.3.1.2    Executive  and  Legal  Consent .........................................................................................104  4.3.1.3    Epistemic  and  Intellectual  Access  and  Consent ....................................................106     ix 4.3.2    Public  Access  and  Consent.......................................................................................................109  4.3.2.1    Public/Private  Domains  and  the  Narrowing  of  Access ......................................115  4.3.3    Temporality....................................................................................................................................116  4.3.4    Knowing  Your  Place:  The  Power  of  Space,  Structure  and  Division  at                      Çatalhöyük.........................................................................................................................................122  4.4    Inscription,  Translation  and  Blackboxing:  Authority  in  the  Solidification  of  Representations  into  Accounts ...............................................................................................................127  4.4.1    Authority  through  the  Stabilisation  of  Practices ...........................................................127  4.4.2    Authority  in  Inscription  and  Translation:  Solidification  through                        Representation,  Circulation  and  Mobilisation..................................................................128  4.4.3    The  Translation,  Production  and  Currency  of  Representative  Things:                        The  Example  of  the  Plastered  Skull  Burial .........................................................................134  4.4.4    An  Irreconcilable  Contradiction?  Direction  versus  Multivocality  at  Çatalhöyük..........................................................................................................................................................................147  4.5    Chapter  Conclusion..............................................................................................................................153  4.5.1    Conclusions  on  Authority:  The  Importance  of  Non-­‐Human  Actors  and                        Stability  in  the  Production  of  Authoritative  Knowledge..............................................153  4.5.2    Final  Conclusions  and  Reflections  on  this  Study............................................................156   Chapter  Five                         Authority  in  Politics  and  Performance:  The  Bosnian  Pyramids  as  a  Case   Study    5.1    Introduction ............................................................................................................................................165  5.1.1    Introduction:  Authority  from  Context,  Institutions  and  Socio-­‐Politics................165  5.1.2    Case  Study  Parameters:  Relevant  Project  Background...............................................166  5.2    Authority  Behind  Categories  and  Alterity .................................................................................174  5.2.1    The  Authority  behind  Classification  and  Boundaries:  Archaeology  as                          a  Knowledge-­‐Producing  Culture ...........................................................................................174  5.2.2    Challenging  Categories:  Professional  Authority  and  Alternative                        Archaeological  Claims .................................................................................................................175  5.2.3    Categorising  Alterity:  Pseudoarchaeology .......................................................................177  5.3    Socio-­‐Politics  and  the  Reception  of  Archaeological  Authority..........................................179  5.3.1    Introducing  Socio-­‐Politics  and  the  Case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids.........................179  5.3.2    The  Power  of  Politics,  Places  and  Materialities..............................................................180  5.3.3    Constructing  Authority  through  Nationalism  and  Identity.......................................181  5.3.4    Authority  through  the  Politics  of  Money...........................................................................184  5.3.5    The  Politics  of  Experts  and  Expertise .................................................................................188  5.3.5.1    The  Authority  of  Credentialed  Experts:  The  Egyptians .....................................188  5.3.5.2    The  Authority  of  Credentialed  Experts:  Team  Members ..................................193  5.3.6    Contestation  and  Academic  Authority................................................................................197  5.3.7    Socio-­‐Politics  as  Integral  to  Scientific  Authority............................................................198  5.4    Performing  Science:  Gaining  Authority  Through  Appropriate  Performance.............200  5.4.1    Making  Realities:  Authority  Created  in  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  Project..................200  5.4.2    Actualities  and  Virtualities ......................................................................................................201  5.4.3    Method  to  the  Madness:  Inventing  Authority  through  Performance  and  Media..........................................................................................................................................................................205  5.4.3.1    Self-­‐Representation:  Icons  and  Personalities.........................................................206  5.4.3.2    Narration  of  Villain ............................................................................................................207  5.4.3.3    Drawing  on  Institutions,  Logos  and  Branding .......................................................209  5.4.3.4    Scientific  Representation ................................................................................................214     x 5.5    Authority  from  Science  as  a  Master  Discourse ........................................................................216  5.5.1    Drawing  on  Science.....................................................................................................................216  5.5.2    The  Example  of  Radiocarbon  Dating  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids...............................218  5.5.3    The  1st  International  Scientific  Conference  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids ..................219  5.5.4    Drawing  on  the  Authority  of  Radiocarbon  Methodology...........................................226  5.6    Chapter  Conclusion:  Authority  in  the  Politics  and  Performing  of  Pyramids ..............229   Chapter  Six                         Conclusion:  Authority  in  the  Production  of  Archaeological  Knowledge    6.1    Introduction  and  Summary..............................................................................................................234  6.2    Comparison  and  Significance  of  the  Case  Studies ..................................................................235  6.2.1    Introduction:  Summarising  Case  Studies ..........................................................................235  6.2.2    Differing  Research  Results  and  the  Successes  and  Failures  of                        the  Two  Case  Studies  Used  in  This  Thesis..........................................................................236  6.2.3  Case  Studies  Comparison  and  Significance:  Contribution  to  Understanding                      Authority  and  the  Importance  of  Material  Evidence  in  Archaeological  Practice237  6.3    Deconstructing  Authority  in  the  Production  of  Archaeological  Knowledge...............242  6.3.1    Authority  in  Dividing  Practices,  Categories  and  Alterity............................................242  6.3.2    Authority  in  Translation,  Stabilisation  and  the  Agency  of  Nonhuman  Actors ..245  6.3.3    Authority  in  Epistemic  Dependence....................................................................................247  6.3.3.1    Defining  Epistemic  Dependence ..................................................................................247  6.3.3.2    Epistemic  Dependence  in  Archaeological  Consumption,                              Validation  and  Fidelity .......................................................................................................251  6.4    Dealing  with  Authority:  Suggestions  for  Further  Research ...............................................255    Appendix  A.......................................................................................................................................................258  Appendix  B.......................................................................................................................................................259  Appendix  C .......................................................................................................................................................260  Appendix  D.......................................................................................................................................................261  Appendix  E .......................................................................................................................................................264  Appendix  F .......................................................................................................................................................266  Appendix  G.......................................................................................................................................................269  Appendix  H.......................................................................................................................................................273     Bibliography ................................................................................................................................274             List  of  Figures    Figure  1:    Archaeological  activity  at  Çatalhöyük ............................................................................... 32  Figure  2:    Ian  Hodder  giving  a  site  tour  to  a  group  of  tourists..................................................... 91  Figure  3:    Map  of  the  Çatalhöyük  dig  house......................................................................................... 97  Figure  4:    The  Çatalhöyük  Visitor  Centre.............................................................................................. 99  Figure  5:    The  Berkeley  'Remixing  Çatalhöyük'  virtual  project  on  Second  Life ..................100  Figure  6:    Ian  Hodder  giving  a  site  tour  to  teachers .......................................................................111  Figure  7:    The  Çatalhöyük  Painted  Skull,  rediscovered  in  2009 ...............................................115  Figure  8:    Çatalhöyük  Faunal  procedural  flow  chart......................................................................115  Figure  9:    Symbols  of  Çatalhöyük  social  categories........................................................................125  Figure  10:    Knowledge  as  'actively  performed'................................................................................128  Figure  11:    John  Swogger’s  illustrations  of  the  Çatalhöyük  plastered  skull  burial...........138  Figure  12:    Diagram  of  the  plastered  skull  burial  interpretation .............................................146  Figure  13:    Map  of  Visoko,  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina ..............................................................................168  Figure  14:    Iconic  image  of  Visoko  and  Visočica  Hill  (Pyramid  of  the  Sun) .........................169  Figure  15:    Semir  Osmanagić  courts  the  press .................................................................................171  Figure  16:    Excavation  site  at  Plješevica  Hill  (Pyramid  of  the  Moon).....................................173  Figure  17:    Logo  of  the  Pyramid  Foundation  and  the  Bosnian  flag .........................................182  Figure  18:    Tourism  and  new  businesses  in  Visoko. ......................................................................185  Figure  19:    Makeshift  souvenir  shops  in  Visoko ..............................................................................186  Figure  20:    Volunteers  and  Politicians  at  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  site .....................................187  Figure  21:    Dr.  El  Anbawwy  argues  his  point  at  the  ICBP  Conference ...................................192  Figure  22:    Conclusions  from  the  ICBP  Conference........................................................................194  Figure  23:    The  Pyramid  Project  is  a  performance .........................................................................204  Figure  24:    Semir  Osmanagić  in  his  iconic  fedora ...........................................................................210  Figure  25:    Sample  slide  from  a  scientific  lecture  by  a  'pyramid  expert' ..............................213  Figure  26:    Authoritative,  professional-­‐looking  pyramid  signage ...........................................214  Figure  27:    Sample  page  from  Osmanagić’s  Scientific  Evidence  report ..................................217  Figure  28:    Professional-­‐looking  ICBP  conference  materials.....................................................220  Figure  29:    Attempting  to  convince  a  sceptical  scholar ................................................................222  Figure  30:    Image  from  the  ICBP  Conference ....................................................................................225  Figure  31:    Foundation  volunteer  and  his  'pyramid  artefact'  rock..........................................225  Figure  32:    Two  ‘authorised’  archaeological  ‘authorities’ ...........................................................239             List  of  Acronyms      BCE:    Before  Common  Era  BP:    Before  Present  ICBP:    1st  International  Scientific  Conference  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  SSK:    Sociology  of  Scientific  Knowledge  STS:    Science  and  Technology  Studies  UN:    United  Nations  UNESCO:    United  Nations  Educational,  Scientific  and  Cultural  Organisation   xi CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   1 CHAPTER  ONE:     Introduction:  Archaeological  Authority  and   the  Mangle  of  Practice    “If   sociology   has   been  marked   from   the   start   by   the   discovery   that   action  was   overtaken   by   other   agencies,   it   has   been   spurred   even  more   forcefully   by   the   ethical,   political,   and   empirical   discovery   that   there   exist   hierarchies,   asymmetries,   and   inequalities;   that   the   social   world   is   just   as   differentiated  a  landscape  as  a  rugged  and  mountainous  terrain;  that  no  amount  of  enthusiasm,  free   will,  or  ingenuity  can  make  those  asymmetries  go  away;  that  they  all  seem  to  weigh  as  heavily  as  the   pyramids…that   any   thinker   who   denies   those   inequalities   and   differences   is   either   gullible   or   somewhat  reactionary;  and,   finally,   that   ignoring  social  asymmetry   is  as  ridiculous  as  claiming  that   Newtonian  gravitation  does  not  exist.”  (Latour  2005:  65)         1.1    Introduction:  Authority  and  Archaeology   1.1.1    Authority  and  the  Production  of  Knowledge  in  Archaeology  This  thesis  asks:  what   is   the  role  of  authority   in  the  production  of  archaeological  knowledge?   To   explore   this   core   question,   this   dissertation   investigates   the   complex  negotiations,   transformations   and   heterogeneous   acts   that   go   into   the   production   of  authoritative  accounts  of  the  past,  such  as  academic  texts,  archaeological  reconstructions  and  museum  displays.  This   thesis  examines  how   fluid   ideas  and  observations   formed   in  the  field  become  authoritative,  factual,  solid  accounts  about  what  happened  in  the  past.  It  asks,   what   makes   a   person,   a   thing   or   an   account   of   history   something   that   is  ‘authoritative’?  What  makes  someone  an  authority  on  the  past?  What  makes  a  professional  interpretation  ‘more  right’  or  ‘more  expert’  than  an  amateur  one?  In  cases  where  amateur  or   alternative   accounts   of   the   past   have  more   authority   than   professional   opinion,   then  why?   Why   do   some   opinions   hold   more   weight   than   others,   within   and   without   the  professional   discipline?   Furthermore,   what   ethics   and   accountability   lie   behind  archaeological   authority?   This   thesis   seeks   to   address   these   questions   by   candidly  deconstructing   and   exposing   authority   in   the   disciplinary   practices   of   archaeology.   The  aim  is  to  examine  how  authority  is  both  passively  and  actively  embedded,  used,  translated,  desired   or   resisted—structurally,   conceptually   and   spatially—in   the   production   of  archaeological  accounts  of  the  past.       CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   2 1.1.2    Defining  ‘Archaeological  Accounts  of  the  Past’  Accounts  of  the  past  are  constructed  and  narrated  by  professional  archaeologists  using   material   culture,   which   is   acquired   through   practices   like   excavation   and   then  interpreted   to   offer   the  best   judgements   about   ‘what   actually   happened   in   the  past   and  why’.  This  interpreted  past  is  presented  to  other  academics  and  to  the  public  in  the  form  of  publications,  museum  displays,  reconstructions,  and  in  forums  such  as  conferences  and  seminars.  Such  formal  representations  of  the  past  rely  heavily  on  an  underlying  notion  of  the  ‘authoritative  account’.  The  entire  process  of  reconstructing  the  past  in  archaeology  is  dependent   on   individuals   and   institutions   acting   as   authorities,   actively   or   passively  implying   that   artefacts,   sites  and   final   interpretations  are   ‘authentic’   or  have   ‘fidelity’   to  the  past.    Over   the   past   thirty   years,   many   academics   have   argued   that   the   practice   of  science   is   inevitably  affected  by   its   social   context,  and   that  scientific  practice  progresses  according   to   academic   fashions   of   the   time   (Kuhn   1970;   Feyerabend   1975).   They   have  argued   that   scientists   work   within   paradigms   of   practice   and   knowledge,   and   they  “attempt  to  extend  and  exploit  [these  paradigms]  in  a  variety  of  ways”  (Kuhn  1970:  91).  In  the  field  of  Science  and  Technology  Studies  (STS),  academics  have  argued  that  knowledge  is   acquired,   developed,   distributed   and   contested   in   a   social   environment   (Latour   and  Woolgar  1986;  Latour  1987;  Law  2004).  The  development  of  a  ‘fact’—something  regarded  to  be  a  truth  about  the  natural  or  social  world—is  a  social,  physical  and  material  outcome  of   people   who   interact   within   social   networks.   Because   of   the   social   nature   of   factual  knowledge,   represented   ‘truths’   about   the   world   are   always   relative   to,   and   rely   upon,  structures  of  authority—power  asymmetries  between   individuals,   institutions,  materials  and  representations.  This   dissertation   is   situated   within   this   general   strain   of   reflexive   study   of  scientific   practice,   and   it   focuses   on   the   observation   and   identification   of   authoritative  structures   inherent   in   decision-­‐making,   interpretation   and   production   of   knowledge   in  archaeological  practice.  This   thesis  emphasises   the  production  and  presentation  of   ‘final  product   accounts’   of   what   happened   in   the   past,   which   are   arguably   the   last   and  most  important   steps   in   the   archaeological   process.   This   study   is   operationally   based   on   the  idea   that   contestation   and   tension   in   a   process   allow   for   its   internal   complexities   to  become  more  transparent,  a  theory  called   ‘blackboxing’   in  Science  Studies.  Bruno  Latour  (Latour  1999:  304)  coined  the  term  ‘blackboxing’  to  define  a  process  or  model  that  runs  so  smoothly   and   efficiently   that   no  one   stops   to   question   its   internal   complexities,   only   its  inputs   and   outputs.   Latour   argues   that   processes   in   science   often   operate   so   rigorously  and  efficiently  that  scientists  rarely  question  the  internal  social  complexities  of  their  own   CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   3 routine  actions;  they  only  question  their  data  and  results.  According  to  this  theory,  when  contention  or   conflict   arises,  or  when  something  goes  awry,   the   ‘blackboxed’   systems  of  practice   become   more   transparent.   In   contested   practice,   people   can   more   thoroughly  examine  the  internal  complexities  of  their  own  working  system,  breaking  down  the  walls  of  a   ‘blackboxed’  system.  This  is  a  concept  I  discuss  in  depth  in  Chapters  Two  and  Three  (Sections  2.2.7  and  3.3.2).       1.1.2.1    Defining  a  ‘Final  Product’  Account  of  the  Past  For  the  purposes  of  this  dissertation,  a  ‘final  product’  account  of  the  past  is  defined  as   an   explanation   of   archaeological  material   that   appears   in   condensed   form  meant   for  public  consumption.  The  ‘public’  in  this  definition  is  simply  those  who  receive  or  consume  accounts  of  the  past.  This  category  includes  both  the  general  public  of  lay  persons  as  well   as  specialists  or  experts   in  archaeology.  Examples  of  a   ‘final  product’  account  of  the  past  include   archaeological   explanations   that   appear   in  newspaper   reports,   television  media,  websites,   as   well   as   academic   reports,   museum   displays   and   public   conference  presentations.   The   reason   this   dissertation   includes   archaeological   accounts   of   all  consumable   varieties—from   professional   conference   presentations   to   popular   science  television   shows—is   because   these   accounts   are   all   fundamentally   based   on   the   same  principle:  they  are  acts  of  summarising,  abstracting  and  stabilising  the  fluid,  mangled  and  unstable  social  processes  of  knowledge  production  that  lie  behind  their  construction.  The  term   ‘account’   is   used   because   these   public   explanations   are   ‘accounting   for’   material  culture   by   describing   or   explaining   the   activities   of   past   peoples.   The   reason   this  dissertation  calls   these   ‘final  products’   is  not  because   these  accounts  are  meant  by   their  authors  to  be  seen  as   ‘final’   in  the  sense  of  eternal  or  unchanging.  Rather,   ‘final  product’  accounts  are  interpretations  that  appear  as  stabilised  explanations  in  a  ‘final’  form  meant  for  public  consumption.  They  are  often  meant  to  be  contested  and  changed  if  appropriate  (especially  the  products  of  scientific  knowledge  production);  however,  they  are  presented  in  a  ‘final’  format  which  is  meant  to  be  as  faithfully  representative  to  original  material  or  conceptual  understanding  as  possible.    Final  accounts  of  the  past  are   ‘front  stage’  products,  which  consolidate  and  ‘black  box’   all   of   the  messy   processes   that   went   into   the  making   of   the   accounts   in   the   ‘back  stage’  social  arenas  of  knowledge  production.  A  published  archaeological  paper  might,  for  instance,   headline   the   account:   “Medieval   skeleton   shows   signs  of   arthritis”.  Behind   this  statement   lies   all   of   the   archaeological   activity   that   went   into   the   production   of   this  account:  the  complex  history  behind  why  this  particular  skeleton  was  chosen  to  be  studied   CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   4 and   accounted   for   by   an   archaeologist,   why   and   how   the   archaeologist   became   an  archaeologist   in   the   first   place,  why   the   archaeologist   is   considered   an   agent  worthy   to  speak  about  skeletal  pathologies,  where  this  skeleton  came  from,  how  it  was  exhumed  or  excavated,   how   and   why   that   skeleton   would   be   diagnosed   with   arthritis,   the   complex  history  of  biological  anthropological  studies  that  went  into  the  development  of  a  pathology  of   arthritis   in   the   first   place,   the   use   and   agency   of   complex   technical   apparatuses   that  turned  the  skeleton  into  an  representation  of  ‘arthritis’,  how  and  why  the  data  and  results  were  finally  presented  in  a  textual  form—all  of  these  processes  become  mere  assumptions  that  lie  behind  the  ‘final  product’  archaeological  account  of  the  past.    Most  importantly,  not  all  accounts  are  equal.  Some  accounts  of  the  past  are  seen  as  more  authoritative  than  others,  as  more  or   less  valid,  and  a  great  many  factors  play  into  this   perceived   status   of   an   account.   The   assumptions   behind   a   single   statement   comes  packaged  with  who   is  saying  the  statement,  how   the  statement   is  said  or  presented,  why  the  statement   is  being  presented  and  used,  and  where   the  statement   is  presented.   If   this  statement  is  presented  by  a  professional  archaeologist  in  a  PowerPoint  presentation  at  a  major   scientific   conference   on   skeletal   pathologies,   for   example,   it   likely   carries   a   far  higher   status   and   burden   of   validity   than   if   it   is   typed   in   a   newsflash   headline   by   an  alternative  journalist  for  Nexus  Magazine.  Behind  this  statement  and  its  presentation  lie  a  number  of  assumptions  about  the  ‘back  stage’  activities  that  went  into  its  production.    An   account   can   be   called   ‘authoritative’  when   people   accept   its   information   and  explanation   as   final   or   valid,   and   when   people   stop   seeking   alternative   knowledge  (Kruglanski  1989;  Raviv,  Bar-­‐Tal   et   al.  2003).  When  knowledge  or   information  becomes  identified  as    ‘authoritative’,  people  may  take  executive  action  based  on  that  information,  which  can  ultimately  affect  results,  situations  and  outcomes  from  the  actions  that  people  take  based  on  information  they  perceive  as  valid.  The  concept  of  authority—both  in  terms  of  the  immediate  ‘front  stage’  authoritative  presence  of  the  account,  as  well  as  the  attached  or   assumed   ‘back   stage’   qualities—plays   a   major   role   in   how   an   account   is   perceived,  consumed,  reacted  to  and  regarded  by  the  lay  and  expert  public.  What  makes  an  account  of  the  past  more  or  less  ‘authoritative’  is  the  extent  to  which  people  accept  it  as  valid.       1.1.3    Major  Themes:  Blackboxing,  Translation  and  Epistemic  Dependence  Three  central  themes  form  this  dissertation’s  exploration  of  the  role  of  authority  in  the   production   of   archaeological   knowledge:   blackboxing,   translation   and   epistemic  dependence.  First,  there  is  the  concept  of  blackboxing  in  institutional  contexts,  with  idea  that   contestation   can   breed   transparency.   Institutions—customs,   laws,   hierarchies,   CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   5 structures  of  authority—can  potentially  black  box  a  system,  as  well  as  create  and  sustain  epistemic   and   executive   authority   of   people   and   things   or   abstractions.   This   thesis  explores  how,  in  the  terms  of  Latour’s  concept  of  ‘blackboxing’  (1999:  304),  archaeologists  question   inputs   and   outputs.   Archaeologists   often   question   what   objects   and   data   they  find   and  manage   (inputs)   and  whether   or   not   their   interpretations   of   those   objects   are  competent   or   incompetent   (outputs);   however,   they   often   do   not   question   the   actual  system  and  structure  of  their  own  established  system,  asking  how  and  why  their  system  of  practice  operates  like  it  does  in  the  first  place.  An  underlying  concept  in  this  dissertation  is  the  idea  that  when  a  successful  social  system  of  practice  is  in  place,  it  can  be  hard  to  break  out  of  that  system  to  see  what  is  actually  happening  below  the  surface.  When  contestation  arises,   the   system   can  break  down   and  become  more   transparent,   because   contestation  brings   focus   to   the   underlying   operation   of   a   blackboxed   system.   This   concept   of  contestation   and   blackboxing   is   a   central   concept   of   this   dissertation   study’s  methodological  approach,  and  is  discussed  further  in  Chapter  Three.    A   second   major   theme   is   that   of   translation.   According   to   Latour’s   ‘translation  model’1  (1986:  267),  authority  and  power  are  products  of  social  interaction,  accumulating  in  the  hands  of  a  multitude  of  different  actors.  Underlying  this  theme  is  the  concept  that  a  web  of  actors—human  as  well  as  material,  both  tangible  and  intangible—are  interrelated  under  a  system  of  practice.  This  thesis  explores  how  authority  is  only  built  and  sustained  through   the   accumulation   of   negotiations   by   many   different   actors   in   a   network;   each  actor  supports  and  sustains  a  given  object,  narrative,  archaeological  interpretation  and  so  forth,   in  order   to   further  and  achieve  his  own  goals  and  aims.   In  practice,  an  artefact  or  account   accumulates   power   over   people   and   practice   as   its   interpretation   is   translated  through  each  actor’s  goals  and  aims.  This  concept  is  discussed  further  in  Chapter  Two,  and  it  is  extended  in  Chapters  Four  and  Five.  Finally,   this   thesis   fundamentally   rests   on   the   concept   of   epistemic   dependence.  ‘Epistemic  dependence’  is  the  “appeal  to  intellectual  authority  and  the  way  in  which  such  an   appeal   constitutes   justification   for   believing   and   knowing”   (Hardwig   1985:   336).   In  other   words,   a   person   may   believe   many   things   for   which   he   does   not   possess   direct  evidence   for,   but   he   relies   on   the   authority   of   experts   who   he   thinks   do   possess   the  necessary  evidence.  Epistemic  dependence  is  essential  to  how  we  interact  with  knowledge  beyond  our  experiential  capabilities.  This  concept  is  discussed  in  detail  in  Chapter  Six.  For  now,  it  is  useful  to  point  out  that  epistemic  dependence  plays  a  key  role  in  how  accounts  are  constructed  and  translated,  gaining  authority  and  status  by  politics  and  performance.     1  See  Section  2.2.3.   CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   6 These   major   issues—blackboxing,   translation   and   epistemic   dependence—form  central  themes  in  this  dissertation’s  exploration  of  the  role  of  authority  in  the  production  of  archaeological  knowledge.  This  thesis  is  structured  around  related  thematic  arguments.  (1)  Executive  and  epistemic  authority  in  an  academic  discipline  like  archaeology  manifest  directly  in  the  process  of  stabilisation,  which  occurs  through  processes  like  inscription  and  translation.2   That   is,   during   the   process   of   ‘producing   knowledge’   in   archaeology,   fluid  ideas   are   actively   turned   into   stable,   formal   accounts   of   the   past,   such   as   textual  representations   or  museum   displays.   In   the   process   of   knowledge   formation,   there   is   a  fundamental   tipping   point   between   factual   knowledge   as   it   is   constructed   in   a   fluid  development   phase,   and   the   knowledge   as   it   appears   solidified   in   a   presentable,  publishable   development   phase.   It   is   in   this   tipping   point   that  mere   ideas   become   solid  facts,  strengthened  and  made  authoritative  by  the  robustness  of  a  new  material  and  media  presence.  This  argument  forms  the  primary  discussion  of  Chapter  Four.  (2)  The  power  of  external   socio-­‐politics   can   affect   how   readily   the   general   public   or   scientific   community  accepts  accounts  of  the  past.  Many  “problems  of  legitimacy  and  of  extension  arise  because  ‘the  speed  of  politics   is   faster   than  the  speed  of  science’”   (Collins  and  Evans  2007:  125).  Regardless  of   the  ontological  value  of  archaeological  narratives  or   interpretations,   some  accounts   of   the   past   may   be   more   readily   accepted,   highly   regarded   and   seen   as  ‘authoritative’  by  the  general  public  because  of  the  social  needs  they  fulfil.  (3)  The  power  of  using  the   ‘appropriate  performance’  of  scientific  behaviour  can  also  directly  affect   the  authority   of   an   account   of   the   past.   These   latter   two   arguments   form   the   primary  discussion  of  Chapter  Five.   (4)  Authority   is  produced  as  much  as   it   is   consumed.  While  authority  is,   in  effect,  built  and  accumulated  by  various  actors,   it   is  also  consumed  in  the  process   of   translation.   In   archaeology,   things   and   narratives   are   often   packaged   for  consumption,   and   the   processes   of   inscription,   translation   and   performance   are  intertwined   with   how   status   and   authority   are   received   and   consumed   by   the   public.   Chapter   Six   concludes   with   a   discussion   about   the   implications   of   the   production   and  consumption  of  authority  in  archaeological  practice.    This  dissertation  outlines  these  arguments  using  two  illustrative  case  studies,  both  of  which  are  involved  in  levels  of  interpretive  contestation.  To  maximize  descriptive  value,  this   research   employs   one   case   of   professional   archaeology   and   one   case   of   alternative  archaeology.   Both   case   studies   are   archaeological   sites   that   produce   their   own  ‘authoritative’   accounts   of   the   past   through   their   practices,   publications   and   public   2  The  concepts  of  executive  an  epistemic  authority  are  introduced  in  Section  2.2.2.  The  concepts  of  inscription  and  translation  are  introduced  in  Section  2.2.5.1,  and  further  expanded  in  Sections  3.2.1.1  and  4.4.1.   CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   7 presentations.  The  first  case  study  is  the  professional  archaeological  project  of  Çatalhöyük  in   the   Republic   of   Turkey,   under   the   direction   of   Ian   Hodder   of   Stanford   University.   Chapter  Four  examines  site’s  intentional  reflexive  practice  and  its  professional  status  as  a  highly  authoritative  and  prestigious  archaeological   site.  The  site  of  Çatalhöyük  produces  both   authoritative   accounts   of   the   past   and   authoritative   accounts   of   present  archaeological   methodology,   which   have   been   openly   contested,   by   both   academic   and  alternative  groups.  This  case  study  is  employed  to  offer  insights  about  how  the  processes  of   inscription,   translation   and   blackboxing   can   affect   and   establish   authority   in  professional  archaeological  practice.  It  also  addresses  how  physical  and  intellectual  space,  as   well   as   issues   of   access   in   localised   knowledge-­‐producing   social   arenas,   can   affect  archaeological   authority.   The   second   case   study   in   this   dissertation   is   the   controversial  alternative  archaeology  of  Visoko,  Bosnia  commonly  referred  to  as  the  Bosnian  Pyramids.  This  project,  under  the  direction  of  the  ‘amateur  archaeologist’  Semir  Osmanagić,  has  been  very  successful  at  creating  an  account  of  prehistory  for  the  general  public,  which  has  been  received  by  the  general  Bosnian  public  as  authoritative,  despite  objections  to  the  project  by   the   professional   archaeological   community.   Chapter   Five   uses   this   case   study   to  explore  how  authority   can  be  built   upon,  mimicked  and  performed   through  drawing  on  academic  arenas  of  scientific  practice  and  through  eager  public  participation.  Specifically,  this   study   highlights   the   importance   of   external   socio-­‐politics,   as  well   as   drawing   upon  authoritative   institutions   and   performances,   in   the   construction   and   maintenance   of  archaeological  authority.         1.2    A  Crisis  of  Authority  in  Archaeology?     1.2.1    The  Importance  of  Addressing  Authority  in  Archaeological  Practice  Along   with   a   detailed   exploration   of   how   authority   operates   in   archaeological  practice  and  presentation,  this  thesis  also  contributes  an  extensive  deconstruction  of  the  term   ‘authority’   in   Chapter   Two.   Authority   is   a   conceptual   abstraction   that   directly  reflects  asymmetrical   social  power  relationships,  and   it  also  manifests   in  material  ways:  any  two  things  or  people,  when  put  in  tandem,  directly  relate  to  one  another  in  terms  of  asymmetrical  power,  influence  and  status.  A  major  contribution  of  this  thesis  is  to  outline  some   of   the   roots   and   debate   about   the   nature   of   authority   that   have   emerged   in  disciplines  outside  of  archaeology,   implementing  a  wider  collective  understanding  of   the  term   for   use   in   archaeological   discourse.   This   is   not   to   say   that   authority   has   been   CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   8 disregarded   or   neglected   in   the   field   of   archaeology,   or   that   this   dissertation   is   raising  issues  about  authority  and  archaeological  practice   for   the   first   time.   In   fact,   this   is  quite  the  opposite:  problems  of  authority  as   they   relate   to  other  major   issues  within   the   field  have   been   raised   by   archaeologists   for   decades   as   important   and  worth   our   concern—especially   in   discussions   over   issues   like   the   impact   of   personal   biases   on   the  material  record,   the   need   for   multivocality   and   collaboration   with   the   public,   issues   of   physical  access   or   ownership   of   archaeological   material,   all   matters   that   directly   rest   upon   the  concept   of   authority.   However,   this   thesis   argues   that   while   the   field   seems   to   readily  engage   with   issues   of   authority   and   power   rights,   rarely   has   the   root   conceptual  understanding   of   what   authority   is   and   how   it   manifests   in   the   first   place   ever   been  explicitly  discussed.    Furthermore,   in   the   field   of   archaeology   we   have   often   been   quick   to   address  authority  by  dismissing  it.  Often  authority  is  referred  to  as  something  negative,  something  to  be  avoided,  something  that  hinders  collaboration  and  public  access.  However,  authority  is   an   integral   and   necessary   part   of   any   academic   endeavour,   embedded   in   the   social  structures  of  academia  and  in  the  scientific  traditions  that  we  have  brought  down  from  the  Enlightenment.   In   archaeology,   practices   such   as   acquiring   credentials,   performing   or  accepting  expert  testimony,  engaging  in  practices  of  witnessing  and  peer  review,  as  well  as  allying   and   defending   our   own   interpretations   through   the   performance   of   appropriate  behaviours   or   by   drawing   on   the   appropriate   categories   of   practice,   are   all   systematic  social  ways   to   accumulate,  negotiate   and  verify   authority.  This   thesis  will   address   these  issues  in  depth.  While  such  authoritative  practice  is  innate  in  our  professional  disciplinary  methodology,  it  is  also  often  discussed  as  if  it  were  a  fundamental  ‘Bad  Thing’  in  the  wake  of  postmodern  discourse.  In  archaeology,  theories  and  new  understandings  of  multivocal  interpretations   and  post-­‐colonial   ramifications  of   ownership  have   arguably   left   us   in   an  uncomfortable  relationship  with  our  own  power  and  authority.    This   thesis   argues   that   it   is   important   to   acknowledge   the   root   causes   and  necessary  reliance  upon  authority  in  the  way  we  produce  knowledge.  In  the  discipline  of  archaeology,   it   is   not   only   important   to   address   authority   as   a   side-­‐effect   or   relational  issue   in   problems   of   access   rights   and   control   of   the   past,   but   it   is   also   critical   to  acknowledge  exactly  what  authority   is   as   a   root   system  of  practice.  We  need   to   address  where  our  authority  comes  from,  how  it  manifests   in  our  own  practice,  how  disciplinary  authority   is   produced   and   consumed  by  members   of   the  public   and  not   just   individuals  within  the  profession—and  perhaps  most  importantly—we  need  to  address  the  impact  of  our  own  authority,  acknowledged  or  not,  on  our  own  interpretations.  In  order  to  address  these   concerns,   this   dissertation   examines   authority   in   archaeological   practice   by   CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   9 ethnographically   observing  how   ‘factual   accounts   of   the  past’   are   produced   through   the  archaeological  process.   Issues  of  authority  and  scientific  practice,  and  the  questions   that  relate  to  how  we  understand  and  account  for  our  past  and  present  world,  are  a  matter  of  social   interest.   Therefore,   these   are   social   concerns   and  matters   of   social   ethics,   issues  which   impact  both  our   social   and  natural  understanding  of   the  world,   and   important   to  address  in  detail.         1.3    Thematic  Structure  of  this  Thesis  This   thesis   is   divided   into   three   thematic   sections.   The   first   section   (Chapters   One,   Two   and   Three)   introduces   the   relevant   theoretical   concepts,   background   and  theory   behind   this   study.   A   detailed   deconstruction   and   discussion   of   authority   and  reflexive   archaeological   practice   is   integral   to   this   project.   Chapter   Two   presents   an  original  deconstruction  of  the  concept  of  ‘authority’  and  identifies  its  relevance  in  broader  academic  literature.  This  chapter  introduces  ‘authority’  as  both  an  abstract  concept  and  as  a  system  of  practice.  The  term  is  conceptually  tied  to  power  relationships,  implicating  who  has   the   legitimate   right   to   exercise   power   and   influence   others.   This   kind   of   discourse  provides   a   useful   baseline   for   a   reflexive   study   of   archaeological   practice   and   the  production  of  authoritative  accounts  of  the  past  in  a  contested  environment—an  approach  that  is  used  later  this  dissertation.  Chapter  Three  offers  the  methodological  background  of  this  dissertation’s  case  studies  and  ethnographic  approach.  This  chapter  introduces  the  two  case  study  sites—Çatalhöyük  and  the  Bosnian  Pyramids—and  illustrates  the  themes,  concepts  and  issues  behind  the  fieldwork  and  case  study-­‐based  approach  of  this  study.    The  second  thematic  section  of  this  dissertation  (Chapters  Four  and  Five)  raise  the   main   arguments   about   the   nature   of   authority   in   the   production   of   archaeological  accounts  of   the  past.  These   chapters  use   two   case   studies   to  discuss   the   implications  of  how   authority   is   manifested,   constructed   and   construed   both   inside   and   outside   the  discipline.  First,  Chapter  Four   introduces  how  authority   impacts  the  way  archaeological  knowledge   is   produced   and   consumed.   This   chapter   reintroduces   the   major   issues   of  inscription,  translation  and  blackboxing  in  the  production  of  knowledge  and  explores  how  authority   is   accumulated,  networked  and   translated   in   archaeological  practice,   outlining  the  way  actual  practices  are  mangled  and  complicated  affairs.  This   chapter  uses   themes  and   issues   that  arose  during  my   fieldwork  at  Çatalhöyük,  and   it  uses   this  archaeological  site   as   a   means   to   illustrate   the   argument   that   authority   is   formed   in   the   process   of   CHAPTER  1                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                INTRODUCTION   10 stabilising   fluid   ideas   into   formal,   material   representations   and   accounts   of   the   past.   Chapter  Five,   addresses   the  way  external  social   factors—influences  and  pressures   from  socio-­‐politics   and   the   public   outside   of   the   core   scientific   community—can   directly  translate,   accumulate   and   contribute   to   the   authority   of   archaeological   interpretations.  This   chapter   also   addresses   the   importance   of   performative   behaviours   in   the   creation  and  sustaining  of  status  and  authority  in  archaeology.    In  the  third  and  final  section  of  this  thesis,  Chapter  Six,  I  conclude  that  authority  is  built   and   translated   and   accumulated   by   various   actors,   but   it   also   consumed   in   the  process   of   translation.   In   archaeology,   things   and   narratives   are   packaged   for  consumption,  and  the  way  consumption  directly  contributes  to  and  implicates  authority  in  archaeology   is   an   important   issue   that   needs   to   be   addressed.   This   chapter   raises   the  importance   of   closely   linked   concepts   such   as   ‘fidelity’   and   ‘accountability’.   The   term  ‘fidelity’  comes  from  the  Latin  world  fidelitas,  meaning  ‘faithfulness’,  and  it  references  how  accurate  a  copy  or  simulation  is  to  an  original  (OED  1989).  The  notion  of  ‘accountability,’  a  concept  in  ethics  that  (in  this  situation)  demands  responsibility  for  any  unethical  misuse  of  authority,  opens  an  important  discussion  about  the  ethics  of  results  and  consequences  of  archaeological  interpretations,  reconstructions  and  authoritative  accounts  of  the  past.    This  thesis  examines  how  modes  and  structures  of  authority  are  inextricable  from  the  collection,  construction  and  distribution  of  archaeological  knowledge  and  material.  It  seeks  to  show  how  practitioners  of  archaeology  actively  enact,  construct,  and  implement  authority   in   the  process  of  producing  knowledge.   It   aims   to  examine  how  authority  and  acts  of  legitimation  are  actively  employed  and  distributed  through  the  medium  of  science,  and   it   investigates   how   these   acts   are   embedded   and   inextricable   from   practical  archaeological   methods   and   theoretical   archaeological   interpretations.   This   thesis   not  only  makes   the   argument   that   various  modes   of   structural   and   epistemic   authority   are  embedded  in  every  stage  of  the  archaeological  process,  but  importantly,  it  identifies  how  this  authority  manifests  through  the  medium  of  scientific  acts.     CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     11 CHAPTER  TWO:     Concepts  and  Theory:  Authority  and  the  Social   Construction  of  Archaeological  Knowledge     “Science  is  widely  accepted  to  be  three  different  things:  a  method  of  understanding  and  of  establishing  facts   about   the   universe;   the   facts   themselves,   the   products   of   that   method;   and   a   voice   of   authority   and   consequently  a  locus  of  cultural  power.”  (Marks  2009:  5)         2.1    Introduction   2.1.1    Introducing  Theory  and  Concepts  It  has  become  a  truism  that  the  past  is  contested  space,  that  archaeological  accounts  are  not  statements  of  fact,  but  rather  educated  interpretations  about  what  ‘might  have  happened’  in  history   (Lowenthal   1985;   Webb   2002).   While   theoretical   discussions   about   the   socially  constructed   past   have   rattled   the   halls   of   academia   for   over   thirty   years,   the   profession   of  archaeology  has   arguably   remained   the   strongest,  most   intact   and  authoritative   voice   in  how  the  material   past   is   accounted   for   in  public   settings,   in   forums   such   as  museum  displays   and  media  productions,  and  in  official  publications  such  as  books  and  articles  on  the  past.  Authority,  the  abstract  influence  and  physical  force,  plays  a  major  role  in  how  and  why  accounts  of  the  past  come   to  be  accepted  as   correct—as  authoritative—by  both   the  professional   academe  and   the  interested  public.  The  subject  of   this   thesis   is   the   ‘authoritative  account  of   the  past’:  how   it   is  produced,  why  some  accounts  are  treated  as  more  authoritative  than  others,  why  some  people  and  materials  are  regarded  more  authoritative  than  others,  how  authority   is  embedded  in  the  archaeological  process  and  ultimately  manifests  in  the  acceptance  or  rejection  of  ‘final  product’  authoritative  accounts  of  the  past.    Previously,   the   Introduction  of   this   thesis   outlined   the  problems   and   structure   of   this  dissertation.  This  chapter  addresses  the  concepts  and  theory  behind  this  study.  The  first  section  identifies  the  foundation  of  this  thesis:  the  argument  that  knowledge  is  socially  constructed.  The  second   section   addresses   two   related   but   distinctive   concepts—‘power’   and   ‘authority’—and  pays   particular   attention   to   the   term   ‘authority’,   which   has   long   been   problematic   in   social  studies.   This   section   offers   a   framework   for   thinking   about   ‘authority’   in   the   context   of   the  term’s  origins,  and  it  identifies  the  main  threads  of  discussion  that  traditionally  appear  in  both   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     12 social  studies  and  in  the  field  of  archaeology.  In  the  third  section,  this  chapter  offers  a  new  way  of   thinking   about   the   term   ‘authority’   from   the   perspective   of   studies   in   the   sociology   of  scientific  knowledge,  arguing  that  authority  is  a  created  and  earned  outcome  of  complex  social  interactions.   Rather   than   being   a   single   quality   or   characteristic   that   is   ‘possessed’   or   ‘not  possessed’   by   an   individual—the   traditional   approach   to   defining   and   thinking   about  authority—this  thesis  instead  opens  the  argument  that  authority  is  an  effect  or  accumulation  of  status  gained  during  a   complex  process  of   social   interactions.  This  argument  will  be   followed  through  the  remainder  of   this  dissertation,  and   it   is  central   to  the  study  and  discussion  of   the  two  case  studies  in  this  work.  The  end  of  this  chapter  specifically  focuses  on  authority  as  it  has  been   discussed   in   general   archaeological   theory,   and   concludes   with   a   call   for   further  deconstruction   of   the   actual   processes   and   mechanisms   that   constitute   authority   in  archaeological  practices.     2.1.2    Introducing  Authority  and  the  Social  Construction  of  Knowledge  This  thesis  is  based  on  the  premise  that  archaeological  accounts  are  socially  constructed  (Wylie  1989).  While  this  might  seem  to  be  an  obvious  statement—since  archaeological  accounts  are   clearly   produced   by   people   in   the   present   who   study   material   culture   that   was   also  produced  by  people  in  the  past—there  is,  however,  a  general  dictum  that  some  accounts  of  the  past   are  more   right   or  more   correct   than   others.   Despite  waves   of   postmodernism   thought,3  with  arguments  touching  on  relativism  and  constructivism  that  heavily  impacted  archaeological  theory  (see  Lampeter  Archaeological  Workshop  1997),  there  is  still  a  strong  assumption  in  the  field  of  archaeology  that  a  form  of  ‘truth’  about  what  happened  in  the  past  is  ‘out  there’  waiting  to  be  objectively  discovered.  This  assumption  is  visible  in  how  the  discipline  is  structured  and  ordered,   and   in   how   archaeologists   approach   and   interpret   the   past.   One   of   the   most  fundamental  tenets  of  natural  science  is  the  idea  that  nature  is  constant,  and  that  scientists  can  create   ‘facts’  through  the  acts  of  discovery,  observation  and  analysis  of  objective  data.  Data,   in  this   sense,   is   perceived   to   be   legitimate  material   from   the  natural  world,   independent   of   any  social   hierarchy   or   any   socio-­‐organizational   form   of   authority   (Marks   2009).   Archaeologists,  from  the  inception  of  archaeology  as  a  professional  discipline,  have  worked  under  this  premise,  finding   human-­‐made   objects   as   an   astronomer   would   find   new   stars   in   the   night   sky,   and  interpreting   culture   and   human   behaviours   based   on   the   idea   of   discovery,   observation   and  analysis.  The  most  notable  change  of  thought  affecting  this  process  in  archaeology—occurring  with   the   postprocessual     theories   of   ‘multivocality’   and   ‘reflexivity’   (Johnson   1999;   Hodder   3 See Section 2.3.2. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     13 2000;  Holtrof  and  Karlsson  2000;  Hodder  2001;  Hodder  2003;  Hodder  2008)—has  resulted  in  a  much   more   complicated   way   that   archaeologists   look   at   and   understand   archaeological  interpretations,   even   if   the   basic   objectivity-­‐oriented   methods   in   archaeology   have   changed  very  little.    Despite   the   fact   that   the   very   notion   of   objectivity   has   been   deconstructed   and  fragmented   in  recent  years  by  postprocessual   theory,  resulting   in  a  new  understanding  of   the  past   as   a   complex,   hermeneutical   and   interpretive   space,  most   actual   archaeological   practice  today   still   works   under   the   overarching  methods   of   discovery   and   observation,   analysis   and  ‘producing  accounts  of  the  past’.  The  act  of  excavating  and  publishing  ‘found  data’  still  remains  intact  as  the  basic  way  the  discipline  operates.  In  the  field,  we  still  talk  of   ‘findings’  and  ‘data’,  ‘observations’   and   ‘analyses’.   The   interpreted   past,   which   emerges   from   this   process,   is   then  presented   to  other  academics  and   to   the  public   in   the   form  of  publications,  museum  displays,  reconstructions,  and  in  forums  such  as  conferences  and  seminars.  Such  formal  representations  of  the  past  rely  heavily  on  an  underlying  notion  of  the  ‘authoritative  account’.  The  entire  process  of  reconstructing  the  past  in  archaeology  is  dependent  on  individuals  and  institutions  existing  as   authorities,   who   either   actively   or   passively   imply   that   artefacts,   sites   and   final  interpretations  are  ‘authentic’  or  have  ‘fidelity’  to  the  past.    The  assumption  that  some  level  of  objectivity  or  correctness  can  be  reached  through  the  process  of  scientific  archaeology  is  perhaps  most  visible  in  the  authoritative  status  of  individual  archaeologists,   of   archaeological   institutions   like   the   university   and   the   museum,   and   most  importantly,   in   the   authority   of   individual   interpretations.4   Authority,  while   often   tied   into   a  claim   of   correctness   or   authenticity,   also   appears   to   be   equally   tied   into   the   level   of   public  acceptance  of  accounts  of  the  past.  The  success  of  an  account  of  the  past  can  often  be  tied  to  the  socio-­‐political   needs   or   desires   of   a   social   community,   or   in   the   prestige   or   power   of   a  charismatic  individual.  The  case  of  pseudoarchaeology  in  Visoko,  Bosnia  is  a  primary  example  of  how  the  authoritative  status  of  an  archaeological  account  is  tied  into  performative  behaviours,  socio-­‐political  needs  and  charismatic  personalities.5    This   creates   an   interesting   paradox:   if   archaeological   accounts   of   the   past   are  understood  to  be  socially  constructed,  then  why  are  some  accounts  considered  more  right  than  others?  If  knowledge  is  a  socially  created  enterprise  (constructed  by  people  who  create  and  use  knowledge   for   their   own   purposes   and   for   contextual   reasons),   then   why   is   there   a   general  sense  that  some  accounts—in  the  form  of  museum  displays,  publications  or  media—represent  a  more   authoritative   form   of   ‘truth’   or   an   ‘authentic’   past?   I   argue   that   the   main   ingredient   4 From  the  perspective  of  social  constructivism,  individual  statements  of  interpretation  and  objects  of  creation  like  images,  once  generated  by  archaeologists,  can  themselves  be  imbued  with  authority.   5 See Chapter Five. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     14 sustaining  some  accounts  of  the  past  as  correct—that  propel  other  accounts  to  the  popular  fore,  that   condemn   even   others   to   a   sentence   of   sudden   death   or   a   quiet   retirement   due   to  unpopularity—is   authority.   What   is   authority?   How   and   why   is   it   embedded   in   the  archaeological  process?  What  makes  some  people  authorities  on   the  past  and  others  not,   and  what   makes   some   accounts   and   interpretations   more   authoritative   than   others?   These  questions   also   raise   important   ethical   concerns:   how   is   authority   connected   to   claims   of  authenticity  and  correctness,   to   the  concepts  of   trust  and  witnessing,   to  a  morality  of  what   is  right   and  wrong   about   speaking   for   people  who   are   long   dead?   The   past   is   in  many  ways   a  malleable  and  unknowable  thing—so,  who  has  the  authority  to  speak  about  the  past,  and  who  does   not?  On   the   other   side   of   the   coin,   how   and  why  do   some  people   have   the   authority   to  silence   alternative,   less   authoritative   views?   How   and   why   should   some   people   be   granted  access   to   a   non-­‐renewable   resource—archaeological  material—to   interpret   it   as   they   please,  while   others   should   not?   Ultimately,   this   thesis   is   interested   in   questioning:   what   is  archaeological  authority?  How  does  authority  manifest  in  the  archaeological  process  and  affect  the  acceptance  of  accounts  of  the  past?  And  what  does  authority  mean  to  the  discipline?         2.2    Defining  Authority  and  the  Social  Construction  of   Knowledge     2.2.1    Defining  Authority   2.2.1.1    The  Difference  Between  Power  and  Authority  Authority   is   intimately   related   to   the   concept   of   power,   but   it   is   subtly   and   critically  different.   The   Oxford   English   Dictionary   (1989)   states   that   power   is   “authority   given   or  committed”—which   identifies   the   underlying   idea   that   the   two   concepts   are   related   and  interdependent,  but  distinct.  As  Barnes  relays  in  his  article  On  authority  and  its  relationship  to   power:    The  received  view  of  authority  within  the  sociological  tradition  is  that  it  is  power  plus:  power   plus   consent,   or   power   plus   legitimacy,   or   power   plus   institutionalisation   .   .   .  Against  this,  I  shall  argue  here  that  authority  should  be  thought  of  as  power  minus,  that  to  possess  power  is  more  expedient  and  advantageous  than  to  possess  mere  authority,  and  that  consent  and  legitimacy  are  immaterial  to  understanding  the  difference  between  these  two  attributes.  (1986:  180)     CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     15 Critically  here,  Barnes  singles  out  some  of  the  more  important  points  about  the  relationship  of  authority   to   that   of   ‘power’.   Barnes   relays   two  different   views:   on   the   one   hand,   authority   is  most   traditionally   represented   as   a   ‘legitimate’   form   of   power   that   must   rely   on   consent   or  institutionalisation  in  order  to  exist;  authority  is  a  capacity  that  is  only  operated  or  enacted  with  the  exertion  of  power.  Alternatively,  Barnes  argues  that  authority  can—and  should—be  seen  as  a  passive  power   in   its  own  right,  something  that   is   less   forceful  or  expedient   than  straight-­‐up  power,   something   that   gives   a   person   passive   rights   to   act  without   discretion,  which  may   or  may  not  translate  into  power.    To   clarify   the   latter   point,   Barnes   gives   two   examples.   The   first   is   of   a  monarch  who  possesses  the  authority  to  sign  Acts  of  Parliament  into  law.  This  authority,  Barnes  argues,  does  not  always  represent  power:  the  Queen  of  England  has  no  practical  power  to  alter  or  withhold  assent   to   most   laws   enacted   in   the   country   today.   Thus,   Barnes   argues,   authority   is  distinguishable  from  active  power  and  is  more  of  a  passive  power  or  right  (Barnes  1986:  183).  In  another  example,  Barnes  gives  the  case  of  an  ‘authority  on’  Aristotle.  This  authority,  Barnes  says,   is   empowered   by   an   individual’s   extensive   knowledge   of   Aristotle,   who   derives   her  standing  “wholly  and  entirely  from  his  society”,  rendering  “any  actual  connection  between  the  authority   and   Aristotle,   or   Aristotle’s   texts…contingent,   essentially   accidental”   (Barnes   1986:  186).   By   continent,   Barnes   argues   that   ‘discretion’,   or   active   judgement,   is   not   involved   in  authority,  as  it  in  raw  power:  “An  authority  on  Aristotle  is  the  passive  agent  of  Aristotle,  rather  as  the  possessor  of  authority  is  the  passive  agent  of  a  power.  Note  that  we  have  authorities  on  Aristotle  in  a  way  that  we  could  not  contemplate  having  powers  over  Aristotle”  (Barnes  1986:  186).  This  identifies  one  very  important  difference  between  power  and  authority:  authority  is  a  more  subtle  matter  of  right,  influential  control  and  legitimacy;  power  is  a  much  more  concrete  matter  of  raw  force,  executive  control  and  action  based  on  discretion  or  judgement.  What  Barnes  somewhat  neglects  in  his  definition,  however,   is  the  fact  that  authority  is  not  a  decontextualised  or  possessed  ‘thing’,  a  point  which  is  discussed  in  more  detail  in  the  next  section.  While  authority  can  be  distinguished  from  raw  executive  power,   it  nevertheless  relies  heavily   on   contextual   materials   and   actors   in   order   to   exist—authority   is   something   not  accidental,   incidental,   nor   something   that   exists   without   its   interdependence   on   contexts   of  legitimation.   It   is  problematic,   for   instance,   for  Barnes  to  claim  that   ‘an  authority’  on  Aristotle  has   only   passive   power—authoritative   people   may   hold   positions   in   an   institution   like   a  university,  for  example,  which  gives  them  certain  rights,  privileges,  accesses  and  active  powers  that  someone  who  is  not  an  authority  does  not  have.  This  power,  I  would  argue,  is  part  of  what  we  mean  when  we  use  the  term  ‘authority’.  What  Barnes  calls  ‘accidental’  or  ‘contingent’  factors  are  actually  fully  embedded  in  this  person’s  ‘possession’  of  authority  or  the  person’s  identity  as  an  authority;  the  executive  authority  of  the  university  professor  is  intertwined  in  his  epistemic   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     16 authority   as   an   expert   on   Aristotle.6   Therefore,   despite   the   fact   that   Barnes   offers   useful  examples  and  distinctions  between  power  and  authority,  his  narrow  definition  of  authority  as  a  passive  power  should  be  supplemented  by  a  view  of  authority  as  an  accomplishment  or  effect,  stressing  its  inseparable  link  with  modes  of   legitimation,  and  with  constant  social   interactions  and  negotiations.  It   is   important   to   offer   the   discussion   above   on   the   distinction   between   ‘power’   and  ‘authority’   because   they   are   both   abstract,   highly   fluid   and   debatable   concepts,   yet   endlessly  discussed  in  both  the  academe  and  the  wider  public.  Few  topics  have  been  engaged  as  much  in  academia,   at   least   indirectly,   as   that   of   authority   and   asymmetric   social   power   relationships.  Authority  touches  and  impacts  a  vast  range  of  human  experience,  both   in  the  present  and  the  past.  As  a  social  concept,  it  is  far-­‐reaching  and  abstract.  We  speak  of  authority,  in  authority,  on  authority.  Things  may  be  authoritative,  people  may  be  authoritative,  texts  may  be  authoritative,  actions  and  speech  may  be  authoritative,  abstractions  like  ‘knowledge’  may  be  authoritative—or  not.  Authority  can  have  material  and  physical  consequences.  A  desire  for  authority  can  lead  people   to  extremes  of  behaviour  and  risk,   and   the   loss  of   it   can  cause  despair,   anger  or  grief.  Individuals  or  collectives  are  often  drawn  to  charismatic   leaders  and  social  movements   in   the  hope  to  attain  some  measure  of  authority  or  benefit   from  authority.  Students  and  apprentices  learn  from  the  authority  of  those  who  teach  them,  and  authorities  lead  intellectual  endeavours.  People   in   search   of   or   ‘in   possession   of’   authority   can   turn   into   powerful   consumers   and  producers  of  ‘authoritative’  goods.  Importantly,  authority  can  also  be  mimicked  and  performed,  and   people   often   make   deliberate   choices   in   how   to   perform,   seek   out,   or   undermine  authoritative  people,  things  or  knowledge.7         2.2.1.2    Traditional  Approaches  to  Defining  Authority  The   term   ‘authority’,  much   like   the  related   term   ‘power’,  has  been   “used,   re-­‐used,  and  endlessly  abused”  (Law  1991:  165)  in  both  popular  and  disciplinary  discourse  on  social  power  relations:   “[f]ew  words  have  greater   currency   in  organizational   theory  and  organizational   life  than   does   the   term   authority.   Still   the   concept   of   authority   is   as   open   to   conflicting  interpretations  as  any”  (Dalton,  Barnes  et  al.  1968:  199).  Defining  the  term  is  difficult,  since  it  can   refer   to   both   tangible   acts   and   actors—such   as   persons   who   may   be   ‘authorities’   that  execute   their   authority   through   executive   force—as   well   as   abstract   qualities   and   tacit  assumptions—such   as   the   ‘authority’   tacitly   possessed   by   a   person   whose   opinion   holds  influence   over   others.   Authority   transcends   normal  metonymy   (i.e.,   you   can   be   ‘an   authority’   6 See Section 2.2.2 for further discussion on the terms ‘executive authority’ and ‘epistemic authority.’ 7  These  concepts  are  unpacked  in  detail  in  Chapter  Five  and  Chapter  Six.   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     17 and  you   can   ‘have   authority’,   and   in  both   cases   ‘authority’   is   not   just   a  part   standing   in   for   a  whole);   instead,   authority   references   tacit   social   relations   as   well   as   tangible   outcomes   and  executive   measures   upon   which   people   and   things   react   and   interact.   The   concept   is   truly  relative,   based   on   social   relations   and   asymmetric   power,   often   deeply   entangled  with   other  concepts—such   as   power,   influence,   coercion,   persuasion,   authenticity,   accuracy   and  legitimation—so  much   that   each   term   feeds   into   each,   and   any   realistic   definition  must   rely  heavily  on  multiple  other  concepts  in  order  to  exist  in  meaning  on  its  own.  Perhaps  it  is  because  authority  is  seemingly  obvious,  yet  still  ambiguous,  that  the  term  has  been  used  so  prolifically  in  academic   research   without   any   significant   deconstruction   of   what   the   term   actually   means  across   disciplines,   or   at   the   very   least,   outside   of   the   narrow   scope   of   a   single   literary  discussion.  Even  within  disciplinary  boundaries  the  term  often  remains  abstract.   It   is  perhaps  not   surprising   that   “[e]very   few   years   a   writer   will   ruefully   agree   with   earlier   writers   that  authority   remains   a   difficult   concept   on  which   to   establish   any   agreement   in   terms”   (Dalton,  Barnes  et  al.  1968:  199).  In   political   science,   managerial   studies,   and   sociology,   authority   has   often   been  discussed  in  terms  of  human  potential   for  social  power  and  control,  addressing  why  a  person,  party  or  social  group  is  dominant  over  or  resistant  towards  another  (Dalton,  Barnes  et  al.  1968;  Lincoln  1994).  Political  and  managerial  literature  on  authority  has  been  primarily  interested  in  cause-­‐and-­‐effect  physical   outcomes  of   authority   and   social   relationships—seeking   answers   to  questions   such   as:   why   was   Hitler   able   to   command   so   much   ‘authority’   over   his   subjects  (Milgram  1974:  438;  Patten  1977),  or  why  do  some  businesses  and  organisations  seem  to  thrive  when   headed   by   a   charismatic   authoritative   figure?   (Smith   2009).   This   type   of   authority   is  direct  and  specific,   linked  very  much   to  action  and  people  with  power   in   social  hierarchies—‘executive’  in  nature.8    Most   traditional   sociological   literature  on  authority   is   interested   in  power  relations   in  the  ‘social  order’,  how  power  and  authority  are  sustained  or  resisted  over  time  by  various  social  communities   or   ideologies.   They   ask   questions   such   as,   how   do   communities   maintain   or  collapse   orders   of   authority,   power   and   resistance?   Karl   Marx   and   Max   Weber’s   work,   for  example,   both   relate   authority   specifically   to   economics,   power   and   revolt;   they   regard  executive   control   and   domination   of   certain   members   or   groups,   in   various   scales   of   social  communities   (Marx   1888;   Weber   1964).   Weber   outlined   three   sociological   categories   of  authority   in  society,  specifically  relating  the  concept  of   ‘authority’  with  that  of   ‘legitimation’,  a  term  which  implies  the  power  to  influence  others  through  the  force  vested  in  one’s  institutional  position   or   elevated   status   (OED   1989).   In   his   work,   Weber   defines   authority   as   a   type   of   8 See Section 2.2.2.2 for further discussion on executive authority. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     18 ‘legitimate  power’  as  opposed  to  illegitimate  force,9  and  his  typology  of  authorities  are  grouped  into  three  categories.  In  the  first,  Charismatic  Authority,  authoritative  power  operates  through  personal   leadership   and   transformational   promise;   in   the   second,   Traditional   Authority,  authoritative  power  is  vested  in  a  sense  of  fidelity  to  an  established  tradition,  status  or  occupied  position;  and  in  the  third,  Legal-­‐Rational  Authority,  authoritative  power  operates  in  obedience  to  bureaucracy,  rules  and  law  (Weber  1978).  These  categories,  while  somewhat  arbitrary,  form  a  useful  framework  to  begin  thinking  about  how  authority  operates  in  social  groups;  they  offer  a  lens   from   which   a   researcher   can   begin   to   understand   the   social   operation   and   impact   of  authority   from   the  most   individual   and  personal   level—Charismatic—to   the  most   communal,  structured   and   complex—Legal-­‐Rational.   Many   later   studies   on   authority   in   management,  politics  and  sociology  often  begin  their  theses  with  a  nod  in  the  direction  of  Weber’s  early  work.      Definitions  and  discussion  of   authority  have  also  appeared   in   the   fields  of   education,  philosophy   and   psychology,   in   addition   to   this   earlier   interest   by   political   scientists   and  sociologists   like  Weber;   however,   a   different   language   set   is   often   used.   ‘Authority’   has   been  frequently  divided  by   terminologies   like   ‘executive’   and   ‘epistemic’   (Kruglanski  1989;  Lincoln  1994;   Pierson   1994),   which   highlight   the   difference   between   action-­‐based   authority   and  knowledge-­‐based   authority.   In   literary   criticism,   psychology   and   discourse   analysis   research,  authority   is   often   referenced   in   terms   of   being   ‘vertical’   and   ‘horizontal’,   where   ‘vertical’  authority   identifies   power   relations   that   are   more   structural   and   institutionally   based,   and  ‘horizontal’  references  a  more  dynamic  plane  of  social  relations,  where  authoritative  power   is  emergent   and   actively   established   between   individuals   (Landsberger   1961;   Hill   1973;   Smith  and  Elliott  2002).  It   is   interesting   to   note   that   most   of   the   studies   that   have   attempted   to   explain   and  define   authority   have   divided   it   up   into   units   or   types,   manicuring   and   categorizing   this  amorphous   concept   into   manageable,   understandable   and   referable   bits.   However,   it   is  important   to  stress   that,  always,   these  categories  are  arbitrary  and  potentially   run   the  risk  of  oversimplification  or  misrepresentation.  A  study  of  the  very  different  divisions  of  language  and  categorical  use  of  the  concept  ‘authority’  within  and  across  disciplines  is  much  needed  in  future  research   and   represents   a  worthwhile   future   study;   however,   a   comprehensive   study   on   this  topic  is  beyond  the  scope  of  this  dissertation.  Instead,  I  simply  note  these  many  overlapping  and  often  contradictory  terminologies,  and  I  will  offer  only  a  specific  choice  of  terminologies  in  the  next   section—founded   on   some   of   the   more   prevalent   and   currently   popular   terminologies  from  political  science  and  psychology—for  the  ease  of  future  discussion  in  this  dissertation.       9 See Section 2.2.2.2 for further discussion on legitimate authority and de facto authority. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     19 2.2.2    Categories  and  Deconstructing  Authority   2.2.2.1    Categories  of  Authority      This   section   frames   the   traditional   scholarly   categories   of   ‘executive’   and   ‘epistemic’  authority,   as   well   as   other   subcategories   like   ‘intellectual   authority’,   as   a   starting   point   for  discussion   for   this  dissertation.  All   of   these   categories   (de   facto   and   legitimate,   executive  and  epistemic,   intellectual   authority)   relate   to  matters  of  power   and   control—control   over   rights,  usage,  privilege,  access,  production,  reproduction  and  influence.  These  categories  are  arbitrary  and  are  not  meant  to  be  seen  as  more  than  a  useful  platform  for  observation  and  analysis  in  this  research.   The   second   part   of   this   section   addresses   the   problem   of   defining   authority   as   a  quality   versus   an   accomplishment.   It   argues   for   the   examination   of   authority   as   an  accomplishment  by  addressing  the  social  and  contextual  nature  of  its  development.     2.2.2.2    Executive  Authority  The  Oxford  English  Dictionary  offers  two  definitions  of  authority,  which  identify  some  of  the  more  pertinent  qualities  of  the  term.  In  the  first,  the  OED  states  that  authority  is  the  “power  to   enforce   obedience”   (OED   1989).   This   is   what   traditional   managerial   and   psychological  literature  often  refer  to  as  executive  authority  (Watt  1982;  Lincoln  1994).  Executive  authority  is  an  active  right  or  power  held   in  a  specific  context,  drawn  from  a  delegated  or  derived  title  or  right.  It  is  also  often  referred  to  as  ‘practical’  authority,  since  it  creates  the  opportunity  for  the  practical   application   of   power.   The   possessor   of   executive   authority   has   a   conferred   right   to  perform   an   action,  whether   by   subjugation   or   by   allowance   by   peers   or   inferiors   (Christiano  2004).  This  is  the  kind  of  classic  authority  held  by  a  leader  at  the  head  of  a  social  group,  whose  position   or   charisma   confers   him  or   her   the   right   to   delegate   tasks   to   others,   and   to   enforce  obedience  relating  to  the  actions  and  decisions  that  he  or  she  makes.  It  is  intimately  tied  to  the  concepts   of   legitimacy   and   power.   Stanley  Milgram’s   experiments   on   the   power   of   authority,  which  tested  the   limits  of  subordinate  obedience  to  demands  made  by  authority   figures,   is  an  extreme,  yet  classic  example  of  executive  authority  in  action  (Milgram  1974).  Beginning  with  early  political  theories  of  authority  by  scholars  such  as  Thomas  Hobbes  (1668)  and  John  Austin  (1832),  and  extending  into  modern  political  discourse  today  (Christiano  2004),   the   two   political   science   categories   of   authority,   de   facto   and   legitimate,   have   been  offered  as  distinguishable  types  of  executive  authority.  De  facto  authority  is  very  similar  to  raw  power;  it  refers  to  a  person  or  group  who  has  the  capacity  to  command  the  obedience  of  others,  regardless   of   whether   all   subordinates   or   peers   universally   accept   that   authority.   In   other  words,   a   person   or   collective   has   de   facto   authority   simply   because   they   have   power   over   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     20 others.  A  scholar  like  Barnes,  who  strictly  defines  authority,  might  say  that  de  facto  authority  is  not  authority  at  all,  but  rather  power.  However,  many  political  science  scholars  argue  that  it  is  authority,  in  that  it  “amounts  to  the  capacity  of  a  person  or  group  of  persons  to  maintain  public  order   and   secure   the   obedience   of   most   people   by   issuing   commands   backed   by   sanctions”  (Christiano  2004).  In  the  seventeenth  century,  Thomas  Hobbes  even  went  to  far  as  to  argue  that   de  facto  authority  is  necessarily  justified  (or  legitimate)  simply  because  an  entity  is  capable  of  performing  authoritative  functions  (1668);  however  Christiano  (2004)  argues  that  this  is  a  view  that  most  modern  scholars  shy  from.  Instead,   they  note  a  critical  difference  exists  between  de   facto  and  legitimate  authority.    ‘Legitimate’   authority,   according   to   many   political   scientists,   operates   with   various  structures  and  contexts  of   support   that   legitimise  a  person  or  group’s  right   to  power,  beyond  simply   the   ability   to   use   that   power   or   impress   it   upon   others.   In   other   words,   legitimate  authority  bases  its  support  on  context  and  means  of  justification—using  such  contexts  as  when  a  person  with  a  charismatic  personality  employs   justified  coercion,  or  when  a  person  has   the  personal  capacity  or  the  institutional  role  which  allows  him  or  her  to  impose  duties,  or  when  a  person   has   a   social   position   that   gives   her   the   right   to   rule   (Weber   1964;   Ladenson   1980;  Buchanan  2003;  Christiano  2004).  In  the  case  of  legitimate  authority,  the  role  of  ‘the  social’  has  much  more  of  a  prominent  function.  People  and  things  hold  legitimate  authority,  or  are  called  legitimate   authorities,   based   entirely   on   social   context.   In   the   case   of   Barnes’s   ‘authority   on’  Aristotle,   for   example,   the   person  who   is   knowledgeable   in   Aristotle   is   an   authority   through  legitimate  means.  This  person  accumulates  his  or  her   authority   through  a   legitimate   study  of  Aristotle’s   text,   acquiring   more   authority   as   a   kind   of   status   through   their   position   in   a  legitimate   institution  of  authority,  such  as  an  established  university,  and  they  can  gain  or   lose  authoritative  status  based  on  their  legitimate  role  and  performance  within  such  an    institution.  In  such  a  case,  the  social  networks,  institutions  and  social  acts  are  “mangled”  (Pickering  1995)  together   with   the   individual’s   status   as   an   authority   and   his   or   her   executive   rights   as   an  authority.    While  both  de  facto  and  legitimate  authority  essentially  relate  to  the  power  interests  and  the   capacity   for   action   possessed   by  members   of   a   structural   social   unit,   there   is   a   primary  difference  in  the  social  performances,  artefacts  and  institutions  that  are  involved  in  both  types.  Legitimate   authority,   as   opposed   to   de   facto   authority,   is   of   key   interest   to   this   dissertation.  Legitimate   authority   is   deeply   associated   with   social   modes   of   legitimation,   social   roles   and  performances,  and  the  contingency  of  its  weight  on  contextual  social  outcomes.  As  discussed  in  much   more   depth   in   the   second   half   of   this   dissertation,   legitimate   authority,   as   a   form   of  executive   authority,   is   an   important   part   of   the   production   and   acceptance   of   ‘authoritative’  archaeological  accounts  of  the  past.   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     21 2.2.2.3    Epistemic  Authority     In  its  second  definition,  the  Oxford  English  Dictionary  defines  ‘authority’  as  the  “power  to  influence  action,  opinion,  belief”  (OED  1989).  This  is  often  referred  to  in  scholarly  literature  as  epistemic  authority  (Watt  1982;  Kruglanski  1990;  Lincoln  1994;  Pierson  1994;  Raviv,  Bar-­‐Tal  et  al.  2003;  Christiano  2004).  Epistemic  authority  is  intimately  related  to  knowledge  formation,  influence,  expertise  and  belief.  It  regards  how  or  why  people  accept  some  information  as  final  or  valid,  and  is  apparent  when  people  stop  seeking  alternative  knowledge  (Kruglanski  1989;  Raviv,  Bar-­‐Tal  et  al.  2003).  When  knowledge  or   information  becomes   labelled   ‘authoritative’,  people  may   take   executive   action   based   on   that   information,   which   can   ultimately   affect   results,  situations  and  outcomes  from  the  actions  that  people  take  based  on  information  they  perceive  as  valid.  Epistemic  authority  is  often  interrelated  with  the  notion  of  experts  and  expertise,10  and  it  is  deeply  relevant  to  studies  on  the  social  production  of  scientific  knowledge.       Some   of   the  more   recent   research   on   epistemic   authority   has   come   out   of   disciplines  such   as   social-­‐cognitive   psychology   and   education.   One   of   the   fundamental   theorists   in  epistemic   authority   is   Arie   Kruglanski,   who   developed   the   theory   of   ‘lay   epistemics’,   which  “addresses  the  process  whereby  human  knowledge  if  formed  and  modified,  and  it  highlights  the  epistemic   functions   of   hypothesis   generation   and   validation”   (Kruglanski   1990:   181).   Lay  epistemic   theory,   and   related   research   in   the   fields   of   philosophy   of   science   and   psychology,  have  particularly  focused  on  the  question  of  why  members  of  the  public  defer  to  the  authority  of  experts  in  society.  The  reliance  and  use  of  epistemic  authority  is  a  necessary  part  of  modern  life,  many  of  these  scholars  argue,  for  “the  demands  of  everyday  life  require  us  to  make  many  more  decisions   and   hold   many   more   opinions   than   we   could   ever   base   on   personally   examined  reasons”   (Pierson   1994:   398).   Researchers   in   the   field   of   education   have   also   examined  knowledge  acquisition  and  power  relations  by  particularly  addressing  the  relationship  between  students  and  teachers,  observing  epistemic  authority  as  “a  source  of  determinative  influence  on  the   formation   of   individuals’   knowledge”   (Raviv,   Bar-­‐Tal   et   al.   2003:   17).   Fundamentally,  epistemic   authority   rests   on   a   consumer's   reliance   and   trust   in   the   knowledge,   influence   and  expertise  of  another  person  or  thing,  like  a  book,  article  or  museum  display.     2.2.2.4    Intellectual  Authority  Closely  related  to  epistemic  authority  is  that  of   ‘intellectual’  authority,  a  term  that  also  has   some   currency   in   academic   literature,   capitalising   on   the   power/knowledge   relationship  (see   Collier   1992;   Furedi   2004).   Intellectual   authority   primarily   deals   with   all   aspects   of   10 See Section 6.2.3 for a detailed discussion about the concept of epistemic dependence and the relationship between expertise, knowledge, epistemic authority and archaeology. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     22 legitimate   authority—executive   and   epistemic—that   relate   to   the   pursuit,   production   and  consumption   of   knowledge.   Intellectual   authority,   for   example,   can   be   a   type   of   legitimate  authority  held  by  a  person  such  a  professor,   like  the   ‘authority  on’  Aristotle  mentioned  above.  This   professor   of   Aristotle  mostly   likely   has   a   high   degree   of   epistemic   authority,  which  was  earned  through  her  intimate  knowledge  of,  and  experience  in,  studying  Aristotle’s  texts,  as  well  as  through  her  apprenticeship  in  academic  training  and  showmanship  in  performing  the  role  of  academic.   If   this   professor   holds   a   high   degree   of   epistemic   authority   through   her   known  expertise   and   authoritative   publication   of  work   on   Aristotle,   she  may   also   hold   a   position   of  status   within   an   institution   such   a   university.   This   position   of   status   can   offer   her   a   certain  degree   of   executive   authority   in   her   ability   to   make   decisions   which   have   an   executable  outcome.   For   example,   she  may   have   the   power   to   access   and   use   departmental   funds   for   a  specific   purpose,   or   have   the   right   to   make   decisions   about   staff   appointments   within   the  department,   or   her   position  may   give   her   a   high   degree   of   influence   over   her   students   that  impact   their   behaviour.   Because   of   her   high   degree   of   epistemic   authority,   she   may   also  influence   other   scholars’   ability   to   publish   in  widely-­‐ready   publications,   both   through   formal  means   (exercising   peer   review   or   editorial   control)   or   informal   ones   (her   influence   over   the  reputations  of  other  scholars  in  her  community).  Zygmunt  Bauman,  a  sociologist  on  postmodern  society,   argues   that   such   intellectuals   can  hold   “meta-­‐professional   authority,   legislating   about  the   procedural   rules   which   allow   them   to   arbitrate   controversies   of   opinion   and   make  statements   intended   as   binding”   (1987:   6).   In   this   sense   ‘intellectual   authorities’   often   hold  legitimate  authority  that  is  both  epistemic  and  executive,  often  situated  in  positions  of  privilege  or  power,  relating  to  context  and  involving  access  or  opportunity.       Today,   a   great   deal   of   social   influence,   power,   and   emphasis   is   placed   on   the   role   of  scientific  expertise.  ‘Intellectuals’  are  in  a  privileged  position  in  society,  simply  because    science  has  developed  as  a  profession  that  holds  and  sways  a  great  deal  of  public  influence.  This  thesis  is   ultimately   focused   on   the   implications   of   ‘intellectual   authority’—regarding   how   power,  influence   and   legitimation   pertains   to   the   pursuit,   distribution   and   consumption   of  knowledge—and  its  role  in  how  accounts  of  the  past  are  produced  and  accepted  as  authoritative  by  archaeologists  and  the  public.  The  negotiation  of  opinion  by  ‘intellectual  authorities’,  which  lead   to   Bauman’s   “statements   intended   as   binding”,   and   which   involve   both   epistemic   and  executive  qualities,  is  the  central  concern  of  this  thesis.       2.2.2.5    Auctors  and  Auctoritas     Finally,  it  is  useful  to  trace  the  meaning  of  authority  even  further,  back  to  its  roots.  This  exercise   provides   a   stable   foundation   for   thinking   about   the   term   in   specific   relation   to   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     23 archaeological  practice.  The  word   ‘authority,’   like   'author,'  derives   its  meaning   from  the  Latin  noun  auctor  which,  according  to  Lewis  and  Short’s  Latin  Dictionary,  means:  He  that  brings  about  the  existence  of  any  object,  or  promotes  the  increase  or  prosperity  of   it,   whether   he   first   originates   it,   or   by   his   efforts   gives   greater   permanence   or  continuance  to  it.  (quoted  in  Watt  1982:  11)    An  auctor  is  an  originator—for  example,  an  inventor,  author,  ancestor,  or  inspirer—as  well  as  a  promoter   or   seller   of   something   (Watt   1982:   11).   In   ancient   Rome,   auctor   also   referred   to  “person  who  warrants   the   right   of   possession;   hence,   a   seller,   vendor”   (OED   1989),   in   other  words,  one  who  creates  or  promotes  something.   In   this  sense,   the  auctor  has  a  kind  of  power  over  an  object,  in  his  role  as  creator  and  promoter,  and  thus  he  is  a  superior  actor  or  agent.  As  Watt  (1982)  notes,  this  kind  of  superiority,  agency  and  power  results,  not  in  an  active  sense  of  obedience  by  those  who  come  in  contact  with  the  auctor,  but  rather  in  a  sense  of  deference  or  respect:  legitimate  authority,  rather  than  de  facto  authority  or  power.11  The   word   auctor   is   at   the   root   of   the   Latin   word   auctoritas,   from   which   the   term  ‘authority’  is  more  immediately  derived.  In  ancient  Rome,  auctoritas  was  a  quality  that  could  be  possessed  by  some  person  or  group.  As  such,   it   is  a  "force"  that   is  "more  than  advice  and  less  than   command,   an   advice  which   one  may   not   safely   ignore”   (Agamben   2005).   This   ‘force’   is  distinct  from  the  Latin  poetas,  the  power  or  right  to  rule  or  command,  often  associated  with  an  emperor’s   active   power   to   command  obedience.   Instead,  auctoritas   is   a   personal   condition,   a  mode  of  influence  held,  for  example,  both  by  the  Roman  Senate  and  by  individual  senators.  It  is  often   compared   with   sociologist   Max  Weber’s   concept   of   charisma,   or   charismatic   authority  (Weber  1964;  Agamben  2005).  Authority,  then,  by  its  relationship  to  auctoritas,  can  be  a  power  of  character  and  a  force  of  influence.     It  is  useful  to  reference  these  Latin  roots  of  ‘authority’,  particularly  when  thinking  about  academic  authority,  and  more  specifically,  archaeological  authority.   Insightful  connections  can  be  drawn  by  thinking  about  the  term  auctor—one  who  brings  into  existence  and  promotes  an  object—and  the  idea  of  what  an  archaeologist  does,  or  what  she  or  he  may  be.  As  discussed  in  much  more  depth  in  Chapter  Five,  one  of  an  archaeologist’s  primary  roles  is  often  seen  to  be  a  ‘discoverer’  of  things  from  the  past,  who  brings  about  the  existence  of  things  that  were  long-­‐lost  or  which  could  potentially  be  destroyed  if  not  rescued  from  oblivion  (Holtorf  and  Drew  2007).  Along  these  lines,  an  archaeologist’s  job  is  also  often  seen  to  create  or  bring  into  existence  new  things   that   represent   what   they   find:   site   maps,   charts,   diagrams,   reports,   physical  reconstructions,   etc.,   which   come   to   exist   through   archaeological   acts   of   authorship,   artistry,  mapping  or   interpretive   industry.  Thus,   the   concept  of   an  archaeologist  as  auctor   is   innate   in  this  professional  role,  which  involves  acts  of  creation  and  authorship.  An  archaeologist  can  also   11 See Section 2.2.1.1. for discussion on the distinction between power and authority. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     24 be  seen  an  auctor  in  the  sense  that  he  or  she  is  a  promoter  and  champion  of  objects  found  (and  of   objects   made   in   the   act   of   archaeology,   such   as   site   reports,   museum   displays,  reconstructions),   since   archaeologists   have   the   role   of   defending   the   worth,   need   for  interpretation  and  safekeeping  of  both  the  things  they  find  and  the  things  they  produce.    It   is  significant  to  point  out  that,   fundamentally,   the  profession  of  archaeology  and  the  professionals  who  work  within   it   derive   their  auctoritas—and   thus   their   authority—on   their  role  as  auctors,  on  their  intimate  engagement  with  and  promotion  of  the  objects  they  locate  or  bring   into   existence.   Finally,   it   is   good   to   revisit   and   acknowledge   the   Latin-­‐based   roots   of  authority   because   the   term   auctoritas   is   so   active.   Auctoritas   is   derived   through   action   and  constant  promotional   upkeep;   it   is   a   force   of   activity,   authoring   and  origination;  auctors   only  exist  in  their  active  production  and  promotion  of  things.  This  is  a  strong  point  to  hold  into  the  next  section,  which  addresses  the  concept  of  authority  as  an  process,  effect  or  outcome.     2.2.3    Authority  as  an  Accomplishment  or  Effect,  rather  than  a  Quality  I  argue  that  the  reason  “authority  remains  a  difficult  concept  on  which  to  establish  any  agreement   in   terms”   (Dalton,   Barnes   et   al.   1968:   199),   and  why   no   solid   definition   has   been  established  in  literature,  is  because  most  traditional  scholarship  has  not  addressed  the  concept  in   an   appropriate   way.   Instead   of   looking   at   authority   as   a   complex   ‘by-­‐product’   of   social  relationships,   as   the   outcome   or   effect   of   interdependent   social   interactions,   as   an  accomplishment   or   product—as   I   strongly   argue   it   is—most   previous   studies   have   been  exercises   in   categorising   and   qualifying   social   scenarios.   They   see   ‘authority’   as   an   object   or  force,   a   collectable   and   potentially   quantifiable   quality   that   can   be   defined   without   heavy  interdependence   on   context.   Authority   is   instead   an   accomplishment   or   an   effect,   a   kinetic  outcome  of  social  activity,  networking  and  interrelationships:  “power  is  not  something  one  can  possess  –  indeed  it  must  be  treated  as  a  consequence  rather  than  as  a  cause  of  action”  (Latour  1986:  264).  Power  by  this  definition,  and  authority  by  relation,  is  not  something  that  is  gained  or   lost,   nor   something   that   is   active   or   passive;   rather,   it   is   a   “composition  made   by   many  people…used  as  a  convenient  way  to  summarise  the  consequence  of  a  collective  action…It  may  be  used  as  an  effect,  but  never  as  a  cause”  (Latour  1986:  265).  Bruno   Latour,   in   his   article   The   Powers   of   Association,   argues   that   the   way   we   think  about   concepts   like  power   comes  down   to   a  debate   about   their   fundamental  qualities:   “What  makes  the  notion  of  power  both  so  useful  and  so  empty  is  a  philosophical  argument  about  the  nature   of   collective   action”   (Latour   1986:   266).   Latour   presents   the   important   distinction  between  what  he  calls  the  ‘diffusion  model’  and  the  ‘translation  model’,  which  are  two  different  ways  of   conceptualising  social  qualities   like  power.  The   traditional  diffusion  model,   as  Latour   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     25 explains  it,  ascribes  to  power  a  force  akin  to  inertia  in  physics,  where  ‘power’  is  a  kind  of  thing  endowed  with   its  own  energy:   “what  counts   is   the   initial   force  of   those  who  have  power;   this  force   is   then   transmitted   in   its   entirety;   finally,   the  medium   through  which   power   is   exerted  may  diminish  the  power  because  of  frictions  and  resistances”  (Latour  1986:  267).  For  example,  by   the   traditional  diffusion  perspective,   it   is  assumed  that  when  orders  were  carried  out  by  a  group  like  the  Nazi  party,  it  took  someone  like  Hitler  who  initially  held  a  great  deal  of  power  (as  a   kinetic   force)   to   command   an   order.   The   power   behind   his   order   was   then   transmitted  through  the  party  ranks  after  he  gave   it,  with  the  power  either  being  sustained  or  resisted  by  those   who   received   it   though   the   medium   of   exertion—that   is,   through   the   lack   of  communication,   indifference,   ill   will   or   direct   opposition   by   interest   groups;   this   diffusion   of  power   resulted   in   Hitler’s   order   being   followed   to   greater   or   lesser   degrees,   and   his   power  being  sustained,  increasing  or  decreasing  over  time.  The  diffusion  model  is  the  traditional  way  of  thinking  about  power  in  society,  where  power  is  a  possessable  thing  held  in  greater  or  lesser  amounts   and   transmitted   more   or   less   successfully   through   society.   This   is   why   so   much  scholarly   literature   (see   Section   2.2.2,   above)   has   focused   on   simply   categorising   power   and  authority,  since  it  has  been  conceptualised  as  a  measurable  force.  However,   in   the   alternative   ‘translation   model’,   social   abstractions   like   power   and  authority   become   very   different   things.   In   this  model,   the   spread   of   power   is   entirely   in   the  hands  of  a  multitude  of  different  actors,  each  of  whom  “may  act  in  many  different  ways,  letting  the   token   [of   power:   the   claim,   order,   artefact]   drop,   or   modifying   it,   or   deflecting   it,   or  betraying  it,  or  adding  to  it,  or  appropriating  it”  (Latour  1986:  267).  In  other  words,  power  is  an  accumulation  or  effect  generated  by  a  web  of  different  actors,  things  and  influences.  There  is  no  inertia   to   explain   the   transmission   of   power   or   authority,   for   it   cannot   be   possessed   or  capitalised.   Rather,   something   like   authority   is   the   accumulation   of   acts   and   negotiations   by  many  different  actors,  who  each  interact  with  a  token  (of  power,  like  an  order  or  an  artefact)  in  order   to   achieve   their   own   goals   and   aims.   It   is   called   ‘translation’   because   it   changes,   or  translates,  as  it  bounces  from  hand  to  hand  of  each  actor.  Latour  gives  the  example  of  a  rugby  game  with  a  rugby  ball;  power,  like  the  ball  in  play  which  forms  the  ‘game’,  “is  the  consequence  of  the  energy  given  to  the  token  by  everyone  in  the  chain  who  does  something  about  it”  (1986:  267).  Authority  in  this  sense,  like  power,  is  made  up  of  constituent  actions  and  parts,  a  complex  force—abstract  and  physical—with  a  complex  social  history  of  construction  and  use,  made  up  of  thousands   of   constituent   parts   (Law   1992).   It   is   the   outcome   of   thousands   of   social   choices,  actions   and   reactions;   it   is  networked   in   social   and   interdependent   space,   not   independently,  and  built   from  both  passive  and  active  social  agency.  This  perspective  completely  changes  the  fundamental  way  we  think  about  power  and  authority  relationships:   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     26 [In  the  diffusion  model],  the  notion  of  power  becomes  convenient  for  sociologists.  There  is   always   enough   already   accumulated   energy   to   explain,   say,   the   spread   of   the  multinationals,   Pinochet’s   dictatorship…[But]   If   you   apply   the   translation   model,   this  reservoir  dries  up  immediately.  You  no  longer  have  any  stored-­‐up  energy  to  explain  why  a  President  is  obeyed  and  a  multinational  grows  since  these  effects  are  a  consequence  of  the  action  of  multitudes.  (Latour  1986:  269)      From  the  perspective  of  the  translation  model,  any  explanation  that  claims  that  Hitler’s  orders  were  obeyed  just  because  he  ‘had  power’  is  unsustainable.  In  the  translation  model,  the  power  and  authority  behind  an  order  given  by  a  military  commander  to  by  a  group  of  soldiers   is  the  result  of  a  complex  chain  of  reactions  and  social  context.  From  this  perspective,  each  actor  who  comes   in   contact   with   a  military   order   has   their   own   reasons   for   accepting,   carrying   out   or  resisting   the   order,   whether   for   self   preservation,   personal   honour   or   professional   gain,   and  each   individual   takes   the  order  and  performs   it  according   to   their  own  account  or  needs,  and  negotiated  for  their  own  reasons.  The  authority  of  the  order  results  not  simply  from  the  result  of  inertia  imbued  in  the  leader’s  possession  of  power,  but  because  of  the  complex  negotiations  and  interactions  that  accumulate  from  each  actor’s  interaction  with  it.     It   is   important  to  consider  the  fact  that  the  traditional  diffusion  model  runs  the  risk  of  oversimplification,   skirting   over   the   complexities   behind   a   subject   like   ‘authority’.   It   is  much  more  improbable,  for  example,  to  think  of  obedience  as  a  product  of  perfect  social  ‘alignment’  to  a  kinetic   force,  where  all   the  people  who   interact  with   it  assent   fully  without  modifying   it.  As  Latour  argues,  “Such  a  situation  is  highly  improbable.  The  chances  are  that  the  order  has  been  modified   and   composed   by   many   different   people   who   slowly   turned   it   into   something  completely   different   as   they   sought   to   achieve   their   own   goals”   (1986:   268).   The   translation  model  rectifies  this  oversimplification  by  allowing  space  for  the  actual  complexities  of  a  social  abstraction   like   ‘authority’   or   ‘power’   to   emerge   in   observation.   Certainly   in   the   case   of   this  thesis,   approaching   a   study   of   authority   in   an   archaeological   context   through   the   translation  model   has   allowed   room   for   connections   to   be   made   and   discussions   to   form   about   the  interconnectedness   of   actors,   things   and   social   context,   which   would   otherwise   have   been  impossible  to  describe  from  the  perspective  of  the  diffusion  model,  where  power  either  exists  or  does  not  exist  in  a  quantifiable  form.     2.2.4    Authority  of  Things,  Instruments,  and  Ideas     One   of   the   main   benefits   of   using   the   translation   model   in   thinking   about   the   way  authority  operates  in  society  is  that  it  opens  up  a  world  of  possible  ways  to  observe  and  think  about   the  way   social   actors   interact.  Notably,   it   allows   for   social   scientists   to   account   for   the  active  agency  of  things  and  ideas  as  well  as  people.     CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     27 On   the   outset,   it   is   clear   that   people,   things,   actions   or   speech,   even   abstractions   like  ‘knowledge’,   may   be   called   ‘authoritative’   or   can   be   called   ‘an   authority’   about   or   over  something  else.  For  example,  a  person  who  is  called   ‘an  authority’  can  write  an   ‘authoritative’  text,   which   refers   to   both   the   authority   of   a   book   itself   as   well   as   the   knowledge   and   ideas  behind   it.   Generally,   the   space   between   two   or   more   juxtaposed   objects,   people   or   ideas  provides   a   given   opportunity   for   social   comparability,   and   comparability   opens   space   for  differences   in   status   and   authority.   Again,   as  Mortensen   and   Kirsch   in   compositional   studies  write,  “this  is  because  relations  in  communities  are  in  part  defined  by  differences  in  knowledge,  experience,   and   status—differences   in   power   that   endlessly   shift   within   and   across   social  contexts”  (Mortensen  and  Kirsch  1993:  558).   In  a  model  of   translation—which  offers  the   idea  that  various  actors  each  have  a  performative  role  in  the  way  authority  develops,  changes  and  is  maintained—this  concept  of  ‘communities’  can  include  networks  of  associations  and  status  that  operate  between  people  and  things  or  instruments,  as  well  as  between  ideas  or  abstractions.    This   idea   aligns   with   the   argument   made   in   studies   of   the   sociology   of   science   and  technology  (see  Section  2.2.5,  below),  which  not  only  argues  that  “knowledge  is  a  social  product  rather   than   something   generated   by   through   the   operation   of   a   privileged   scientific  method”  (Law   1992:   2),   but   also   that   social   qualities   like   ‘power’   or   ‘authority’   are   socially   produced  entities.   Importantly,   this   actor-­‐network12   translation   model   allows   for   ‘actors’   to   be   things,  machines,  or  instruments,  as  well  as  people,  since  something  like  a  stage,  podium,  telescope  or  writing   pen   can   influence   the   generation,   outcome   and   acceptance   of   produced   qualities   like  knowledge  or  power  (Pickering  1995).  A  classic  example  would  be  the  authority  relations  in  a  classroom,  where   the   act   of   standing  on   a   stage  with   a  podium  and  PowerPoint  presentation  imbues   a   teacher  with   a   great   deal   of   epistemic   and   executive   authority,   simply   because   the  teacher’s  social  performance  draws  from  the  complex  social  traditions  which  inform  at  spatial  setup.   Furthermore,   any   actual   active   power   and   authority   the   teacher   has   in   this   scenario  comes   from   a   complex   web   of   social   interactions   at   the   moment   of   performance,   which   are  based  upon  and  relying  upon  the  teacher’s  accumulated  status  as  an  epistemic  authority,  as  well  as  the  level  of  resistance  or  accommodation  given  to  her  by  the  students  sitting  on  the  benches  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room.  This  complex  relationship  of  authority,  and  the  agency  vested  in  things  as  well  as  people,  is  an  important  point  that  will  re-­‐emerge  and  be  explored  in  much  more   depth   throughout   the   second   part   of   this   dissertation,   in   the   analyses   of   the   two   case  studies.     12 See Section 3.2.1.1. for further discussion on Actor-Network Theory. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     28 2.2.5    Authority,  Social  Constructivism  and  Scientific  Knowledge  This  thesis  emphasises  the  role  of  context  and  process  in  the  production  of  knowledge.  Over   the   past   thirty   years,   a   great   deal   of   academic   discussion   has   emerged   about   the  production   of   knowledge,   in   disciplines   ranging   from   philosophy   and   sociology   to   the  philosophy  of  science,  and  it  has  been  recognised  that  knowledge  is  highly  contingent  on  social  context  (Latour  and  Woolgar  1986;  Pickering  1995;  Law  1999).  A  wide  body  of  scholarship  has  utilised  an  array  of  methods  from  historiography,  ethnography  and  ethnomethodology  to  study  sociological   aspects   of   knowledge   production.   Bruno   Latour   and   Steve  Woolgar,   for   example,  used   ethnographic   methods   to   study   natural   science   laboratories,   tracing   how   scientific  knowledge   is   actively   and   socially   produced   (Latour   and   Woolgar   1986).   In   another   case,  Andrew  Pickering  used  historiographic  and  sociological  methods  to  explore  how  quarks  became  socially   established   as   scientific   fact   (Pickering   1995).   In   archaeology,   for   example,   Cornelius  Holtorf  traced  the  ‘life  history’  of  a  pot  sherd  in  order  to  argue  that  even  the  material  identity  of  an  artefact  is  socially  ascribed  and  contextual  (Holtorf  2002).  From  such  studies,  it  has  emerged  that   science   is   not   a   sturdy   process   that  merely   reveals   facts   about   the  world;   rather,   it   is   a  complex  and  interdependent  social  activity,  where  scientific   facts  are  produced  through  social  and   political   negotiations,   networks,   associations   and   practices   (Latour   and   Woolgar   1986;  Latour  1988;  Pickering  1995;  Shapin  1996).  Further,  they  argue  scientific  facts—and  scientists  themselves—are  socially  constructed  in  the  sense  that  they  are  literally  made  material:    [A]nalytically,   what   counts   as   a   person   is   an   effect   generated   by   a   network   of  heterogeneous,   interacting,  materials…If   you   took   away  my   computer,  my   colleagues,  my  office,  my  books,  my  desk,  my  telephone  I  wouldn’t  be  a  sociologist  writing  papers,  delivering   lectures,   and   producing   “knowledge”.   I’d   be   something   quite   other.   (Law  1992)    These  multiple  studies  have  been  unified  under  the  blanket  term  social  constructivism,13  which  is  most   simply   defined   by   its   central   claim:   that   people,   artefacts,   reality   and   knowledge   are  social   constructs,   dependent   on   contingent   social   variables;   they   are  material   by-­‐products   of  human   actions,   choices   and   negotiations   rather   than   extant   artefacts   of   nature   (Law   1992;  Boghossian  2001).  It  is  important  to  note  that  social  constructivism  does  not  argue  that  reality  does   not   exist  without   social   interactions,   or   that   particles   or   dinosaurs  would   not   ‘be   there’  without,  say,  scientific  methods  and  theories.  Rather  social  constructivism  argues  that  ‘facts’  are  socially  created  things:   ‘facts’  are  knowledge  presented  as  semi-­‐stable  forms  and  entities—set   13 It is important to note that the theory of social constructivism is related but different from that of social constructionism. Social constructivism is interested in how beliefs, reality, and knowledge are socially constructed, while social constructionism is interested in how artefacts or things are socially produced. While this thesis has a primary concern in how archaeological knowledge is produced, it is also concerned with the materiality and presentation of that knowledge—thus both theories are related to this dissertation. However, for ease of discussion, I only refer to the theory ‘social constructivism’ throughout this work. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     29 and  presented  through  the  scientific  process  as  authoritative  and  correct  ways  to  talk  about  and  look  at   the  world.  Their   forms  and  acceptance  are  contextual  and  material,  dependent  on   the  social,   political   and  material   nature   of   the   scientific   process   (Latour   and  Woolgar  1986:   180-­‐182).   In  social   constructivism,  a  great  deal  of  attention  has  been  paid   to   the  construction  of  scientific   facts,   since   ‘science’   is   a   broad   category   of   knowledge   production   that   holds   great  status  and  power  in  modern  society.  Most  Sociology  of  Scientific  Knowledge  (SSK)  studies  have  focused  on   studying   the   ‘hard’   laboratory   sciences,   such   the   construction  of   scientific   facts   in  subjects   like   particle   physics   or   chemistry.   But   ‘science’,   by   its   most   inclusive   social  constructivist   definition,   is   simply   “the  production  of   convincing   knowledge   in  modern   society”  (Marks  2009:  2,  emphasis   in  original),  and  subjects   like  archaeology   fall  under   this  definition.  By   production,   social   constructivists   argue   that   ‘science’   is   not   a   passive   exercise   or   activity;  rather,   scientific  methods   and   knowledge   are   the   end   result   of   some   constructive   and   active  social  process.  By  convincing,  they  highlight  the  fact  that  scientific  interpretations  must  be  first  accepted  by  others  in  the  scientific  community  before  they  become  facts:  the  establishment  of  scientific   ‘fact’   is   an   active   process   of   argument   and   convincing,   not   mere   discovery   or   the  passive  emergence  of  objective  truths.  Finally,  by  knowledge,   they  mean:  “reliable   information  about   the   universe…if   it   were   wrong   too   frequently   or   too   egregiously,   it   wouldn’t   be   very  reliable.  So  science  is  information  about  the  universe  that  comes  with  some  source  of  authority  behind  it”  (Marks  2009:  4).  This  last  point—which  targets  an  interest  in  how  authority  is  vested  in   scientific   acts—is   perhaps  most   relevant   to   this   thesis,  which   focuses   on   how   authority   is  embedded  in  the  production  of  archaeological  accounts  of  the  past.  In  many  ways,   archaeology   is  much  more  public   and  openly  witnessed  academic   field  than   laboratory   science,   and   it   is   most   certainly   a   ‘social   science’   in   comparison   to   ‘hard’  sciences  like  particle  physics  or  organic  chemistry  (Holtorf  and  Drew  2007;  Moshenska  2009).  However   it   is   still   a   discipline   that   endeavours   to   produce   accurate   and   reliable   knowledge  about   its   subject   of   study,   and   like   any   hard   science,   archaeology   is   an   arbitrary   system   of  classification  based  on  social  context  (Durkheim  and  Mauss  1963).  Archaeology  is  a  system  of  classification,  a  discipline  that  endeavours  to  produce  reliable  knowledge  about  the  world,  and  it   promotes   a   unified   system   of   methods   to   maintain   a   sense   of   order   that   will   help   its  practitioners   better   reach   reliable   conclusions.14   Archaeology   is,   in   this   sense,   a   science.  Therefore,  much  of  the  current  social  constructivism  research  coming  out  of  science  studies  is  very  applicable  to  deeper  study  of  the  archaeological  process.       14 See Sections 5.2.1 and 6.2.1. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     30 2.2.5.1    Archaeology  from  a  Social  Constructivist  Perspective  The   fluid,  messy   and   social   process   of   scientific   activity   can   be   observed   through   the  movement   of   materials   (Law   1992).   In   a   field   like   archaeology,   fluid   social   practices—like  excavating  or  developing  museum  exhibitions—stabilise  into  new  material  products,  like  texts,  physical   reconstructions,   illustrations   or  museum   displays.   STS   researchers   have   referred   to  this  process  ‘inscription’,  and  they  have  called  the  new  material  products  created  from  scientific  activity  inscriptions  (Latour  1999:  306-­‐307).  The  ultimate  aim  of  conducting  scientific  practices  is   to   create   new   material   forms   of   knowledge.   Inscription   involves   “all   the   types   of  transformations   through   which   an   entity   becomes   materialized   into   a   sign,   an   archive,   a  document,  a  piece  of  paper,  a  trace…They  are  always  mobile,  that  is,  they  allow  new  translations  and  articulations  while  keeping  some  types  of  relations  intact”  (Latour  1999:  306-­‐307).  Pivotal  activities   of   archaeological   work   involve   the   production   of   inscriptions   like   notes,   drawings,  images,   texts  and  databases.   Inscribed   ‘end-­‐products’  of  archaeological  practice  often  take  the  form  of  texts,  reconstructions  or  displays.    This  process  of   inscription   is   closely   related   to  another  STS  concept   called   translation  (Latour   1999:   311).   Translation   “refers   to   all   the   displacements   through   other   actors  whose  mediation  is  indispensable  for  any  action  to  occur…actors  modify,  displace,  and  translate  their  various  and  contradictory  interests”  (Latour  1999:  311).  In  scientific  activity,  various  actors  and  objects  can  gain,  lose  or  impart  authority  in  the  way  they  negotiate  materials  and  interact  in  a  given   network.   Translation   is   the   process   where   individuals   interact   with   one   another,   with  inscriptions  and  with  other  material,  negotiating  their  own  relationship  to  that  actor  or  object,  and  maximising  their  material  situation  in  a  network  to  their  greatest  advantage.  Bruno  Latour  loosely  uses  the  metaphor  of  a  rugby  game  to  further  explain  the  process  of  translation:    The  construction  of  facts,  like  a  game  of  rugby,  is  thus  a  collective  process.  Each  element  in   the  chain  of   individuals  needed   to  pass   the  black  box  along  may  act   in  multifarious  ways:   the   people   in   question  may   drop   it   altogether,   or   accept   it   as   it   is,   or   shift   the  modalities  that  accompany  it,  or  modify  the  statement,  or  appropriate  it  and  put  it  in  a  completely  different  context…all  the  actors  are  doing  something  to  the  black  box.  Even  in   the   best   of   cases   they   do   not   simply   transmit   it   but   add   events   of   their   own   by  modifying   the   argument,   strengthening   it   and   incorporating   it   into   new   contexts.   The  metaphor  of  the  rugby  game  soon  breaks  down  since  the  ball  remains  the  same  -­‐  apart  from  a  few  abrasions  -­‐  all  along,  whereas  in  this  technoscience  game  we  are  watching,  the  object  is  modified  as  it  goes  along  from  hand  to  hand.  (1987:  104)    Both   of   these   processes—inscription   and   translation—are   critical   concepts   in   social  constructivism,   and   they   are   extensively   discussed   in   Chapters   Three   and   Four   of   this   thesis  (Section  3.2.1.1  and  4.4).  For  now,   it   is  useful   to   illustrate   ‘relational  materiality’  and  stabilisation  of   inscription  and   translation   in   social   constructivism   through   the  example  of   the  2009  Çatalhöyük  Archive   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     31 Report.  At  the  end  of  each  field  season,  the  Çatalhöyük  team  produces  an  Archive  Report  which  they   first   publish   in   print   text,   as   per   academic   standard,   then   later   publish  more  widely   in  digital  form  on  their  public  website.  The  Archive  Reports  are  intended  to  summarise  the  work  of  the  team’s  most  recent  field  season;  they  detail  the  excavation  work  that  occurred,  highlight  any   notable   finds   or   features   found   that   season,   and   offer   detailed   reports   of   work   done   in  various  special  categories  of  finds  such  as  specific  reports  on  lithics,  animal  bones,  bone  tools  or  human   remains.   In   the  2009  Archive  Report,   for   example,   director   Ian  Hodder’s   introductory  section   synthesises   the   project   activities   that   took   place   during   the   summer   field   season   of  2009.   In   the   “2009  Season  Review”,15  Hodder  begins  with  a  discussion  of  excavation  aims  and  ends  with  a  summary  of  activities  on  site:    The   aims   of   the   excavation   this   year   were   to   uncover   some   well-­‐preserved   burned  buildings  in  the  South  Area  of  the  site.  We  have  been  concentrating  our  work  in  this  area  in  order   to  understand  the  development  of   the  site   through  time…There  are  of  course  changes   that   lead   up   to   Level   VI,   but   the   fires   at   the   end   of   this   phase   seem   to   be  associated  with  an  important  shift  in  the  pattern  of  occupation.        Some  of  the  buildings  burned  in  Level  VI  are  very  well  preserved.  The  walls  of  some  of  these  buildings  have  been  found  standing  over  3m  high.  In  one  of  the  burned  buildings,  Building  79,  we   found   a   beautiful   stone   figurine   of   a   bearded  man   as  well   as   another  stone  figurine.  […]    The  2009  season   ran   from   the  10th   June   to  2nd  October.  We  had  again  a   large   team  at  Çatalhöyük   this   summer,   –160   researchers   and   students   of   15   different   nationalities  worked   at   the   site   along   with   20   locals…   In   the   one   and   a   half   months   before   the  excavation  season  in  2009,  the  team  worked  on  post-­‐excavation  analyses  in  preparation  for   the   publication…planned   for   2012,   and   so   this   season   excavation   reports   were  written   and   animal   bones   were   scrutinized,   and   samples   were   taken.     [sic]     (Hodder  2009a:  1-­‐2)    This  summary  is  an  account—not  of  the   interpretations  of  the  past,  but  of  the  methodological  activities  that  occurred  during  that  field  season.     15 The 2009 Çatalhöyük field season is the same season that I attended for my ethnographic observation. See Chapter Four. CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     32   Figure  1:  Front  cover  photograph  of  the  2009  Çatalhöyük  Archive  Report  (Çatalhöyük  Research   Project  2009).     The   photo   on   the   front   cover   of   the   2009   Archive   Report   might   be   taken   as  representative   of   the   season   [Figure   1].   This   photo   shows   a   large   open   workspace   in   the  Çatalhöyük  South  Shelter.  In  the  foreground,  two  excavators  look  down  at  a  context  sheet  on  a  clipboard.   The   context   sheet   is   a   tool   for   recording   relevant   contextual   information   about  material   found   in  each   stratigraphic   layer.  Directly  behind   these   two  excavators  are  a  host  of  buckets,  shovels,  tape  measures,  ladders  and  other  equipment  used  in  the  excavation  process  to  remove  soil.  These  tools  and  instruments  allow  excavators  to  physically  access  multiple  levels  of  the  site,  as  well  as  help  the  excavators  grid  and  map  the  site  in  a  virtual  two-­‐dimensional  plan,  like  the  one  that  the  two  excavators  in  the  back  left  of  Figure  1  are  holding.  This  excavation  plan  is   another   tool   for   mapping   features   and   recording   relevant   cultural   material   found   in   each  stratigraphic   layer.   In   the   far-­‐middle   background,   a   group   of   excavators   are   at  work,   peeling  away   layers   of   the   soil   with   trowels.   In   the   very   back   right,   a  man   holds   a   camera  while   he  photographs   the  most   recent   layer   of   soil.   To   his   right   sits   a   Turkish  workman,   hired   by   the  project  to  carry  out  most  of  the  heavy  lifting  and  soil  sifting;  he  is  waiting  for  a  filled  bucket  to  be  handed  to  him  so  that  he  can  sift  the  soil  for  artefacts  in  the  sieves  that  are  located  behind  him,  out  of  range  of  the  photo  frame  to  the  right.  The  main  subject  of  this  photo  is  the  various  actors  and  their  tools,  working  to  ‘produce  knowledge’  at  the  archaeological  site.  The  rest  of  the  photograph  shows  the  physical  site  itself,  the  tipsy  floors  that  have  been  revealed  by  years  and  years  of  excavation,  each  layer  showing  various  archaeological  levels  and  periods  of   the  Neolithic.  Many  of   the  standing  walls  are   the  original  white  Neolithic  plastered   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     33 house  walls,   such  as   the  ones   in   the  centre  of   this  photograph,  which  are   in   the  house   that   is  being   actively   excavated   by   the   men   with   trowels.   But   many   of   the   other   walls   in   the  photograph  are  ‘artificially’  created  through  the  act  of  excavation;  they  are  walls  made  purely  of  soil,  cut  sections  that  are  intentionally  left  in  situ  so  that  they  can  show  the  multicoloured  strata  in   their   fabric,   showing   each   layer   of   occupation   in   profile,   as   per   archaeological   standard   of  good   practice.   The   walls   in   the   far   back   right,   above   the   excavator   with   the   camera,   are  examples  of  this.    This   scene   shows   the   full  mess   and  mangle   of   the  practice   of   scientific   archaeology—where   human   and   material,   past   and   present,   artificiality   and   originality,   abstraction   and  physicality  are  all  coming  together  in  a  snapshot  moment  when  ‘knowledge  is  being  produced’.  The   ‘relational   materiality’   (Law   1992:   5;   Law   1999:   4)   of   this   setting   becomes   transparent  when   considering   how   the   pictured   archaeologists   are   directly   bounded   in   relation   to   the  material   features   with   which   they   are   interacting.   The   archaeologists’   actions   are   both  constrained  and  enabled  by  the  material  they  find—when  they  run  across  a  wall,  they  follow  it;  when   they   find   human   remains   or   artefacts,   they   stop   to   carefully   excavate,   map,   plan   and  disassemble  them.  Likewise,  the  archaeological  material  in  this  setting  is  directly  affected  by  the  actions  of  the  archaeologists:  it  may  be  cut,  angled,  carried  away,  left  in  situ,  propped,  bagged,  sieved  or  thrown  out,  depending  on  the  archaeologists’  active  decisions.  Furthermore,  the  whole  landscape—the   geography   as   well   as   the   human   and   material   agents—are   all   impacted   and  mediated  by  a  host  of  instruments  and  tools.  Instruments  and  tools  actively  construct  the  form  of  the  material  landscape  in  both  virtual  and  physical  space  (virtual  in  the  sense  of  mapping  or  recording  before  destruction;  physical   in  the  sense  of  alteration,  such  as  when  the  trowel  cuts  soil).   The   technical   tools   and   instruments   guide   and   impact   the   actions   of   the   archaeologists.  Human  excavators   impact   the  material  by   touching,  handling,  viewing  and  carrying   it  off   site.  The  activity  here,  ‘doing  archaeology’  with  the  aim  to  produce  knowledge,  is  a  complex  array  of  social  and  material  relationships.  The  final  product  of  this  interaction  is  Ian  Hodder’s  formal  and  stable   account   of   fluid   activity,  where   activity   onsite   is   reduced   and   inscribed   in   the   Archive  Report  to:  “this  season  excavation  reports  were  written  and  animal  bones  were  scrutinized,  and  samples  were  taken”  (Hodder  2009a:  4).    This   activity   is   demonstrates   inscription   and   translation.   Archaeology   involves   the  creation   of   new   material   products,   such   as   site   plans   and   photographs,   which   represent  ‘snapshot’   moments   of   fluid   excavation   activity   inscribed   as   new   mobile   forms.   In   this  photograph   for  example,   the  archaeologists   in   the   foreground  are  creating  context  sheets,   the  archaeologists   in   the   back   left   are   mapping   a   site   plan,   and   the   photographer   in   the   rear   is  digitally  rendering  the  site.  These  actors  are  all  inscribing  their  fluid  social  activity  into  movable  new   inscriptions,   representations   which   are   later   studied   and   used   to   create   new   texts,   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     34 illustrations  and  other  products  of  knowledge.  This   inscriptive  process   is   interlinked  with   the  soil   and   archaeological  material,   with   the   tools   that   the   archaeologists   are   using,   and  with   a  broader   institutional   understanding   of   ‘the   way   we   do   archaeology’   that   lies   behind   these  scientific  processes.  Each  time  a  human  actor  interacts  with  a  tool,  archaeological  material  or  an  inscription,   they   are   also   translating   their   own   relationship  with   it,   negotiating   their   use   and  understanding   of   material   space   and   things,   and   importantly—maximising   the   benefit   and  authority   of   this   interaction.   This   process   is   discussed  more   in   depth   in   Chapter   Four   of   this  dissertation.  But   for  now,   it   is   important   to   recognise  how  a   social   constructivist  perspective,  where  knowledge   is  seen  to  be  produced  through  social   interactions  and  networks,  hinges  on  the  material  nature  of  the  scientific  process.     2.2.6    Social  Constructivism:  Power  Relations,  Social  Organisation  and  Knowledge       One  of  the  key  interests  of  social  constructivism  is  the  relationship  between  power  and  knowledge   in   social   communities.   ‘Social   communities’   are   collective   entities   composed   of  diverse   social   agents,  many   of   whom  may   have   conflicting   interests,   stakes   and   aims   (Webb  2002).  Naturally,   a   society  made  up  of   competing   and   conflicting   interests   creates   a   dynamic  situation:   nearly   every   social   relationship   in   a   community—between   people,   between   people  and   things,   even   between   people   and   ideas—involves   an   asymmetry   of   power.   As   described  earlier,  power   can  most   simply   be   defined   as   the   capacity   or   ability   to   bring   about   a   certain  effect,  the  ability  to  act  or  to  affect  something  strongly  (OED  1989).  When  two  or  more  people  or  things  sit  in  tandem  to  one  another,  they  usually  relate  on  some  level  of  power  and  authority,  through   such  matters   as  domination  and   subordination,   influence  or   importance,   accuracy  or  reliability   (Foucault  1982;  Doob  1983:  5).   Importantly,  power   in   society   is   tightly   interwoven  with  knowledge  and  beliefs.  When  we  believe  in  something  strongly,  and  have  the  power  to  act  on  those  beliefs,  then  we  can  make  certain  decisions  that  have  certain  effects  (Gordon  1980).    Traditional  sociologists  have  stressed  the  integral  relationship  between  social  structure,  power,  and  beliefs  or  knowledge.  The  basic,  traditional  model  is  that  “[t]here  is  social  structure  on   the   one   hand.   And   there   is   knowledge   on   the   other.   Structure   influences   the   form   or   the  content  of  knowledge”  (Law  1986:  3),  and  power  relations  play  into  this  structure/knowledge  relationship.   Karl   Marx,   for   example,   argued   that   human   needs   and   the   material   means   of  production   are   central   to   the   way   society   is   structured   in   class   systems.   He   argued   that  conflicting  interests  and  needs  of  members  of  a  given  social  community  cause  social  change,  and  that   the   power   of   social   beliefs,   knowledge   and   ideologies,   were   wrapped   in   and   caused   by  social  action  (Marx  1888;  Law  1986:  4).  This  social  argument  offers  the  traditional  sociological   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     35 ‘structure   influences  knowledge’  model.  The   influential  sociologist  Emile  Durkheim  developed  an   alternative   power/knowledge   model,   that   of   empirical   a   priorism,   in   his   scholarship   on  religion  in  society.  According  to  Durkheim,  social  communities  create  classifications  to  describe  an   existing   and   empirical   social   reality;   classifications   of   value,   status   and   functionality   are  templates  on  which  we  build  our  knowledge  and  structure  our  thought:   “the  social,  as  always  for  Durkheim,  describes  a  reality  that  is  prior  to  individuals”  (Durkheim  and  Swain  1915;  Law  1986:  4-­‐5).  In  yet  another  alternative,  Thomas  Kuhn  described  social  knowledge  production—specifically   scientific   practice—in   terms   of   paradigms.   He   argued   that   people   socially   create  paradigms  of  practice,  which  are  constantly  under  resistance  by  others  who  “attempt  to  extend  and  exploit  [them]  in  a  variety  of  ways”  (Kuhn  1970:  91).  In  all  of  these  sociological  models,  the  relationship   between   power,   ideology   or   knowledge,   and   social   structure   is   made   apparent:  “Structure  certainly  influences  belief  but  belief   in  turn  acts  upon  structure,  acting  to  sustain  it  or,   indeed,  to  change  it…The  notion  that  structure  and  belief  are  integrally  related  is  not  new”  (Law  1986:  4).  These  traditional  approaches  have  argued  for  a  positive  connection  between  the  structure  of  social  organisations,  and  the  knowledge  and  ideology  systems  that  exist  in  society.    However,  these  traditional  models  of  power  relations  in  society  are  problematic  for  two  reasons.  First,  they  have  a  tendency  to  question  and  explain  power  relations  as  existing  within  a  ‘social   order’,   a   unitary   thing   that   operates   under   grand,   stable   social  models   and   influences.  Secondly,  and  as  relates  to  the  discussion  above  in  Section  2.2.3,  they  talk  about  power  as  if   it  were  something  that  can  be  possessed,  a  quality  or  a  characteristic.  More  recent  perspectives  of  power   in  society   in  social  constructivism,  however,  have  departed  from  such  grand  functional  models  or   ‘first  principles’,  and  they  have   instead  focused  on  the  complex,  heterogeneous  and  interdependent  nature  of   social   systems.   Social   constructivist   perspectives   instead   argue   that  “there   is   no   such   thing   as   “the   social   order”   with   a   single   centre,   or   a   single   set   of   stable  relations.   Rather,   there   are   orders,   in   the   plural…the   effects   of   power   are   generated   in   a  relational  and  distributed  manner,  and  nothing  is  ever  sown  up”  (Law  1992:  5).  In  other  words,  like   traditional  sociological  by  scholars  such  as  Marx  or  Kuhn,  social  constructivists  recognise  the  intimate  relationship  between  knowledge,  power  and  social  structure;  however,  they  depart  from  these  traditional  approaches  by  arguing  that  society  operates  in  a  much  more  dynamic  and  complex   way,   indefinable   by   neat   models,   instead   full   of   negotiations,   translations   and  heterogeneous  influences.  (Gordon  1980)  Michel   Foucault,   one   of   the   fundamental   modern   thinkers   on   the   role   of   power   and  knowledge  in  society,  argued  this  point:  “[o]ur  task  is  to  cast  aside  these  utopian  schemes,  the  search   for   first   principles,   and   to   ask   instead   how   power   actually   operates   in   our   society  (quoted  in  Rabinow  1984:  5-­‐6).  Diverging  from  earlier  scholarship  on  social  power,  Foucault’s  research   focused   on   social   ‘how’   questions—how  power   operates   in   society,   how   knowledge   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     36 and   power   are   linked,   how   authoritative   social   structures   come   to   be   formed—based   on  explanations  and  interpretations  from  observation.16  One  of  Foucault’s  primary  interests  lay  in  how  humans  are  turned  into  subjects,  by  what  he  calls  “dividing  practices”  (Rabinow  1984:  8).  ‘Dividing  practices’  involve  such  social  acts  as  the  isolation  of  lepers  or  the  confinement  of  the  insane   from   the   bulk   of   society,   and   these   practices   directly   draw   on   and   result   from  power  relationships,   the  use  of   ‘facts’  and   the  practice  of  authority  within  society.  These  practices  of  power,   Foucault   argues,   are   often   “modes   of   manipulation   that   combine   the   mediation   of   a  science  (or  pseudo-­‐science)  and  the  practice  of  exclusion—usually  in  a  spatial  sense,  but  always  in   a   social   one”   (Rabinow   1984:   8).   Foucault’s   argument   that   physical   and   social   order   can  operate  through  a  mediation  of  science  or  pseudoscience  is  paramount  to  thinking  about  how  archaeological  accounts  come  to  be  perceived  as  powerful  and  authoritative.    More   recent   proponents   of   social   constructivist   theory,  mainly   in   the   field   of   Science  Studies   (STS)   have   come   at   the   idea   of   social   construction   from   a   somewhat   related,   but  opposing  direction  from  Foucault.  Foucault  argued  for  a  vision  of  society  as  socially  constructed,  in  a   conceptual   sense.  Foucault   conceptualised   that  all  knowledge   is   constituted  and   that   it   is  socially  constructed  under  conditions  of  power.  However,  over  the  last  thirty  years,  STS  social  constructivist   research  has   extended  and  altered   this   argument   to   say   that   there   are  no   such  things   as   ‘social   orders’   or   models   that   define   them;   rather,   social   communities   are  heterogeneous   entities  made  up  of   interrelated   social   networks,   comprised  of   actors   that   are  people   as   well   as   objects   (Law   1992;   Pickering   1995).   Social   constructivism   directly   relates  power  structures  and  knowledge  production  to  the  tightly  interwoven  and  interactive  networks  of   humans   and   things:   “people   are   who   they   are   because   they   are   a   patterned   network   of  heterogeneous  material”  (Law  1992:  4)  In  social  constructivist  research  today,  the  connection  between  knowledge,  ideology  and  social  practice   is   stressed,  and  social  order   is   represented  as   fluid—a  “dialectical   relationship  between  the  person  and  his  or  her  physical  and  social  context”  (Law  1986:  9).  Knowledge  and  social  structure  are  formed  from  a  complex  dialectic  of  resistance  and  accommodation,  where  social  agents—both  human  and  material—actively  assert  and  accommodate  their  own  interests  and   needs,   and   those   of   others   (Pickering   1995).   In   any   social   context,   the   “relations   in  communities   are   in   part   defined   by   differences   in   knowledge,   experience,   and   status— 16 At one point, Foucault argued that his main research objective was not explicitly to study social power: “the goal of my work during the last twenty years has not been to analyze the phenomena of power” (quoted in Rabinow 1984: 7); however, power was a primary focus of much of his research, despite the fact that he rarely used the word ‘power’ in many of his critical works: “When I think back now, I ask myself what else it was that I was talking about, in Madness and Civilisation or The Birth of the Clinic, if not power? Yet I’m perfectly aware that I scarcely ever used the word and never had such a field of analyses at my disposal then.” (quoted in Gordon 1980: 229) CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     37 differences   in   power   that   endlessly   shift   within   and   across   social   contexts”   (Mortensen   and  Kirsch   1993:   558).   Sociologists   of   science   often   stress   the   idea   that   relations   like   ‘power’   or  ‘knowledge’   are   outcomes   of   social   interactions,   rather   than   passive   qualities   that   one   can  possess.   This   complex   weave   of   power   relationships,   and   ways   of   thinking   about   them   as  embedded  in  and  products  of  social  contexts,  is  integral  to  how  SSK  researchers  see  knowledge  as  constructed,  perceived  and  ultimately  accepted  or  rejected.     2.2.7    Social  Constructivism:  Transparency  in  Conflict  and  Contestation  One   final   concept   in   social   constructivism   that   should  be   introduced   in   this   chapter—and   which   will   be   further   expanded   in   the   next   chapter   of   this   dissertation—is   that   of  contestation   and   the   idea   that   tension   in   a   process   or   system   can   allow   for   its   internal  complexities   to   become   more   transparent,   a   theory   called   ‘blackboxing’   in   Science   Studies.  Bruno  Latour  (1999:  304)  defined  ‘blackboxing’  as  a  scenario  where  a  process  or  system  runs  so  smoothly  and  efficiently  that  no  one  stops  to  question  its  internal  complexities,  only  its  inputs  and  outputs,  data  and   results.   Social   constructivists  often   talk  about   ‘breaking  open   the  black  box’  or  ‘examining  the  black  box’  of  a  given  system  by  studying  scientific  practice  that  is  under  conflict  or  contestation.  The  theory  of  contestation  as  a  theoretical  tool  in  science  studies  is  that,  when  contention  or  conflict  arises,  or  when  something  goes  awry,  the   ‘blackboxed’  systems  of  practice   become  more   transparent.   Thus,   in   contested   practice,   people   can  more   thoroughly  examine  the  internal  complexities  of  their  own  working  system  by  breaking  down  the  walls  of  a  ‘blackboxed’  system  through  the  examination  of  a  contested  case  study,  or  by  studying  scientific  controversies   (Engelhardt   Jr.   and   Caplan   1987;   Popper   1998[1953];   Lakatos   1998[1973]).  Contestation   and   blackboxing   are   methodological   concepts   that   I   discuss   further   in   Chapter  Three   (Section  3.3.2),   as   they  directly   impacted  my  practical   case   study  methodology.  But   for  now,  it  is  important  to  introduce  this  theoretical  discourse,  which  is  central  to  much  theory  in  social  constructivist  research  that  addresses  authority  in  scientific  practice.       2.3    Authority  in  Archaeological  Theory   2.3.1    Introducing  Authority  in  the  Discipline  of  Archaeology    This   chapter   has,   to   this   point,   addressed   the   concept   of   authority   in   relation   to   its  general   roots   and   conceptual   meaning.   This   final   section   discusses   authority   specifically   in   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     38 archaeological   literature.   Authority   is   fundamentally   intertwined   with   the   discipline   of  archaeology.  The  field  as  we  know  it  was  founded  on  principles  of  the  Enlightenment,  such  as  legitimation,   convincing,   trust,  witnessing,   logic   and  observance   (Moshenska  2009).   From   the  19th   century,   notions   of   authority,   witnessing   and   trust   became   cornerstone   concepts   in  archaeological  method,  at  base  for  why  we  accept  or  trust  certain  archaeological  account  over  others   (Trigger   1989:   91-­‐92;   Renfrew   and   Bahn   2000:   24).   As   archaeology   professionalised,  concern   developed   around   the   role   of   archaeologists   as   powerful   practitioners   who   have  exclusive   access   to   important   historical   remains   and  material   culture.   Particularly   in   the   last  thirty   years,   archaeological   people   and   institutions   have   begun   to   re-­‐evaluate   their   roles   in  society,   and   the   role  of   the  discipline   in  matters  of  public   identity  and  service.  Questions  and  interest  in  disciplinary  authority  have  developed  in  a  number  of  critical  areas  of  discourse.     2.3.2    Authority  in  Processual  and  Postprocessual  Theory  Archaeological   theory   over   the   past   twenty   years   has   recognized   the   highly   complex  relationship   between   archaeological   practice   and   material   culture.   Many   archaeologists  (Andrews,   Barrett   et   al.   2000;   Hodder   2000;   Faulkner   2002)   have   encouraged   reflexive  methods   in   fieldwork,   following   sociological   studies  of   reflexive  practice.  The   social  nature  of  interpretation   in   archaeological   epistemology   has   been   debated,   and   several   scholars   have  urged  better  recognition  of  personal  biases  and  assumptions  in  the  way  the  past  is  interpreted,  engendered   or   presented   (Gero   1996;   Handler   and   Gable   1997;   Merriman   2004).   This  dissertation   targets   an   important   epistemological   concern  within   this   trend   of   archaeological  research:   the  construction  and  use  of   individual  and   institutional  authority   in  how  the  past   is  studied  and  represented.  In   recent   years,   practitioners   have   started   to   question:   what   does   it   mean   to   be   an  archaeologist,   and  what   standards  must   one  uphold   in   order   to   be   a   professional   doing   ‘best  practice’  in  the  discipline?  Alison  Wyle  writes  that,  “From  the  mid-­‐1950s  on,  a  vocal  contingent  within  the  SAA  [Society  for  American  Archaeology]  has  argued  the  need  to  codify  professional  scientific  standards  of  practice,  specifying  ‘who  an  archaeologist  was  and  what  that  person  was  qualified  to  do’”  (McGimsey  1995:  11;  Wylie  2002:  229).  Such  institutional  discussion  appearing  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  aiming  to  delineate  or  categorise  who  is  an  archaeologist  from  who  is  not,  and  aiming  to  understand  the  professional  or  scientific  obligations  behind  this  role,  have  resulted  in  archaeologists  reconsidering  their  own  roles  in  society.    Early   discussion   about   archaeological   authority   coincided   with   the   wave   of   New  Archaeology  theory  that  developed  in  the  1960s,  driven  by  anthropological  studies  in  America  (Caldwell  1959;  Binford  1962;  Binford  1965).  New  Archaeology  was  concerned  with  identifying   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     39 processual  changes  and  cultural  regularities  in  the  material  record.  This  wave  of  theory  stressed  the  scientific  and  objective  potential  of  the  discipline,  reacting  against  the  more  imaginative  and  interpretive   Culture-­‐Historical   practices   that   existed   before   (Trigger   1989:   295).   The   New  Archaeology’s  explicit  concern  was  in  creating  new  standards  of  practice,  rather  than  engaging  in  self-­‐examination  or  in  deconstructing  existing  archaeological  methods  (Meltzer  1979).  It  did,  however,  have  a  general  interest  in  taking  a  critical  and  deliberate  turn  away  from  the  Culture-­‐Historical   approaches,   which   relied   heavily   on   archaeologists   who  were   seen   as   ‘authorities’  holding   expert   status   in   various   institutions.   New   Archaeologists   argued   that   archaeology  should  aspire  to  be  an  objective  science,  that  functionalist  and  processual  trends  were  of  central  importance   to  archaeological  practice.  The  aim  was  “to  be  able   to  produce  objective,  ethically  neutral   generalizations   that   were   useful   for   the   management   of   modern   societies”   (Trigger  1989:   313).   New   Archaeology   also   opened   the   discipline   to   numerous   other   fields   of   study:  “from   human   geography,   economics,   political   science,   sociology,   and   psychology,   as   well   as  ethnology”  (Trigger  1989:  373).   In  other  words,  New  Archaeology  reinforced  disciplinary  and  institutional   authority  as  part  of  wider  empirical  discourse,  while   simultaneously  questioning  the  authority  of  specific  individuals  in  the  creation  of  a  general,  objective  vision  of  the  past.  Starting   in   the  1980s,   a   reactionary  wave  of   theory   called  postprocessual   archaeology  appeared   in   academic   discourse,   deeply   situated   within   a   larger   academic   trend   of  postmodernism.  In  general  academia,  postmodernism  has  never  been  a  coherent  theory  about  society   or   research;   instead,   it   involves   a   variety   of   theoretical   approaches   (such   as  postcolonialism,  feminist  critiques,  phenomenology,  poststructuralism,  hermeneutics)  resulting  from   self-­‐aware,   critical   academic   debate   about   the   role   of   individuals,   social   dynamics   and  organizational  politics  of  intellectualism  (Bauman  1987;  Butler  2002).  Specifically  in  the  field  of  archaeology,  postprocessual  theory  first  appeared  in  the  early  1980s  as  a  critique  to  the  1970s  New  Archaeology.  It  “aimed  at  a  redefinition  of  social  practice,  social  units  and  groupings,  and  of  the   nature   of   culture,   all   seen   to   be   the   heart   of   a   social   archaeology   aiming   at   the  reconstruction  of  societies  on  the  basis  of  their  material  remains”  (Shanks  in  press:  4).    Postprocessual   theory   has   stressed   the   arbitrary   nature   of   archaeological  interpretations,   raising   important   issues   about   the   social   nature   of   archaeological   practice.  Postprocessual  archaeology  has   included  debates  on   the   impact  of  personal,   cultural  or  social  bias  on  interpretations,  and  has  cautioned  about  the  dangers  of  silencing  the  voices  of  past  and  present  peoples  in  a  postcolonial  world  (Bahn  2001;  Shanks  in  press).  As  Alison  Wylie  argues,  archaeologists   have   found   themselves   sitting   uncomfortably   between   their   ‘scientific’   role   of  advocating   the   “ideal   of   professional   disengagement”   (2002:   229),   and   the   conflicting   reality  that   archaeologists   act  within   their   own   self-­‐interest,   exploiting   the  material   record   for   their  own   goals   and   aims.   She   explains   that   archaeologists   have   “a   commitment   to   scientific   goals   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     40 [that]   provides   the   justification   for   archaeological   conservation   politics   and   salvage   efforts”  (2002:  229),  but  that  these  goals  of  archaeology-­‐for-­‐the-­‐sake-­‐of-­‐knowledge  are  often  dissonant  from  the  reality  of  a  “pervasive,  often  indirect  and  unintentional,  entanglement  of  professional  archaeology   with   commercial   interests   in   archaeological   resources”,   and   that   these   goals  sometimes   run   counter   to   other   public   interest   groups   who  might   “object   that   they   are   not  served  by  scientific  exploitation  of  the  record”  (2002:  229-­‐230).    In  the  last  ten  to  twenty  years,  the  discipline  has  recognised  the  impact  of  socio-­‐politics  on   interpretation,   and   in   turn,   recognised   how   communities   are   affected   by   archaeology.  Discussion   has   emerged   in   a   number   of   intellectual   arenas.   Postmodern   social   theory   has  addressed  fields  of  discourse  such  as  gender  studies,  pluralism,  postcolonialism,  structure  and  agency  (Gero  and  Root  1990;  Gero  1996).  Theories  of  reflexivity  (Hodder  2000;  Hodder  2003),  critical   archaeology   (Leone,   Potter   et   al.   1987;   Leone   1992;   Wilkie   and   Bartoy   2000;   Leone  2010),   archaeology   as   situated   practice   (Shanks   and   Tilley   1987),   and   community   or  collaborative  archaeology  (Moser,  Glazier  et  al.  2002;  Kerber  2006;  Walker  forthcoming,  2011)  have   all   engaged   in   debates   over   what   it   means   to   be   an   archaeologist   working   in   a   social  context   that  might   impact  or  bias  how  we  approach  the  past.  From  these,  debates  around  the  value,   identity   and   access   of   archaeological   heritage   have   emerged   in   fields   such   as   public  archaeology,  heritage  and  museums  studies,  and  archaeological  theory,  with  a  particular  focus  on  a  push   for  multivocality   and   the   concepts  of  protection  and   stewardship  of   archaeological  remains   (Kirschenblatt-­‐Gimblett  1995;  Lowenthal  1998;   Skeates  2000;  Howard  2003;  Holtorf  2005;  Smith  2006;  Sorensen  and  Carman  2009).  There  has  also  been  a  deepening  awareness  of  the  issues  surrounding  presentation,  with  debates  over  nature  of  museum  displays,  the  biases  and  hidden  meanings  that  might  advertently  or  inadvertently  appear  in  archaeological   images  and  imagery,  the  socio-­‐politics  behind  popular-­‐culture  representation  of  archaeologists,  and  the  paradoxes   and   complexities   that   exist   behind   the   concept   of   authenticity   (Karp   and   Lavine  1991;   Holtorf   2005;   Smiles   and   Moser   2005;   Perry   2009;   Moser   2010).   Many   of   these  archaeological  studies  have  attempted  to  address  how  the  researcher  affects  the  ‘final  product’  archaeological  interpretations  that  are  ultimately  produced  through  his  or  her  engagement  with  archaeological   practice.   These   various   theoretical   schools   are   rooted   in   a   postprocessual,   or  even   arguably   a   ‘post-­‐postprocessual’,   wave   of   academic   theory.   They   stress   themes   of  multivocality  and   reflexivity,  pressing   for  greater  awareness  of  how  social   contexts   can  affect  the  outcomes  of  data  collection  and  interpretation.    Multivocality   and   reflexivity   are   two   theories   that   feature   in   many   of   these  postprocessual   debates,   and   both   firmly   stake   an   interest   in   the   notion   of   authority   in  archaeological   practice.   These   two   postprocessual   theories   were   developed   in   the   growing  recognition   that   archaeological   sites   and   research   have   multiple   stakeholders   with   varied   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     41 interests  in  the  past.  Multivocality  literally  means  ‘many  voices’  and  is  an  ethical  argument  that  archaeologists   should   provide   a   stage   for   subaltern   groups   to   voice   their   own   interests   or  interests  in  the  past  (Hodder  2008).  Reflexivity  is  a  methodological  argument  that  asserts  that  scientific  practice  should  be  self-­‐aware  and  accountable  to  its  own  contextual  development  and  method  (Hodder  2000;  Tsekeris  2010).  Multivocality  and  reflexivity  both  address  the  question:  “how  should  we  respond  to  the  fact  that  so  many  groups  want  to  tell  different  stories  about  the  site?”   (Hodder  2000:  4).  They  offer  what  Hodder  calls   “positionality”,  an  admission   that  one’s  own  position  and  biases  affect  interpretation;  they  are  a  critique  of  and  enquiry  into  taken-­‐for-­‐granted  assumptions  about  what  knowledge   is  and  how  it   is   formed  (Hodder  2003:  58).  With  reflexivity,   stress   is   generally   placed   on   the   act   of   self-­‐examination   or   self-­‐reflection,   with   a  deeper  questioning  about  what  social  assumptions  or  biases  may  exist  in  methods  or  standard  ways  of   thinking.  With  multivocality,   the   focus   is   on   “changing  practices   and   contexts   so   that  disadvantaged  groups  have  the  opportunity  to  be  heard  and  responded  to.  It  involves  trying  to  move  away  from  the  methods  and  principles  that  are  attuned  to  the  Western  voice.  It  involves  ethics   and   rights”   (Hodder   2008:   196).   Both   of   these   theories,   often   interlinked   in  postproccessual  discourse,  engage  directly  with  the  notion  of  authority:  they  question  who  has  the  power   to  speak   for  and  about   the  past,  and  highlight  how  powerful  biases  can   impact   the  archaeological  record.    In   all   of   the   theoretical   schools   and   studies   expressed   above,   there   is   a   common  underlying   theme   of   authority,   as   it   relates   to   social   asymmetries   that   might   affect  archaeological   interpretation.   As   archaeologists   have   recognized   their   own   contextual   and  contingent  position  in  society,  they  have  also  been  forced  to  renegotiate  their  own  actions  and  decisions,  thinking  deeply  about  the  impact  of  the  discipline  on  the  material  they  study  and  on  other  interest  groups  around  them.     2.3.3    Authority  in  Archaeological  Subdisciplines       Three  archaeological  subdisciplines  are  of  particular   interest  to  this  thesis  and  worthy  of   note.   These   subdisciplines   directly   engage   with   the   notion   of   authority   as   it   affects  archaeological  practice  and  interpretations,  and  they  directly  relate  to  the  question  behind  this  thesis:   what   is   archaeological   authority,   and   how   does   it   impact   the   production   of  archaeological  accounts  of  the  past?   Historiographic  analyses  of  archaeology  have  become  more  prevalent  over  the  last  thirty  years,   and   authority   has   emerged   as   a   primary   concern   of   researchers   in   this   subfield.   The  popularity  of   interest   in   the  history  of  archaeology  can  be  seen   in  recent  projects  such  as   the    development   of   the   History   of   Archaeology   Research   Network   (HARN),   the   Archives   of   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     42 European   Archaeology   Project   (AREA)   funded   by   the   European   Union,   as   well   as   the   steady  appearance   of   historiographic   studies   in   publications   and   conference   papers.   Currently,   the  journal  Antiquity  also  informally  reserves  a  section  for  the  publication  of  studies  in  the  history  of  the  archaeological  discipline  (Farrington  2009:  294).  Such  projects  have  focused  on  not  only  the   history   of  major   and  minor   figures   in   the   field,   but   also   address   the   historical   impact   of  archaeological   practice   on   the  wider   public   in   both   social   and   political   terms   (Trigger   1989;  Farrington  2009:  182;  Smith  2009).  As  Farrington  writes  about  historiography  and  the  impact  of  archaeology  in  the  modern  day  state  of  Israel:    A  historiographic  perspective  also  enables  investigators  to  understand  how  a  site  came  to   be   as   it   is   in   terms  of   academic   literature   and  public   presentation;   in   other  words,  how   the   site   was   created   as   a   site.   It   allows   the   investigator   to   be   aware   of   power  structures  within  the  discipline,  and  to  be  aware  of  how  text  creates  history.  (Farrington  2009:  182)      Historiographic  perspectives  have  opened  the  discipline  to  scrutiny  and  the  examination  of  its  own  practices,  deconstructing  power  relationships  and  the  origins  of  the  discipline’s  authority  (Stout  2008).  By  studying  how  the  profession  has  developed  and  by  identifying  the  motivations,  biases   and   power   relationships   that   are   entangled   with   professional   status,   the   concept   of  authoritative   relations   have   become   more   visible   in   archaeological   practice.   It   is   perhaps  unsurprising   that   matters   of   authority   have   been   a   primary   interest   of   archaeological  historiography,  since  the  notions  of  expertise,  witnessing  and  institutional  stature  have  played  a  major  role  how  the  discipline  has  developed.    Archaeological  ethnography  has  also  been  a  growing  subfield   in  archaeological   theory,  and   many   studies   have   highlighted   concerns   of   authority   in   archaeological   methods   and  practice.  Most  ethnographies  of  archaeological  practice  go  beyond  the  activity  anthropologists  observing  and  reporting  archaeological  activities,  although  studies  of  this  type  have  been  done  (Hamilton   2000;   Erdur   2008).   Rather,   the   ethnographies   of   archaeological   practice   becoming  more   prevalent   today   are:   “a   trans-­‐disciplinary   or   even   a   post-­‐disciplinary   and   transcultural  space  for  engagement,  dialogue  and  critique…It  does  not  so  much  aim  at  combining  and  mixing  archaeological   and   ethnographical   practices”   (Hamilakis   and  Anagnostopoulos   2009b:   73).   In  general,  archaeological  ethnographies  have  sought  to  deconstruct  archaeological  practices  that  have   become   ‘blackboxed’.   They   attempt   to   look   at   excavation,   report   writing   and   other  archaeological  methods  with  fresh  eyes,  observing  the  way  archaeology  operates  within  a  social  context:   “the   ways   in   which   [archaeology]   is   created   and   produced   through   particular  relationships,   people,   things,   and   practices”   (Yarrow   2009:   21).   Several   studies   within   this  subfield   have   offered   new   insight   about   the   way   archaeological   practices   are   organised,  structured  and  institutionalised,  as  well  as  the  way  people  learn  archaeology  in  practical  setting  (Gero  1996;  Hamilton  2000;  Meskell  2005;  Edgeworth  2006;  Van  Reybrouck  and  Jacobs  2006;   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     43 Erdur   2008;   Hamilakis   and   Anagnostopoulos   2009b).   This   field,   like   archaeological  historiography,  is  a  self-­‐examination  of  archaeological  standards  and  settings  of  practice.  Issues  of   authority,   power,   and   identity   emerge   as   concerns   when   researchers   study   hierarchical  chains   of   command,   student-­‐teacher   relationships,   and   the   methods   and   meaning   behind  concepts  like  archaeological  expertise.    Finally,   archaeological   heritage   and   representation   has   also   been   a   rapidly   expanding  subfield  of  interest  in  the  discipline,  and  authority  has  played  an  intimate  part  of  its  discourse.  The  politics  of  display  is  a  subject  that  has  profound  impact  on  archaeology,  since  aim  of  most  archaeological  activity  is  the  production  of  public  texts,  museum  exhibitions  or  reconstructions.  For   many  members   of   the   public,   museums,   media   and   other   ‘authorised’   forums   of   display  reflect  a  pure  and  simple  authority  or  truth  about  the  past,  for  these  institutions  are  considered  legitimate   cultural   storekeepers   of   knowledge   (Falk   and   Dierking   2000;   Hein   2000).   Recent  museological   studies   have   aimed   to   demystify   the   museum   by   investigating   the   politics   of  display   and   representation   (Karp   and   Lavine   1991;   Moser   1999;   Moser   2010).   A   number   of  other   studies   have   addressed   the   power   and   presence   of   archaeological   images   (Molyneaux  1997;   Smiles   and   Moser   2005),   and   “archaeologists   now   speak   of   pictures   as   theory-­‐laden,  knowledge-­‐generating   contentions   which   structure   perceptions   of—and   archaeological  practitioners’  engagements  with—the  past”  (Perry  2009:  109).  Expanding  recognition  about  the  power   and   politics   of   display   has   also   emerged   regarding   other   representative   activities   of  archaeological  practice,  like  the  creation  of  maps  or  site  plans  (Bateman  2006;  Flexner  2009),  as  well  as  physical  reconstructions  and  historic  villages  (Jameson  2004;  Garden  2009).  All  of  this  recent  work  has  been  directed  at   reorienting   the  way  we   think  about  objects,   images  and   the  role   of   the   researcher   in   archaeological   display   and   representation,   critiquing   power  relationships  in  archaeological  interpretation  and  practice.         2.4    Chapter  Conclusion:  But  What  is  Authority  in   Archaeological  Practice?     It  is  critical  to  point  out  that,  while  authority  has  been  raised  as  a  critical  concern  in  the  discipline   of   archaeology   in   so  many  previous   studies,   rarely,   if   ever,   has   the   root   concept   of  authority   itself  been  explicitly  deconstructed.  Most  studies   that  have  dealt  with  authority  and  power   relations   have   focused   primarily   on   describing   the   innate   power   structures   within  excavation   practices   (i.e.   Gero   1996),   or   explaining   the   ethical   dangers   of   blind   professional   CHAPTER  2                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    CONCEPTS  AND  THEORY     44 authority  in  the  presentation  of  material  (i.e.  Perry  2009).  This  thesis  extends  this  discourse  by  contributing   a   study   on   the   exact   mechanisms   and   processes   which   constitute   authority,  exposing   what   the   term   ‘authority’   actually   means   in   an   archaeological   context.   This  dissertation   is   founded  on   the  premise   that   archaeological   knowledge   is   socially   constructed,  and   it   is   concerned  with   the  way   in  which  authority  manifests   in  archaeological  organisation,  methods   and   practice.   The   role   of   this   research,   represented   in   the   remainder   of   this  dissertation,   is   to   expand   an   understanding   of   how   archaeological   ‘facts’   are   constructed,  explicitly  looking  at  how  and  why  some  archaeological  accounts  come  to  be  valued  as  more  or  less  authoritative.    This   chapter   has   introduced   the   concept   of   knowledge   as   a   socially   constructed  enterprise.  It  has  deconstructed  the  term  ‘authority’  as  it  has  been  used  in  traditional  scholarly  research,   and   it   has   offered   a   new   way   of   thinking   about   the   production   and   utilisation   of  authority:   as   an   accumulative   affect   and   an   outcome   of   many   different   negotiations   and  translations  by  people  and  things   in  a  social  network.  The  next  chapters  of  this  thesis  explore  this  concept  in  detail.  Chapter  Three  introduces  the  two  case  studies  that  this  dissertation  uses  to  demonstrate  authority  in  archaeological  practice,  and  it  also  introduces  the  methodology  that  was   used   for   this   study.   Chapters   Four   and   Five   analyse   the   practice   of   two   archaeological  projects   in  order  to   illustrate  the  mechanisms  and  processes  that   lie  behind  the  production  of  archaeological  authority  and  authoritative  accounts  of  the  past.     CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     45 CHAPTER  THREE:     Methodology  and  Case  Studies     “If  this  is  an  awful  mess…  then  would  something  less  messy  make  a  mess  of  describing  it?”                                          (Law  2004:  1)     "It  was  six  men  of  Indostan   To  learning  much  inclined,   Who  went  to  see  the  Elephant   (Though  all  of  them  were  blind),   That  each  by  observation   Might  satisfy  his  mind.”      (Saxe  1878[1873])           3.1    Introduction   3.1.1    Introducing  Methodology     One   of   the   main   experiments   of   this   study   has   been   the   construction   of   its  research  design.  Authority  is  a  conceptual  abstraction.  How  does  one  design  a  practical  study   to   analyse   a   conceptual   abstraction?  Moreover,   how  does   one   examine   the  way  authority   impacts   another   conceptual   abstraction—knowledge?   The   answer   is   that  these   conceptual   abstractions   produce   and   impact   a   variety   of   material   culture   and  social  residue.  The  relationships  between  social  interactions  and  the  material  products  they   produce   can   be   observed   and   understood   even   if   the   actual   abstractions  themselves  cannot  be  quantified  or  observed.  For  this  study,  in  order  to  study  social  and  material   ‘side-­‐effects’   of   authority   and   archaeological   knowledge,   I   relied   on   an  interdisciplinary  range  of  research  strategies  and  methodologies,  drawn  from  research  schools  such  as   the  Sociology  of  Scientific  Knowledge  (SSK)   in   the   field  of  Science  and  Technology  Studies   (STS)   and   from  subfields   like  Archaeological  Ethnography   (Latour  and  Woolgar  1986;  Latour  1987;  Law  1992;  Gero  1996;  Hamilton  2000;  Yarrow  2003;  Law  2004;  Edgeworth  2006;  Rountree  2007;  Hamilakis  and  Anagnostopoulos  2009a).    As   a   social   scientist   trained   in   both   anthropological   archaeology   and   heritage  management,   my   field   encounter   studying   present-­‐day   ‘authoritative   archaeological  practice’  has  been  a  unique  interdisciplinary  experience,  taking  a  rewarding,  sometimes  frustrating,   and   quite   personal   journey   through   qualitative   methodology.   My   use   of  method   has   been   a   complicated   exploration,   involving   constant   negotiations   and   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     46 renegotiations   with   various   methodological   approaches.   This   dissertation   is   the  interdisciplinary   product   of   my   literary   research   and   writing   at   the   University   of  Cambridge,  my  attendance  at  numerous  conferences  and  presentations  hosted  by  both  professional   and   alternative/amateur   archaeologists,  my   fieldwork  observing   amateur  archaeologists   in   Bosnia-­‐   Herzegovina,   and   my   fieldwork   observing   professional  archaeologists   at   Çatalhöyük   in   Turkey.   This   chapter   addresses   my   methodological  process,   identifying   the   direction   I   ultimately   took   with   my   methodology,   and   it  examines   the   outcomes   and   effects   that   my   choices   may   have   had   on   my   overall  research  product.  This   chapter   is  divided  by   two  methodological   themes:   the   first   is   a  theoretical   model   that   guided   the   way   I   conceptually   approached   my   research;   the  second   is   the   practical   way   I   approached  my   fieldwork   study.   These   two   themes   are  interwoven   in   three   sections.   In   the   first   section,   I   identify   my   two   case   studies   and  discuss   the  purpose  of  using  a  case  study  based  approach   to  examine  authority   in   the  archaeological   process.   The   second   section   addresses   the   theoretical   frameworks   and  considerations  that  played  a  major  role  in  the  development  and  implementation  of  my  research  design.  The  third  section  outlines  the  practical  methodology  and  strategies  that  I  used  in  the  process  of  my  fieldwork.     3.1.2    Introducing  a  Case-­‐Based  Methodological  Approach  I   focused  my  methodology   on   the   observation   of   authoritative   structures   that  manifest   in   decision-­‐making,   interpretation   and   production   of   knowledge   in  archaeological   practice.   This   study   pays   particular   attention   to   the   produced   ‘final  product’  accounts17  and  presented  interpretations  of  what  happened  in  the  past,  with  an  aim  of   ‘tracing  back’   the   social   history  of   how   these   accounts   came   to   appear   in   their  ‘final’  presented  forms.  As  explained  in  more  depth  below,18  this  study  is  operationally  based  on  the  idea  that  contestation  and  tension  in  a  given  process  allow  for  its  internal  complexities   to   become   more   transparent.   It   also   relies   heavily   on   the   underlying  argument  that  social  abstractions  like  ‘authority’  and  ‘knowledge’  can  be  identified  and  understood  by  studying  the  social  interactions,  networks  and  material  culture  which  are  produced  by  these  conceptual  abstractions.  Therefore,  this  study  is  framed  around  two  practical,   comparative   case   studies,   both   of   which   are   involved   in   various   levels   of  interpretive  contestation:  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  in  Visoko,  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina  and  the  Çatalhöyük  Project,  Republic  of  Turkey.  The  archaeological  accounts  produced  by  both   17  See  Section  1.1.2.1  for  a  definition  of  a  ‘final  product’  account  of  the  past.  18  See  Section  3.3.2.   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     47 of  these  case  studies  are  the  main  focus  of  examination,  and  the  authority  that  manifests  in  social   interactions  and  that   impacts  the  production  of  these  accounts   is  the  primary  subject  of  this  research.    To   maximize   the   comparative   value   of   my   case   studies,   I   chose   one   case   of  professional   archaeology   and   one   case   of   alternative   archaeology.   Both   of   these   sites  have   produced   their   own   ‘authoritative’   accounts   of   the   past   through   their   practices,  publications   and   public   presentations.   The   first   case   study   is   Çatalhöyük,   an  internationally   regarded   professional   archaeological   site   located   near   Konya   in   the  Republic  of  Turkey.  Çatalhöyük  is  a  complex  Neolithic  tell  site  with  an  equally  complex  excavation  history  and  legacy.  The  Çatalhöyük  site  was  partially  excavated  in  the  1960s  by  James  Mellaart  with  the  British  Institute  at  Ankara,  then  reopened  again  in  1993  by  Ian  Hodder,   first  with   the  University  of  Cambridge  and   later  with  Stanford  University.  Today,   Hodder   continues   research   at   Çatalhöyük,   extending   his   own   excavations   and  encouraging   researchers   from  other  universities   to   collaborate  on-­‐site  with   their   own  independent  excavations.  Çatalhöyük  presents  a  unique  opportunity  to  engage  with  the  issue   of   authority   and   authoritative   archaeological   practice,   especially   regarding   the  kind  of  interactive  authority  that  builds  with  translation  and  site  structure.  The  site  has  a   deep-­‐layered   excavation   history   and   holds   an   important   place   in   archaeological  history.  Open  almost  any  introductory  archaeology  textbook  today,  and  you  are  almost  certain   to   find   a   reference   to   Çatalhöyük   or   Ian   Hodder.   The   site   has   a   unique  authoritative  status  in  the  archaeological  community,  and  its  influence  on  archaeological  thought,   in   relation   to   its   actual   impact   on   archaeological   practice,   is   nuanced   and  complex.    The   international   recognition   of   Çatalhöyük   in   archaeological   theory   can   be  divided  by  two  general  themes:  first,  the  site  has  sensational  archaeological  finds,  which  have   been   matched   by   a   few   equally   sensational   interpretive   accounts   of   the   past  produced  by  the  primary  site  excavators.  Secondly,  the  site  under  the  current  direction  of   Ian   Hodder   has   been   situated   at   the   forefront   of   an   ‘experimental’   exercise   in  postmodern   theory   and   practice.   Hodder,   considered   by   most   in   the   academic  community  as  the  leading  figure  in  ‘postprocessual’  archaeological  theory,  has  bound  his  theoretical  arguments  into  his  practical  excavation  of  Çatalhöyük.  Due  to  the  currency  of  Hodder’s   theoretical   ideas   and   experimental   practices,   Çatalhöyük’s   place   as   an  ‘authoritative’  postprocessual  site  holds  a  high  degree  of  status  and  prestige  in  academic  archaeology,  and  a  great  deal  of  contestation  has  developed  around  this  attention.  It   is  this   authoritative   status,   and   the   contestation   that   has   developed   from   Hodder’s  postprocessual   theoretical   agenda,   that   is   of   interest   of   this   thesis.   By   examining   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     48 Çatalhöyük  and  its  excavators’  authority,  this  case  study  offers  a  more  nuanced  view  of  how  authority  manifests  and  develops  in  professional  archaeological  practice.  This  case  raises   important   questions   about   the   nature   of   archaeological   interpretation   that   go  beyond   simply   asking   how   does   one   identify   executive   power,   offering   a   research  opportunity   to   engage   with   a   deeper   understanding   about   the   nature   of   epistemic  authority   and   how   this   connects   to   executive   authority   and   structural   space  within   a  particular  discipline.    The  second  case  study  in  this  dissertation  is  a  site  of  alternative  archaeological  practice  called  the  ‘Bosnian  Pyramids’,  located  in  the  small  town  of  Visoko  near  Sarajevo  in  the  current  Balkan  state  of  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina.  This  project  represents  an  interesting  dynamic:   on   the   one   hand,   it   has   been   labelled   as   ‘pseudoarchaeology’   by   the  mainstream  professional  archaeological   community  and   thus   is   considered   to  produce  non-­‐authoritative   accounts   of   the   past   by   those   who   consider   themselves   authorised  professional   experts.   However,   the   project   defies   convention.   Because   of   its   role   in  wider  Balkan   socio-­‐politics   and   its   performative  methods  which  draw  on   science   as   a  master  discourse,  it  is  approached  and  treated  like  an  authoritative  site  by  many—if  not  most—of   the   Bosnian   public,   by   various   marginal   groups   in   the   wider   international  public,  and  by  a  sizable  number  of  accredited  international  scientific  professionals.  This  case  demonstrates  how  people  in  search  of  or  ‘in  possession  of’  authority  can  turn  into  powerful  consumers  and  producers  of  authoritative  goods.  Importantly,  it  addresses  the  fact   that   authority   can   be   mimicked   and   performed,   and   how   people   often   make  deliberate   choices   in   how   to   perform,   seek   out   or   undermine   authoritative   people,  things   or   knowledge.   This   contested   site   offers   transparency   into   the   way   authority  operates,   giving   insight   into   why   some   aspects   of   archaeological   presentation,  performance  and  socio-­‐politics  may  lead  certain  accounts  of  the  past  to  be  accepted  or  assumed  valid.       3.1.3    Chapter  Themes  and  Structure  The   following   section   of   this   chapter   offer   the   methodological   considerations  and  sources  behind  this  research,  and  they  address  the  central  methodological  theme  of  ‘contestation’  which  drove  the  choice  of  case  studies  (Section  3.2).  Section  3.3  identifies  the  aims,  delimitations  and  background  behind  this  dissertation’s  two  case  studies,  and  it   identifies   the   practical   approach   that   guided   the   collection   of   data   and   general  fieldwork   of   this   study.   This   section   also   identifies   the   resolution   of   ethical   issues,   as  well   as   limitations   and   difficulties   that   occurred   during   practical   fieldwork.   The   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     49 conclusion  of  this  chapter  (Section  3.4)  summarises  the  aims  and  approach  expressed  in  this  methodology.     3.2    Methodological  Considerations     3.2.1    Methodological  Sources  This   section   outlines   some   of   the   main   the   methodological   sources   and  considerations   I  used   in  my  practical   approach.   I  drew  on   several   sources  both   inside  and  outside  of  the  field  of  archaeology  as  useful  models  and  theory  to  frame  my  practical  methodological   approach.   The   primary   aim   of   this   study   was   to   identify   what   turns  archaeological  accounts   from  simple   ideas  and  observations   into   ‘authoritative’   factual  accounts   about   what   happened   in   the   past.   Authority   and   power   relationships   are  conceptual   abstractions,   therefore   I   designed   this   study   so   that   I   could   observe   them  through  the  social   interactions  and  material  produced  in  archaeological  practice.  All  of  the   material   and   social   aspects   involved   in   the   production   of   archaeological  knowledge—from  archaeological   recording  and  mapping,   excavated  material   from   the  past,  publications  and  presented  presentation  slides,  to  the  social  interactions  that  used  these   ‘products’,   such   as   interactive   performances   given   during   lectures   and  presentations   to   the   public,   the   behaviour   of   archaeologists   as   they   excavated   and  interacted   with   material,   the   social   use   of   space   and   social   interactions—were   my  research  ‘archive’  from  which  I  drew  my  research  ‘data’.    I   arranged   my   practical   fieldwork   around   the   central   question:   how   does   an  account  of  the  past  develop,  and  what  is  the  role  of  personal  and  institutional  authority  in   this   process?  All   of  my   qualitative   research  methodology  was   oriented   around   this  question.  All   related   research  questions   emerged   in   the   field   and  during   later   literary  research  at  Cambridge.  In  order  to  approach  my  research  question,  I  needed  to  identify  what   makes   an   account,   or   any   item   or   person   in   the   archaeological   process,  authoritative?  How  are  data  and  information  negotiated,  interpreted  and  reinterpreted  in   the   process   of   ‘discovery’?   How   are   data   accounted   for   and   manipulated   in   the  process   of   study?   How   does   that   data   end   up   in   the   format   of   a   ‘final   product’  authoritative  account,  such  as  a  slide  on  a  conference  PowerPoint,  or  as  a  statement  of  fact   in   a   tourist   brochure?   To   answer   these   questions,   I   concentrated  my   analysis   of  authority   in   two   arenas   of   archaeological   practice:   (1)   the   practical   acts   in   the   field,  laboratory,  classroom  or  writing  desk  that  lead  to  the  production  of  accounts  of  the  past;  and  (2)  the  presentations  of  ‘final  product’  accounts  of  the  past,  whether  active  (such  as   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     50 a   conference   presentation),   or   passive   (such   as   a   printed   document).   I   targeted   and  followed   specific   ‘final   product’   accounts   in   my   case   studies   that   I   thought   were  illustrative  to  my  overall  thesis.  I  drew  from  two  major  theoretical  frameworks  in  order  to   develop   my   practical   fieldwork   methodology.   The   first   was   derived   from  methodological   discussions   offered  by   Sociology   of   Scientific  Knowledge;   the   second   I  drew  from  the  developing  subfield  of  Archaeological  Ethnography.     3.2.1.1    Science  and  Technology  Studies  (STS),  Material  Inscriptions  and   Translations,  and  the  Actor-­‐Network  Theory     As   discussed   in   depth   in   Chapter   2   (Section   2.2.5),   social   constructivists   in  Science  and  Technology  Studies  (STS)  have  argued  that  knowledge  is  produced  through  complex,   interconnected  social  networks.  From  the  early  1980s,  many  STS  researchers  contributed  to  a  central  research  concept  where  “the  social  construction  of  knowledge,  that   is,   the   problem   of   how   decisions   about   the   credibility   of   knowledge   claims   and  methods  involve  a  mix  of  social  and  technical  factors”  (Hess  2001:  234).  In  this  approach  to   better   understand   science   as   a   social   and   technical   enterprise,   researchers   turn  inward.   They   ethnographically   observe   the   physical   and   material   movements   of  scientists   engaging   in   the   practice   of   science   itself.   Since   focus   is   placed   on   the   way  evidence   and   facts   are   contingent   on   social   events,   researchers   study   local   decision-­‐making   processes   that   materially   develop   through   scientific   acts:   the   production   of  texts,  the  use  of  scientific  tools  and  laboratory  equipment,  as  well  as  the  movements  of  people   themselves  operating  within   their  physical   landscape.  This  body  of   scholarship  has  engaged  a  wide  array  of  methods  and  epistemologies  in  order  to  study  sociological  aspects   of   knowledge  production,   including  historiographic,   sociological,   ethnographic  and  ethnomethodological  approaches.   In  my  own  research  methodology,   I  have  drawn  from   many   of   these   examples.   For   instance,   Bruno   Latour’s   observational   fieldwork  methods   (1986;   1987;   1988;   1999;   2003)   were   particularly   insightful   in   the  construction   of  my   own  methodological   design.   In   the   now   classic   study   in   the   book,   Laboratory  Life  (1986),  Latour  and  Woolgar  ethnographically  observe  scientists  at  work,  and   these   observations   methodologically   inform   their   conclusion   that   science   is   a  socially   constructed   practice.   Researchers   like   Andrew   Pickering   have   engaged  historiographic  and  sociological  methods  to  study  how  ideas  developed  in  laboratories  become  socially  established  as  scientific  fact  (Pickering  1995).  Others,  such  as  Star  and  Griesemer   (1989),   have   used   ethnographic   and   literary   methods   to   study   the   way  material   things   can   become   representations   or   tokens   of  meaning   for   different   social  groups.   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     51 The  Actor  Network  Theory  (ANT)  has  been  a  particularly  lasting  methodological  contribution   among   such   approaches.   ANT   was   developed   by   STS   researchers   as   a  practical  way  to  examine  and  think  about  the  production  of  knowledge.  ANT  is  a  method  for   studying   general   social   processes   and   outcomes.   Latour,   one   of   the   founding  theorists  of  ANT,  states  that  it  is  a  method  “about  how  to  study  things…Or  rather  how  to  let  the  actors  have  some  room  to  express  themselves”  (2003).  John  Law  explains  further,  “Here   is   the   argument.   If   we   want   to   understand   the   mechanics   of   power   and  organisation   it   is   important   not   to   start   out   assuming   whatever   we   wish   to   explain”  (Law  1992:  2).   In  other  words,  ANT  begins  by  a  researcher   looking  at  a  given  process  with  ‘fresh  eyes’,  ethnomethodologically  observing  actions  like  ‘science’  taking  place  in  a  lab  or  in  the  development  of  a  museum  display  as  if  the  researcher  has  never  seen  the  process  before,  with  no  assumptions  about   the  reasons   for   the  social   interactions   that  lead   to   its   development.   Power   relations   are   one   of   the   principal   discussions   in   ANT  research:  “analysis  of  ordering  struggle  is  central  to  actor  network  theory”  (Law  1992:  5).   One   of   the   core   assumptions   of   ANT   is   that   power   and   authority   are   the   result   of  accumulated,   derived   social   interactions;   they   are   accomplishments   or   outcomes   of  social  interaction,  not  possessable  things.  Law  argues  that  “we  should  be  studying  how  this  comes  about  –  how,  in  other  words,  size,  power  or  organisation  are  generated”  in  a  relational  and  distributed  manner  (Law  1992:  2)  by  exploring  and  describing  the  “local  processes  of  patterning,  social  orchestration,  ordering  and  resistance”  (Law  1992:  5).  John   Law   states   that   ANT   stresses   two   important   points   about   the   social  production   of   knowledge:   relational   materiality   and   performativity.   By   ‘relational  materiality’,  Law  explains  that  ANT  “takes  the  semiotic  insight,  that  of  the  relationality  of  entities,  the  notion  that  they  are  produced  in  relations,  and  applies  this  ruthlessly  to  all  materials—and  not  simply   to   those   that  are   linguistic”   (Law  1999:  4).   In  other  words,  ANT   diverges   from   theories   like   post-­‐structuralism   (which   focuses   primarily   on  linguistic   discourse)   and   deliberately   aims   to   identify   how   all   of   the   processes   and  forums   in   which   various   actors   and   materials—‘entities’—are   interrelated,  deconstructing  how  they  constantly  engage  with  one  another  in  a  physical  and  material  way  that  produces  scientific   fact.  By   ‘performativity’,  Law  explains  that  ANT  highlights  “how   it   is   that   things   get   performed   (and  perform   themselves)   into   relations   that   are  relatively   stable   and   stay   in  place”   (Law  1999:  4).   In  other  words,  ANT  simply  argues  that   the   process   of   knowledge   production   involves   diverse,   interlinked   and   related  entities  which  ‘perform’,  and  through  the  act  of  performance  they  become  stabilised.  A  researcher  looking  at  a  complex  process,  like  the  development  of  a  museum  display,  can  use   ANT   as   a   methodological   model   to   orient   their   study.   For   this   dissertation,   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     52 interested  in  how  ‘final  product’  accounts  of  the  past  become  stabilised  as  authoritative,  ANT  is  a  very  useful  tool  for  orienting  ethnographic  research  in  academic  field,  lab  and  presentational  settings.  Andrew   Pickering’s   related   studies   on   scientific   practice   also   offer   a   useful  theoretical   model   for   research   methodology.   Pickering’s   “basic   image   of   science   is   a  performative   one,   in   which   the   performances—the   doings—of   human   and   material  agency   come   to   the   fore”   (1995:   21).   In   his   book,   The   Mangle   of   Practice   (1995),  Pickering  not  only  acknowledges  the  role  of  the  human  in  the  production  of  knowledge,  but  also  stresses  the  agency  that  material  things  (such  as  instruments  or  artefacts)  have  on  data   collection   and   the   construction   of   scientific   fact.   Particularly   important   to  my  vein   of   research   is   Pickering’s   model   of   scientific   practice   as   a   mangled   “dialectic   of  resistance   and   accommodation”,   where   “scientists   are   human   agents   in   a   field   of  material   agency…   [and]   human   and   material   agency   are   reciprocally   and   emergently  intertwined   in   this   struggle”   (1995:   21)   .   This   is   a   point   that   archaeologists   such   as  Andrew   Jones   (2002)   and   Sharon   Webb   (2002)   have   taken   up   in   archaeological  research.  In  Jones’s  work  on  the  social  construction  of  archaeological  fact,  for  example,  he  argues  that:    [T]he   material   world   also   operates   with   a   degree   of   intentionality…while   the  material   world   may   be   observed   and   interpreted   in   a   multiplicity   of   possible  ways,   interpretations   are   not   wholly   open-­‐ended;   the   nature   of   the   material  world   resists   some   kinds   of   interpretation   while   it   provides   the   means   for  others.  (2002:  171)    This  argument,  that  the  material  world  actively  influences  and  constrains  interpretation  in   archaeological   practice,   that   science   is   a   performative   process   of   resistance   and  accommodation   involving   various   actors   which   are   both   material   and   human,   is  paramount  to  my  own  methodological  approach.     Related   to   this   argument   by   social   constructivists—that   scientific   practice,  people  and  knowledge  have  essential  materiality—is  the  idea  that  you  can  actively  trace  such  materiality   by   ethnographically   observing   the   physical  movement   of   people   and  things   in   scientific   practice   (Law   1992).   By   following   the   material   production   of   inscriptions—the   “types   of   transformations   through   which   an   entity   becomes  materialized  into  a  sign,  an  archive,  a  document,  a  piece  of  paper,  a  trace”  produced  in  scientific   practice   (Latour   1999:   306-­‐307),   a   SSK   researcher   has   a   material   base   to  witness   and   analyse   the   production   of   knowledge   by   scientists.   By   witnessing   the   translation   of   these   inscriptions—that   is,   “all   the   displacements   through   other   actors  whose  mediation  is   indispensable  for  any  action  to  occur…actors  modify,  displace,  and  translate   their   various   and   contradictory   interests”   (Latour   1999:   311)—an   SSK   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     53 researcher  can  observe  the  way  various   individuals  articulate  and  negotiate   their  own  power  and  authority  in  relation  to  the  material  production  of  knowledge.  The  concepts  of  translation  and  inscription,  as  well  as  the  central  tenant  of  ANT  as  a  methodological  approach,   offer   a   conceptual   framework   for   ethnographic   study   of   authority   in   the  production  of  archaeological  knowledge    The  primary  usefulness  of  ANT  and  related  STS  methods  for  this  dissertation  is  in   how   it   draws   attention   to   the   way   multiple   actors   engage   with   one   another   on   a  practical  level,  addressing  how  scientific  practices  move  from  the  abstract  and  unstable  realm   of   ‘ideas’   and   ‘data’   into   the   realm   of   ‘interpretation’   and   ‘fact’   through   the  stabilising  act  of  appropriate  performance.  During  my  own  research,  I  found  ANT  to  be  a  useful  model   to   frame  my  own   thinking   about   the  way   I  witnessed   actors   in   the   field  engage  in  the  production  of  archaeological  knowledge,  especially  since  ANT  stresses  the  ‘practical   materiality’   of   how   facts   come   to   exist   as   ‘final   products’.   Anni   Dugdale  explains  in  her  discussion  of  ANT:  “Committees  of  all  sorts  sit  in  rooms,  drink  coffee,  and  shuffle   through  paperwork.  And   it   is   in   and   through   such  material   arrangements   that  decisions   are   made   possible”   (1999:   116).   ANT   draws   attention   to   this   practical   materiality  of  knowledge  production,  and  this  perspective  offers  a  new  way  of  looking  at  the   processes   and   social   relations   that   lead   to   stabilised   products,   such   as   an  authoritative  account  of  the  past  published  in  a  highly  regarded  journal.     3.2.1.2    Archaeological  Ethnography  Outside   of   sociological   philosophy,   my   research   methodology   also   drew   on  practical  methods   from   the   subfield   of   Archaeological   Ethnography.   Ethnographies   of  archaeological  practice  practically  study  “the  ways  in  which  [archaeology]  is  created  and  produced  through  particular  relationships,  people,  things,  and  practices”  (Yarrow  2009:  21,   emphasis   in   original).   Several   studies   in   archaeological   ethnography   have   offered  new   insight   about   the   way   archaeological   practices   are   organised,   structured   and  institutionalised,   as   well   as   the   way   people   learn   archaeology   in   practical   settings.   I  drew  my  own  methodology  from  such  studies  (Holtorf  2002;  Webb  2002;  Yarrow  2003;  Bateman  2006;  Edgeworth  2006;  Erdur  2006;  Holtorf  2006;  Van  Reybrouck  and  Jacobs  2006;   Yarrow   2006;   Hamilakis   and   Anagnostopoulos   2009a).   For   example,   Van  Reybrouck   and   Jacobs   (2006)   studied   the   socialisation   and   education   of   trainee  archaeologists   in  a  rescue  excavation   located  in  the  town  of  Oss   in  the  Netherlands.   In  this   study   the   researchers   followed   Latour’s   actor-­‐network   theory,   conducting  ethnographic  fieldwork  in  order  to  turn  attention  onto  “the  factual  construction  of  social   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     54 agents”,   and   they   used   participant   observation   as   a   method   to   study   excavations   as  “places  where  observations  are  turned  into  facts  but  also  where  individuals  are  turned  into   archaeologists”   (Van   Reybrouck   and   Jacobs   2006:   33).   Lynn  Meskell   relates   that  such   archaeological   ethnographies   are   ‘hybrid’   studies   in   nature,   as   they   are   short  interactive   ethnographic   studies   that   aim   to   “understand  how   the   value   of   the   past   is  calibrated   across   a   wide   social   spectrum”   (2005:   82);   they   involve   “holistic  anthropology   that   is   improvisational   and   context   dependent.   It   might   encompass   a  mosaic   of   traditional   forms   including   archaeological   practise   and   museum   or  representational   analysis,   as   well   as   long-­‐term   involvement,   participant   observation,  interviewing  and  archival  work”  (2005:  83).  Archaeological   ethnographies   often   draw   heavily   on   the   concept   of   ‘artefact  biographies’.   Scholars   like   Arjun   Appadurai,   for   example,   have   examined   the   role   of  material  culture  in  social  life,  arguing  that  “commodities  represent  very  complex  social  forms  and  distributions  of  knowledge”  (1986:  41).  In  his  work  The  Social  Life  of  Things,  Appadurai   argues   that   objects   travel   through   different   arenas   of   value,   and   that   their  different   ‘life   stages’   communicate   complex   context-­‐dependent   messages   in   a   given  culture   (Appadurai   1986).   Scholars   like   Igor   Kopytoff   have   argued   that   consumption  and   exchange   are   communicative   acts.   He   emphasizes   the   idea   that   objects  may   gain  social  meanings  in  both  the  process  of  commoditizaton—giving  an  object  exchangeable  meaning  “for  more  and  more  other  things,  and…making  more  and  more  different  things  more   widely   exchangeable”   (Kopytoff   1986:   73)   and   in   a   process   called  singularization—where   “Culture   ensures   that   some   things   remain   unambiguously  singular,  it  resists  the  commoditization  of  others;  and  it  sometimes  resingularizes  what  has  been  commoditized”  (1986:  73).  These  ideas  stress  the  social  nature  of  both  things  themselves  and  the  social  categories  involved  in  the  movement  of  material  through  time,  space  and  culture.  I  drew  my  own  methodology  from  archaeological  ethnographies  that  have  taken  these  root  ideas  of   ‘artefact  biographies’  and  applied  them  to  social-­‐material  studies  of  archaeological   categories   and   practice.   For   example,   Cornelius   Holtorf   has   traced   the  ‘life  history’  of  a  potsherd  from  its  discovery  to  its  final  interpretation  by  following  the  sherd   through   complex   networks   of   social   relationships,   negotiations   and  materialisations   until   it   becomes   stabilised   as   a   ‘pot   sherd’   in   a   site   report   (Holtorf  2002).  Andrew  Jones  has  used  approaches  from  STS  to  study  how  ‘facts’  are  created  and  effectively   ‘blackboxed’   by   archaeologists   (see   Jones   2002:   29-­‐35).   His   ‘biography’   of  ceramics   from   Neolithic   Orkney   follows   Grooved   ware   from   their   site   of   production  through  their  different  roles  of  consumption—in  both  the  past  and  present—until  they   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     55 become  accounts  of   the  past.  He   illustrates  how  a  methodological   approach  using  STS  theories  of  materiality  and  scientific  practice,  as  well  as  using  a  study  of  ‘biographies’  of  archaeological  things  and  categories,  can  contribute  to  an  analysis  of  how  the  material  world   operates  with   a   degree   of   intentionality   (Jones   2002:   103-­‐182).   I   also   drew   on  useful  methods  of  observation  used  by  feminist  writers  such  as  Joan  Gero,  who  "brings  science   studies   and   related   constructivist   approaches   together  with   feminist   cognitive  theory   to   examine   archaeological   field   practice   and   the   production   of   archaeological  field  data,  ultimately  to  reveal  how  the  organisation  of  gendered  personnel   in  the  field  insinuates  itself  in  the  creation  of  archaeological  fact"  (Gero  1996:  251).  Richard   Handler   and   Eric   Gable,   who   studied   ‘history   making’   at   Colonial  Williamsburg   (1997)   were   also   helpful   methodological   sources.   Handler   and   Gable’s  study   of   Colonial   Williamsburg   focuses   on   the   way   reconstructions   of   the   past   are  produced  within  what  they  call  ‘social  arenas’.  Social  arenas,  as  defined  by  Handler  and  Gable,  are   the   interpretive  spaces  created  by   institutions  as  well  as   individuals,  where  knowledge   is  produced  and  actively  performed  or  presented.  Of  particular  help   to  my  own  work  has  been  Handler  and  Gable’s  research  design  explicitly  outlined  in  the  first  chapter  of   their  book  The  New  History   in  an  Old  Museum:  Creating   the  Past  at  Colonial   Williamsburg   (1997:   9-­‐27),   which   involved   ethnographically   observing   individuals   in  these  ‘social  arenas’  of  knowledge  production.  In  order  to  study  the  “social  production  of  museum  messages”   (1997:   13),   the   researchers   observed   people   performing   in   what  they   called   ‘frontline’   and   ‘backstage’   social   arenas.   The   researchers   also   accessed  documentary  and  archival  sources  that  were  promoted  as  ‘final  product’  interpretations  of  the  past,  and  they  attended  public  presentations  to  see  public  performances  of   ‘final  product’  interpretations  about  the  past  (1997:  9-­‐27).  Because  my  own  research  involved  two  case  studies   that  had  a  similar  archive  of  data   to  draw  upon,   I   found  Handler  and  Gable’s  research  design  to  be  a  close,  practical  parallel.     Previous  archaeological  ethnography  studies  have  been  done  specifically  on  the  archaeological   site  of  Çatalhöyük,  and   they  have  also  been  of  methodological  worth   to  my   own   research   design.   Sharon   Webb’s   doctoral   research   at   the   University   of  Cambridge  (2002),  on  multiple  interpretations  and  museum  displays  at  Çatalhöyük,  was  also   structured   around   the   concept   of   contestation,   and   she   directed   qualitative  methods   like   informal   interviewing  and  participant  observation  at   the  Çatalhöyük  site  museum.  Webb’s  museological   study  proved   to  be  a  valuable  model   for  my  own  work  observing   researchers   at   Çatalhöyük   at   the   excavation   mounds   and   in   the   dig   house  laboratories.  Several  other  traditional  ethnographies  have  also  been  done  at  the  site  of  Çatalhöyük,   providing   an   interesting   perspective   from   which   to   base   my   own   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     56 observations.  Oguz  Erdur,  for  example,  attended  and  observed  the  site  of  Çatalhöyük  as  an   anthropologist,   writing   a   ‘site   diary’   for   his   unconventional   PhD   dissertation   from  Columbia   University   (2008).   Erdur’s   intellectual-­‐literary   dissertation   diary   provided  insightful  background  observations  on  working  and  conducting  an  ethnographic  study  at  Çatalhöyük.  It  is  noteworthy  to  say  that  I  learned  some  things  about  what  not  to  do  for  my  own  methodology  from  Erdur’s  work:  do  not  sit  by  the  sidelines  and  simply  watch  excavators  work,  thereby  visibly  turning  the  excavators  and  specialists  on  site  into  the  anthropological  ‘Other’  or  specimens.  In  his  research,  Erdur  describes  how  his  seeming  lack   of   participation   created   an   atmosphere   akin   to   annoyance,   if   not   actual   hostility  between  the  observer  and  observed:  “in  the  art  of  sitting…I  surely  become  a  feature  of  curiosity  too.  To  them,  my  work  is  perhaps  like  what  their  work  is  to  me:  far  from  self-­‐evident  in  terms  of  its—grounds  of  legitimacy?”  (Erdur  2006:  106).    A  more   traditional   and   heavily   referenced   example   of   ethnographic   fieldwork  from  Çatalhöyük  is  that  of  Carolyn  Hamilton’s  report  on  ‘faultlines’  between  excavators  and   specialists   in   the   excavation   season   of   1996.   Hamilton   conducted   a   limited,   one-­‐month  session  of  fieldwork  at  the  site  during  the  1996  season  and  observed  conflict  and  rifts   between   two   major   working   groups   of   the   site:   the   field   excavators   and   the  specialists   (Hamilton   2000).   Hamilton’s   project,   as   well   as   its   insightful   observations  about  the  nature  of  knowledge  construction  at  the  site  through  social  interactions,  was  much  welcomed  and  very  supported  by  director  Ian  Hodder,  and  it  has  arguably  set  the  stage  for  many  of  the  later  ethnographies  which  have  come  through  the  site.     3.2.2    Central  Methodological  Theory:  Contestation  The  central  concept  used  in  my  methodological  approach  is  that  of  contestation.  Contested  practices  create  a  space  of  transparency  that  can  allow  a  researcher  to  better  observe   why   and   how   some   knowledge   seems   to   be   more   or   less   accepted   as  ‘authoritative’   by   consumers   of   that   knowledge.   The   idea   that   contestation   creates   a  window  of  transparency  is  not  new.  For  example,  Bruno  Latour  argued  that  ‘science’  as  a  process  usually  operates  so  rigorously  and  efficiently  that  scientists  rarely  question  the  internal   social   complexities   of   their   own   routine   actions   and   methods;   they   only  question   their   data   and   results   (inputs   and   outputs).   Latour   coined   the   term  ‘blackboxing’  to  define  this  process,  where  a  model  runs  so  smoothly  and  efficiently  that  no  one  stops  to  question  its  internal  complexities:  “when  a  matter  of  fact  is  settled,  one  need   focus   only   on   its   inputs   and   outputs   and   not   on   its   internal   complexity.   Thus,  paradoxically,  the  more  science  and  technology  succeed,  the  more  opaque  and  obscure   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     57 they  become”   (Latour  1999:  304).  According   to   the   ‘black  box’   theory,   it   is  only  when  contention  or  conflict  arises,  or  when  a  process  goes  awry,  that  we  can  better  examine  the  internal  complexities  of  that  working  process,  breaking  down  the  walls  and  looking  inside  the  ‘black  box’  of  our  normal  system  of  actions.    This  theory  of  breaking  down  the  ‘black  box’  of  routine  by  examining  contested  case   studies   is   particularly   fruitful   when   studying   academic   controversy   from   the  perspective  of  social  constructivism.19  Stuart  Blume,  who  has  studied  scientific  disputes,  argues   that   “Controversies   in   science   seem   to   offer   a   research   focus   permitting  concurrent   exploration   of   cognitive   and   broad   social   structural   factors”   (Blume  1977:  13).   This   approach   seems   especially   appropriate   when   examining   how   a   social  abstraction   like   authority  manifests   in   archaeological  practice   and  accounts;   authority  by   its   very   nature   relates   to   social   power   relations   and   social   politics.   Contested  practices   often   lead   to   noticeable   struggles   over   both   executive   control   and   authority  over   something   (i.e.   for   example,   the   use   of   lab   space,   the   use   of   funding,   access   to  physical  material   or   space),   as  well   as   noticeable   differences   over   epistemic   authority  (i.e.,   the   qualifications   of   a   researcher,   the   usefulness   of   an   experimental  method,   the  validity  of  an  hypothesis).    Following   this  philosophy,  arguing   that  conflicts   in  a  system  allows   its   internal  complexities   to   become   more   transparent,   I   intentionally   structured   my   research  approach  around   the  case  studies  of  Çatalhöyük  and   the  Bosnian  Pyramids,  which  are  two   tension-­‐riddled   archaeological   projects,   as   described   above.   Contested  archaeological  practices  and  accounts  are   taken  as   the   ‘other’   in   this   study:   they  were  the   primary   ‘subjects’   of   my   field   research.   I   investigated   the   complex   negotiations,  transformations   and   heterogeneous   acts   that  went   into   the   production   of   accounts   of  the   past   in   both   case   studies,   and   I   worked   under   the   methodological   theory   that  contestation   lays   bare   some   of   the   intent   behind   the   choices   that   led   to   ‘final’  constructed  forms  of  knowledge.  My  primary  aim  was  to  identify  what  turned  selected  archaeological  accounts  from  simple  ideas  and  observations  into  ‘authoritative’,  factual  accounts   about   what   happened   in   the   past.   These   methodological   sources   and  frameworks   directly   affected   the   way   I   practically   approached   my   study,   which   is  further  discussed  in  the  next  section..       19  See  Sections  2.2.5,  2.2.6  and  2.2.7  for  further  discussion  on  Social  Constructivism.   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     58 3.3    Methodology  in  Fieldwork  and  Data  Collection     3.3.1    Case  Study  Parameters:  Aims  and  Delimitations  My   two   case   studies   were   not   picked   at   random;   they   were   chosen   to   be  compatible,   so   that   when   brought   together   in   a   discussion,   remarks   about   their  operation   would   provide   meaningful   conclusions   in   an   analysis   of   ‘authority’.   The  studies   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   and   Çatalhöyük   help   illustrate   the   overall   research  question:  what  is  archaeological  authority  and  how  does  it  manifest  in  the  production  of  archaeological  accounts  of   the  past?  This  dissertation   is  not  simply  presenting   two   in-­‐depth   studies   of   contested   archaeological   practice;   rather,   it   uses   the   case   studies   as  illustrative  examples  that  contribute  to  an  overall  analysis  of  authority  in  archaeological  practice.  The  purpose  of  using   two  very  different   case   studies   is   also  not   to  provide  a  universalist   picture   of   archaeological   ‘types’,   such   as   ‘pseudoarchaeological   versus  professional’.  The  aim  is  not  to  explicitly  compare  two  very  different  case  studies;  they  are   not   directly   comparable   and   equal   sites.   Rather,   they   are   complementary   and  demonstrative  examples  for  this  thesis  for  a  variety  of  reasons.  These   two   case   studies   are   compatible   because   of   their   form   and   appearance.  Both   sites   are   sizeable   archaeological,   earth-­‐moving   operations,   with   unusually   large  teams   and   a   complex   site   history.   Both   sites   are   also   very   conscious   examples   of  archaeological   practice;   Ian   Hodder   and   his   team’s   very   conscious   approach   to  interpreting   and   presenting   the   past   of   Çatalhöyük   is   well   known,   and   this   practice  relates   very   closely   to   the   very   conscious   preparation   and   presentation   produced   by  Semir  Osmanagić   and  his   team,  whose  public   publications   and  presentations   are   very  mindful   of   building   a   scientific   presence   and,   as   I   found   during   my   research,   very  ‘plugged  in’  to  current  trends  and  archaeological  language.  This  similarity  between  two  sites   that   are   very   mindful   and   responsive   to   their   own   interpretations,   at   least   in  appearance  and  performance,  provides  a   firm  foundation   for  a  study  on  authority   in  a  comparable   ‘archaeological’   context.   Both   sites   are   also   well-­‐represented   in   media  sources  and  publications,  so  a  great  deal  of  ‘final  product’  accounts  of  the  past  exist  for  both  sites.  This  allows  a  researcher  a  great  archive  of  material  to  access  and  study.  Many  of   these  accounts  are  produced  by   the  projects’  own  official  organisations,  but  also  by  other   people   or   groups   who   sit   outside   of   the   official   team   units   also   produce   other  accounts  relating  to  these  sites.  This  offers  a  chance  to  study  how  sites  and  individuals  attempt   to   maintain   their   authority   in   the   face   of   alternative   or   non-­‐authoritative  contestation   and   debate   outside   of   the   official   team.   Since   both   sites   are   currently  ongoing   projects,   with   regular   practice   and   production   of   knowledge,   both   projects   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     59 afforded  me  the  opportunity  to  visit  and  observe  live  production  of  knowledge—at  the  actual  sites  of  excavation,  as  well  in  spaces  where  interpreted  accounts  were  presented,  such  as  conference  venues.    These  two  studies  can  also  be  viewed  as  complementary,  comparative  opposites  on   either   end   of   the   ‘demarcation   line’.   In   the   philosophy   of   science,   ‘demarcation  criteria’  are  the  characteristics  that  scholars  have  “used  to  differentiate  science  from  its  counterfeit:  if  a  discipline  fails  to  meet  one  of  these  conditions,  then  it  judged  to  be  non-­‐scientific”  (Curd  and  Cover  1998:  2).  The  act  of  ‘demarcating’  or  categorising  authorised  science  is  a  matter  of  authority  in  itself,  for  who  has  the  right  to  judge  what  is  or  is  not  counterfeit,  and  who  has  the  authority  to  define  conditions?20  As  Curd  and  Cover  write,  “Ultimately   discriminating   between   science   and   its   counterfeit   depends   on   a   detailed  understanding   of   how   science  works”   (Curd   and  Cover   1998:   79),   addressing   the   fact  that   in   order   to   understand   what   makes   something   ‘scientific’   versus   what   is   not  scientific,   or   to   define   what   is   ‘pseudoscientific’,   one   must   first   recognise   that   both  science   and   pseudoscience   are   products   of   complex   socio-­‐political   interactions   and  performances.  The  Bosnian  Pyramids,  as  a  case  of  pseudoarchaeology,  and  Çatalhöyük,  as   a   case   of   professional   and   scientific   archaeology,   present   different   angles   of  archaeological  debate  over   the  construction  of   facts  and   the  production  of  knowledge.  Both  sites,  despite  their  given  labels  of  ‘pseudoscientific’  or  ‘scientific’  can  be  considered  ‘authoritative’  in  certain  circles,  and  ‘non-­‐authoritative’  in  others,  and  such  contestation  is   useful   when   approaching   an   analysis   of   authority.   In   Visoko,   Bosnia,   the   pyramid  project   was   initially   given   full   permissions   and   political   support   by   the   national  government,   was   treated   as   authentic   and   authoritative   by   many   media   outlets,   was  given   support   by   many   people   with   authoritative   credentials   and   institutions   behind  their  names,  and  was  directed  by  a  man  who  a  majority  of  the  Bosnian  public  considered  to   be   an   authority   about   the   past   due   to   his   credentials   and   performance   as   an  archaeologist.  In  comparison,  Çatalhöyük  is  also  an  authoritative  site,  supported  by  the  national   government,   as   well   as   by   numerous   political   and   social   institutions,   and  acknowledged   by   the   entire   professional   archaeological   community.   Furthermore,   a  majority  of  media,   the  profession  and   the  public  also   treat   Ian  Hodder  as  an  authority  about  the  past.  This  thesis,  using  two  sites  on  oppose  sides  of  the  demarcation  line  that  are   both   creating   ‘authoritative’   accounts   of   the   past,   examines   fundamental   tensions  behind  what  makes  someone  an  authorised  authority  and  what  makes  an  account  of  the  past  authoritative.     20  See  Sections  5.2.1  and  6.2.1  for  further  discussion  on  the  authority  of  categories  and  categorisation.   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     60 Also,   individually,   both   sites   also   offer   interesting   tensions   in   their   political,  social  and  conceptual  backgrounds,   regarding   the  nature  and  origin  of   their  authority.  As   mentioned   above,   in   both   projects,   contestation   arises   over   the   application   of  methodology  and  standards  of  practice,  as  well  as  over  the  validity  of  the  ‘final  product’  accounts  of  the  past  produced  through  practices  like  excavation  and  presentation.  In  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  case,  the  main  contestation  revolves  around  the  disparate  acceptance  of  the  site’s  accounts  by  the  archaeological  community  and  the  international  public.  The  primary   tension   is   over   its   label   as   and   categorisation   as   ‘pseudoarchaeology’   by  academics  and  professional  archaeologists,  while  the  general  public  sees  the  project  as  more  or  less  authoritative  and  authentic.  In  Çatalhöyük,  contestation  frequently  arises  in  the   archaeological   community   regarding   the   site’s   epistemological   and   theoretical  stance  as  a  successful  reflexive,  multivocal  and  postprocessual  site.  Çatalhöyük  is  often  quoted   as   an   authoritative,   textbook-­‐quality   example   of   scientific   archaeological  practice;  however,  the  site  represents  itself  as  experimental  and  pushing  the  bounds  of  interpretive  practice.  This  results  in  Çatalhöyük  almost  having  two  identities—a  site  of  standard  scientific  methods  versus  a  site  of  experimental  practice—and  certainly  results  in   contestation   over   whether   the   site’s   ‘talk’   matches   its   ‘action’.   Contestation   at  Çatalhöyük   has   also   involved   disputes   over   public   arenas   and   access,  with   conflicting  interpretations  coming  from  groups  such  as  the  Goddess  Community,  as  well  as  the  local  government  and  public  who  have  questioned  who  can  or  should  have  access  to  the  site.  The  epistemic  contestation  in  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  case  study  is  very  public,  and  most  debate  has  been  focused  on  whether  or  not  the  physical  material  being  excavated  is,   in   fact,   archaeological   at   all.   Debates   over   the   project’s   archaeological   material  primarily   take   place   on   the   Internet,   in   informal   settings.   In   formal   settings,   such   as  conference  presentations,  conflict  at  Visoko  is  usually  stamped  out,  and  interpretation  is  stabilised   by   the   performance   of   science   and   influence   of   the   ‘academic’.   Epistemic  contestation   at   Çatalhöyük,   on   the   other   hand,  mainly   takes   place  within   professional  boundaries  between  professional  archaeologists   in   formal  academic   settings;   although  some  contestation  over  ‘final  product’  interpretations  has  been  loudly  voiced  on  public  sidelines   from   alternative   archaeological   groups,   such   as   the   Goddess   Community.  Interpretation   at   Çatalhöyük   is   often   ‘stabilised’   in   informal   settings,   such   as   public  museum  and  site  displays,  and  public  Internet  forums.  As  a  final  note,  three  points  of  awareness  must  be  made  about  the  compatibility  and   use   of   these   two   case   studies   in   this   dissertation.   These   points   are   drawn   Susan  Phillips’   (1994:   64)   study   of   social   movements.   First,   I   oriented   my   focus   on   the  converging  and  differentiating  elements  within  these  studies,  but  allowed  room  for  both   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     61 sites   to   be   seen   as   epistemically   independent.   In   other  words,  while   this   dissertation  offers  points  about  each  case  study  that  can  be  compared  or  offset  against  the  other,  it  does  not   intend   these   sites   to   be   seen   as   ‘comparable’   or   ‘similar’   in   any  way  beyond  what   they   have   to   offer   an   analysis   on   authority.   They   are   meant   to   be   seen   as  compatible  cases  to  the  argument,  not  comparable  cases  in  a  universal  sense.  Secondly,  I  operated  under   the  assumption   that  any  empirical  analysis  of   compatible   case  studies  should   be   sensitive   to   the   historical   specificity   of   each.   In   other  words,   I   approached  each  case  study  by  recognising  that  it  sits  within  a  unique  social  context  and  academic  climate,  which  must  be  addressed  in  order  to  establish  a  baseline  for  further  analysis  in  a  given  thesis.  Thirdly,  I  considered  the  fact  that  any  analysis  of  compatible  case  studies  should   also   take   into   consideration   the   “life   stage”   of   each   case   study   or   social  movement   (Phillips  1994:  64).  Both  Çatalhöyük  and   the  Bosnian  Pyramids  are   in  very  different   stages   of   their   unique   site   development   and   in   their   historical   situation   and  evolution   in   academia   as   a   whole;   therefore,   any   direct   comparability   is   limited.  However,   an   analysis   that   identifies   the   current   life   stages   and   social   complexities   of  individual  sites  can  still  offer  a  wealth  of  information  to  a  thesis  which  addresses  them  as   compatible,  not   comparable   case   studies.   I   found   that  many  of   the   issues   that  arise  from  some  of  the  main  concerns  about  the  use  of  case  studies  and  comparability  can  be  rectified  by  situating  each  primary  case  study  in  its  own  individual,  socio-­‐historical  and  developmental  context.       3.3.2    Case  Studies:  Data  Collection     3.3.2.1    The  Bosnian  Pyramids  in  Visoko,  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina  My  initial  research  aim  for  my  fieldwork  in  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina  was  to  provide  a  basis  for  understanding  of  how  the  Visoko  case  study—popularly  known  as  the  ‘Bosnian  Pyramids’—was  situated  in  a  complex  socio-­‐political  environment  in  post-­‐war  Bosnia.  I  conducted   introductory   research   that   allowed   me   to   identify   some   of   the   ways   the  Bosnian  Pyramid  Foundation  gathered  data,  constructed  knowledge,  presented  accounts  of   the   past,   controlled   their   image   and   mimicked   archaeological   practice   in   order   to  promote   the   site’s   authenticity   and  authority   to   a  wide  public   audience   (Pruitt  2007).  My   initial   two   short   fieldwork   visits   to   Sarajevo   and  Visoko   operated   under   standard  sociological   guidelines   and   methods,   although   I   did   have   some   difficulties   and  limitations,  mostly  issues  regarding  planning  and  translation  (Pruitt  2007:  11-­‐12).  This  round  of  research  contact  with  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  site  served  as  a  pilot  study  to  see   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     62 what  methodological  approaches  did  or  did  not  work,  and  it  gave  me  greater  awareness  of  the  ethics  involved  in  fieldwork  practice.    This  early  study  was  based  on  two  stints  of  fieldwork  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  2007.  For  further  research,  I  spent  the  summer  of  2008  (June-­‐July  and  the  first  half  of  September)   in  Sarajevo  and  Visoko  in  order  to  complete  a  more   in-­‐depth  study  on  the  Bosnian   Pyramid   project.   I   collected   published   documents   and   brochures,   spoke  with  members  of  the  excavation  team  as  well  as  with  local  tourist  agencies  and  members  of  the   public.   I   visited   the   site   multiple   times,   both   as   an   ‘average’   tourist   and   as   an  ‘academic’   visitor.21     I   accessed   a   large   volume   of   publicly   available  material   through  television  and  print  media  in  Bosnia,  as  well  as  media  presented  internationally  through  the   Internet.   I   also   attended   independent   public   events   that   promoted   the   Bosnian  Pyramids,   like   the   2008   Sarajevo   Film   Festival,   which   proved   very   useful   in   my  awareness   of   how   the   general   Bosnian   public   perceived   and   received   the   pyramid  project.  During  my  months  in  Sarajevo,  I  also  attended  a  language  course  so  that  I  could  develop   a   better   cultural   awareness   of   the   Bosnian   language   and   better   recognise  nuances   in   how   the   pyramid   project   was   represented   in   literature   and   language.  However,  I  still  retained  my  translator  from  my  previous  fieldwork  to  help  me  translate  Bosnian  documents  and  interviews.  Over  the  course  of  the  past  three  years,  I  also  attended  and  gathered  data  from  public  presentations  made  by  Semir  Osmanagić  and  his   team  about   the  project.  These  presentations   were   given   in   formal   and   political   as   well   as   informal   and   alternative  places,  including:  the  Bosnian  Embassy  in  London,  the  ‘Histories  &  Mysteries’  alternative  academic  conference  in  Edinburgh,  and  most  importantly,  the  ‘1st  International  Scientific  Conference  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids’  hosted  by  the  pyramid  Foundation  in  Sarajevo.  The  latter  event,  hosted  in  September  2008,  was  integral  to  my  research  and  understanding  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  project  operation.  It  offered  close  contact  with  the  many  levels  of   alternative   archaeological   community   present   at   the   site,   paved   the  way   for  many  important  contacts   in  the  alternative  academic  arena  and  offered  solid   insight   into  the  Foundation’s  ‘scientific’  image  and  practice.  This  event  provided  me  with  the  bulk  of  my  understanding  of   the   ‘backstage’,   inner  workings   of   the  pyramid  Foundation.   It   firmly  showed  how  the  ‘final  product’  accounts  of  pyramids  presented  in  the  media  are,  in  fact,  complex   culminations   of   negotiations,   decision-­‐making   and   academic   debate.   My  fieldwork   on   this   case   study   helped  me   establish   an   illustrative   background   for   how   21  I  formally  identify  these  two  types  of  visits  as  distinct  by  how  I  represented  myself  to  team  members  and  volunteers  on  site.  Depending  on  my  visit  type,  I  was  offered  very  different  experiences  in  the  way  the  excavation  team  managed  their  image  and  presented  an  authoritative  presence.   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     63 ‘authoritative’   accounts   of   the   past   are,   as   Baxandall   (1985)   puts   it,   complex   ‘by-­‐products  of  activity’  and  performance.       3.3.2.2    Çatalhöyük  in  the  Republic  of  Turkey  My   exposure   to   the   site   of   Visoko   and   the   case   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   was  long-­‐term   and   deep,  with   over   four   years   of   interaction  with   the   site   and   project.  My  exposure   to   the   site   of   Çatalhöyük  was   slightly   different   in   nature.  While   the  Bosnian  Pyramids  is  a  relatively  new  project  (operating  since  2005),  Çatalhöyük  is,  on  the  other  hand,  a  project  with  a  long,  complicated  history  that  stretches  back  to  1961.  Because  so  much   about   the   Çatalhöyük   site   history   exists   in   print,   and   because   so   many   other  ethnographies  and  histories  about  Çatalhöyük  already  exist  for  research  and  reading,  I  arrived  at  Çatalhöyük  with  a  decent  understanding  of  the  site  history  and  operation.  My  goal   for   conducting   practical   fieldwork   at   Çatalhöyük  was   primarily   aimed   at   gaining  personal   exposure   to   the   actual   way   the   site   operated.   By   gaining   exposure   through  participant   observation   at   the   site,   I   hoped   to   better   understand   how   the   Çatalhöyük  past   was   being   prepared   for   public   consumption   in   its   ‘backstage’   arenas.   My   main  interest   in   the   site   was   in   the   way   issues   of   space,   place   and   access   played   into   the  development   of   professional   accounts   of   the   past,   and   how   materiality   affected   the  resistance   and   accommodation   of   archaeological   authority.   My   research   goal   during  fieldwork  at  Çatalhöyük  was   to  observe   the  methodological  standards  and  approaches  actually   in   operation   at   the   site,   and   to   understand   how   authority   was   translated  through   space,   things   and   people.   I   aimed   to   see   first-­‐hand   how   alternative   and   non-­‐team  groups—like  the  Goddess  Community,  members  of  the  public  or  academics  outside  of  the  main  research  team,  as  well  as  individuals  or  subgroups  within  the  official  team—constructed   interpretations  that  competed  for  access  to   interpretive  space.  Çatalhöyük  is  famous  for  its  rallying  call  for  multivocality  and  reflexivity,  and  so  one  of  my  primary  interests   in   visiting   the   site   was   to   have   the   opportunity   to   personally   observe   how  various   voices   are   utilized   and   addressed,   as   well   as   what   kind   of   authoritative  discourses  emerged  through  processes  of  negotiation  in  the  presentation  of  information.    I  lived  and  worked  at  the  site  of  Çatalhöyük  as  an  independent  researcher  during  the   summer   fieldwork   season  of  2009.  This   fieldwork   (five  weeks   in   July  and  August)  was   planned   to  mirror   ethnographies   of   a   similar   length   previously   conducted   at   the  site,  most  notably  that  of  Hamilton  in  the  1996  season,  Rountree  in  the  2003  season,  and  Erdur  in  the  2006  season  (Hamilton  2000;  Rountree  2007;  Erdur  2008).  The  fieldwork  on  site  at  Çatalhöyük  allowed  me  the  opportunity  to  talk  with  the  archaeological   team   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     64 and  with  members  of   the  public  who  visited   the   site,   as  well   as   the   chance   to   see   the  methods   in   operation,   to   observe   both   private   and   public   on-­‐site   presentation   of  material,   and   to   briefly   participate   in   excavations.   Like   at   Visoko,   my   fieldwork   at  Çatalhöyük  used  mixture   of  methods:   ethnomethodological   observation,   the   collection  of  documentation,  informal  interviews  and  participant  observation.    Both   on   site   and   back   at   Cambridge,   I   accessed   a   large   volume   of   publicly  available   ‘final   product’   material   through   media   sources.   I   also   attended   several  presentations   given   by  members   of   the   academic   team,  most   of  which  were   given   by  Çatalhöyük   team  members   and   directed   at   diverse  members   of   the   public   who   were  visiting   the   site.   I   also   observed   presentations   that   were   given   by   members   of   the  Çatalhöyük   team,   meant   only   for   the   Çatalhöyük   team.   I   observed   displays   at   the  Çatalhöyük   site  museum   (also   called   the   Visitor   Centre),   and   accessed   site   narratives  presented  in  a  variety  of  different  forums—from  those  presented  on  the  official  website,  to  others  presented  in  alternative  settings,  such  as  that  of  the   ‘virtual  world’  of  Second   Life.   22     Finally,   I   also   attended   general   academic   conferences—such   as   the   European  Association   of   Archaeology   annual   meeting   in   2008,   the   Association   of   Social  Anthropologists   conference   in   2009,   as  well   as   seminars   hosted   in   the  Department   of  Archaeology  in  the  University  of  Cambridge,  in  order  to  see  members  of  the  Çatalhöyük  team  formally  present  information  about  the  site  to  the  general  academic  community.     3.3.3    Research  Strategy  In   order   to   conduct   practical   fieldwork   in  my   two   case   studies,   I   developed   a  mixed-­‐method  qualitative   research   strategy   (Axinn   and  Pearce   2006),   primarily   using  qualitative  and  ethnomethodological  approaches.  Mixed-­‐method  research  strategies  are  “those   that   are   explicitly   designed   to   combine   elements   of   one   method,   such   as  structured   survey   interviews,   with   other   elements   of   other   methods,   such   as  unstructured   interviews,   observations,   or   focus   groups   in   either   a   sequential   or   a  simultaneous   manner”   (Axinn   and   Pearce   2006:   1).   The   main   unit   of   study   in   my  research  program  were  the  active  producers  of  archaeological  knowledge,  including  but  not  limited  to:  professional  and  amateur  archaeologists,  excavating  personnel,  members  of  the  public  who  exercised  their  own  agency  in  the  production  of  knowledge,  as  well  as   things   employed   in   the   construction   of   knowledge   such   as   machines,   instruments,   22  A  digital  project  operated  by  the  associated  Berkeley  team  under  Ruth  Trigham  (Çatalhöyük  Research  Project  (2010c)  "Remixing  Çatalhöyük.").   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     65 artefacts  or  material  culture,  which  actively  influenced  the  authority  and  production  of  ‘final  product’  accounts  of  the  past.       3.3.3.1    Document  Collection  One  of  my  main  research  methods  was  document  collection  and  text  analysis.  In  this  context,  documents  are  defined  as  “any  preservable  record  of  text,  image,  sound,  or  a  combination  of   these”  which  are  “produced  as  part  of  an  established  social  practice”  (ten  Have  2004:  4),  with  the  idea  that  by  using  documents,  the  researcher  engages  with  a   consideration   of   some   of   the   processes   that   produced   them.   For   this   research,   I  gathered  many  documents  that  were  ‘final  product’  accounts  of  the  past:  anything  from  newspaper   headlines   announcing   discoveries   or   interpretations,   recordings   or  slideshows   from   public   presentations,   images   or   videos   that   recorded   archaeological  finds,   public   brochures   or   tourist   pamphlets,   as  well   as   site   reports,   scientific   articles  and   other   academic   publications.   During   and   after   my   fieldwork,   I   also   collected  documents   that   were   in   the   process   of   being   developed   (for   example,   the   2009   Çatalhöyük  Archive  Report  and  the  2008  International  Scientific  Conference  of  the  Bosnian   Pyramids  Radiocarbon  Dating  Report,  which  were  both  being  actively  compiled  while   I  conducted   fieldwork   at   the   sites),   as  well   as   documents   that   already   existed   in   ‘final’  form   by   the   time   I   accessed   them   (for   example,   all   previous   articles   and   reports  produced  by  the  Çatalhöyük  project  team,  or  television  reports  other  such  visual  media  that  aired  on  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  project).  Such  documentary  material  provided  most  of  the  ‘final  product’  accounts  from  which  I  could  access,  pull  apart  and  retrace  the  social  interactions  and  decisions  that  led  to  their  production.     3.3.3.2    Participant  Observation       While  much  of  my  case   study  data  was   sourced   from  a  distance   (i.e.   collecting  documentation,   literature   and   video   from  media   such   as   libraries   and   websites),   the  bulk   of   my   understanding   of   the   cases   took   place   during   fieldwork,   at   the   actual  excavation  sites  or  in  various  public  forums  where  team  members  physically  presented  their  accounts  of  the  past.  My  fieldwork  primarily  involved  accessing  the  sites  first-­‐hand  and   personally   observing   field   practice,   accessing   published   documents   that   were  sometimes   available   exclusively   on-­‐site,   and   attending   the   public   presentations   of  archaeological  material  which  could  only  be  witnessed  at  the  dig  site  itself.  My  fieldwork  activity  was  ethnographic  in  nature,  in  that  I  was  “committed  to  the  close  observation  of   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     66 the  actual,  ‘natural’  situations  in  which  people  live  their  lives”  (ten  Have  2004:  6),  or  in  this   case,   the   natural   spaces   and   situations   in   which   amateur   and   professional  academics  lived  out  their  vocations.    Ethnography,  in  the  broadest  use  of  the  term,  is  not  “a  particular  method  of  data  collection   but   a   style   of   research   that   is   distinguished   by   its   objectives,   which   are   to  understand  the  social  meanings  and  activities  of  people  in  a  given  ‘field’  or  setting,  and  an   approach,   which   involves   close   association   with,   and   often   participation   in,   this  setting”   (Brewer   2000:   59).   During   my   fieldwork,   I   described   myself   to   those   I  interacted  with  as  an  ‘ethnographer’  of  archaeological  practice  for  a  number  of  reasons:  I   gathered  my   data   through   active   participation   in   a   social   environment,   I   immersed  myself   in   the   day-­‐to-­‐day   processes   of   the   people   and   practices   I   was   attempting   to  observe  and  understand,  I  conducted  series  of  semi-­‐formal  interviews  while  engaging  in  many  of  the  same  on-­‐site  activities  of  my  informants,  and  I  stressed  that  I  was  interested  in   observing   what   people   ‘did’   when   they   performed   actions   or   utterances.   My  ethnographic   methods   drew   on   two   types   of   ethnographic   methodology:  ethnomethodology  and  participant  observation.  Ethnomethodology   is   “the   study   of   the   methods   people   use   for   producing  recognizable   social   orders…based   on   the   theory   that   a   careful   attentiveness   to   the  details   of   social   phenomena   will   reveal   social   order"   (Rawls   2002:   6).   As   a   practical  research   method,   it   is   designed   to   observe   the   procedural   aspects   of   individual   and  group  behaviour,  such  detailed  physical  processes,  or  acts  of  practice,  and  not   just   the  final   outcomes   or   interpretations   produced   through   black-­‐boxed   actions.   In   other  words,   ethnomethodologists   study   “overt   activities,   what   is   ‘scenic’   (that   is   directly  observable)   to  participants,   and   their   intelligibility   and  organization”   (ten  Have  2004:  27,  emphasis  in  original).  For  my  own  research,  the  usefulness  of  ethnomethodology  as  a  method  was   logical   and   straightforward.  My   research   aims—to   identify   authority   in  the   social  production  of  knowledge—naturally   relied  upon   the  use  of  a  method  which  would   help   me   to   identify   actions   and   processes   in   social   organisations,   and   which  would   provide   a   useful   platform   from   which   to   draw   meaningful   conclusions   about  social   order,   power   relationships   and   authority   from   these   observations.  Ethnomethodology,   as   my   primary   research   approach,   provided   a   framework   that  guided   the   whole   of   my   data   collection.   For   my   field   research   in   both   Visoko   and  Çatalhöyük,  I  engaged  with  the  projects—and  represented  myself  to  people  on  site—as  an  ethnomethodologist,  whose  primary  interest  lay  in  observing  and  understanding  the  methods  they  used,  as  well  as  the  actions  they  took,  to  produce  accounts  of  the  past.     CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     67 In  my  fieldwork,  I  also  used  participant  observation  as  a  research  methodology.  Participant  observation  “involves  data  gathering  by  means  of  participation  in  the  daily  life   of   informants   in   their   natural   setting:  watching,   observing   and   talking   to   them   in  order   to   discover   their   interpretations,   social  meanings   and   activities”   (Brewer   2000:  59).   For   ethnomethodology,   traditionally   the   researcher   is   ethnographically   distanced  from  the  research  ‘subjects’  and  deliberately  avoids  any  involvement  or  intrusion  on  the  process   being   studied   (ten   Have   2004:   6).   During   my   time   at   my   case   study   sites,  however,  I  quickly  found  that  some  level  of  personal  involvement,  under  the  method  of  participant   observation,   was   not   only   insightful   to   my   overall   research   (e.g.   when   I  participated  as  a  site  excavator  at  Çatalhöyük  and  thus  could  closely  observe  the  team’s  excavating  standards),  but  in  some  cases  it  was  an  absolute  necessity  to  participate  on  site  if  I  was  to  gain  any  observational  access  to  certain  people,  processes  and  data  (e.g.  when   I  needed   to  register  and  perform  as  a  conference  participant   in   the  1st  Scientific  Conference   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramids).   Therefore,   I   found   the   standards   broadly  employed   by   participant   observation,   as   well   as   ethnomethodology,   an   ideal  complement  to  my  qualitative  program.   3.3.3.3    Informal  Interviews     Interviews  are  a  classic  staple  of  qualitative  research  (ten  Have  2004;  Axinn  and  Pearce   2006;   Kvale   and   Brinkmann   2009).   Interviewing   supplements   observation   by  ascertaining  the  personal  views  and  motivations  of  the  people  who  are  involved  in  the  social   situation   under   study.   In   my   doctoral   research,   I   incorporated   a   number   of  informal,   conversational   interviews   into   my   overall   fieldwork   program.   Because   my  main   research   goal   was   to   unobtrusively   conduct   ethnographic   observation   of   the  people   and   things   involved   in   the   production   of   accounts   of   the   past,   I   did   not  incorporate   formal   interviewing   into   methodology,   mainly   because   I   found   it   to   be  interruptive   and   overly   rigid   for   my   purposes.23   However,   on   many   occasions   I   did  conduct  informal  interviews.  I  found  that  casual,  conversational  interviews  with  people,  using   targeted   questions   that   were   intended   to   open   up   conversation   and   ascertain  reasons   and   motives   behind   my   subjects’   actions,   was   often   integral   to   my   overall  understanding  of  the  social  activities  that  I  observed.   23  During  my  MPhil  research  at  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  site,  I  made  a  number  of  attempts  to  conduct  formal  interviews  in  Visoko  with  tape  recorders,  and  I  found  this  to  be  unhelpful.  Most  local  people  and  team  members  did  not  respond  well  to  being  recorded.  Also,  the  rigidity  of  needing  to  access  people  in  one  setting  for  a  certain  length  duration  of  time  clashed  with  the  benefits  of  being  able  to  grab  people  fluidly  so  that  information  came  up  organically,  which  I  found  more  useful  to  my  observation  of  methods  and  thoughts  in  action.   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     68   Interviewing   is   itself   an   active   knowledge-­‐producing   process   by   which  “interviewer  and  interviewee  through  their  relationship  produce  knowledge.  Interview  knowledge   is   produced   in   a   conversational   relations;   it   is   contextual,   linguistic,  narrative,  and  pragmatic”   (Kvale  and  Brinkmann  2009:  18-­‐19).   It   is   important   to  note  that  all  of  my  informal  interviews  were  targeted  and  ‘active’,  in  the  vein  of  Holstein  and  Gubrium’s   (1995)   argument   that   interviews   are,   by   nature,   very   active   acts   of  knowledge   ‘production’,   rather   than   passive   acts   of   knowledge   ‘uncovering’.   In   each  interview  conversation,  I  was  active  in  the  knowledge  construction  process  though  my  suggestions   of   topic,   questions   and   leads   in   the   course   of   the   narratives   or   facts   that  emerged  through  mutual  interest,  digression  and  discussion.  This  process  ultimately  led  each  of  my  casual   interviews  to  “become  a  conversation,  which  stimulates   interviewee  and  interviewer  to  formulate  their  ideas  about  the  research  topics  and  to  increase  their  knowledge  of  the  subject  matter  of  inquiry”  (Kvale  and  Brinkmann  2009:  160).    In   the   course   of   my   research,   I   employed   two   distinct   types   of   informal  interviewing   structures:   computer-­‐assisted   and   conversational.   My   computer-­‐assisted  interviews  employed  the  use  of  the  Internet  and  e-­‐mail,  which  allowed  me  to  converse  with   people   at   a   distance,   at   asynchronous   times.   This   proved   to   be   useful   in  maintaining   multi-­‐national   conversations   over   months   or   years.   I   also   found   that  computer-­‐assisted   interviews   allowed   people   working   in   controversial   settings—including  myself—to  frame  their  thoughts  exactly  the  way  they  wished,  a  point  which  in  itself   offered   interesting   insight   about   the   power   of   presentation   and   the   authority   of  accounts.   The   obvious   drawback   of   this  method  was   that   it   did   not   involve   “a   bodily  presence   with   access   to   non-­‐linguistic   information   expressed   in   gestures   and   facial  expressions”,  which   face-­‐to-­‐face   interviews  provide   (Kvale  and  Brinkmann  2009:  148-­‐149).   However,   my   second   interview   method—conversational—did   allow   access   to  body  language.    The  bulk  of  my  interviews  were  conversational  and  primarily  took  place  in  the  field.  These   interviews  usually  consisted  of  me,   the   interviewer,   taking  an   interviewee  aside  for  a  short  while  and  having  a  conversation  on  a  specific  subject  or  topic,  usually  in  a   casual   setting   such   as   sitting   in   a   café   or   standing   by   an   archaeological   site.   These  interviews   usually   had   three   aims:   to   gain   factual,   conceptual   and   discursive  information.   Obtaining   valid   factual   information   was   a   central   part   of   these  conversational  interviews;  I  wanted  to  know  who  the  person  was,  where  the  person  sat  in   any   project   hierarchy,   what   actions   the   person   was   taking,   and   what   reasons   or  motivations  lay  behind  their  actions.  These  interviews  were  also  conceptual  in  nature,  in  that   I   sought   to   understand   how   the   interviewee   conceived   of   a   given   situation   or   of   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     69 certain  social  phenomena.  These  interviews  served  “to  uncover  respondents’  discourse  models,   that   is,   their   taken   for   granted   assumptions   about  what   is   typical,   normal,   or  appropriate”   (see   also   Gee   2005;   Kvale   and   Brinkmann   2009:   151).   By   asking   my  interviewees,   for   example,  why   they   thought   a   given   sequence   of   events  was   ‘odd’   or  ‘appropriate’,   or   by   asking   for   them   to   clarify   how   they   define   ‘respect’   or  ‘accountability’,   I   gained   interesting   insight   into   some   of   the   underlying   assumptions  and  social  structures  that  were  operating  on  site.    In   all   of   my   informal   interviews,   I   approached   my   interviewees   with   a   short  number  of  predetermined  questions,  but  these  were  only  used  to  stimulate  discussion.  By   not   forcing   a   strict   regime   or   standard   list   of   questions   on   my   interviewees,   it  allowed  all   interviews   to  remain  open  and  adaptable   to   the  priorities  and   information  that   emerged   during   the   course   of   conversation.   None   of   my   interviews   were   voice  recorded   or   taped   (as   opposed   to   the   majority   of   the   formal   presentations   that   I  attended,  which   I  did  voice   record).   I   found   this   approach   to  be  very  valuable,  mainly  because  it  preserved  casual  conversation  and  seemingly  allowed  more  to  emerge  in  the  course  of  discussion.  Since  my  research  took  place  at  contested  and  often  controversial  sites  and  settings,  I  found  that,  especially  at  Visoko,  tape  recorders  were  not  conducive  to  the  free  flow  of  conversation.    At   Visoko,   many   of   the   amateur   archaeological   project   members   were,  understandably,   quite   defensive   about   their   work   and   excavations,   and   they   were  especially   wary   of   outsiders   (especially   foreigners   associated   with   well-­‐established  universities)   who   tended   to   be   hostile   to   their   amateur   archaeological   activities.  Therefore,  I  found  that  team  members,  volunteers  and  even  members  of  the  local  Visoko  community   often  became  very  nervous  when   I   approached   them  with   tape   recorders.  Ironically,   many   workers   and   volunteers   on   site   seemed   to   relish   the   attention   of  cameras  and  video  recording  by  local  media  services,  and  many  allowed  video  recording  from   me   when   I   was   on   site   anonymously   acting   in   the   role   as   ‘interested   tourist’.  However,  when   they  knew   I  was   a   researcher   from  Cambridge,   I   found   that   often   the  opposite   reaction   occurred:   on  more   than   one   occasion,  when   I   approached   potential  interviewees   as   a   Cambridge   researcher,   direct   communication  with  me  was   avoided  entirely,  and  on  some  occasions  I  was  politely  asked  not  to  record  conversations.  I  also  found  that,  even  if  interviewees  were  willing  to  talk  with  me  if  I  agreed  to  preserve  their  anonymity  or  agreed  not  to  record  the  conversation,   just  the  mention  of  having  a  tape  recorder  with  me  could  hamper  our  future  discussion.  Eventually,  I  abandoned  the  use  of  my  tape  recorder  entirely  in  my  summer  fieldwork  in  Visoko,  except  when  I  attended  the   ‘1st   International   Conference   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramids’   in   Sarajevo,   in   September   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     70 2008,  when  I  recorded  presentations.  By   the   time  I  began  my   fieldwork  Çatalhöyük   in  the  summer  of  2009,  I  decided  to  maintain  the  same  standards  of  casual  interview  and  documentation.   Therefore,   at   Çatalhöyük,   as   at   Visoko,   my   interview   methodology  consisted   of   informally   conversing   with   members   of   the   team   and   public,   then  immediately   writing   a   series   of   post-­‐interview   notes,   impressions   and   transcriptions  directly  after  the  conversations  took  place.     3.3.4    Ethical  Research  Guidelines  and  Issues       Since   this   dissertation   qualifies   as   a   qualitative   study   that   impacts   ‘human  subjects’,   I   followed  standard  sociological  ethical  guidelines  that  guided  my  awareness  and   operation   of:   informed   consent,   confidentiality,   consequences   and   the   role   of   the  researcher   (APA   2002;   Iphofen   2009;   Kvale   and   Brinkmann   2009:   68).   This   section  briefly  details  some  of  the  ethical  guidelines  that  I  followed  in  the  course  of  my  research.  Although   my   degree   program   did   not   require   me   to   submit   an   ethical   review   of   my  work,   before   I   began   my   fieldwork   I   observed   the   ethical   protocols   outlined   in   the  Stanford  University  Institutional  Review  Board  (IRB)  for  human  research  (HRPP  2010),  and  during  my  fieldwork  I  adhered  to  the  guidelines  set  out  by  the  Stanford  IRB  board.     3.3.4.1    Informed  Consent  In   all   informal   interviews   during   the   course   of   my   fieldwork,   research  participants  were   informed  of   the  purpose  of  my   investigations,  namely   that   I  was  on  site   as   an   ethnographer   interested   in   their   methods.   In   all   my   interviews,   the  interviewees   participated   voluntarily,   with   verbal   agreement   between   me   and   my  informants  that  I  may  include  their  opinions  in  my  work.  Their  statements,  expressed  in  this   dissertation   primarily   in   Chapters   Four   and   Five,   should   be   regarded   as   the  opinions   and   property   of   their   respective   owners.   In   any   cases   where   conversations  were  overheard,  or  views  were  expressed  in  an  non-­‐standard  or  non-­‐interview  context  in  the  course  of  participant  observation,  or  in  the  cases  where  participants  were  aware  of   recording   but   not   aware   of   the   potential   purpose   or   use   of  my   investigations,   this  material  went  through  three  stages  of  observation  and  conditioning:  first,  any  material  that  showed  any  potential  risk  of  adverse  affect  on  the  speaker  was  thrown  out  and  not  used  in  my  final  dissertation  (see  ‘Consequences’  section  below);  secondly,  any  material  that  was  overheard  in  the  course  of  participant  observation  that  did  not  pose  any  risk  to  the  speaker  or  project  is  explicitly  noted  in  my  research  as  a  ‘non-­‐interview  context’  and   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     71 the   speaker   is   kept   anonymous   in  my   final  work,  with   their   identity   only   kept   in  my  personal   field   notes;   finally,   this   material   was   peer-­‐reviewed   by   my   supervisor   and  other  colleagues  in  the  course  of  preparing  my  dissertation  in  order  to  maintain  another  layer  of  review  and  assessment  of  this  material.     3.3.4.2    Confidentiality  In  all  informal  interviews,  participants  were  made  aware  of  the  reasons  for  our  targeted  conversations,  and  any  wishes  they  expressed  for  confidentiality  were  always  respected.  As  mentioned   in   the   section   above,  material   that  was  overheard  or   ‘picked  up’   during   the   course   of   my   participant   observation   in   fieldwork   was   also   kept  confidential.  Especially   in  the  case  of  material   taken  from  children,24   I  decided  to  keep  that   information   confidential   if   used   in   my   doctoral   work.   I   found   my   use   of  confidentiality   to   be   both   enabling   as   well   as   disabling:   “Anonymity   can   protect   the  participants,   but   it   can   also   deny   them   ‘The   very   voice   in   the   research   that   might  originally  have  been  claimed  as  its  aim’”  (Kvale  and  Brinkmann  2009:  73).  In  the  case  of  my  work,  I  found  that  respecting  the  confidentiality  of  my  informants  could  make  some  of  the  later  referencing  somewhat  difficult,  since  I  have  to  rely  on  using  names  like  “one  of  the  excavators”  or  “one  of  the  pyramid  conference  organisers”.  This  makes  connecting  ‘anonymous’  people,  hierarchies,  organisations  and  ideas  in  my  research  more  difficult;  however,  confidentiality  allows  for  me  to  both  ethically  avoid  any  risk  to  my  informants  as  well  enables  me  to  use  their  contributions  in  my  ethnographic  study.     3.3.4.3    Consequences  By   following   the   Stanford   IRB   ethical   guidelines,   I   was   made   aware   of   the  potential   risk   and   consequences   of   my   ethnographic   research   on   ‘human   subjects’.  During   the   collection   of   information   from   the   people   under   study,   I   tried   to   also  maintain   a   subjective   awareness   about   any   information   that   was   given   to   me,  advertently  or  not:  From   a   utilitarian   ethical   perspective,   the   sum   of   potential   benefits   to   a  participant   and   the   importance   of   the   knowledge   gained   should   outweigh   the  risk  of  harm  to  the  participant  and  thus  warrant  a  decision  to  carry  out  a  study.  This   involves   a   researcher’s   responsibility   to   reflect   on   the   possible  consequences  not  only  for  the  persons  taking  part  in  the  study,  but  also  for  the  larger  group  they  represent.  The  researcher  should  be  aware  that  the  openness  and   intimacy   of   much   qualitative   research   may   be   seductive   and   can   lead   24  In  the  rare  cases  that  I  engaged  with  children,  the  material  was  always  freely  given.   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     72 participants  to  disclose  information  they  may  later  regret  having  shared.  (Kvale  and  Brinkmann  2009:  73)    As   Kvale   and   Brinkmann   note,   ethnographic   fieldwork   often   involves   openness   and  intimacy.25  In  cases  where  I  later  felt  that  one  of  my  informants  might  regret  something  they  said,  especially  when  it  might  involve  a  given  risk—i.e.   later  difficulties  with  their  employers,   peers,   the   media,   etc.—I   intentionally   left   this   material   out   of   my   final  dissertation,   using   it   only   to   inform   my   own   personal   awareness   of   my   case   study  background.       3.3.4.4    Role  of  the  Researcher  During   the  course  of  my   fieldwork,   I  maintained  an  awareness  of  my  role  as  a  researcher  and  the  ethics  that  I  should  abide  to:  “Morally  responsible  research  behavior  is   more   than   abstract   ethical   knowledge   and   cognitive   choices;   it   involves   the   moral  integrity  of   the  researcher,  his  or  her  sensitivity  and  commitment   to  moral   issues  and  action”  (Brinkmann,  quoted  in  Kvale  and  Brinkmann  2009:  74).  One  of  the  primary  aims  of  my  research,  alongside  protecting  my  informants,  was  to  abide  by  a  rigorous  standard  of   methodology   myself,   having   a   strict   adherence   to   scientific   quality:   “publishing  findings  that  are  as  accurate  and  representative  of   the  field  of   inquiry  as  possible.  The  results  reported  should  be  checked  and  validated  as  fully  as  possible,  and  with  an  effort  toward  a  transparency  of  the  procedures  by  which  the  conclusions  have  been  arrived  at”  (Brinkmann,  quoted  in  Kvale  and  Brinkmann  2009:  74).    These   four   categories   of   ethics—informed   consent,   confidentiality,  consequences   and   the   role   of   the   researcher—were   used   as   a   framework   “when  preparing   an   ethical   protocol   for   a   qualitative   study,   and   they   [were]   used   as   ethical  reminders   of  what   to   look   for   in   practice  when   doing   interview   research”   (Kvale   and  Brinkmann  2009:  76).  The  ethics  of  respecting  my  informants,  as  well  as  respecting  my  own   role   as   researcher   with   high   standards   in   the   ethical   production   of   knowledge,  served  to  guide  my  fieldwork  methodology.     25  Here  I  am  also  referencing  particular  occasions  when  things  were  told  to  me  while  subjects  were  under  the  influence  of  alcohol.  While  I  believe  the  things  they  said  to  be  true  and  relevant  to  my  research,  I  am  not  including  this  material  for  ethical  reasons,  because  of  the  later  regret  these  individuals  might  have,  or  the  risk  that  this  information  might  pose  to  their  employment  if  this  information  was  traced  back  to  them.     CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     73 3.3.5    Limitations  and  Difficulties  Encountered  in  the  Field  Three  significant   limitations  affect   this  study.  First,   this  study   is  mixed-­‐method  and  multidisciplinary,  meaning   it   affects  multiple  disciplines  within   academia   and  has  multiple   potential   audiences.   Since   this   research   examines   present-­‐day   practice   of   a  discipline  which  impacts  the  way  the  past  is  interpreted,  it  falls  within  the  disciplinary  realms   of   science   studies,   sociology,   anthropology,   as   well   as   archaeological   theory.  Thus,   I   engaged  with   all   the   advantages   and   disadvantages   of   drawing   upon   different  methodologies   and   theoretical   links   from  more   than   one   field.  While   I   hope   that   this  work  can  be  insightful  to  all  of  these  fields,  ultimately,  this  work  very  much  aimed  at  and  intended   for   an   audience   with   an   interest   in   archaeological   theory   and   heritage  management.  This  is  a  study  of  how  archaeology  operates  today,  and  it  has  most  direct  relevance   to   those   who   are   interested   in   how   the   field   of   archaeology   is   presented,  interpreted  and  how  end-­‐product  accounts  of  the  past  are  produced,  which  are  matters  of   concern   in   the   heritage   subdiscipline   in   the   field   of   archaeology.   The   primary  contribution   of   this   study   regards   how   power   relationships   are   developed   and   how  authority   affects   the   production   of   knowledge,   and   therefore   this   work   aims   to  contribute   to   a   greater   self-­‐awareness   about   the   role   of   authority   in   the   practice   of  archaeology  today.  The   issue   of  multidisciplinarity   caused   some  difficulties  when   I  worked   in   the  field.   I   found   that  many   of   my   informants   on   site,   both   in   Visoko   and   at   Çatalhöyük,  expressed   confusion   about  my   research   project   and   aims,   notably   about   how   I  was   a  researcher   coming   from   the   field   of   archaeology   whose   interest   was   in   investigating  methods   of   the   present-­‐day,   not   in   investigating   the   past   that   they  were   studying.   In  Visoko,  problems  arose  when  I  tried  to  explain  my  ethnographic  interests  to  an  amateur  audience:  many   of   the   people  working  with   the   ‘Bosnian   Pyramids’   project   found   the  concept  of  doing  an  ethnography  of  archaeological  practice  very  foreign,  and  they  were  wary   of   a   ‘mainstream’   academic   student   watching   their   controversial   activities.   In  Çatalhöyük,   I   also   had   difficulties  when   I   expressed  my   project   as   an   ethnography   of  archaeological   practice,  which  was   surprising   to  me,   since   Çatalhöyük   has   had   a   long  history   of   ethnographers   attend   the   site   and   report   on  methods   and   activities   of   the  excavators   and   specialists.   During   my   stay   on   site,   especially   initially,   some   people  withdrew  from  socialising  or  interviewing  with  me  during  work  hours,  perhaps  due  to  worries  about  misrepresentation  and  accountability  (c.f.  Berggren  2009).  After  acknowledging  this  problem  during  the  course  of  my  fieldwork,  I  found  the  concept   of   boundary   objects   to   be   a   useful   methodological   tool   to   cope   with   this  difficulty.  The   concept  of   ‘boundary  objects’   comes   from   the  work  of   Susan  Leigh  Star   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     74 and   James   Griesemer,   who   used   this   concept   in   a   study   of   a   museum   populated   by  people  working   in   different   social   arenas   (Star   and   Griesemer   1989).   In   their   article,  Star   and   Griesemer   find   that   the   “creation   of   new   scientific   knowledge   depends   on  communication  as  on  creating  new  findings.  But  because  these  new  objects  and  methods  mean  different   things   in  different  worlds,  actors  are   faced  with   the   task  of   reconciling  these  meanings   if   they  wish   to   cooperate”   (1989:  388).   In  my  own  work,   I   used  what  Star   and   Griesemer   call   ‘boundary   objects’,   objects   that   have   a   different   meaning   for  each   social   actor   who   engages   with   them,   yet   serve   as   a   common   denominator   for  discussion  and  cooperation  in  work.    In  my   research   I   found   that,   although  members   of   the   Çatalhöyük   or   Bosnian  Pyramid  community  may  not  fully  understand  my  research,  they  did  understand  when  I  invited  them  to  discuss  a  concrete  object  or  event.  For  example,  when  I  asked  a  Pyramid  team   member   for   their   opinions   or   experiences   about   the   discovery   of   a   certain  ‘artefact’,   they   would   understand   the   object   and   event   in   question   and   would   often  gladly   inform  me  about  the  event.  Similarly,  at  Çatalhöyük,   I   found  that  by  focusing  on  specific  events  or  artefacts—such  as  the  discovery  of  a  specific  burial  or  the  movement  of   specific   ‘cluster’   material26   through   lab   space—the   team   members   seemed   to  understand  my  interest  and  gladly  walked  me  through  the  process  of  finds  handling.  In  both   such  examples,   the  objects  and  events   in  question  were  boundary  objects.  To   the  excavators   and   team  members   in   both   sites,   the   artefacts   I   asked   about  were   part   of  their   experience   of   a   given   event;   these   artefacts   constituted   data   and   evidence   that  informed   the  members’   opinions   about  what   these   objects  were   used   for   in   the   past.  However,   to   me,   as   an   ethnographic   researcher,   I   was   interested   in   the   process   and  handling  of   the  objects  during  and  after   the  event  described,   as  well   as  how   the   team  member  was  describing  and  informing  me  about  the  object  in  the  present.  The  handling  and   the  descriptions   of   the   objects  were   offering  me   ‘data’   about   power   relationships  and  sources  of  authority   in   the  archaeological  process.  For  both  a  given  team  member  and   myself,   the   discussion   and   handling   of   objects   and   events   were   meaningful;   26  The  use  of  cluster  material  is  discussed  further  in  Section  4.2.2.3.  At  Çatalhöyük,  ‘clusters’  of  archaeological  material  were  not  my  original  or  intended  target  of  research  at  the  site.  Initially,  I  found  accessing  sites  and  people  difficult  due  to  uncertainty  about  my  role  on  site  as  an  ethnographer.  To  solve  this  problem,  I  used  ‘clusters’  of  archaeological  material  as  a  ‘boundary  object’,  using  one  artefactual  category  as  an  arbitrary  way  to  give  me  access  to  a  variety  of  labs.  At  Çatalhöyük,  clusters  are  by  nature  made  up  of  a  variety  of  different  material:  for  example,  human  remains  mixed  with  obsidian  and  faunal  remains  would  be  a  ‘cluster’.  By  following  the  movement  and  processing  of  cluster  materials  on  site,  I  had  a  way  to  start  discussion  in  interviews  and  a  reason  to  access  different  lab  spaces.  This  way,  I  was  able  to  move  freely  between  the  labs  and  more  freely  interview  team  members  on  the  site,  without  scepticism  or  confusion  about  my  aims  and  role  at  the  site.   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     75 however,   we   were   each   addressing   very   different   meanings   around   the   same   object.  Thus   I   found   the   concept   of   ‘boundary   objects’   to   be   vital   to   my   data   collection  methodology  during  fieldwork.     Another   limitation   that   affected  my   research—which   primarily   concerned  my  work  on  the  Visoko  case  study—was  that  of  language  translation.  Any  research  working  with   a   foreign   language   has  many   inherent   problems.  While   I   have   tried   to  minimize  miscommunication   by   restricting   my   research   primarily   to   English-­‐speaking   contacts  and  English  literature,  some  translation  from  the  original  Bosnian  was  inevitable.  I  used  one  primary  translator,  Amna  Hadziabdić,  throughout  the  entire  course  of  research.  She  accompanied  me   throughout  much   of   my   fieldwork,   translated  my   questions   back   to  non-­‐English  speakers,  and  translated  quotes  from  Bosnian  literature  and  media  sources.  During   fieldwork   in  Visoko,   I   briefly   used   a   second   translator   on   one   occasion,  which  turned   out   to   be   disastrous   when   she   began   to   fight   and   debate   with   my   research  subjects   in  Visoko  over   the   interpretation  of   certain  artefacts.  This  hampered  some  of  my  future  work  at  the  site  for  a  number  of  weeks.27  After  this  incident,  I  returned  to  my  first  translator,  and  all  other  translation  was  computer-­‐assisted  with  the  help  of  online  programs  such  as  Google  Translate.28  While  I  have  done  everything  possible  to  minimize  errors  in  translation,  I  recognise  that  it  is  always  possible  that  some  may  have  occurred.     A  third   limitation  that  affected  this  study   is   that  of  specificity  and  case  studies.  As  mentioned  above   in  Section  3.3.1,   I  chose  two  specific  case  studies   for  a  number  of  reasons,  including  their  high-­‐profile  nature,  the  contrast  of  a  ‘pseudoscientific’  site  and  a  ‘mainstream’  site,  as  well  as  the  aspect  of  theoretical  contestation  that  both  case  studies  contribute   to   the   discussion   of   authority   in   this   thesis.   Nevertheless,   the   question  remains  as  to  whether  these  two  sites  are  ‘representative’  of  a  discussion  on  the  broad  topic  of  authority   in  archaeology,  and  therefore  whether  conclusions   in   this   thesis  can  be  generalised.  This  limitation  is  generally  characteristic  of  research  that  involves  case  studies,  representing  the  “‘central  tension’  in  science  between  divergent  viewpoints  and  the   need   for   generalizable   findings”   (Star   and   Griesemer   1989:   387).   Despite   the  overarching   connections   that   I   make   in   this   work   regarding   the   entirety   of   the  ‘archaeological   process’,   this   dissertation   is   not   able   to   examine   every   facet   of   every  stage  of  the  archaeological  process;  it  is  constrained  by  time  and  space,  and  it  is  meant  to  contribute  to  and  open  up  a  much  larger  discussion  about  the  nature  of  authority  in  archaeological  practice.     27  I  discussed  this  incident  and  the  methodological  issues  it  raised  in  an  (unpublished)  paper  presented  to  the  Cambridge  Heritage  Research  Group  in  Fall  2009.    28  http://translate.google.com/   CHAPTER  3                                                                                                                                                                                      METHODOLOGY  AND  CASE  STUDIES     76 To   alleviate   the   problem   of   addressing   such   a   large   and   abstract   topic,   I  narrowed  the  focus  of  my  study  on  specifically  looking  at  authoritative  accounts  of  the  past  and  the  way  authority  manifests  their  production.  This  is  a  targeted  direction  in  the  much  broader  scope  of  the  production  of  knowledge  in  archaeology.  I  also  targeted  two  specific  case  studies  and  specific  archaeological   ‘moments’   in  both  of   them  in  order   to  offer  a  solid  discussion  on  this  topic  with  concrete  examples.  By  making  selections,  this  study  is  inherently  a  constructed  perspective,  and  it  is  aware  of  this  stance.  This  study  is  not   meant   to   be   an   exhaustive   discussion   of   the   meaning   of   the   term   ‘authority’   in  archaeology,  nor  is  it  meant  to  represent  the  whole  of  either  case  study—other  studies  have  focused  on  the  deep  development  of  each  (Dalton,  Barnes  et  al.  1968;  Doob  1983;  Barnes  1986;  Collier  1992;  Hamilakis  1999;  Christiano  2004).  Rather,  this  research  aims  to  engage  interdisciplinary,  qualitative  methodologies  developing  in  fields  such  as  STS  in  order  to  examine  the  complex  construction  of  knowledge  in  the  archaeological  process  and   to   better   understand   how   structures   of   authority   play   into   the   production   of  accounts  of  the  past.  This  research  is  only  one  small  study  of  a  much  larger  theoretical  problem.  Like  the  parable  of  the  three  blind  men  who  each  touch  and  describe  one  different  part  of  a  whole  elephant—one  describes  the  tail  as  a  rope,  one  describes  the  leg  as  a  tree,  and  one  describes  the  trunk  as  a  snake29—this  research  only  touches  on  a  small  part  of  a  much  larger   picture   and   yet   contributes   its   one   interpretative   part   of   a   whole.   As   Richard  Geertz   has   said,   it   is   “not   necessary   to   know   everything   in   order   to   understand  something”  (Geertz  1973:  20),  and  this  research,  while  it  may  perhaps  only  feel  out  the  very  beginnings  of  a  much  larger  research  question,  offers  an  unprecedented  analysis  of  situated   theory   with   supporting   evidence   from   two   comparative   case   studies.   A   case  study-­‐based   approach,   as   described   above,   is   a   useful   and   productive   enterprise   that  adds   detailed   knowledge   about   a   problem   in   a   larger   issue.   As  Nietzsche   has   argued:  “The  more  affects  we  allow  to  speak  about  one  thing,  the  more  eyes,  different  eyes,  we  can   use   to   observe   one   thing,   the  more   complete  will   our   ‘concept’   of   this   thing,   our  ‘objectivity’   be”   (Nietzsche   1969   [1886]:   119).   This   research   is   founded   on   the  observation   and   analyses   of   parts   and   builds   towards   a   greater   understanding   of  authority   in   the   archaeological   process   and   how   authority   impacts   the   acceptance   of  knowledge  about  the  past.   29 One of the most famous versions of this parable is the 19th century poem "The Blind Men and the Elephant" by John Godfrey Saxe (1816–1887). See lines at the introduction of this chapter.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     77 CHAPTER  FOUR:     Authority  as  Accumulated,  Translated  and   Stabilised:  Çatalhöyük  as  a  Case  Study       "By  what  authority  are  you  doing  these  things?"  they  asked.  "And  who  gave  you  authority  to  do  this?       -­‐  Mark  11:28       4.1    Introduction   4.1.1    Introduction:  Authority  as  Accumulated,  Translated  and  Stabilised  This   chapter   argues   that   in   archaeology,   the   production,   exchange   and  consumption   of  messages   involve   a   number   of   social   processes—notably,   inscription,  translation  and  blackboxing—which  affect  the  way  knowledge  stabilises  into  solidified,  authoritative   ‘final  product’  versions  of  original   fluid   ideas  and  practices.  This  chapter  demonstrates   that   authority   is   rooted   not   only   in   people,   but   in   material   actors   and  systems—such   as   the   methods   of   inscription   and   translation,   and   in   the   agency   of  nonhuman   actors   like   material   culture—which   create   and   stabilise   authority   in   the  production  of  knowledge.  This  chapter  employs  the  case  study  of  Çatalhöyük,  Republic  of  Turkey  as  an  illustrative  example.    The   Çatalhöyük   project,   under   the   direction   of   Ian   Hodder,   is   a   controversial  archaeological   excavation.  Most   of   its   highest-­‐profile   controversies   today  often  do  not  involve   debate   over   interpreting   accounts   of   the   Neolithic   past   (although   scientific  scuffles  over  data  do  take  place,  as  with  most  archaeological  projects).   Instead,  a  great  deal   of   debate   revolves   around   how   the   site   operates   and   what   better   methods   or  approaches  can  or  should  be  taken  to  produce  more  faithful  knowledge  about  the  past.  Archaeological  research  at  Çatalhöyük  is  an  example  of  very  conscious—or  reflexive—archaeological  practice.  The  site  has  a  history  of  deliberate  engagement  with  the  concept  of   authority,   asking   questions   like:   how   can   personal   biases   impact   the   outcome   of  authoritative   accounts   of   the   past?   How   can   archaeological   knowledge   be   better  imparted  directly  to  the  public?  Director  Ian  Hodder's  strong  opinions  about  the  way  the  entire   discipline   of   archaeology   should   operate   have   made   him   a   powerful,   if   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     78 controversial   presence   in   the   field.   His   authoritative   voice   has   impacted   the   way  archaeology  has  been  taught  and  presented  to  generations  of  archaeology  students  over  the  last  twenty  years,  making  him  a  key  figure  in  ‘postprocessual’  theory  (Renfrew  and  Bahn   2000:   44-­‐45;   Wylie   2002:   16-­‐17,   171).   This   framework—of   conscious  methodological   debate,   history   of   dialogue   with   issues   raised   by   archaeological  authority,   and   authoritative   presence   in   the   field—makes   Çatalhöyük   a   particularly  well-­‐adapted   case   study   for   this   thesis.   By   going   one   step   beyond   more   traditional  debates   over   authority,   and   by   examining   the   practice   and   presence   of   Çatalhöyük’s  scientific  authority  in  depth,  this  chapter  argues  that  epistemic  and  executive  authority  in  archaeology   is  something   that   is  physically  accumulated  and  translated  through  the  accessing  and  narrowing  of  physical  and  intellectual  spaces.       4.1.2    Case  Study  Parameters:  Relevant  Project  Background  Çatalhöyük  is  a  Neolithic  tell  site  in  the  Republic  of  Turkey  located  near  the  city  of   Konya   in   Central   Anatolia.   The   word   ‘Çatalhöyük’   means   ‘forked   mound’,   which  accurately  describes  the  site’s  two  connected  earthen  mounds  full  of  Neolithic  material  culture:   the   larger   and   older   Neolithic   East   mound,   and   the   later   Chalcolithic   West  mound.   The   site  was   discovered   by   archaeologist   James  Mellart,  who   excavated   large  sections   of   the   East  Mound   between   1961   and   1965.   Under   his   direction,   Çatalhöyük  quickly  became  internationally  recognised  for  a  number  of  reasons.    First,   the  site  was  unusually   large  and  complex   for  such  an  early  date,  and  this  led  to  Mellaart’s  claim  that  Çatalhöyük  was  the  “world’s  first  city”,30  as  well  as  the  claim  that   this   site   was   one   of   the   earliest   settlements   to   domesticate   plants   and   animals  (Shane   and   Küçuk   1998;   Hodder   2000:   3).   Secondly,   the   site   has   been   a   source   of  sensational   finds,   thanks   to   exceptional   preservation   of   rare   early   art   and   unusually  arranged  cultural  habitus.  Mellart  discovered  sculptures  and  paintings  in  what  he  called  “shrines”.   Mellaart   interpreted   depictions   of   decapitated   humans   being   eaten   by  vultures  and  “murals  depicting  men  puling  the  tongues  and  tails  of  aurochs  and  stags”  as  signs   of   funeral   rites   and   social   behaviour     (Shane   and   Küçuk   1998:   43).   He   also  interpreted   a   Neolithic   goddess   cult   from   female   figurines   found   in   the   mounds.  Mellaart’s   graphic   finds—coupled   with   his   equally   graphic   descriptions   and  interpretations—put  Çatalhöyük  on  the  academic  map.   30  The  idea  of  Çatalhöyük  as  a  ‘city’  has  been  disputed  and  debated  in  Ian  Hodder’s  more  recent  project,  and  it  is  now  more  commonly  referred  to  as  a  large  ‘settlement’.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     79 The   site   is   also   famous   not   just   because   of  Mellart's  work,   but   because   of   the  circumstances  of  his  sudden  departure  in  1965  after  the  so-­‐called  ‘Dorak  Affair’.  By  most  accounts,   this   affair   involved   a   mysterious   woman   named   Anna,   who   supposedly  showed  Mellart  a  set  of  illicit  antiquities,  from  which  he  later  published  illustrations,  and  then  she  disappeared.  Because  he  was  never  able  to  produce  evidence  these  antiquities  or  find  Anna  herself,  and  because  he  was  unable  to  defend  his  publication  of  the  claimed  artefacts,  the  government  forced  Mellart  to  quit  his  excavations  and  leave  Turkey.  This  story  drew  a  great  deal  of  attention  to  the  site  of  Çatalhöyük  (Baltar  2006:  44-­‐54).  It  is  noteworthy   that   this   early   history   of   the   site—full   of   Mellart’s   sensational   finds,   his  equally  sensational  claims  and  finally  his  sensational  departure—are  the  foundations  of  Çatalhöyük’s  fame,  status  and  international  recognition.    From  its  dramatic  past  and  into  its  present  history,  Çatalhöyük  has  come  to  hold    attention  and  influence  in  the  realm  of  archaeological  theory.  The  current  project,  under  the  direction  of  Ian  Hodder,  is  representative  of  ‘postprocessual’  archaeological  theory,  and  it   is  seen  as  a  site  that  “well   illustrates  the  changing  approaches  to  archaeology  in  the   second   half   of   the   20th   century”   (Renfrew   and   Bahn   2000:   44).   Ian   Hodder,   who  continues  Çatalhöyük  excavations  today  as  his  primary  archaeological  project,  has  been  called   “the  most   influential   figure   in   the   post-­‐processual  movement   of   the   1980s   and  1990s”   (Renfrew   and   Bahn   2000:   44).   Hodder   has   built   his   own   career,   fame   and  professional   authority   around   his   postprocessual   theories   and   experimental  archaeology.   Çatalhöyük   is   the   site   where   he   has   actively   tried   to   put   his   theoretical  arguments  into  practical  operation.  The  Çatalhöyük  project  today  has  two  major  aims.    First,   it   promotes   the   unique   and   sensational   archaeological   finds   from   the  mounds,  arguing  that  “the  site  is  an  internationally  important  key  for  our  understanding  of   the   origins   of   agriculture   and   civilisation”   (Online   Mission   Statement,   Çatalhöyük  Research   Project   2010b).   The   project   argues   that   Çatalhöyük   is   of   global   heritage  importance:   the   site   actively   tries   to   address   problems   raised   not   only   by   the   site’s  archaeological   interpretations,   but   also   by   heritage   management   issues,   such   as   the  need   to   focus   on   conservation   and   public   access   to   archaeological   practice—thus,   the  project  is  said  to  have  “a  wider  applicability  to  many  sites  in  the  Eastern  Mediterranean”  (Online  Mission  Statement,  Çatalhöyük  Research  Project  2010b).  This  agenda  aims   for  Çatalhöyük  to  be  recognised  as  critically  important  to  Turkish  and  global  history,  and  it  aims  for  the  site  to  be  seen  as  representative  of  current  heritage  management  trends.  To  that   end,   the   Çatalhöyük   team   has   invested   a   great   deal   of   research   toward   solving  problems  of  access  and  presentation,  such  as  in  how  to  integrate  their  work  with  local  Turkish  communities  (Bartu  2000;  Matthews,  Hastorf  et  al.  2000;  Shankland  2000),  and   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     80 in   how   to   involve   ‘other’   voices   and   interpretations   of   interest   groups   outside   of   the  archaeological  community  in  the  interpretive  process  (Rountree  2007;  Atalay  2009).  Hodder  has  advocated  for  the  archaeological  discipline  to  become  more  engaged  with  multiple  or  alternative  perspectives  of  the  past.  Hodder  and  his  team  have  stressed  that  the  accounts  of  the  past  that  they  produce  are  interpretive  and  speculative  in  many  ways,  and  they  recognise  that  there  are  alternative  accounts  of  the  past  that  challenge  or  compete  with  their  own  interpretive  space  (Hodder  2003;  Rountree  2007).  In  a  concrete  step  towards  transparency,  the  Çatalhöyük  project  makes  data  from  the  project  quickly  available  on  its  website.31  Members  of  the  public  and  other  academic  professionals  can  immediately   access   the   site   excavation   reports   and   data.   Hodder's   team   hopes   that  transparency   of   their   aims   and   work   will   further   public   involvement   and   theoretical  engagement  with  the  material.  This  was  a  particularly  novel  and  groundbreaking  idea  in  the   early   stages   of   Hodder’s   excavations   in   the   early   1990s,   when   archaeological  information  distributed  to  the  public  via  the  Internet  was  a  rare  and  new  concept.  On  a  more  theoretical  level,  Hodder  also  pushes  for  a  program  of  ‘multivocality’.  He  seeks  to  “allow  more  open-­‐ended  and  multivocal  approaches  to  the  interpretation  of  the  site  as  a  whole,   allowing   not   only   different   specialists   to   have   a   voice,   but   also   the   local  inhabitants”  (Renfrew  and  Bahn  2000:  44).  This  openness  extends  as  far  as  allowing  of  alternative  public   groups   such   as   the  Mother  Goddess   community   to  have   their   views  “respectfully   entertained  by   the  excavators,   even   if   they  do  not   share   them”   (Renfrew  and  Bahn  2000:  218).  However,  as  this  chapter  examines  more  in  depth,  despite  much  talk   about   engagement   and   multivocality,   the   site   in   practice   still   retains   ultimate  authority  over  how  accounts  of  the  Çatalhöyük  past  are  presented.  The  second  aim  of  the  Çatalhöyük  project  is  to  bring  postprocessualism  to  bear  in   the   site’s   practical   operation.   Hodder’s   project   began   with   the   ambitious   aim   to  completely  reorganise  excavation  practice,  so  that  it  could  be  free  of  some  of  the  more  overt  and  intentional  modes  of  personal  modern  bias.  Hodder  aimed  to:    [D]evelop  a  more  flexible  and  open  approach  to  stratigraphic  excavation…he  set  out   deliberately   to   avoid   the   early   division   by   the   excavation   director   of   the  observed   strata   into   closely   defined   “phases”   and   “units”   –   the  more   standard  practice   –   with   the   director   thus   taking   ultimate   responsibility   for   the  stratigraphic   interpretation  (a  practice  which  some  postprocessual  critics  have  seen  as  authoritarian).  (Renfrew  and  Bahn  2000:  44)    Hodder  initially  argued  for  a  complete  revamp  of  methodological  frameworks  at  his  site,  like  excavation  categories.  The  idea  was  that  the  Çatalhöyük  excavations  could  be  a  new  experiment   in   conceptualising   excavation   practices.   Computer   recording,   site   diaries   31  http://www.catalhoyuk.com/   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     81 and   new   databasing   methods   were   implemented   “to   allow   more   interactive  stratigraphic   interpretations”   (Renfrew   and   Bahn   2000:   44).   For   example,   instead   of  using   traditional   recording   categories   like   ‘midden’   or   ‘hearth’,   the   team   instead   used  broader  categories   like   ‘pit’  or   ‘fire   instalment’   in  order  to   indicate  these  feature  finds.  The   idea   was   that   by   using   more   general   terminologies   and   more   open   theoretical  frameworks,   the   material   culture   was   freed   from   immediate   biases,   which   were  instinctive   in   the   original   terminologies,   such   as   the   notion   of   a   ‘hearth’   as   a   central,  homey,  warm  space  of  domestic  interaction.32        Finally,   Çatalhöyük   is   internationally   recognised   for  being   a  project   that   has—and  can  afford—excellent  standards  in  scientific  methodology  and  practice.  Because  of  the  site’s  international  reputation  as  a  cutting-­‐edge  site  with  innovative  practice,  it  has  been  able   to  draw  a  number  of  reputable   institutions,  researchers  and  funding  bodies.  Each   fieldwork   season,   nearly   a   hundred   researchers   attend   the   site,   doing   original  studies   in  anything   from  environmental   research  on  vegetation  and  phytolith   remains  (Deckers,   Riehl   et   al.   2009),   to   biological   anthropological   research   on   local   genetic  relationships  (Pilloud  2009),  to  ethnographic  observation  of  modern  day  archaeological  practice   (Hamilton   2000;   Erdur   2006;   Erdur   2008).   The   attendance   of   so   many  specialists,   who   work   at   the   specially   designed   dig   house   laboratories   alongside   the  excavators   for   the  whole  season,   is  unique  at  Çatalhöyük.  During  my  own  research  on  the   site,   I   heard   one   visitor   exclaim   that   the   dig   house,   with   all   of   its   specialists   and  microscopes  and  well-­‐organised  facilities,  looked  like  a  “NASA  space  camp!”  (site  visitor,  personal   communication,   2010),   and   this   sentiment   has   been   echoed   in   other  anthropologists’   observations   at   the   site.33   Because   of   the   rigorous   standards   and  theory-­‐laden   practice   at   Çatalhöyük,   the   unusually   high   status   and   attendance   of  researchers  from  prestigious  institutions,  and  its  sizeable  funding  from  unusual  donors  like  the  Visa  and  Boeing  companies,  Çatalhöyük  has  been  internationally  regarded  as  an   32  See  Section  4.3.3.  for  further  discussion  of  this  activity  in  actual  practice.  During  my  fieldwork,  this  study  found  that  some  team  members  felt  that  these  broad  categories  collapsed  back  into  more  traditional  categories  over  time.  The  ‘pits’  that  resembled  ‘middens’  were,  in  the  end,  interpreted  to  simply  be  middens  by  the  team  who  excavated  the  recurring  material.  Therefore  the  broader  ‘open’  categories  collapsed  back  into  these  more  traditional  ones  as  familiarity  with  the  material  lend  stability  to  more  solid  interpretations  (site  specialist,  personal  communication:  2010).     33 Anthropologist Oguz Erdur had a similar interview during his own fieldwork. From his doctoral dissertation, Erdur writes: “Even I myself was scoffed at by an elderly archaeologist: ‘Oh dear! Why aren’t I surprised? Seems like, everybody’s going to Everybody-knows-land nowadays!’ Another [Turkish archaeologist] was more subtle, regarding at least my quest: ‘That’s no real archaeology over there, I’m telling you; it’s more like a NASA camp! The money, the labs, the tools, the people... It’s all surreal! We the locals could never even attempt something like that. Would we even want to—that of course is another story’.” (Erdur 2008: 557) CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     82 authoritative   project   with   the   resources   and   skills   necessary   to   do   ‘good’   scientific  archaeology.  The  primary  goals   raised  by  Hodder’s  Çatalhöyük  project—that  of   flexible   and  reflexive  interpretation  in  site  practice,  as  well  as  the  importance  of  allowing  multivocal  interpretation   and   archaeological   access—have   a   great   deal   to   do  with   authority.   Not  only   do   these   theories   directly   engage  with   the   notion   of   authority   and   the   questions  that   authority   raises—such   as   who   should   be   allowed   to   access   the  material   past,   to  speak   for   and   interpret   the   past,   to   utilise   resources   that   are   sourced   from   the   past,  etc.34—but   they   also   affect   the   authoritative   status   of   the   site   itself.   Çatalhöyük   today  draws   most   of   its   attention   from   its   deliberate   engagement   with   issues   of   executive  authority,  control,  access  and  epistemic  authority.  These  issues  affect  a  deeper,  and  yet  unexamined,   root   concern   of  what   authority   is   in   relation   to   archaeological   practice,  which   has   been   not   explicitly   discussed   by   the   Çatalhöyük   team.   This   thesis   uses  Çatalhöyük   to   address   the   root   causes   and   effects   of   authority   on   the   production   of  archaeological  knowledge.  This  chapter  does  not  just  address  authority  as  a  symptom  of  other  issues,  like  personal  bias,  gendering  of  accounts  or  problems  of  physical  access  to  site   remains,   which   have   been   central   concerns   of   previous   research.   Rather,   this  chapter  offers  a  detailed  examination  and  analysis  of  authority  from  social  structure  and  interaction   (Section   4.2),   an   examination   of   how   authority   manifests   through   the  processes  of   inscription,   translation  and  blackboxing  which  stabilise  and  solidify   ideas  into   archaeological   accounts   (Section   4.3),   and   ultimately   argues   that   authority   is   a  cumulative   process—an   outcome   of   the   resistance   and   accommodation   of   people   and  things  in  intellectual  and  physical  space  (Section  4.4).         4.2    Authority  from  Social  Structure  and  Interaction   4.2.1    The  Social  Construction  of  Facts  and  the  Factual  Construction  of   Social  Agents    Ethnographers   David   Van   Reybrouck   and   Dirk   Jacobs   have   written   that  “Excavation   seems   not   so   much   a   process   of   salvaging   but   of   solidifying”   (2006:   34,  emphasis  in  original).  Archaeological  sites  are  the  physical  spaces  where  archaeological  practices   turn  piles  of  dirt   and   rubbish   into  knowledge  about   the  past.  Archaeological   34  Issues  that  have  been  previously  introduced  in  literature  (Hamilakis  1999,  Rountree  2007,  Webb  2002).     CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     83 practice   is   far   from  an  operation  of   simple  salvage;   it   is   the  making  of   something  new  and  solid   from  something  old  and   incomplete,   the   creation  of  narratives  and  histories  that   solidify   our   understanding   about   what   happened   in   history   (Hamilakis   1999;  Yarrow  2003;  Edgeworth  2006;  Hamilakis  and  Anagnostopoulos  2009b).    The  concept  of  solidifying  offers  three  points  of   interest  to  this  thesis:  (1)  first,  archaeological   facts  are   solid   forms  of  knowledge   that  are   socially   created,   and   like   in  any  social  endeavour,  the  production  or  solidification  of  archaeological  facts  is  affected  by  social  asymmetries  of  power  and  authority.  (2)  Likewise,  archaeologists  are  factually  constructed   social   agents:   “Social   actors   do   not   precede   natural   constructs   but   are   as  much  the  outcome  of  scientific  practice  as  are  facts”  (Van  Reybrouck  and  Jacobs  2006:  37).  In  other  words,  facts  may  be  created  or  solidified  through  the  social  interaction  of  people  and  things  in  an  interrelated  network,  but  people  can  also  become  or  solidify  into  factual   things—like   ‘archaeologists’—through   their   participation   in   an   appropriate  network  of  people  and   things.  Thus,   the  process  of   fact-­‐constructing   itself   can  directly  impact   the   factual   status   and   authority   of   people.   (3)   Finally,   the   way   authority   is  formed  in  intellectual  power  or  control  emerges  from  the  interplay  of  (1)  and  (2)—the  solidification  of  facts  in  the  scientific  process  (often  by  experts),  and  the  solidification  of  agents   who   factually   become   archaeologists   or   other   experts,   who   thus   gain   the  authority   to   profess   those   facts.   These   processes   directly   affect   the   executive   and  epistemic  authority  of  individuals,  collective  groups  or  institutions,  and  the  accounts  of  the  past  that  they  produce.    The   idea   that   archaeological   facts   are   socially   created   is   not   new;35   and   since  facts   are   socially   created,   authority   must   be   a   major   player   in   the   production   of  knowledge.   Questions   therefore   remain:  where   and   how   does   authority  manifest   and  affect   the   knowledge   production   process?   How   important   are   power   asymmetries   in  both  the  production  and  consumption  of  archaeological  accounts?  Authority  is   integral  in   the  way   facts  are  constructed  and  received.  Furthermore,  sometimes  we   forget   that  “excavations  are  not  only  places  where  observations  are  turned  into  facts  but  also  where  individuals   are   turned   into   archaeologists”   (Van   Reybrouck   and   Jacobs   2006:   37,  emphasis   added).   Authority   manifests   in   this   mutual   constitution   of   actors   and   facts  through  the  interrelationships  between  social  asymmetries  in  this  network.    For   example,   facts   in   archaeology   materialise   out   of   essentially   nothing   (the  unknown   or   un-­‐found)   and   become   something   (the   discovered   material   thing,   the  known,  something  interpreted)  by  their  interaction  with  people  who  give  them  meaning   35  See  Section  2.2.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     84 through  categories  and  narratives  (Gero  1996;  Yarrow  2003).  Facts  also  gain  authority  and   status   through   their   association   with   a   reliable   excavator   or   site   specialist.   Van  Reybrouck   and   Jacobs   use   an   example   of   how   a   discolouration   in   the   sand  becomes   a  ‘posthole’   when   a   reliable   expert   finds   and   identifies   it.   Naming   a   discolouration   a  ‘posthole’   is   the   creation   of   a   new   fact,   changing   a   find   from   nothing   into   something.  Pertaining  to  point  (1)  above,  the  ‘fact’  of  a  ‘posthole’  is  socially  constructed  through  the  complex   institutional   and   personal   associations   that   lie   behind   why   an   excavator   is  considered   a   reliable   expert,   someone   competently   able   to   identify   a   pothole.   Such   a  ‘fact’  also  has  status  simply  because  the  category  of  ‘postholes’  are  considered  worthy  of  attention   by   the   discipline   of   archaeology   for   socio-­‐historical   reasons.   Pertaining   to  point   (2),   the   archaeologist   in   this   example   who   finds   a   ‘posthole’   is   also   a   factually  constructed   social   agent.   She   gains   authority   and   status   through   her   interactions   and  associations   with   a   discolouration   in   the   sand.   By   validating   a   discolouration   as   a  ‘posthole’,   and   by   using   the   appropriate   tools   and   performing   the   appropriate  behaviours  of  an  archaeologist,  she  is  articulating  and  maintaining  her  own  professional  identity.  If  her  fellow  archaeologists  concur  with  her  finds  through  their  witnessing  and  trusting   of   the   sincerity   and   competence   of   her   identification—and   if   this   interactive  process  between   the  excavator,   the  material   and  her  peers   is   reproduced  over   time—then  her  authority  as  a  competent  expert  becomes  more  and  more  established.  Both  the  archaeologist   and   the   posthole   in   this   scenario   “mutually   articulate   each   other;   they  emerge   simultaneously   from   actual   practice”   (Van   Reybrouck   and   Jacobs:   37).   The  archaeologist   needs   the   posthole   as  much   as   the   posthole   needs   the   archaeologist   in  order  to  maintain  professional  authority,  status  and  identity.       This   point   is   further   expanded   by   the   fact   that   (3)   with   both   individuals   and  institutions,  executive  and  epistemic  authority  is  derived  from  this  interaction  between  the  social  construction  of   facts  and  the  factual  construction  of  social  agents  on  a  much  larger   scale,   in   a   complex   network   of   people,   things   and   motivations.   The   entire  ‘discipline   of   archaeology’   is   an   institutionalised,   recognisable   category   of   practice,   a  networked   system   of   all   the   micro-­‐interactions   and   interrelations   between   material  remains,   tools,   technology,   ideas  and  philosophy  about  the  past,  and  the  human  actors  who   call   themselves   archaeologists.   As   archaeologist   Thomas   Yarrow   writes,  “archaeologists   create   the   objectivity   of   the   artefacts   and   features   they   excavate   by  themselves   embodying   archaeological   conventions,   skills   and   knowledge”   (Yarrow  2003:  66).  Within  the  discipline,  facts  and  actors  are  mutually  constituted.       CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     85 4.2.2    Social  Arenas  of  Authority  and  Practice  at  Çatalhöyük     4.2.2.1    Structure  and  Space  Like  most   archaeological   projects,   the   Çatalhöyük   Project—which   includes   the  arenas  of  archaeological  material  in  the  earth,  the  dig  house  laboratories,  the  machines  and  tools,  as  well  as  people  who  work  in  these  spaces  and  with  these  things—is  part  of  a  complex   system   and   society,   a   culture   operating   under   the   awareness   that   they   ‘do  archaeology’   and   work   as   ‘archaeologists’   handling   ‘archaeological   material’.   Thomas  Yarrow  addresses  the  fact  that,  “the  site,  composed  of  artifacts,  is  itself  also  an  object  or  artifact”  (Yarrow  2006:  24).  People  often  refer  to  ‘the  site’,  ‘the  dig’,  ‘the  dig  house’  and  even  ‘the  archaeology’  as  if  it  were  an  object,  subject  or  artefact—a  distinct  category  or  recognisable  unit.  The  idea  that  an  archaeological   ‘site’   is  a  specific  cultural  thing  is  an  understanding   that   impacts,   enables   and   constrains   the   way   we   understand   and  approach   any   archaeological   place   or  material.   Sites   are   seen   to   be   distinct,   bounded,  accessible  spaces;  they  are  physical  units  of  the  landscape  where  people  go  to  identify,  access,   utilise,   study   and   contest  material   culture   from   the   distant   past.   The  material  itself  articulates  the  site  as  an  archaeological  space.    People   who   intend   to   access   archaeological   spaces   for   the   purpose   of   ‘doing  archaeology’  operate  as  part  of  a  wider  network  of  people  and  associations,  and  those  who  identify  themselves  as  archaeologists  operate  in  socially  distinct  ways  that  classify  and  represent  their  actions  as  archaeological.  People  who  are  not  archaeologists  before  they   begin   work   at   an   archaeological   site   can   become   archaeologists   through   the  embodiment   and   performance   of   what   it   is   to   be   an   archaeologist:   through   the  enactment  of   archaeological  methods,   the  access  of   archaeological   space  and  material,  and   the  use  of   tools   identified  as   archaeological   (Van  Reybrouck  and   Jacobs  2006).   In  this  way,  archaeology  is  a  social  culture  that  is  intimately  connected  to  the  idea  of  what  an  archaeological  space  is,  what  archaeological  material  is,  who  an  archaeologist  is  and  what   it   is   to  perform  archaeological  acts.  Authority   in   this   context   involves   the  power  asymmetries  that  are  built  into  this  social  culture.  During   my   time   at   Çatalhöyük   in   the   2009   field   season,   I   found   that   the  arrangement   of   physical   space   and   the  movements   of   people   and   things   through   this  space  dramatically  affected  the  way  knowledge  was  produced  at  the  site.  The  structure  of  physical  and  intellectual  space  at  Çatalhöyük  impacted  how  or  why  people  or  things  held   authority   and   status.  Networks   of   people   and   things  were   directly   impacted   and  shaped  by  spatiality,  by  the  movement  of  people  and  things  through  physical  space.     CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     86 The   idea   that   physical   and   intellectual   structure   affects   human   and   material  agency  is  also  not  new.  Scholars,  working  particularly  in  the  late  twentieth  century,  have  developed  and  debated  theories  related  to  structuralism,  post-­‐structuralism  and  agency.  Studies   in   structure   and   agency   have   discussed   how   the   patterned   arrangements   of  social   life   and   physical   space   limit   or   influence   the   choices   and   opportunities   of  individual   agents,   and   importantly,   they   have   addressed   how   this   might   impact   the  production   of   knowledge.   In   archaeological   practice,   theories   of   structuration   have  focused  on  how  human  patterns  might  be  recognized  in  the  material  past  (Renfrew  and  Bahn   2000:   486).   Some   archaeologists   have   critically   argued   that   structuralism   limits  interpretations  to  dialectics  or  pattern  categories  like  cooked/raw,  dark/light,  left/right,  man/woman,   which   might   bias   archaeologists,   undermining   the   nuanced   and   varied  complexities   and   differences   of   social   understanding   that   humans   held   in   the   past  (Renfrew  and  Bahn  2000:  486).  However,  there  are  remaining  questions  that  lie  beyond  this   work   on   structuralism,   such   as:   how   are   human   power   relations   and   authority  enabled  or  constrained  by  structure  and  space?  How  does  the  structure  of  physical  and  intellectual  space  impact  archaeological  methods  and  the  production  of  knowledge?    These  latter  questions  were  forefront  as  I  observed  the  interaction  of  people  and  materials   at   the   site   of   Çatalhöyük   during   their   2009   field   season.   I   observed   the   practical   materiality   of   knowledge   construction—the   use   of   the   physical   things   and  space   as  mundane   as   the   social   use   of   coffee   cups   and   lunch   table   space,   to   the  most  scientific   use   of  microscopes   and   Bunsen   burners   as  well   as   laboratory   space—and   I  examined   how   archaeological   practice   relied   on   a   plethora   of   different   power  relationships,  hierarchies,  groups  and  individuals  who  all   interacted  in  physical  spaces  with  physical  things.  To  quote  Anni  Dugdale  again:  “Committees  of  all  sorts  sit  in  rooms,  drink   coffee,   and   shuffle   through   paperwork.   And   it   is   in   and   through   such   material  arrangements   that  decisions  are  made  possible”   (1999:  116).  Executive  and  epistemic  authority  at  Çatalhöyük  operates  on  various   levels,  by   individuals  as  well  as  collective  groups  and  institutions.  There  are  the  team  members  who  produce  knowledge  on  site,  the   local  and  extended  scientific  community  who  create  and  sustain  a  discourse  about  the   Neolithic   past   and   who   debate   present   archaeological   methodology,   the   general  public  who  relate  to  the  site,  and  the  government  who  authorises  its  discourse  through  laws  and  social  promotion.    During   my   stay   at   Çatalhöyük,   I   identified   and   observed   social   arenas   of  knowledge  production.  The   term   ‘social   arena  of   practice’   is   drawn   from  Handler   and  Gable’s   study   on   Colonial  Williamsburg,   where   a   ‘social   arena’   is   a   defined   space   “in  which   many   people   of   differing   backgrounds   continuously   and   routinely   interact   to   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     87 produce,   exchange,   and   consume   messages”   (1997:   9).   In   the   2009   Çatalhöyük   field  season,   various   groups   engaged   with   accounts   of   the   Neolithic   past   as   well   as   with  accounts   of   contemporary   archaeological   practice   and   method.   The   production,  exchange   and   consumption   of   knowledge   in   every   social   arena   directly   impacted   the  way  the  archaeologists  on  site  and  the  public  understood  and  interpreted  the  Neolithic  past.  Interactions  within  and  between  each  social  arena  not  only  established  why  some  materials  and  accounts  were  more  handled  or  were  more  powerful   than  others  at   the  site,  but  also  established  why  certain  groups  and  individuals  appeared  to  have  more  or  less   authority   over   others—both   in   terms   physical   or   executive   authority,   as   well   as  interpretive   or   epistemic   authority.   The   next   subsections   identify   some   of   the   social  arenas   at   Çatalhöyük,  where  messages   and   interpretations  were  produced,   exchanged  and   consumed:   the   excavation   site,   the   dig   house,   on-­‐site   public   arenas   and   off-­‐site  physical  and  virtual  public  spaces.     4.2.2.2    The  Çatalhöyük  Excavation  Site  as  a  Social  Arena  of  Knowledge  Production  In   2009,  when   I   observed  work   at   Çatalhöyük,   the   two   East   and  West   ‘forked  mounds’   formed   the   primary   ‘site   of   Çatalhöyük’.   At   roughly   100,000   square   feet,   the  site  was  considerably   large.  The  excavation  space  on  the  mounds  had  been  divided  by  different   teams,   under   individual   directorship   and   institutions   (such   as  Cambridge/Stanford,   Berkeley,   Istanbul,   Team   Poznań   from   Poland,   etc.),   who   each  operated   different   trench   sections   that   were   attributed   as   their   ‘own’.   All   of   these  individual   excavations   and  material   remains   still   fell   under   the  ultimate  direction  and  authority  of  Ian  Hodder,  who  was  the  head  Çatalhöyük  Project  director,  and  who  had  the  authorisation   to   be   ‘site   director’   from   the   Turkish   Government.   In   2009,   the   East  Mound  was  divided  by  two  distinct  teams,  the  Stanford  excavations  run  by  Ian  Hodder  and  his  right-­‐hand  field  director  Shahina  Farid,  and  a  second  team  called  Team  Poznań  from   Poland,   who   mainly   used   this   season   as   a   study   season   to   catch   up   on   post-­‐excavation  work  in  the  laboratories.  The  West  Mound  was  similarly  divided  (there  was  a  SUNY   Buffalo   trench,   and   also   a   separate   Turkish   team   trench,   but   only   the   former  excavated   in   the   2009   season   while   I   was   there,   and   both   teams   still   fell   under   the  ultimate  authority  of  Ian  Hodder’s  directorship).  Two   of   Ian  Hodder’s   Stanford-­‐run   trenches   on   the   East  Mound   had   expensive  permanent  shelters  constructed  over  them,  singling  them  out  as  the  primary  project  dig  sites.   The   trenches   under   the   permanent   shelters   were   the   sites   that   tourists   were  drawn   to,   and  many   of   the   houses   under   both   shelters   had   been   excavated   only   to   a   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     88 certain  point  and  then  left  with  the  intent  to  be  preserved,  managed  and  displayed  for  public  consumption.  During  this  season,  several  other  trenches  on  the  East  mound  were  ‘closed’  and  non-­‐operative—like  the  large  overgrown  cut  section  left  by  James  Mellaart’s  activities  (1960s)  and  the  in-­‐filled  sections  by  Ruth  Trigham’s  BACH  team  from  Berkeley  (1997-­‐2003),  which  were  only  visible  if   identified  by  a  site  expert.  Other  trenches,   like  the   active   section   in   the  West  Mound  by  Peter  Biehl   and  Eva  Rosenstock’s   team   from  SUNY  Buffalo,  only  had   temporary   shelters.  Members  of   the  public  were   routinely  not  invited  to  visit  the  West  Mound  excavation  space.  The  excavation  trenches  were  diverse  arenas  of  social  practice,  where  issues  of  expertise   and   epistemic   dependence   were   negotiated   in   different   ways,   on   different  levels,  by  different  teams  and  people.  During  this  season,  because  of  constraints  on  time  and  dissertation  space,  I  found  it  most  relevant  to  focus  on  the  Hodder  excavations  that  occurred  in  2009  on  the  East  Mound.  The  2009  season  was  originally  organised  to  be  a  “study  season”,  with  focus  on  researching  post-­‐excavation  data  from  previous  years:    As  the  2009  season  was  primarily  a  study  season,  [new]  excavations  took  place  in  three  areas  only  in  the  South  Area  on  the  Neolithic  East  Mound  and  Trenches  5  and  8  on   the  West  Chalcolithic  Mound.  The  study  season  ran   from  15th   June  until   the   end   of   July   during   which   time   teams   worked   on   post-­‐excavation  analyses   in   preparation   for   the   publication   of   four   new   volumes   covering   the  excavations  in  the  4040  Area,  South  Area,  TP  Area  and  IST  Area  excavated  from  2000   to   2008.   The   aim   of   the   phase   of   work   in   preparation   for   publication  addressed   the   social   geography   of   the   settlement   and   larger   community  structure.  (Farid  2009:  7)    As   Farid   writes,   the   study   season   was   meant   to   be   focused   on   post-­‐excavation  preparation  for  publication,  so  excavations  on  the  East  Mound  in  2009  took  place  only  under  the  South  Shelter,  and  many  archaeologists  on  site  referred  to  these  excavations  as  a  ‘bonus’  dig.    The  excavation  site  was  the  immediate  space  where  archaeological  material  was  first  found,  examined  and  removed  by  excavators.  ‘Excavators’  in  this  instance  consisted  of   a   group   of   professionally   hired   and   trained   excavators   who   were   attended   by  apprenticing   students   with   different   skills   and   backgrounds,   including   a   group   of  undergraduate   students   from   Stanford   University,   a   group   of   training   archaeologists  from  universities  and  institutions  in  Turkey,  as  well  as  a  few  independent  researchers,  such  as  myself.  Local  Turkish  field  hands  were  also  present;  they  worked  seasonally  and  part-­‐time,  with  minimal  archaeological  training.  These  local  field  hands  (often  alongside  the   Stanford  undergraduates,  who  were   the   ‘bottom  of   the   rung’   in   the   site   hierarchy  while  on  their  field  school)  sifted  and  bagged  the  material  from  the  dirt  buckets,  which  contained  the  majority  of  earth  removed  from  the  site.     CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     89 All   of   these   individuals   came   together   in   the   excavation   space,   where   they  physically  interacted  with  material  remains  from  the  Neolithic.  On  an  interpretive  level,  all  of   these   individuals—from  the  professional  who  decided  where  to  dig  and  when  to  record,  to  the  field  hand  and  student  who  decided  what  to  bag  and  what  to  throw  from  the   sifters—made   active   decisions,   negotiations   and   choices   about   how   to   handle   the  material   as   they   found   it,   and   they   made   immediate   interpretations   about   what   the  material   in   the   excavation   context   ‘means’.   Hodder   has   long   recognised   the   powerful  position  that  this  places  excavators  in:  his  signature  claim  is  that  first  impressions  and  interpretations   begin   “at   the   trowel’s   edge”   (Hodder   2003:   58).   In   some   ways,   the  excavators  had  the  most  immediate  and  raw  executive  power  and  authority  at  the  site,  at   least   in   the   initial   stages   of   interpretation.   They   were   the   first   to   access   material  remains,   the   first   to   see   them   and   touch   them,   holding   the   power   to   decide   what  material   to   cut   into,   what   to   keep   or   destroy,   and  what   to   do  with   the  material   they  found.  This  power,  of  course,  affected  the  ‘final  product’  interpretations  that  came  out  of  this   field   season,   for   specialists   could   not   study   what   was   not   saved,   and   the   entire  project’s  data  archive  was  founded  on  the  records  and  inscriptions36  that  were  taken  in  the  field.    However,  the  authority  of  this  social  arena  was  also  regulated  by  a  whole  tacit  system   of   rules   and   accountability.   People   ‘did   archaeology’   as   if   there   was   a   ‘right’  approach,   a   ‘correct’   way   to   take   samples,   a   ‘correct’   way   to   bag   or   sieve,   a   ‘correct’  system  of  deferring  decisions   to   the  authority   to   those  with  more  or   less   expertise  or  experience.37  This  deference  took  two  forms.    First,   the   excavators   gave   external   deference   to   the   greater   institution   of  archaeology.   The   discipline   as  we   know   it   today   is   a   product   of   generations   of   socio-­‐political   and   disciplinary   context   and   development.   The   recording   and   excavating  methods  used  at  Çatalhöyük  during  the  time  I  attended  the  excavations  were  standard  techniques  that  have  been  more  or  less  accepted  as  ‘tried  and  true’  methods  in  the  field  of  archaeology.  I  saw  little  difference  from  the  excavation  practices  at  Çatalhöyük  than  those  methods   I  had  seen  or  used   in  other  excavations  and   field  projects.  Throughout  history,  the  discipline  of  archaeology  has  developed  and  narrowed  these  techniques  as  reliable,   normal   or   ‘correct’,   and   so   they   hold   a   high   degree   of   authority   in   the   field  through  the  history  of  their  use  and  continued  acceptance.  The  Çatalhöyük  excavators,  while  in  the  powerful  position  of  deciding  what  and  how  things  were  saved  or  destroyed   36  See  Section  4.4.1  for  detailed  discussion  on  inscriptions.  37  Reference  the  Faunal  Laboratory  practice  flow  chart  [Figure  8],  which  illustrates  this  kind  of  deference  to  experience  and  authorities.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     90 in  digging,  were  constrained  and  limited  by  the  institutional  authority  of  archaeological  disciplinary  practice.    Second,   there   was   also   an   deference   to   the   internal   structures   of   executive  hierarchy  and  socio-­‐political  context  of   the  excavation  site.   It  was  understood  that   the  entire   project   operated   under   the   authority   of   the   Turkish   government,  which   legally  owned   the   site   and   had   full   control   and   ownership   of   all   the  material   unearthed   and  studied.  There  was   the  authority  of   Ian  Hodder,   the  director  who  controlled  all   of   the  strings—purse  strings,  academic  strings,  publication  strings,  and  who  had  ultimate  say  over  what  academic  activities  took  place  at  the  site.  There  was  the  field  director  Shahina  Farid   and   the  professional   excavators,  who  held  primary   executive   authority   over   the  excavation  dig  spaces.  There  were   the  site  specialists  who  held  authority  over  various  intellectual   (and   sometimes   physical)   arenas,   with   authority   narrowed   by   the  categories/types   of   remains   unearthed.   Finally,   there   was   the   public   and   visiting  scholars,  who  often  held  authority  over   the  consumption  of  messages  produced   in   the  excavating   spaces,   especially   when   they   were   vocal   in   recommendations   or   changes.  Each  of  these  internal  groups  held  authority  in  a  hierarchy  of  deference  and  in  specific  domains  of  practice.  Specifically   at   the   Çatalhöyük   dig   site,   the   practice   of   excavating   with   such   a  diverse   group   of   people   made   for   an   dynamic   arena   of   executive   and   epistemic  authority.  In  2009,  Ian  Hodder  rarely  attended  the  digs  personally.  When  he  did,  he  was  usually  giving  site  tours  to  visitors,  or  he  observed  the  trenches  from  the  sidelines  and  asked   the   excavators  questions.  His  directorship   seemed   to   involve  more   ‘behind-­‐the-­‐scenes’  managerial  work:  visiting  the  specialist  labs  and  interviewing  his  team  members  to  gather  a  broad  understanding  of  the  site  activity  and  scientific  progress,  performing  his   role   as   a   site   organiser   who   hired   and   fired,   arranging   and   attending   important  meetings   with   the   government   representatives   and   funding   bodies,   giving   tours   and  presentations   to   the   public,   interacting   intellectually   with   visiting   and   attending  researchers,   and   working   on   publishing   books   or   articles   that   gave   an   overarching  narrative   of   the   site’s   history   and   the   project’s   methodology.   The   actual   excavation  arena  was  instead  the  domain  of  Shahina  Farid,  the  field  director  and  right-­‐hand  to  Ian  Hodder,  who  had  been  working  at  the  site  since  1995  (Baltar  2006:  122).    The   excavation   hierarchy   began   with   Farid   as   the   highest   epistemic   and  executive   authority   on   the   mounds,   then   extended   down   to   other   members   of   the  professional   excavating   team   who   had   a   great   deal   of   expertise   and   experience  excavating  as  contract  archaeologists,  then  to  the  specialists  and  graduate  students  who  were  excavating   for   their  own  research  or   interest  and  who  had   institutional  backing,   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     91 then   to   the   field   school   students  who  were   learning   excavation   for   the   first   time,   and  then   finally   to   the   field  hands,  who  sifted,  never   touching  a   trowel.  Both   the  executive  authority  and  the  epistemic  authority  of  these  groups  was  tacitly  recognised  in  the  order  of   this   hierarchy,   with   the   exception   that   an   elite   core   group   of   the   professional  excavators  were  recognised  to  have  field  skills  (but  not  managerial  skills)  on  the  same  level  as  Farid.    For   the   majority   of   excavating   work   in   the   2009   field   season,   specialists  remained  in  the  dig  house  to  work  (except  the  conservationists).  When  site  specialists  were   called   up   from   the   dig   house   to   take   samples   for   their   work,   or   to   lend  interpretation  or  advice  on  something  found  during  the  dig—usually  in  the  setting  of  a  “Priority   Tour”   (when   an   usual   or   spectacular   find   was   unearthed)—it   was   because  their   expertise  was   recognised   and   valued   because   their   epistemic   authority   in   some  way  ‘trumped’  that  of  the  field  excavators.  However,  in  the  case  of  excavating  fieldwork  itself,  the  executive  authority  of  the  professional  excavators  on  site  was  never  ‘trumped’  by   specialists—the   excavation   site   was   their   domain,   the   dig   house   was   the   primary  domain  of  the  specialists,  and  all  of  this  was  a  tacit  understanding  between  the  groups.  This   regulation   of   authority   in   separate   tacit   ‘domains’,   albeit   interlinked   and   with  blurry   edges,   may   have   emerged   as   a   positive   compromise   or   resolution   to   the   long  history   of   tension   between   excavators   and   specialists   on   site   (Farid   2000:   27-­‐29;  Hamilton  2000).         Figure  2:  Excavation  site  under  the  South  Shelter.  Ian  Hodder  giving  a  site  tour  to  a  group   of  tourists.  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     92 4.2.2.3    The  Çatalhöyük  Dig  House  as  a  Social  Arena     At   Çatalhöyük,   the   dig   house   was   the   place   where   excavated   material—after  being   dissected,   bagged   and   categorised   by   the   excavators—went   directly   for   post-­‐excavation   study   and   analysis   by   the   laboratory   specialists.   The   dig   house   was   also  space   for  post-­‐excavation  database   recording  by   the   field   excavators,   as  well   as   living  and  accommodation  space  for  all  members  of  the  East  Mound  and  West  Mound  projects.  During   the  2009   field   season,   it  was  also   the  primary  place   for   the  exchange  of   ideas,  especially  because  this  was  a  Study  Season,  and  the  majority  of  post-­‐excavation  activity  took   place   in   the   dig   house.   Exceptions   included   the   brief   interaction   between  excavators  and  specialists  on  the  mounds  during  the  Site  Tours  and  Priority  Tours,  or  in  the  special  circumstances  when  directors  or  specialists  were  called  in  to  offer  expertise  about  specific  finds.    The  physical  dig  house  was  situated  at  the  base  of  the  East  Mound,  located  on  a  road   that   led   into   the   nearby   village   of   Küçükköy.   The   building   was   divided   into  laboratories,   living   areas   and   recreational   spaces.   The   dig   house   was   open   in   plan,  surrounding  a  courtyard  and  a  covered  veranda.  This  encouraged  social   interaction,  as  people   could   socialise   on   the   veranda   and   immediately   access   all   other   living   and  laboratory  areas  through  the  courtyard.  Immediately  outside  of  the  dig  house  (in  2009),  there   was   a   set   of   external   buildings,   including   the   ‘experimental   house’   (Stevanovic  2006),  a  makeshift  party  bar  for  social  activities  (which  was  later  turned  into  a  storage  shed)  and  several  large  storage  areas.  The  main  working  areas  for  the  team  were  in  the  laboratories,  the  rooms  which  lined  two  entire  sides  of  the  dig  house.  These  laboratories  were   arguably   the   most   important   arenas   for   the   last   stages   of   the   knowledge  production   process   at   Çatalhöyük.   In   these   rooms,   the   specialists   and   excavators   did  post-­‐excavation  study  and   inputted   records   into   the  database,   scrutinized  and  studied  selected   artefacts   in   detail,   discussed   theories   and   interpretations,   illustrated   and  reproduced  material   in   text  and  visual   forms,  and  readied   the  site   interpretations  and  narratives  for  publication.    The  laboratories  were  roughly  arranged  by  a  division  of  archaeological  material,  such   as   faunal   remains,   human   remains,   obsidian,   conservation,   etc.   In   2009,   the  specialists   spent   the   vast   majority   of   their   working   time   in   their   own   individual  laboratory,   closely   interacting  with  members  of   their  own  specialist   team,  unless   they  needed   to   consult   another  member   of   the   project—often  more   an   exception   than   the  norm.  Other  groups  worked   in   the  dig  house  as  well,   such  as   the   field  excavators  who   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     93 had  their  own  large  seminar  room  for  post-­‐excavation  analyses,38  and  the  West  Mound  or  Polish  teams,  who  worked  together  in  one  laboratory  as  a  complete  team  unit.    As  one  of  my  interview  subjects39  explained,  the  team  was  divided  in  the  dig  house  arena  “like  collective  pods  that  work  together”.      As  a  physical  construction  or  landscape,  the  dig  house  was  designed  and  ordered  in  specific  way,  with   the  space  doled  out   in   specific  ways   for   specific   reasons.  Most  of  that  reasoning  seemed  to  be  based  around  material  types  like  stone  remains  or  human  remains.  Focus  on  these  material   ‘types’  was  more  a  product  of  the  way  archaeologists  in  the  discipline  are  generally  trained  to  specialise  in  specific  material  types  rather  than  whole   features   or   units   (i.e.,   focus   on   ‘lithics’   or   ‘bone’   instead   of   whole   ‘burials’   or  ‘clusters’   that   include  multiple  material   types).   This   setup   of   dig   house   space   affected  interpretation,   because   people   who   specialised   in   a   specific   interest,   such   as   faunal  remains  or  human  remains,  primarily  gathered  and  worked  in  their  own  laboratories  for  the   bulk   of   the   workday,   establishing   a   social   ‘pod-­‐like’   base   of   operation.   Naturally,  human   relationships   and   internal   hierarchies   formed   within   each   spatial   ‘pod’.  Networks  of  people  and  things  were  directly  impacted  and  shaped  by  spatiality,  by  the  movement  of  people  and  things  through  physical  space,  and  this  affected  what  kind  of  intellectual   engagement   occurred   between   humans,   material   and   final   product  interpretations.  Other   groups   beyond   the   Çatalhöyük   team   also   interacted   with   material   and  people   at   the   dig   house.   One   notable   group  were   academic   visitors,   including   general  archaeologists,  students  of  archaeology,  and  specialists  that  were  not  Çatalhöyük  team  members  but  who  came  to  observe  the  activities  at  the  dig  house  or  mounds.  During  my  stay,   a   number   of   different   academic   groups   like   this   came   to   see   the   site,   on   a  metaphorical   pilgrimage   to   view   ‘postprocessual   archaeology   in   action’.   For   example,  team   members   of   a   neighbouring   excavation   in   the   Konya   region   run   by   Professor  Nicholas  Postgate  from  Cambridge  visited  the  site,  and  students  from  this  group  told  me  that   they   were   ‘excited   to   see   the   famous   site’.   Another   group   involved   a   teaching  classroom  of  professors  and  undergraduate  students  from  a  New  York  university,  who  were  given  a  long  tour  of  the  site,  and  who  asked  many  questions  about  postprocessual  methods  and  the  relations  between  the  Turkish  authorities  and  Çatalhöyük’s  excavation  permits.   On   another   occasion,   a   postgraduate   student   from   a   German  University  who  had  an  interest  in  working  with  the  team  in  the  future  came  to  observe  work  for  a  day   38  This  space  was  where  the  excavators  inputted  all  of  the  hand-­‐written  plans  and  finds  sheets  into  the  project-­‐wide  database,  so  that  every  team  member  could  have  access  to  the  excavation  data  through  a  networked  internet  system,  run  out  of  the  dig  house  administrative/IT  office.  39  This  interviewee  was  a  returning  ethnographic  researcher  and  excavator  at  the  site.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     94 and   speak   with  members   of   the   team   about   archaeological   ethnography.   All   of   these  ‘research  pilgrims’,  as   I   came   to  call   them,  were  expressly   interested   in   the  site   for   its  archaeological   value,   and   its   authority   as   a   noteworthy   site   included   in   most  introductory   archaeology   textbook   ‘pantheons’.   During   my   time   at   the   site,   many   in  these  groups  directly   interacted  with  archaeologists  at   the  dig  house,  asking  questions  to  the  directors  and  to  other  approachable  team  members,  and  in  some  cases  added—or  tried  to  add—to  the  intellectual  discussions,  perhaps  influencing  knowledge  production  on  site.  Another   social   group,  which   I   defined   as   having   ‘intimate   local   interest’   in   the  project,   also   interacted   with   knowledge   production   in   the   dig   house.   This   group  included   people   from   the   general,   non-­‐archaeologically   trained   public,   such   as   people  from  the  nearby  village  of  Küçükköy  and  other  Turkish  members  of  the  public  who  did  constantly  interact  with  the  site  in  specific  outreach  programs.40  Many  of  these  members  of  the  public  interacted  closely  with  team  members  and  site  material  and  had  a  vested  interest   in   the   project,   but   they   did   not   have   specialist   knowledge.   I   found   that  archaeologists   themselves   gained   greatly   from   this   collaboration.   By   interacting   with  local   populations,   team  members   better   understood   how   they   themselves   worked   or  engaged   in   their   own   subject   matter,   making   them   reflect   on   the   implications   and  necessity  of  collaborating  with  local  populations.  Some  of  these  implications  were  later  reviewed   and   discussed   in   the   last   pages   of   the   2009   Archive   Report   (Çatalhöyük  Research  Project   2009).  The  dig  house  was   the  primary   area  where   this   public   group  was   able   to   interact   with   team   members   and   archaeological   material.   All   non-­‐team  members  were  restricted  from  access  to  most  of  the  laboratories  and  storage  spaces  on  site  (this  restriction  was  usually  unspoken,  but  understood).41    The  most  important  spaces  in  the  dig  house  structure  were  two  main  rooms  that  operated  like  ‘hubs’  for  the  physical  network  of  people,  material  and  space.  The  first  was  the  Finds  Room  laboratory   [see  map,  Figure  3].  This  room  held  a  number  of  desks   for  various  specialists,  including  people  working  on  finds,  figurines  and  the  illustrators.  The  Finds   Desk,   however,   was   the   critical   place   where   all   excavated   material   was  immediately   taken  after  excavation  was   finished   for   the  day.  The  Finds  specialist’s   job  involved  recording  all  data  from  the  artefact  bags  into  the  database,  then  redistributing  the  material  from  the  Finds  Room  to  the  various  other  laboratories  for  post-­‐excavation  analysis.   For   example,  when   a   group  of   various  material   types  were   found   in   a   single   40  Some  locals  were  employed  by  the  project  to  do  services  like  cooking,  cleaning  or  sifting.  Others  came  as  part  of  specific  outreach  programs  to  involve  local  communities  in  the  knowledge  production  process.  41  See  Section  4.3  for  discussion  on  access  issues.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     95 context—which  was  recorded  as  a  single   feature  called  a   ‘cluster’—the  finds  would  be  generally  recorded  together  in  the  field  as  one  find  on  a  context  sheet,  then  the  different  material   types   would   be   separately   bagged   (obsidian   in   one   bag,   human   remains   in  another,  stone  beads  in  one  bag,  bone  beads  in  another)  and  then  taken  in  a  bucket  to  the  Finds  Room.  The  Finds  specialist   then  would   input  all  of   the  recorded  data  (which  she  would   find  written  on  slips  of  paper   in   the   finds  bags,   recorded  by   the  excavators  earlier  that  day  in  the  field  as  they  bagged  the  material)  into  the  site  database.  Then  she  would   split   the  bags  up  and  distribute   the  material—obsidian,  human   remains,   faunal  remains,   ceramics,   etc.—to   the   various   laboratories   where   the   different   specialists  worked   on   analysing  material   types.   In   essence,   her   role  was   to   transfer   the   physical  single   context   into   the   database,   and   then   transfer   the  material   on   for  more   detailed  study.     Theoretically,   the   idea   is   that   the   different   materials   in   a   cluster,   after   it   is  recorded,  is  forever  inscribed  into  the  same  context  just  by  going  into  the  database.  The  idea   is   that  by  breaking  up   the  material,   the   specialists   can  each  examine   it   and   input  more  data  into  the  database,  with  more  interpretive  authority  attached  to  it  because  of  the  specialists’  formal  training  in  material  types.  The  breaking  up  of  material  shows  how  important   a   theme   it   is   in   archaeology   to   inscribe   information   into   a   virtual   or  representative  form,  and  shows  the  powerful  assumption  that  this  is  the  most  efficient  way   to   maximise   information.42     However,   whether   this   method   in   any   way   actually  helped  interpretation  was  debatable.  When  I  asked  team  members  how  finds  ended  up  back  ‘together’  to  be  interpreted  from  multi-­‐type  features  like  a  cluster,  the  answer  was  scattered.  In  the  case  of  a  profound  find,  like  the  Plastered  Skull  Burial  (see  Section  4.4.3,  below),  where  materials  like  human  remains  and  faunal  remains  were  found  together,  it  was  very  likely  that  they  would  be  interpreted  as  one  entire  unit,  since  it  was  likely  to  be  a  much  discussed  find  and  would  quickly  find  its  way  into  print  (Hodder  2006;  Hodder  2010b:  129).  However,  when  I  asked  some  team  members  how  things  like  stone  beads  and  bone  beads  found  together  as  part  of  a  bracelet  in  a  grave  would  come  back  together  as   ‘a  bracelet’   in  the  interpretive  process,  since  they  would  have  been  separated  in  the  Finds  Room  and  sent  to  different  labs  for  processing  as  ‘stone’  or  ‘bone’,  the  answer  was  less  sure.  The  usual  way  the   ‘coming  together’  of  site  material  happened,  several   team  members   told   me,   was   during   the   Discussion   Season   (which   was   scheduled   for   the  future   year   of   2010).   In   the   Discussion   Season,   team   members   come   together   to   sit  around  and  discuss  material,  interpreting  it  on  a  general  team  platform  and  readying  it   42  See  Section  4.4.1  for  further  discussion  on  the  importance  of  inscription.     CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     96 for  publication.  Theoretically,  the  team  members  said,  this  is  the  place  and  time  for  the  ‘coming  together’  of  material  like  clusters.  However,  more  than  one  specialist  admitted  by   the  end  of  our  conversations   that   the   likelihood  of   something   like   stone  beads  and  bone  beads  coming  back  together  on  a  less  than  spectacularly  interesting  find  was  ‘a  bit  of  a  hit  or  miss’  (site  specialist,  personal  communication  2009).    These   discussions   implied   to   me   that   the   distribution   of   materials   via   the  method  of  dividing  things  by  material  ‘type’  did  impact  the  production  of  knowledge  at  the  site,  and  this  impact  would  affect  what  ‘accounts’  of  the  past  were  ultimately  created  and  distributed  by  the  Çatalhöyük  team.  This  approach  of  studying  the  past  also  implied  that  the  authority  and  prestige  of  certain  clusters  or  finds—and  the  likelihood  that  they  would   make   that   last   step   from   being   ‘raw   data’   to   ‘accounted   for’   in   final   product  publications—remained  in  the  hands  of   individual  excavators  and  specialists  who  may  or  may  not  think  about  them  in  the  future,  and  who  may  or  may  not  have  a  loud  enough  authoritative   voice   during   the   discussion   seasons   to   make   these   finds   memorable   to  those  who  would  write  the  most  solid,  prestigious  or  authoritative  articles.  The  second  important  room  of   the  dig  house  was  the  team  office.  This  was  the  space   where   the   site   field   director   Shahina   Farid   had   her   main   administrative  workspace,  and  where  the  IT  terminals  were  located.  When  speaking  with  Ian  Hodder,  he   told  me  that   the  administrative  room  was   the  operational   “nerve  centre”  of   the  dig  house.  Not  only  was  the  administrative  office  the  place  where  paperwork  was  filed  and  official  business  was  checked,  stamped  and  communicated,  but   it  was  the  place  where  administrative  and  organisational  team  records  were  kept.  This  was  the  executive  hub  of  the  dig  house,  and  people  would  go  to  this  centre  to  inform  the  managerial  level  of  the  site   hierarchy   about   their   whereabouts,   needs   or   plans.   The   database   was   a   central  system   and   network   for   all  members   of   the   site—holding   authority   over   information  access   in  both  physical   and   intellectual  ways.   In  our   conversation,  Hodder   referred   to  the   database   as   an   ‘amazing   interlocked   thing’   that   connects   everybody   on   the   site,  linking   the   virtual   site   records   with   the   physical   actions   of   all   the   team   members  working  on   site.  He  explained   in   good  humour   that  when   the  database  went  down  or  broke,  everything  in  the  dig  house  seemed  to  shut  down.  People  would  suddenly  emerge  from  their  dark  laboratories  and  come  out  onto  the  terrace  or  veranda,  waiting  for  the  record  system  to  be  fixed  so  that  they  could  get  back  to  work.  This  technology  was  vital  to   the  way  excavated  materials  were   inscribed,   and   these   inscriptions  were   critical   to  the  production  of   archaeological   knowledge.   The   social   space   and  work   interaction   at  Çatalhöyük  was  physically  altered  or  limited  by  the  availability  of  technology  and  virtual  space,  which  was  centred  in  both  the  IT  office,  as  well  as  in  the  communal  ‘ether’  of  the   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     97 site   space.  This  kind  of   interaction,  with   its   reliance  on   tools   like   the  database  and  on  systems   of   practice   like   centralised   recording,   showed   how   the   dig   house   was   a  structural,  physical  space  that  radically  affected  the  way  people  on  site  worked,  and  the  way   people   physically   worked   radically   affected   the   way   they   socially   produced  knowledge  on  site.       Figure  3:  This  is  a  map  showing  the  general  layout  of  the  dig  house.  Original  map  courtesy   of  the  Çatalhöyük  team;  updates  and  modifications  to  the  map  made  by  Tera  Pruitt.     4.2.2.4    Public  Spaces:  Onsite  Expert  Witnessing  and  Public  Engagement  at  the  Dig   House  and  Excavation  Sites     The  excavation  sites  and   the  dig  house  were  also  distinct   social   arenas   for  on-­‐site  public  engagement.  At   the  excavation  sites,   two   large   trenches  on   the  East  Mound  had   permanent   shelters:   the   4040   Area   and   the   South   Area.   During   the   2009   field  season,  I  attended  and  observed  the  work  of  a  group  of  conservators  whose  main  efforts  that  season  went  toward  the  continued  cleaning  and  preservation  of  houses  under  the  ‘4040   Shelter’.   This   shelter   covered   several   houses   that   were   intended   for   future   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     98 excavation,   along   with   several   other   houses   that   were   intended   for   long-­‐term  conservation  in  a  ‘museum-­‐like’  way  (personal  communication  2009,  conservator).  The  4040   Shelter   had   traditional   archaeology   witnessing   platforms   (Moshenska   2009),  walkways  and  tourist  displays.  They  were  deliberately  left  open  and  active,  inviting  both  people  inside  and  outside  of  the  profession  to  come  see  the  site  and  learn  from  displays,  to   intellectually   interact   with   the   archaeology   and   to   potentially   engage   with  interpretation  more  closely.  I  say  ‘potentially’,  because  while  the  dig  sites  were  left  open  and  welcoming  for  people  to  enter  and  view,  they  were  also  set  up  to  physically  divide  the  public  from  the  working  archaeologists.  For  the  most  part,  the  visiting  public  that  I  observed  during  my  time  at  the  site  were  more  passive  spectators  than  active  witnesses,  in   the   terminology  used  by  Moshenska   in  his   study  on  how  archaeological   ‘witnessing  platforms’  can  be  arenas  of  public  engagement  (2009).    Public   groups   could   also   visit   the   dig   house,   although   they   had   very   limited  access.  One   corner  of   the  dig  house  held   the  Visitor  Centre,   often   called   the   ‘museum’  (Webb  2002).  The  Visitor  Centre  housed  a  small  collection  of  artefact  casts  and  replicas,  and   it   offered   wall   posters   that   simply   introduced   the   site   interpretations   for   public  consumption.   This   room   was   relatively   small   and   bare,   with   not   a   great   deal   of  significant  information  [Figure  4].  Instead,  when  I  was  present  in  2009,  a  member  of  the  excavation  team  (usually  a  high-­‐level  director  like  Shahina  Farid  or  Ian  Hodder)  and/or  a   site   guard   would   accompany   visitors   around   the   site,   supplementing   their   Visitor  Centre   experience   with   verbal   information   and   interactive   question-­‐and-­‐answer  sessions.  The  Visitor  Centre  and  the  Experimental  House  were  public  domains,  while  the  laboratories   and   the   living   areas  were   the   private   domains   of   the   Çatalhöyük   project  team.  These  two  domains  (public/private)  were  separated  by  a  small,  unlocked  barrier  door  inside  the  dig  house  (see  Section  4.3.2  on  site  access,  below).   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     99   Figure  4:  Image  of  the  Çatalhöyük  Visitor  Centre  (also  known  as  the  Site  Museum).  Here,   Shahina  Farid  gives  a  lecture  to  teachers  from  the  Turkish  Cultural  Foundation  Teacher   Tours  in  2009.  Photo  online  at:  http://www.catalhoyuk.com/news/press_release_2009.html     4.2.2.5    Offsite  Social  Arenas:  Laboratories,  Museums,  Press  and  Virtual  Spaces  Another  separate  but  related  arena  of  knowledge  production  was  in  the  off-­‐site  laboratory   spaces,   where   various   team   members   took   material   for   further  interpretation.   In  many   cases  during  my   stay   at   Çatalhöyük,   I  watched  material   being  boxed  and  taken  away  to  offsite  labs,  whether  to  conservation  labs  at  the  nearby  Konya  Museum  or   to  scientific   laboratories  as   far  away  as  Stanford  or  Cornell  Universities   in  the   United   States.   This   material,   which   was   examined   in   various   laboratories   or  presented  to  the  public  in  museums  like  the  Konya  Museum  in  Turkey,  was  intentionally  studied  and  then  inscribed  into  a  presentational  form  (texts,  illustrations,  displays)  for  a  wide  international  public  that  interacted  with  the  material  off-­‐site.  Some  of  this  material  ended   up   in   academic   arenas,   such   as   in   academic   textbooks   or   conference  presentations,   where   Çatalhöyük  material  was   deliberately   crafted   to  meet   the   needs  and  expectations  of  this  broader  interested  academic  public.    Other  material  ended  up  in  public  arenas  for  groups  that  I  came  call  the  ‘casual  offsite  public’.  This  public  consisted  of  people  who  had  a  more  or  less  indirect  or  casual  interest  in  the  site,  who  particularly  interacted  with  Çatalhöyük  material  through  their  exposure   to   the   popular   journals,   magazines   or   newspaper   interest   articles.   For  example,  such  individuals  might  be  browsing  a  magazine  and  stumble  into  an  article  on  Çatalhöyük,  or  they  might  find  a  link  to  the  website,  or  accidentally  stumble  across  the   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     100 site   through   virtual   social   spaces   like   the   Second   Life   online   virtual   Çatalhöyük  reconstruction  experiment,  which  was   set  up  by  Ruth  Trigham  at  Berkeley   [Figure  5].  These   groups   often   learned   about   and   interacted  with   Çatalhöyük  without   any   initial  goals  or  aims,  and  without  much  previous  interest  or  knowledge  about  the  site.  I  found  that   these   groups   did   affect   knowledge   production   and   interpretation   of   Çatalhöyük  material,   for   they   were   always   a   considered   audience   when   the   team   created   and  distributed   general   news   releases,   brochures,   websites   and   virtual   reconstructions.  Several   offsite   Çatalhöyük   interpretive   experiments,   programs   and   services   grew  directly   from   this   relationship   with   the   casual   public,   such   as   Trigham’s   Second   Life  project  (Çatalhöyük  Research  Project  2010c).       Figure  5:  Screenshot  of  the  Berkeley  'Remixing  Çatalhöyük'  virtual  project  on  Second  Life.   Image  from  the  New  Mexico  State  University  Alamogordo  website:   http://nmsua.edu/tiopete/archaeological-­‐reconstructions-­‐2/         CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     101 4.3    Authority  from  Access,  Spatial  Constraint  and   Consent   4.3.1    The  Authority  of  Spatial  Constraint  and  Consent  This   section   argues   that,   at   Çatalhöyük,   the   way   any   given   person   or   group   accessed   the  site  was  perhaps  the  most   fundamental  way  archaeological  authority  was  articulated.   It   was   a   primary   way   that   people   and   material   became   distinguished   as  important,  influential  or  authoritative.  Issues  of  access  were  of  central  importance  to  the  way  the  project  was  run,  and  central  to  the  way  individuals  and  units  of  the  Çatalhöyük  team  defined  their  own  identity—and  authority—by  establishing,  opening  or  restricting  its   own   physical   and   intellectual   borders.   During   my   fieldwork,   the   importance   of   consent  in  the  role  of  building  and  controlling  authority  became  apparent.  The  question  arose:  who  has   the  authority   to  give  or  restrict  access   to  archaeology?  Fundamentally,  access   is   a   matter   of   individuals   or   groups   relating   themselves   to   social   power  asymmetries,   for   one   person   or   group   is   always   asking   (or   demanding)   to   receive  consent   to   access   archaeology   from   another   person   or   group   who   allows   access,  meaning  that  the  latter  has  control  and  authority  over  space  or  material.       4.3.1.1    Physical  Access  and  Control       On  the  most  fundamental  level,  access  to  the  physical  site  of  Çatalhöyük  and  its  Neolithic  remains,  in  terms  of  the  management  of  simple  proximity  of  individuals  to  the  site   itself,  was  a  somewhat  difficult  affair.  The   ‘Remixing  Çatalhöyük   ’  website—which  promotes  the  virtual  existence  of   the  BACH  project’s  Second  Life  virtual  Çatalhöyük  by  raising  the  distance  and  access  problems  of  the  actual  Çatalhöyük  mound—states:    It  takes  more  than  24  hours  of  travel  time  to  get  from  California  to  Turkey,  and  then  more   than   an   hour   to   drive   from   the   nearest   urban   area   to   Çatalhöyük.  Visitors   are  welcomed   at   the   Visitor   Center,   but  must   be   escorted   throughout  their  tour  of  the  site.  Few  people  get  to  work  at  the  mound  itself.  Archaeologists,  however   experienced,   cannot  work   there  without   official   permission   from   the  Turkish  government.  A  fence  surrounds  the  mound  and  a  guardhouse  protects  it.  (Çatalhöyük  Research  Project  2010c)    As  this  BACH  blurb  explains,  physical  access  to  the  site  was  complicated  by  a  number  of  factors,  but  particularly:  distance  for  non-­‐locals,  ownership  and  permissions  rights.     Distance   is   an   obvious   issue   regarding   access   to   archaeology.   The   Çatalhöyük  site  mounds  are   located   in   the   rural  Konya  province   in   the  Republic  of  Turkey,   in   the  centre   of   the   country,   far   from   any  major   airport   or   tourist   route.   Even   for   relatively   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     102 local  populations  (such  as  people  in  the  cities  of  Konya,  Ankara  or  Istanbul),  the  site  is  distant.  No  public  transportation  goes  directly  to  the  site;  once  you  take  public  transport  to  major  towns,  the  only  way  to  get  to  the  site  is  by  taking  relatively  expensive  taxis  or  to   pre-­‐arrange   tourist   agency   transport   from   cities   like   Konya,   the   nearest   large   city  (50km  by  car),  or  in  Çumra,  the  nearest  local  town  (10km  by  car).       Proximity  and  ease  of  access—as  necessitated  by  geographical,  financial  or  social  reasons—naturally   creates   a   dynamic   whereby   those   who   take   the   initiative   to   be  present  at  the  site  have  more  potential  access  to  the  physical  place  and  material.  Those  who  have  the  interest  and  resources  to  get  to  the  site  are  few  in  number,  and  they  often  come   with   specific   aims   and   interests.   While   at   a   glance   this   may   seem   like   a   banal  connection  between   ‘accessing   the   site  by  being  at   the   site’,   its   importance   relating   to  executive  authority  can  accumulate  on  more  nuanced  levels.  For  example,  when  a  site  is  so  physically  difficult  to  access,  you  might  raise  the  question:  who  might  actually  be  able  visit  the  site  other  than  those  who  have  enough  money  and  resources  to  get  to  it?  What  does   this   do   to   the   executive   and   epistemic   authority,   influence,   status   and   power  relationships   of   those   who   can   personally   visit   the   site   and   those   who   cannot—the  ‘haves’   versus   the   ‘have   nots’?   Since   knowledge   production   is   a   socially   interactive  process,  and  since  archaeological  authority  is  accumulated  from  the  interaction  between  humans  and  materials,  might  this  power   imbalance  skew  data  and  conclusions  toward  those  who  have  the  resources  and  abilities  to  access  the  original  site?     Projects   like   the  BACH  virtual  Çatalhöyük  reconstruction  on   the  online  virtual-­‐world   program   Second   Life   and   Ian   Hodder’s   interactive   website43   have   made   the  attempt   to  extend  access  of   the  site’s  data   to   those  who  may  not  have   the   financial  or  physical  abilities  to  see  the  site  in  person.  However,  regardless  of  the  intent,  this  creates  a   dynamic   power/knowledge   imbalance   between   those   who   have   seen   the   site   ‘first  hand’   versus   those  who  have  not—for   two   reasons.   First,   there   is   epistemic  power   in  simply  having  close,   intimate  access   to  archaeological  material,   from  the   idea   that   ‘the  closer  you  can  get  to  the  material,  the  better  and  more  authoritative  your  interpretation  will  be’.  This  is  the  authority  of  prime  sources,  the  idea  that  if  you  ‘come  see  for  yourself’  and   actively   witness   archaeological   material,   then   you   have   more   authority   to   speak  experientially   about   a   subject   matter.   A   reproduction   or   an   account,   no   matter   how  carefully   attended,   is   always   distanced   from   its   source   material.   The   creation   of   a   43  http://www.catalhoyuk.com   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     103 reproduction  is  a  social  affair,  always  involving  choices,  negotiations  and  some  kind  of  interpretation,  so  all  information  from  a  reproduction  is  received  second-­‐hand.44         A  second  power/knowledge  imbalance  from  distance  and  proximity  comes  from  the   fact   that   those   who   do   attend   a   difficult-­‐to-­‐access   site   often   have   taken   greater  lengths  and  effort  to  reach  it,  which  usually  correlates  to  having  a  greater  vested  interest  or   stake   in   the   archaeology.   For   a   site   like   Çatalhöyük,   the   foreign   (and   Turkish)  archaeologists  who  go  to  great   lengths  to  obtain  permits  and  visas,   funding,  space  and  time   in   their  schedules,  among  other  efforts   in  order   to  physically  visit  or  work  at   the  mounds  and  dig  house,  usually  have  more  stake  in  the  archaeology  and  the  knowledge  that   is  produced  there.   Importantly,   they  assert   their  stake  by  physically  occupying   the  site   each   summer   and   actively   influencing   activities   and   interpretation   taking   place  there,   deciding   what   archaeology   to   keep   or   destroy,   simply   because   they   have  occupying   control   and   authority   over   that   physical   space.   Similarly,   highly   interested  groups   like   the   Goddess   Community   members   who   go   to   great   social,   economic   and  physical  lengths  to  visit  the  site  have  garnered  respect,  authority  and  positive  attention  (as  well  as  negative  attention  in  the  form  of  territorial  distain  by  local  populations  and  archaeologists  who  disagree  with   their   social  behaviours  and  beliefs,   see  Webb  2002)  for   their   efforts   to   be   physically   present   and   close   to   the   site.   The   fact   that   physical  presence  and  proximity  increases  authority,  and  that  distance  from  the  site  and  material  decreases  authority,  also  relates  to  temporal  issues,  discussed  below.       For  those  members  of  the  archaeological  community  and  the  general  public  who  do  manage  to  physically  attend  the  site,  the  issue  of  proximity  to  actual  physical  remains  is  compounded  by  their  limited  freedom  of  access  after  they  arrive  on  site.  Most  notably,  permissible  site  access   is  heavily  controlled,  both  by  the  archaeological  project  and  by  the  Turkish  government.  Chain  fences  guard  and  restrict  the  boundaries  of  the  site,  and  a  guardhouse  sits  on  the  only  open  and  accessible  gate.  The  fences  protect  the  remains  from  vandalism  and  illicit  collection,  and  they  prevent  any  unauthorised  visitation  to  the  site.  Authorisation  is  most  heavily  controlled  and  ruled  by  the  Turkish  government:  only  team  members  with   government   permits   are   allowed   to   excavate   and   live   at   the   site;  and  the  government  determines  who  is  allowed  on  site,  what  material  they  are  allowed  to  keep,  and  where  they  are  allowed  to  go  at  particular  times.  However,  in  practical  field  archaeology  practice,  consent  to  access  archaeological  space  and  remains  comes  down  to  permissions  under  the  control  of  high  levels  of  the  team  hierarchy  (like  director  Ian  Hodder   or   field   director   Shahina   Farid)   and   the   Turkish   site   guards   based   in   the   site   44  See  Section  6.2.3  for  discussion  on  first  hand  and  second  hand  knowledge  production  and  the  concept  of  epistemic  dependence.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     104 guardhouse  and  the  local  village.  According  to  government  regulations,  all  visitors  and  site  archaeologists  must  be  escorted  around  the  site  by  Turkish  site  guards.  This  results  in  all  non-­‐team  members  having  their  physical  (and  arguably  intellectual)  experience  of  the  site  explicitly  directed  and  controlled  by  their  site  guides,  whether  they  are  guided  by  directors  Hodder  or  Farid,  or  solely  by  the  Turkish  site  guards.45       During   my   fieldwork,   asymmetries   in   executive   authority   were   obviously  manifest  in  the  way  the  strict  Turkish  guard-­‐accompaniment  rule  was  relaxed  for  some  individuals   in   everyday  practice.   For   example,   in   2009,   it  was   common  and  obviously  allowable  for  Ian  Hodder  or  Shahina  Farid—as  well  as  a  handful  of  team  members  who  had   been   working   at   the   site   for   a   very   long   time—to   walk   up   to   the   site   mounds  unaccompanied  by  a  Turkish  guard  or  representative.  For  a  new  team  member  like  me,  or  even  a  specialist  who  was  only  returning  to  the  site   for  a  second  or  third  year  with  little  business  on  the  mounds,  it  would  be  impermissible  to  visit  the  mounds  alone  after  working   hours.   Inappropriate   access   could   lead   to   being   kicked   off   the   project.  While  some  rules  were  negotiable  or  could  be  relaxed  (see  next  section),  others  were  not,  such  as  the  ban  on  carrying  of  unauthorised  material  off  the  site.46  During  the  quiet  working  hours  of  the  non-­‐excavating  field  season,  it  was  possible  for  certain  people  or  groups—for  example,  the  conservation  team—to  get  away  with  attending  the  site  without  a  guard  if   it  was   obvious   that   they   had  work   they   needed   to   do   at   the   dig   site.   During   active  excavation  workdays,   there  were   enough  high-­‐level   supervisors   and  disruption   of   the  mounds  that  only  non-­‐team  members  needed  to  be  escorted  by  site  guards  or  directors.     4.3.1.2    Executive  and  Legal  Consent  As  introduced  above,  bureaucracy  and  territorial  rights  complicate  direct  access  to   the   physical   site  material   remains   at   Çatalhöyük.   Executive   power   over   space   and  material   at   Çatalhöyük   is   a   matter   of   ownership,   and   the   Turkish   government   holds  absolute  authority  over  the  site  materials  due  to  its  powerful  ownership  claim.  Despite  being   almost   entirely   filled   with   Neolithic   remains,   Çatalhöyük   sits   on   geographical  space   that   is   the   sovereign   territory   of   the   Republic   of   Turkey,   and   due   to   socio-­‐ 45  See  Section  4.3.1.3  for  further  discussion  on  this  point.   46 In his dissertation, gradate student Oguz Erdur recounts an announcement made by Shahina Farid in 2005, and I was given a similar mandate in 2009: “We are constantly being watched!” [Farid] explained, “Always be polite and answer all questions. If you pick something up from the ground, do make sure to throw it back. It is forbidden to import archaeological or geological finds out of Turkey. If you get caught with something you yourself might consider unimportant, a piece of stone or obsidian, just anything, you might get blacklisted. You’d never be allowed into this country again” (Erdur 2008: 75). CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     105 historical   and   geographical   reasons,   it   is   linked   to   the   country’s   heritage.   The  government   re-­‐stakes   this   claim   yearly   with   by   doling   out   permits,   visas   and  permissions   of   access   to   foreign   archaeologists   and   visitors   to   the   site,   and   the  government  asserts  the  high  standards  of  practice  that  one  must  work  under  if  they  are  allowed   to   remain.   Turkish   government   officials   (working   off-­‐site,   in   consulates   and  government   administration)   have   ultimate   authority   over   the   permissions   for   who   is  allowed   permits   to   stay   on   site   and   dig   into   the   earth,   and   who   is   allowed   to   take  material  off  the  site  and  out  of  the  country  for  research  purposes.  Famously,  in  one  field  season  when  the  political  climate  between  Greece  and  Turkey  was  particularly  tense,  all  team  members  of  Greek   citizenship  who  applied   to  work   at   Catalhoyk   that   year  were  denied   visas   by   the   Turkish   government.  No   reasons   for   this   action  was   given   by   the  Turkish   government,   but   it   is   reasonable   to   surmise   that   this   was   a   political   move  having  nothing  to  do  with  the  individual  Greek  workers  and  everything  to  do  with  large-­‐scale  national  politics  (Çatalhöyük  team  member,  personal  communication  2009).    Officially,   the   Turkish   national   representatives   who   live   on-­‐site   alongside   the  team  have  the  executive  authority  to  decide  who  can  touch  what,  when,  where  and  how.  Regarding  archaeological  remains,   it   is   the  on-­‐site  Turkish  representative  who  decides  which  artefacts  are  sent   to   the  Konya  and  Ankara  museums,  and  what  stays  behind  at  the   dig   house   to   be   studied   or   left   in   storage.   All  materials   considered   interesting   or  important   are   mobilised   and   change   status   at   the   point   of   a   finger   of   the   Turkish  representative   in   the  dig  house:   they  either  become  prized  museum  objects,   in  special  need   of   conservation   and   attention   to   detail   for   display,   or   they   become   second-­‐class  artefacts   in   need   of   permanent   storage,   put   away   in   the   dark   and   only   seen   by  archaeologists  who  include  them  in  their  data.    Despite   the   rigorous   rules   and   executive   control   by   Turkish   officials,   in   actual  practice  the  movement  of  the  team  and  the  authority  of  the  site’s  operation  is  nuanced  and  complex.  Hodder  and  his  team  are  given  work  permits  with  relative  ease,  due  to  the  high-­‐profile  nature  of  the  site.47  To  my  knowledge,  other  than  the  now  infamous  ban  on  Greek   workers,   no   other   qualified   applicants   to   Çatalhöyük   who   have   been   pre-­‐approved   by   Hodder’s   project   team   have   been   denied   access.   By   denying   Greek   47  In  his  PhD,  the  Turkish  student  Oguz  Erudur  tells  Ian  Hodder  in  an  interview  that:  “I  don’t  think  this  project  is  prone  to  being  closed  down  at  all  [by  the  Turkish  government],  as  you  suggest  you  sometimes  are  afraid  of.  That  is,  of  course,  unless  some  huge  and  unforeseen  scandal  happened  somehow.  But  I  don’t  think  that  fear  is  necessarily  too  well-­‐funded  since,  [Çatalhöyük  ]  feeds  very  much  into  the  whole  discourse  of  ‘our  contribution’  to  the  study  of  the  human  past.  It’s  the  flagship  of  that  discourse  actually.  You  are  helping  the  ministry  enormously,  feeding  into  that  discourse  and  the  pride  that  there  is  this  world-­‐famous  multi-­‐national  project  we’re  hosting  in  our  country  and  these  foreigners  found  our  country,  this  site  in  our  country,  significant  enough  to  pour  so  much  money  into  this  business”  (Erdur  2008:  262).   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     106 excavators   and   specialists   access   to   an   archaeological   site,   Turkish   nationalists   in   the  bureaucratic   hierarchy   were   flexing   their   muscles,   making   a   very   obvious   statement  about  their  executive  authority  in  order  to  assert  a  political  point.  Years  later  during  the  2009  season  when  I  was  present,  the  Turkish  government  had  proposed  new  laws  that  would  “require  that  each  excavation  season  last  at  least  4  months  and  that  a  Turkish  co-­‐director  be  appointed  for  each  dig”  (Baltar  2009).  This  announcement  appeared  to  be,  at  least  at  the  outset,  more  a  matter  of  red  tape,  changing  little  actual  practice  or  executive  structure   on   site;   the   Turkish   director   was   more   about   a   display   and   assertion   of  executive   right   and   authority.   This   added   presence   was   more   a   reassertion   by   the  Turkish  authorities  that  they  controlled  archaeological  territory  in  the  region,  and  that  foreign  archaeologists  were  there  by  permission  only.  It  was  understood  during  my  time  at  Çatalhöyük  that,  at  any  time,  the  Republic  of  Turkey  could  decide  to  take  the  control  of  the  excavation  entirely  out  of  the  hands  of  the  foreign  teams  working  there.       4.3.1.3    Epistemic  and  Intellectual  Access  and  Consent  Access  to  an  archaeological  site  and  its  material  culture  is  also  a  necessary  part  of   epistemic   authority   and   part   of   the   knowledge   production   process.   Because  knowledge  is  produced  through  social  and  material  means,  a  scientist  must  have  some  degree  of  access  to  material—again,  the  closer  the  better—in  order  to  justify  his  or  her  own   hypotheses   and   conclusions.  When   I   first   arrived   on   site   at   Çatalhöyük,   about   a  third  of  the  way  into  the  2009  field  season,  the  importance  of  the  authority  of  consent  and   access   in   relation   to   archaeological   space   and   material   became   particularly  apparent.  On  my   first   day,   I   arrived   alone  by   taxi   and   set   foot   in   the  dig  house   in   the  middle   of   a   normal,   bustling   working   day   at   the   site.   Because   Ian   Hodder   was   not  present   at   the   site,   and   because   the   field   director   Shahina   Farid   was   busy,   a   woman  named   Jules,  who  was   the  Finds  Administrator,   gave  me   an   initial   introduction   to   the  site.     Jules  worked  out  of  the  crucial  Finds  Room  laboratory  (see  Section  2.2.3),  so  she  was  an  ideal  or  pivotal  person  for  social  access  to  the  site.  Because  of  her  position  as  the  Finds   Assistant,   Jules   had   executive   and   epistemic   access   to   all   of   the   dig   house  laboratories,  because  her   job  was   to  distribute  different  artefact   types   to   the  different  labs.  All  material  from  the  excavation  sites  went  directly  to  her  desk  in  the  Finds  Room,  then   she   re-­‐distributed   the  material   out   to   all   of   the   other   laboratories   by   type.   This  made   the  Finds  Assistant   something  of  a  executive   ‘gatekeeper’  of   all  material  on  site.  This  gatekeeper  role  granted  her  a  good  deal  of  executive  authority  to  control,  grant  or   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     107 restrict  the  movement  of  materials  through  the  dig  house.  Jules,  particularly,  was  also  a  charismatic   personality   and   a   returning   team   member   (see   Section   4.3.3,   below),  resulting   in   her   holding   ‘social   capital’   with   other   team   members.   This   charismatic  authority  granted  her  more  social  access  and  influence  with  other  team  members  than,  for  example,  a  person  like  me  who  was  arriving  for  their  first  day.  Her  personal  history  as  a  returning  team  member  gave  her  stronger  roots  on  the  site,  so  she  naturally  held  more  social  authority  than  me.  The  fact  that  Jules  took  me  by  the  hand  and  introduced  me  to  various  members  of  the  laboratories,  and  to  others  in  recreational  spaces  like  the  site  bar,  meant  that  I  was  granted  social  access  and  given  general  social  consent  to  be  on  the  site.   I  was  also  given  a  space   to  sleep,  met  my  roommates,   shown   the  appropriate  places   for  work   and   socialisation—essentially,   I  was   granted   some   social   authority   to  interact  with  others  in  this  community  and  culture  of  archaeologists  through  the  social  introduction  given  by  Jules  the  Finds  Assistant.    I   found   that   social   consent   to   access   physical   and   social   space   in   an  archaeological  project  is  critical  for  two  reasons.  First,  archaeology  is  a  social  and  team-­‐based  activity,  and  thus  introduction  and  social  consent  is  necessary  in  order  to  access  any  epistemological  and  physical  activity  in  the  field.  Secondly,  social  consent  is  a  vital  gateway   to   executive   consent,   allowing   a   person   freedom   of   access   to   material.   To  expand   on   this   last   point,   Jules’s   introduction   to   the   site   was   a   tacit   consensual  agreement  that  I  was  a  new  and  should  learn  the  new  social  rules  and  my  place  in  this  social  culture,  but  also  recognition  that  I  was  now  an  included  team  member.  I  was  given  a   space   to  work   in   a   laboratory,   and   a   space   to   sleep   and   eat   in   the   accommodation;  thereby  I  was  granted  physical  access  to  the  private  team  spaces  of  the  dig  house.  This  consent  to  access  the  private  spaces  and  work  areas  of  the  dig  house  was  a  key  step  into  my   allowance   of   access.   It  was   tacitly   understood   that   I   held   less   executive   authority  than   the   others   upon   arriving,   by   the   simple   fact   that   I   was   required   to   gain   social  consent  to  access  these  territorial  spaces  in  the  dig  house.  However,  even  this  grant  of  social  consent  and  social  access  still  did  not  give  me  any  rights  to  access  archaeological  materials,  or  to  use  workspace  and  to  interact  with  people  during  work  hours  (rather  than  in  off-­‐work  social  hours).  I  still  needed  consent  of  access  given  by  a  greater  epistemic  and  executive  authority  in  the  site  hierarchy,  by  someone  with  more  authority  than  Jules.  It  was  not  until  several  hours  later  that  same  day  that  I  met  in  more  detail  with  Shahina  Farid,  the  camp  and  field  director,  and  only  then  did  I  obtain  more  executive  access  to  the  site.  Jules  opened  social  consent  for  me  to  be  at  the  site  and  to  interact  in  social  spaces.  It  was  Farid,  though,  who  was  accepted  by  others  at  the  site  as  being  the  real  gatekeeper  for  executive  and  authoritative  access  to   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     108 archaeological   material   and   working   spaces,   due   to   her   high   position   in   the   site  hierarchy  as  camp  manager.48    Farid  assigned  me  a  desk  for  work,  and  she   introduced  me  to  the  main  office  and  to  most  of  the  excavators  working  in  the  same  laboratory  as  my  desk  space.  Since  this  consent  to  work  was  given  by  one  of  the  top  members  of  the  site  hierarchy,  it  affected  the  degree  of  executive  access  I  had  at  the  site.  At  this  point,  I  was  not  only  given  a  social  place,  but  also  a  work  space  so  that  I  could  ‘do  archaeology’  alongside  the  rest  of  the  team.  It  was  a  very  physical  introduction  and  granting  of  limited  authority  to  access  the  site,   the  materials  and  the  other  team  members  working  there.  This  performance  of  granting  and  gaining  consent  for  executive  access  to  material  was  also  obvious  at  later  times  that  season,  such  as  during  the  start  of  the  excavations,  when  I   was   given   more   or   less   authority   to   touch   specific   archaeological   material   or   to  excavate   in   particular   places  when   I  worked   under   the   direction   and   authority   of  my  trench  supervisors.  Finally,  after  my  conversations  with   Ian  Hodder,   I  was  granted  more  executive  and—particularly—epistemic   access   to   the   site.   Shortly   after   arriving,   I   spoke   with  Hodder  about  my  research  and  reasons   for  being  at   the   site   (I  was  an  attending   team  member  who  had  asked  to   join  the  project,  rather  than  a  team  member  who  had  been  sought   out   by   the   project   to   join   for   a   particular   purpose).   During   our   conversations,  Hodder   seemed   to   accept   my   epistemic   reasons   for   being   on   site   and   to   accept   my  research   questions   as   valid   ones.   When   it   became   clear   to   Hodder   that   conducting  observations   and   interviews   would   be   my   clearest   path   to   answering   some   of   these  questions,  he  introduced  me  to  several  key  team  members  whom  he  thought  might  give  me  epistemological  (and  perhaps  material)  access  to  what  I  was  seeking.  Practically,  this  consent   involved   Hodder   walking   with   me   to   a   few   laboratories   and   physically  introducing   me   (personal   presence,   hand   shakes   and   head   nods)   to   those   team  members,  who   in   turn   agreed   to   speak  with  me.   It  was   an   informal   and   casual   affair.  However,   this   very  physical   and  direct   consent  with   team  members   greatly   facilitated  my  access  to  both  people  and  material  during  working  hours.  After  the  introduction  and  epistemic  consent  by  the  site  director,  I  found  that  team  members  were  later  much  more  likely   to   put   aside   what   they   were   working   on   in   the  moment   and  make   themselves  readily  available  to  interview.  Importantly,  for  my  own  research,  a  complete  cocktail  of   executive,   epistemic   and   social   consent   maximised   my   authority   (or   potential   for   48  It  should  also  be  noted  that  there  was  yet  another  stage  of  ‘resistance  and  accommodation’  (Pickering  1995)  in  the  consensual  process  of  archaeological  access.  While  Farid  was  able  to  grant  me  consent  to  access  material  on  a  high  level,  it  was  still  up  to  individual  specialists  in  specific  laboratories  to  grant  me  access  to  archaeological  material  that  they  were  actively  using  or  for  things  that  they  might  have  expertise  on  handling  (i.e.  a  broken  pot  under  conservation).         CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     109 authority)   on   the   site,   and   allowed   me   the   closest   access—and   greater   freedom   to  access—archaeological  material,  or  at   least   talk  closely  with   the  experts  who  did  have  that   freedom  of  access.   I   confirmed   that,   structurally,   authority  operates   through  such  gatekeepers  who   can   grant   or   further   consent   to   access   physical   and   epistemological  space.     4.3.2    Public  Access  and  Consent  A  high  level  of  public  involvement  and  democratic  (or  ‘multivocal’)  contribution  has  long  been  a  concern  at  Çatalhöyük.  Ian  Hodder  has  argued  that  “Subordinate  groups  who  want  to  be  involved  in  archaeological  interpretation  need  to  be  provided  with  the  means  and  mechanisms   for   interacting  with   the  archaeological  past   in  different  ways”  (Hodder   1992:   186).   Along   these   lines,   in   practice,   Hodder   has   instituted   interactive  public   tours   of   the   Çatalhöyük   excavation   site,   has   established   outreach   programs   for  local  and  school  groups  and  has  supported  community  projects,  for  both  archaeological  communities   as   well   as   the   general   public.   In   the   2009   field   season   alone,   the   site  welcomed   a   visualisation   project   team   run   by   image   expert   Stephanie   Moser   from  Southampton,  a  summer  school  project  for   local  Turkish  schoolchildren  that  promoted  cultural   heritage   awareness,   a   collaborative  participatory   community   research  project  on  sustainable  archaeology  run  by  specialist  Sonya  Atalay  from  the  University  of  Illinois,  which   included  a  project  using   local  women’s  community  groups  and   interns   from  the  nearby  village  of  Küçükköy,  as  well  as  supporting  general  community  and  archaeology  research   by   independent   scholars   and   graduate   students   (Archive  Report,   Çatalhöyük  Research  Project  2009:  162-­‐179).    However,  in  the  2009  field  season,  while  observing  some  of  the  visiting  groups,  I  felt   that   most   were   more   passive   spectators   than   ‘active   witnesses’49   engaged   in  interactive  or  multivocal  interpretation.  Two  active  public  groups  caught  my  particular  attention  when  I  visited  the  site  and  illustrate  this  point:  one  was  a  ‘casual  public’  group,  and  the  other  might  be  called  a  ‘close  interest’  group.  To  explain  the  first,  I  observed  two  sets  of  American  schoolteachers  who  were  visiting  Çatalhöyük  on  a  teacher-­‐study  tour  with  the  Turkish  Cultural  Foundation.  These  schoolteachers  had  a  casual  interest  in  the  site;   many   of   them   taught   prehistory   to   young   students   in   America,   and   the   Turkish  Cultural  Foundation  gave   them  an   immersive  pan-­‐Turkey   tour   that   taught   them  about   49  The  concept  of  ‘active  witnessing’  is  discussed  by  Gabriel  Moshenska  (2009).   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     110 Turkish  history  and  prehistory.  From  speaking  with   the  program  organisers,   I   learned  that  Çatalhöyük  had  consistently  been  on  the  program  tours  for  several  years.    When   I   attended   the   teachers’   tours,   given   by   Shahina   Farid   and   Ian   Hodder,  respectively,  on  two  separate  occasions  in  2009,  the  Teachers’  interaction  with  the  site  was  almost  entirely  that  of  passive  spectators.  They  were  first  shown  the  Visitor  Centre.  Shahina  Farid  (and  Ian  Hodder  with  the  next  group)  supplemented  the  displays  with  a  lecture,  and  then  showed  them  the  inside  of  the  experimental  hut,  again  supplementing  the  lack  of  displays  with  a  lecture.  The  teachers  were  then  taken  up  to  the  mounds  and  they  walked   around   the   carefully  marked   visitor   paths   and  were   shown   the   displays.  They  were  also  given   lectures  under   the   two  main  excavation   shelters.  These   lectures  were   interactive  only   insofar   as   the   teachers  were  willing   to   ask  questions,   and  when  questions  were  asked,   they  were  usually  given  a  prompt  and  direct  answer.  When  the  group   was   taken   around   the   site,   they   were   lectured   to   with   the   deference   of   a  teacher/student   relationship.   The   person   giving   the   lecture,   again   usually   Ian  Hodder  and  Shahina  Farid,  supported  this  authority  and  structure  by  often  physically  separating  themselves  from  the  public  group—with  the  group  standing  on  platforms  above  the  site,  but   the   lecturer   standing   down  on  Neolithic   ground,   physically   accessing   the   remains  [Figure   6].   Undoubtedly   this   setup   was   arranged   for   reasons   of   safety—for   both   the  public  and   for   the  conserved  archaeology.  The  result  of  hundreds  of  visitors  accessing  the   ground   would   be   disastrous   to   the   Neolithic   remains   and   ill-­‐advised   for  archaeological  conservation.  However,  regardless  of  the  necessity  or  intent,  the  outcome  certainly   reinforced   typical   authoritative   structures   of   professional/public  interpretation  on  site.  This  public  group  in  this  context  was  perhaps  not  provided  with  the   “means   and   mechanisms   for   interacting   with   the   archaeological   past   in   different  ways”   (Hodder   1992:   186),   and   this   teacher/student   and   interaction/spectator   setup  was  typical  of  most  groups  that  I  observed  who  came  to  visit  Çatalhöyük  that  season.  This   is   a   point  which,   along  with   raising   issues   about   control   and   authority   of  access,   also   raises   connected   issues  with   the   postprocessual   authority   of   the   site   (see  Section  4.1.2).  Previous  debate  in  the  field  has  questioned  the  ‘talk’  versus  ‘action’  of  the  Çatalhöyük   postprocessual   program,   and   situations   like   this   teacher/student  arrangement   of   public   displays   and   lectures   at   Çatalhöyük   arguably   undermine   their  own   authority   in   postprocessual   arguments   for   multivocality.   On   the   one   hand,   the  public  was  given  intimate  access  to  the  experts  of  the  project—they  were  guided  by  the  site  director,  for  instance,  who  is  one  of  the  highest  experts  at  the  site,  with  his  intimate  knowledge  of   the  project  and  as   the  person  who  holds  greatest  executive  authority  of  anyone  besides   the  Turkish  representative.  But   the  public  was  not  given  access   to   the   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     111 physical   remains   themselves,   nor   given   the   opportunity   to   interpret   the   past   in   their  own  ways,  or  to  offer  their  voices  to  the  presumed  ‘multivocal’  mix.  The  question  raised  by   such   an   arrangement   is,  what   exactly   do  we  mean   by   giving   people   outside   of   the  archaeological   community   “the   means   and   mechanisms   for   interacting   with   the  archaeological  past  in  different  ways”?  Çatalhöyük  is  famous  for  technologically  opening  its   borders   and   boundaries   through   such   ‘means   and   mechanisms’   as   the   publically  available  website,  and  the  BACH  Second  Life  virtual  world  reconstruction.  However,  this  is   always   secondary   access   to   data   and   yet   another   step   removed   from   the  ‘interpretation  at  the  trowel’s  edge’.  This  is  a  problem  long  recognised  by  Ian  Hodder  in  his  own  theoretical  literature,  but  which,  to  my  observation  in  2009,  had  not  been  fully  dealt   with   or   negotiated   by   Hodder   or   his   core   team,   beyond   the   initial   outline   of   a  problem,  at  least  regarding  general  or  casual  public  groups.       Figure  6:  Hodder  giving  a  site  tour  to  teachers  on  a  Turkish  Cultural  Foundation  Tour.   Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.     A  second  public  group  that  I  observed—who  I  call  a  ‘close  interest’  group—was  given  more   involved  and   intimate   interaction  at   the  site.  Examples  of  a   ‘close   interest’  group  included  members  of  the  local  Turkish  community,  whose  close  association  with  the   site   meant   the   project   was   more   inclined   to   open   boundaries   and   encourage   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     112 interaction,   as  well   as   other   groups   like   the  Goddess   Community.   I   found  noteworthy  interactions  between  the  Çatalhöyük  team  and  a  Goddess  Community  group  that  visited  in  the  2009  field  season.  The  Goddess  Community  is  arguably  both  a  subordinate  and  a  stakeholder  group,  and  a  great  deal  has  been  written  about  their  involvement  with  the  site   during  Hodder's   excavations   (Webb  2002;  Rountree   2007).   In   June   2009,   a   small  group   (seven   or   eight   people)   on   a  Mother  Goddess   tour   came   to   the   site,   and   it  was  clear   that   they  had  phoned  ahead   to   schedule   a   time   to   visit.  When   they   first   arrived,  they   were   warmly   (and   relatively   intimately)   greeted   and   then   given   tour   of   the  mounds,  much  like  the  American  teachers.  However,  unlike  the  teachers,  they  were  also  allowed   back   into   some   ‘private’   areas   of   the   dig   house,   such   as   the   back   vegetable  garden  and  the  dining  hall.  They  were  also  offered  tea  and  welcomed  to  sit  at  the  lunch  tables,  and  an  interactive  discussion  about  site  material  took  place.  The  composition  of  this  group  discussion  included  the  seven  or  eight  member  Goddess  tour  group,  Shahina  Farid,  myself,  and  later  Scott  Haddow,  a  team  archaeologist.  One  of  the  notable  exchanges  of  this  group  discussion  revolved  around  a  human  skull   that   had   recently   been   ‘rediscovered’   by   a   team  member  who  was   inventorying  James  Mellart’s  human  remains  collections  from  the  1960s.  This  skull  was  remarkable  in  that  it  had  been  stained  with  bright  red  pigment.  Initially  the  team  thought  the  pigment  was  common  red  ochre,  but  after  the  skull  had  been  analysed  using  PXRF  machine  (or,  as  one  team  member  described  it  to  me,  “was  zapped  with  the  science  fiction  laser  that  tells  you   its  mineral  composition”),   the  team  discovered  that   the  pigment  was  actually  cinnabar,   a   common   ore   of  mercury   that   would   have   been   poisonous   to   process   and  handle   [Figure   7].   This   interesting   scientific   conclusion   had   only   been   reached   in   the  previous   few  days,   so  Shahina  Farid  brought   the   skull   to   the  attention   to   the  Goddess  group  as  they  were  casually  drinking  tea  in  the  dining  hall.  The  offhand  mention  turned  into  a  table  discussion  that  included  topics  like  whether  or  not  cinnabar  was  carried  on  the   silk   trade,   whether   or   not   silk   was   traded   in   the   Neolithic,   and   what   kind   of  symbolism  could  be  made  from  the  pigment  mark  on  the  red  Mellart  skull.  Archaeologist  Scott  Haddow,  who  had  found  the  skull  during  his  inventory,  was  called  to  the  table,  and  he  brought  his  computer  full  of  images  of  the  skull  to  show  the  group.  The  group  asked  the   archaeologists  many   questions   about   the  mineral  makeup   of   the   pigment   and   the  find,  and  in  turn  they  tried  to  offer  interpretations.  It  was  noteworthy  that  the  Goddess  group  was  given  more  intimate  team  information  and  findings  that  would  not  have  been  told  to  most  public  groups.  However,  they  were  not  given  access  to  the  original  human  remains:   they   saw   only   photographs   on   Scott’s   computer,   even   though   the   original  materials  were  sitting   in  a  nearby  room.  This  was  a  clear  communication  of  executive   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     113 authority   by   both   the   archaeologists,   but   also   by   the   Turkish   authorities,  who   have   a  history   of   tension   with   the   Goddess   Community   and   who   may   not   have   liked   them  accessing  archaeological  material  (Webb  2002).  One  of  the  more  interesting  (and  perhaps  stereotypical)  exchanges  between  the  team  and  the  Goddess  group  involved  a  Goddess  group  woman  who  was  at  that  time  an  anthropology  professor  at  Michigan  State  University.  After  briefly  examining  the  photos,  the   Goddess   member   suggested   that   the   cinnabar   was   used   for   healing   purposes,  because  the  stripe  across  the  brow  is  on  a  very  energetic  part  of  the  body  and  that  many  cultures  highlight  that  area  of  the  body  for  healing  purposes.  Scott  pointed  out  that  the  pigment  was  painted  over  and  into  the  eye  socket,  which  indicated  the  person  was  dead  and  defleshed  before  being  painted.  This  caused  the  woman  to  pause  and  think,  and  a  few  moments   later   she   insisted   that  perhaps   the  Neolithic  owners   could  have  painted  the  skull  and  then  put  it  on  a  shelf  in  the  house  and  still  kept  it  as  a  symbolic  or  energetic  object   that   represented  healing.   Scott   and   Shahina   Farid  were  unconvinced.  However,  this  was  an  example  of  an  interpretive  negotiation  of  data  and  an  epistemic  engagement  by  the  Goddess  community,  an  exchange  between  the  group  and  archaeologists.  For  me,  this  exemplified  a  situation  where  the  project  attempted  to  give  a  subordinate  or  public  group   greater   access   or   the   “means   or  mechanisms”   to   actively   engage  with  material.  However,  when  observing  this  interaction,  I  realised  that  the  Goddess  group  was  given  only  access  to  secondary  photos  of  the  material  and  access  to  the  experts  who  had  been  privy   to   the  original  material.   I   still   felt   that   for   the  most  part   these   two  groups  were  doing   a   great   deal   of   talking,   a   good   amount   of   listening,   but   there   was   little  absorption—or   desire   to   create   an   agreed   account   of   the   past—on   either   side.   The  archaeologists   held   the   clear   authoritative   ground   and   were   not   interested   in   giving  much   space   for   alternative   interpretations,   other   than  making   sure   the   ‘close   interest’  group  felt  respected  and  were  given  attention  that  went  above  and  beyond  an  average  public  group,  like  the  American  teachers.    In  turn,  the  Goddess  group  did  not  seek  access  to  the  original  materials,  although  some   members   of   the   group   seemed   to   have   a   defeatist   attitude   when   it   came   to  interaction   and   interpretation.   One   group   member   recalled   to   me,   for   example,   an  instance  when  her  colleague  had  made  an  artistic  banner  to  be  placed   in  the  museum,  but  the  banner  currently  sits  hidden  in  a  drawer  in  the  dig  house.  When  explaining  this  to  me,   the  Goddess  member  recalled   the  banner  with  a  positive   tone  and  attitude,  but  then  this  memory  led  to  a  less  positive  discussion  about  the  historical  lack  of  inclusion  of   Goddess  material   and   interpretations   in   the   site's   Visitor   Centre.   A   Goddess   group  member   told  me   that,   in   the  original  design  of   the  museum,   there  was  no   inclusion  of   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     114 any   alternative   interpretations,   and   so   their   group   contested   (particularly   by   writing  comments   in   the  visitor  book).  Their  efforts  and  contestation  were   rewarded,  and   the  archaeological   team   soon   designed   a   freestanding   interpretive   panel,  which   then  was  placed  on  a  temporary  easel  in  the  room  (as  opposed  to  on  a  fixture  more  permanently  attached   to   the  wall).  The   temporary  nature  of   the   freestanding  display,   rigged  on   the  collapsible   easel,   was   noticeable  when   I   visited   in   2009.   In   a   later   conversation  with  Shahina   Farid,   she   confirmed   this   account,   but   added   that   when   the   team   added   the  display   panel   in   the   museum   after   complaints,   the   Goddess   community   was   still   not  entirely   happy,   since   the   team   had   used   phrases   like   “Mother   Goddess  Worshippers”  instead   of   apparently   more   appropriate   terms   “Goddess   Community”.   The   team   then  corrected  this  mistake  by  printing  the  correct  words  onto  white  sticky  paper  and  then  physically  sticking  the  new  words  over  the  old  words  on  the  panel.    For   me,   this   account   of   sticky-­‐taped   words   and   banners   hidden   in   drawers  offered   a   tangible   example   of   the   physical/spatial   dimensions   of   interpretive  contestation  involving  site  access.  At  Çatalhöyük,  the  archaeologists’  attempts  to  engage  in   multivocality   with   the   Goddess   community   manifested   in   small-­‐scale   physical   and  mental  power  struggles.  The  Çatalhöyük  team  asserted  its  authority  over  both  physical  remains   and   interpretation   in   its   restriction   and   accommodation   of   dig   house   space.  They  easily   represented  a  paradoxical  practical  arrangement—they  seemed   to   think   it  was   “reasonable   to   abandon   abstract   objectivity   and   make   trials   of   resistance  commensurable…Talk   to   people,   understand   them,   persuade   if   necessary;   instead   of  patronising  them  by  playing  expert”  (Shanks  and  Hodder  1995:  20).  However,  they  did  so  by   forcing  a  setting  where  the  Goddess  group  felt  respected,  but  where  no  one  was  foolish  enough  to  think  that  the  archaeologists  were  attempting  to  engage  in  a  dialogue  of  commensurability  or  were  not   ‘playing  expert’.   In  this  setting,  the  lines  were  clearly  drawn,  and  the  archaeologists  asserted  their  interpretive  authority  over  material  things  and  physical  space.       CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     115   Figure  7:  Photo  of  the  Painted  Skull,  taken  by  Scott  Haddow,  from  the  2009  Archive  Report   (Çatalhöyük  Research  Project  2009:  127).     4.3.2.1    Public/Private  Domains  and  the  Narrowing  of  Access  In  general,  public  space  at  Çatalhöyük  was  obviously  separated  from  the  rest  of  the  working   space   in   the   dig   house.   A   small   barrier   door   not   only   divided   the   public  from  the  experts,  but  also  (whether  intentional  or  not)  singled  out  a  status  and  division.  Access   to   the   dig   house   and   archaeological  material  was   physically   narrowed  by   how  much  executive  authority  you  had  on  the  site.  First,   there  was  the  barrier  door,  which  only   certain   visitors   were   allowed   past   during   working   hours.50   Allowed   visitors  included  the  Turkish  locals  who  were  involved  in  the  community  participation  projects,  the   Goddess   Community   groups   and   touring   archaeological   teams   from   nearby   sites  (such  as  the  project  team  under  the  direction  of  Nicholas  Postgate),  the  teacher-­‐student  groups   in   university-­‐level   archaeology   programs,   and   independent   researchers   in  archaeology  who  were  contemplating  future  research  at  Çatalhöyük.  All  of  these  groups,  it  should  be  stressed,  needed  to  have  previously  scheduled  appointments  to  access  more  private   areas   of   the   site   beyond   the   barrier   door.   Casual   visitors   and   other   non-­‐university-­‐level   teacher   groups   were   rarely   allowed   access   beyond   the   barrier.   Even  when   the   special   interest   groups,   such   as   other   archaeological   teams   or   the   Goddess  groups,  were  allowed  access  beyond  the  barrier,  they  were  generally  kept  out  of  the  labs  and  stayed  in  the  public  living  and  recreation  spaces,  like  the  dining  room,  the  veranda  and   the   seminar   room.   Part   of   this   control   over   space   and   territory   was   due   to   the   50  Entertainment  groups,  such  as  visiting  Whirling  Dervishes,  were  allowed  past  the  barrier  door  during  non-­‐working  hours.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     116 authority   exerted   by   the   Turkish   government   and   the   Turkish   representative   on   site;  however,  another  part  of  this  regarded  pure  epistemic  and  executive  authority  held  by  the  team  members,  who  wanted  peace  and  no  one  bothering  them  while  they  worked.  Even   if   you   made   it   past   the   barrier   door   and   held   the   blessing   of   the  government,   space   and   access   on   site   still   narrowed   depending   on   who   you   were.  Public/private  access  to  all  of  the  laboratories,  for  example,  was  the  domain  of  only  high  members   of   the   ‘site   hierarchy’   like   Farid   or   Hodder.   For   others,   laboratories   were  tacitly  restricted  to  workers   in  their  own  respective   laboratory  teams.  For  example,  as  an  ethnographer,   I  was  given  a  desk  and  space   to  work   in   the   seminar   room  with   the  field   excavators.   I   understood   this   to   be   my   working   domain,   and   this   was   the   one  laboratory   that   I   had   the   authority   to   access  without   question   or   comment.  However,  when   I   would   enter   the   Faunal   or   the   Human   Remains   laboratory,   it   would   draw  significant  attention,  and  I  would  need  to  state  reasons  for  my  intrusion,  because  I  had  no  ostensible  authority  to  be  there.    When   I  asked  members  of   the  project   team  to  explain   their   feelings  about   this  kind  of  territoriality  on  site,  most  of  them  were  initially  reluctant  to  comment,  or  would  begin  commentary  on  intellectual  territory  and  publishing  rights.  This  reluctance  did  not  come  from  sensitivity  to  territoriality,  but  rather  the  opposite—they  did  not  notice  the  tight  division  of  space  and  domains  until  it  was  pointed  out  to  them,  because  there  was  an   underlying   assumption   that   this  was   simply   the  way   space   should   be   divided   and  operated  in  an  archaeological  operation.     4.3.3    Temporality  A  final  division  of  space  that  should  be  mentioned  is  that  of  temporality,  which  offered  a  very  palatable  division  of  authority  at  Çatalhöyük  while  I  was  on  site  in  2009.  Temporality   is   a   sense   of   space   too:   a   day   is   divided   by   the   timing   of   events,   the  movement   of   things   and   people,   and   moments   of   appropriate   behaviour.   The   most  relevant   issue   regarding   temporality   had   to   do  with   the   duration   or   number   of   times  that   any   given   excavator   or  member   of   the   public   (like   the  Goddess   Community)   had  visited   the   site.   Longer   duration   or   repeated   visits   to   the   site   increased   the   executive  and  epistemic  authority  of  any  person.  One  excavator  told  me  that  she  felt  that  status  on  site  often  “more  or   less  divided  by  the  people  who  have  been  here  for  a  while  and  the  people  who  haven’t”  (returning  team  member,  personal  communication  2009).  Many  of  researchers,  such  as  myself,  were  only  on  site  for  one  field  season  and  were  new  to  the  project   community.   Others   had   been   with   the   project   almost   from   its   inception,   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     117 returning   year   after   year,   basing   their   entire   careers   on   their   annual   Çatalhöyük  research.  It  was  clear  that  returning  researchers,  whether  on  their  second  year  or  their  tenth,  generally  had  more  social  and  executive  authority,  as  they  had  been  able  to  gain  social  currency  with  more  returning  members,  and  they  had  greater  experience  with  the  rules  and  interacting  in  the  physical  project  space.  They  also  often  had  more  epistemic  authority   as  well,   since   their   experience  with   the   site   and  material  was   accumulative  over  time.  While  the  team  ‘lab  heads’  were  ultimately  in  charge  of  their  own  laboratory  spaces,  in  some  cases  other  mature  and  returning  team  members  who  were  not  official  ‘lab   heads’   seemed   to   hold   almost   equal   authority   and   status   on   site.   This   was  particularly   the   case  with   some  members   of   the   faunal   and   human   remains   labs.   The  correlation  seemed  to  be  that  greater  time  at  the  site  equalled  greater  experience,  and  greater   experience   led   to   greater   expertise,   and   greater   expertise   led   to   greater  epistemic   authority,   which   in   a   scientific   project   like   Çatalhöyük,   equated   to   greater  presence  and  executive  authority  to  access  social  and  physical  spaces.  While  the  word  ‘territoriality’  was  sometimes  debated  in  my  interviews,  the  idea  that  there  was  a  division  of  status  and  social  order  at  Çatalhöyük  based  on  presence— permanence   versus   transience—was   not   debated.   Çatalhöyük   is   an   unusually   large  operation,  with  as  many  as  a  hundred  official   team  members  drifting   in  and  out  of  the  dig   house   each   field   season,   each  with   diverse   and   complex   interests   and   reasons   for  being  on  site.  The  instability  of  so  much  diversity  and  movement  has  been  commented  upon  before.   In  2000,   Shahina  Farid  wrote,   “Instability  within   the  project  was   seen   to  result   from   several   factors:   the   constant   change   of   personnel   on   a   yearly   basis,   and  throughout  the  season  the  arrival  and  departure  of  different  teams  working  to  their  own  schedule.  Also  the  methodologies   themselves”  (2000:  27).   In  her  commentary,  Farid   is  critical  of  so  much  movement,  arguing  that  the  destabilizing  “was  found  to  be  unnerving  and   unsettling”   and   that   “The   ‘fluidity’   in   the   written   record,   however,   results   in   big  differences   in   recording   from   one   year   to   the   next,   requiring   constant   revision   of  previous   seasons   [sic]  data  and  at   some  stage   this  process  may  become   incompatible”  (2000:   27).   She   points   out   that   “Hodder   interprets   this   as   a   good   thing,   arguing   that:  “‘…a  lack  of  stability  is  necessary  if  a  critical  approach  is  to  be  taken  and  if  the  project  is  to  remain  responsive  to  a  changing  world  around  it’”  (2000:  27;  Hodder  2000).51  Regardless   of   the   implications   for  methodology  or   interpretation,   the   constant  movement   of   new   team   members,   who   came   and   worked   alongside   the   constant  presence   of   others   that   had   maintained   a   continuity   working   there,   created   a   social   51  See  Section  4.4.4  for  further  discussion  on  Hodder’s  practical  actions  on  the  theory  of  instability  in  interpretive  practice.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     118 order  and  hierarchy  based  on  permanence  versus  transience.  The  sense  of  permanence  manifested   in   things  as  basic  as  cups   in   the  sink  of   the  dig  house  tearoom.  Those  who  were  returning  to  the  site  had  personal  mugs  or  cups,  while  new  team  members  had  to  forage  for  a  mug  to  have  tea,  and  they  had  to  quickly  learn  which  mugs  were  off-­‐limits  because   some   team   members   were   territorial   if   another   team   member   used   their  personal  mug.  Eventually,  new  team  members  who  stayed  with  the  project  long  enough  purchased  their  own  mugs  and  kept  them  in  the  tearoom,  claiming  social  space  as  their  own.  Metaphorically,  this  sense  of  physical  territory  and  space  operated  in  similar  ways  in   the   laboratory   and   in   epistemological   space.   Returning   team   members   had   often  previously   staked  claims   to  desks,  methodologies  and  social  hierarchies,   and   they  had  certainly   staked   experiential   claims   as   to   what   ‘went   on   before’   and   ‘how   things   are  done’  on  site.    Also,  the  instability  of  constantly  reintroducing  new  team  members  to  methods  as  well  as  social  and  work  spaces  resulted  in  a  constant  teaching/apprenticing  process  at  the  site.  During  excavation,  the  returning  senior  excavators  had  to  constantly  devote  some  of  their  time  to  training  not  only  the  untrained  field  school  undergraduates  from  Stanford  University,  but  also  had  to  teach  any  experienced  excavators  who  were  joining  the   Çatalhöyük   project   for   the   first   time   how   to   excavate   according   to   Çatalhöyük  methods   and   protocol.   While   Hodder   might   have   intended,   or   might   argue,   that   this  constant   re-­‐teaching   of   methods   would   enable   constant   team   interaction   with   the  process   by   which   students   were   taught,   therefore   enabling   reflexive   dialogue   with  method,   I   found   the   opposite   to   actually   be   taking   place.   Instead,   I   found   that   the  constant   re-­‐teaching   of   methods   rather   secured   those   methods   firmly   and  authoritatively   in  place.  The  constant   re-­‐teaching  solidified  a  process  by  which  people  said  ‘this  is  the  way  we  teach  newcomers’  and  ‘this  is  what  we  do  at  Çatalhöyük’,  thereby  blackboxing  methods  into  stable  ‘ways  things  are  done’  rather  than  opening  them  to  any  reflexive  consideration.  For  methodology   and   epistemology,   this  manifested   in   two   notable  ways:   one  was  the  way  that  the  laboratories  were  splintered  into  ‘pods’  with  unique  work  cultures,  and  another  was   the  way   that   time  affected   interpretation,  both  methodologically  and  on  a  final  ‘final  product’  level.  Regarding  the  former,  a  good  example  is  how  the  Faunal  laboratory  operated.   In  2009,  the  Faunal   lab  was  almost  militaristic   in  detail,  and  very  well  organised.  The  team  operated  under  strict  operation  procedures  and  rules.  Boxes  of  new   faunal   remains  would   come   into   the   faunal   laboratory   from   the  Finds  Room,  and  then  go  through  a  rigorous  scientific  process  of  scrutiny  and  recording.  They  had  a  flow  chart   of   appropriate  protocol,  with   ‘checking’  moments  when  authorities   (supervisors   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     119 or   team   leaders)   were   responsible   for   assessing  whether   or   not   procedure   had   been  followed   appropriately   at   certain   levels,   or   whether   interpretations   by   more   junior  members  were  accurate  at  certain  points  of  the  work  flow  [see  red  boxes  in  the  faunal  procedural  flow  chart,  Figure  8].  This  robust  team  structure  operated  much  differently  than,  say,  the  Conservation  laboratory,  which  was  also  a  multi-­‐person  team,  but  which  had  a  much  more  fluid  and  democratic  procedure.  At  some  point,  Hodder  suggested  to  me  that  the  Faunal   lab  was  structured  this  way  because  of  the  personalities  who  were  involved,   in   all   likelihood   referring   to   the   ‘lab   heads’   who   organised   the   Faunal   lab  authority  and  created  the  flow  of  practice.    Such  a  structure  showed  how  returning  members  and  longer  durations  of  time  spent  with  material  cemented  authority   in  a  specific   laboratory  culture.   I  would  argue  that   this  authority  accumulated  naturally—repeated   interaction  with   familiar  material  stabilised   interpretations,  and  authority  was  gained  through  this   time-­‐garnered  ability  to  identify  material  in  the  appropriate  categories.  Furthermore,  I  would  argue  that  this  militaristic   structure   and   hierarchy   of   authority   in   the   Faunal   Laboratory   developed  somewhat  naturally  because  of  the  type  of  material  involved.  The  identification  of  faunal  remains   is  entirely  categorical—it   involves  the  deliberate  sorting  of  bones   into  pre-­‐set  groups,   which   are   developed   from   an   understanding   of   bones   from   known   modern  animals.   The   key   to   faunal   identification   is   personal   experience   in   recognising   the  difference   between   bones   as   similar   as   those   of,   say,   a   goat   and   a   sheep   (which   is   so  difficult   that   at   Çatalhöyük,   they   often   get   lumped   into   a   ‘sheep/goat’   category   if   the  specialist   is   unsure,   or   if   the   skeletal   remains   are   less   complete).   This   ability   to  understand  the  pre-­‐set  categories  and  the  ability  to  accurately  identify  unknown,  newly  found   remains   develops   with   experience,   and   experience   develops   over   repeated  interaction  with  material  over  time.   It   is  no  wonder  that   the  ontological  setting   in  this  scenario—the   type   of   material,   and   the   type   of   activity   involved   in   being   ‘faunal  specialist’  in  the  Faunal  Laboratory—directly  enabled  and  constrained  the  way  personal  and  institutional  authority  accumulated  through  time  in  this  specific  laboratory  culture.  During  my  stay  at  the  site,  it  was  also  suggested  that  ‘time’  (particularly  relating  to  the  extent  of  experience  and  duration  of  time  at  the  site)  also  affected  the  interpretive  process   and   the   site   philosophy   as   a  whole.   One   example   emerged   from   a   discussion  with  a  team  member  who  had  been  returning  to  the  site  for  a  number  of  years.  In  one  conversation,  he  mentioned  that  there  were  early  attempts  at  Çatalhöyük  for  site  ‘labels’  to  be  neutralised  during  excavation  recording  practice—in  other  words,  if  a  team  found  a  giant  waste  pit  or  found  a  fired  cooking  space,  these  areas  were  initially  supposed  to  be  called  ‘pits’  rather  than  ‘middens’.  A  term  like  ‘fire  installation’  was  supposed  to  be   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     120     Figure  8:  Faunal  procedural  flow  chart,  used  by  the  Çatalhöyük  faunal  laboratory  team.   Note  the  rigid  structure  and  the  red  boxes  with  'checkpoints'.    It  is  also  significant  to  point   out  the  notation  on  the  side  for  the  checkpoints:  "ideal  -­‐  more  for  new  people".  Familiarity   with  materials  and  methods  breeds  stability  and  authority  in  the  knowledge  production   process.  Screen  shot  courtesy  of  the  Çatalhöyük  Team  database  archive.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     121 used  rather  than  the  term  ‘oven’  or  ‘hearth’,  because  of  the  strong  connotations  attached  to   the   latter  words.   The   idea  was   that,   by   using  more   open   language,   team  members  could   cognitively   keep   associations   between   features   and   words   open   for   greater  interpretive  flexibility  and  reflexivity.  However,  the  team  member  argued  that  over  time  the   site   archaeological  material   had   become   repetitive   and   familiar,   so   that  when   the  team   ran   across   such   features,   they   thought   they   were   clearly   middens   and   ovens.  Because  of  their  familiarity  with  the  recurring  material,   the  team  had  abandoned  most  of  the  ‘open’  categories  and  had  collapsed  back  into  using  these  specific  categories  like  ‘midden’  or  ‘oven’.    In  this  case,  I  would  argue  that  the  duration  of  time  that  the  whole  project  had  spent  at   the  site  had  created  a   familiarity  with   the  archaeology,  and   this  had  caused  a  fundamental  shift   in  methodology  and  interpretive  practice—a  stabilising  effect.  While  the  open  categories  might  have  been  a  good  experiment  at  the  beginning  of  the  project,  the   recurring  physical   properties   of   the  material   created   a   stabilising   authority   of   the  interpretations   themselves.   I  would   argue   that   any   further   use   of   ‘open’   categories   in  such   a   scenario   would   only   become   new   terms   for   the   same   mental   categories   or  interpretations.  In  such  a  case,  the  physical  material  directly  limited  or  constrained  any  interpretive   category   that  might  be  used  or  developed.  Authority—in  both   the   idea  of  interpretive   categories   and   in   the   interpretive   process—manifested   through   this  stabilisation,  where  time  and  familiarity  only  further  cemented  an  understanding  of  the  physical  remains.  Another  example  of  how  the  authority  of   time  duration  at  the  site  had  affected  interpretation  involved  an  instance  when  the  excavation  field  team  was  running  through  previous  seasons’  work  in  their  lab  during  the  study  season.  When  running  through  the  previous   year’s   data   and   the   Harris   Matrix   charts,   one   team   member   identified   an  opening  in  one  of  the  Neolithic  walls,  which  appeared  to  be  an  access  leading  out  into  an  outdoor  ground  space.  She  was  having  difficulty  explaining  this  opening  without  calling  it   an   ‘access’   or   a   ‘door’.   Çatalhöyük   is   famous   for   its   narrative   describing   exotic  Neolithic  houses   that  were  built  with  no  streets  or  side  doors,  with   the  buildings  only  accessible  from  small  openings  in  the  roofs.  On  this  occasion,  the  field  excavators  had  an  informal   discussion   about   this   mysterious   opening   in   the   wall.   The   area   on   the   wall  appeared   to   be   built   without   bricks,   but   they   could   not   agree   that   the   space   was   a  door—because  (they  kept   insisting)  Çatalhöyük  had  no  doors.  At  one  point,  one  of   the  excavators  mentioned  that  Shahina  Farid  was  “quite  cross”  at  the  mention  of  a  possible  side   access   door,   because   ‘Çatalhöyük   culture   had   no   streets’.   This   idea   had   been  ingrained  and  established  through  many  years  of  experience  and  fieldwork.  It  appeared   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     122 that   Farid   had   said   with   authority   that   this   was   not   a   street,   because   there   were   no  streets,  because  in  the  long  history  of  the  project  no  streets  had  never  been  found.  The  group  ultimately  used  the  word  “heresy”  to  (jokingly)  describe  this  debate,  and  after  a  period  of  momentary  drama  and  humour,  the  issue  was  put  to  rest  with  different  (and  less   controversial)   terminology,   and   the   Çatalhöyük   record  was   spared   of   any   further  mention  of  streets  or  side  doors.  This  example  represented  the  authority  of  familiarity,  the  authority  of  repetition  that  the  material  had  over  interpretation,  and  the  authority  of  those  who  had  greatest   executive   control   at   the   site  because  of   their   long  duration  of  experience  with  that  material.  In  both  of  these  cases,  the  interpretive  outcome  of  scientific  practice  manifested  from   a   network   of   operations   between   people   and   materials.   Interpretations   and  accounts  were   stabilised  by   the  authority  of   those  who  had  experienced   the   site   first-­‐hand   for   a   long   duration   of   time,   from   repeated   ontological   interaction   with  archaeological  material  that  was  repetitive  in  nature,  therefore  allowing  recognisability,  and  finally,   from  the  negotiation  of  authority  between  the  various  team  members  who  were  assessing  or   interpreting  that  material.  Higher  status  personalities  (team  leaders  or  other  experienced  returning  team  members)  had  authority  that  was  often  based  in  a  longer  duration  of  time  and  experience  with  the  site,  which  resulted  a  strong  presence  and  greater  epistemic  power  over  the  production  of  knowledge.       4.3.4    Knowing  Your  Place:  The  Power  of  Space,  Structure  and  Division  at   Çatalhöyük       At  Çatalhöyük,  people  could  establish  a  foothold  of  authority  in  three  ways.  First,  a  kind  of  pragmatic  authority  could  be  gained  by  quickly  learning  the  routines  of  the  site  or   place   in   a   laboratory.   By   socially   and   ritually   integrating,   a   person   could   build  personal  status  and  reputation  as  a  competent   individual,   leading  to  greater  authority.  In   daily   practice   at   Çatalhöyük,   everyone   on   site   had   a   niche   and   a   space,   and   they  quickly   learned   the   appropriate   routines   and   language—at   the   risk   of   appearing  ‘aimless’  if  they  did  not  perform.  At  one  point  in  the  2009  season,  a  few  of  the  Stanford  undergraduate   field  school   students  were   found   to  be   ‘goofing  off’   and  avoiding  work.  One   of   the   (authoritative   and   longstanding)   lab   specialists   mentioned   that   this  behaviour   could   affect   the   students’   feedback   and   recommendations   by   other   team  members.   The   specialist   continued   explaining   that   Çatalhöyük,   like   many   excavation  teams,   often   operated   as   a   watchful,   tacit   social   ‘panopticon’   (her   word),   where  everyone   is   aware   of   everyone   else   at   any   given   point   of   time,   assessing   their   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     123 trustworthiness   and   competence.   While   this   might   be   a   dramatic   interpretation,   in  actual  practice,  authority  on  site  did  appear  to  operate   in  a  watchful   fashion:  while  on  the   one   hand,   team   members   with   the   titles   like   ‘leader’   or   ‘director’   did   elicit   an  appropriate   authority   and   following   based   on   their   institutional   positions,   other  members  were  simply  regarded  as  more  competent  or  able  and  had  been  consistent  in  gaining  status  and  authority  by  virtue  of  doing  the  appropriate  actions  for  a  significant  duration  of   time.   In   the  2009   season,   the  Stanford   students  who  acted  as   enthusiastic  and   able   apprentices   gained   greater   authority   over   the   course   of   the   season,   which  manifested   in  how  they  were   treated  and  what  responsibilities   they  were  given,  while  those  who  slacked  off  were  often  discussed  as  having  poor  work  ethic,   their  authority  and  social  status  lessening  over  time.    Most   importantly,   such   authority   operated   within   the   physical   and   structural  operation   of   the   site.   Authority  was  most   likely   to   be   quickly   accumulated   by   a   team  member  who  was   consistently  performing   the  appropriate  behaviours  of   a   competent  archaeologist.   Such   behaviour   legitimised   their   self-­‐presence,   because   they   were  working   correctly   within   the   stabilised   methodology   at   the   site.   Authority   was   even  more  quickly  and  widely  gained  if  they  handled  material  in  ways  that  others  at  the  site  deemed   was   appropriate.   Authority   was   less   likely   to   be   gained   when   a   person  undermined   social   structures,   created   new   or   innovative   interactions,   or   tested  boundaries.   Any   behaviour   involving   risk   or   change,   especially   when   it   involved   the  handling  of  precious  archaeological  material,  was  not  well-­‐received  and  would  likely  not  raise  the  authority  or  status  of  a  person  on  site.  People  could  also  establish  a  foothold  of  authority  by  building  a  sense  of  alterity  versus   self.   Alterity   went   beyond   the   categorisation   of   people   as   ‘professional’   or  ‘alternative’  and  involved  the  definition  of  space,  persons,  practices  and  authority  on  the  site   into   inclusive/exclusive   categories.   Groups   were   divided   by   teams,   specialisms,  laboratories  and  sometimes  even  by  nationalities.  This  happened  often  accidentally,  but  also  intentionally.  By  accidentally,  I  refer  to  the  way  some  age  groups  and  professional  groups  were  often  formed  by  virtue  of  who  one  might  routinely  interact  with  on  a  daily  basis,  often  a  product  of  schedules  that  had  happened  to  align,  or  work  space  that  was  randomly   assigned   to   team  groups.  Returning   team  members   (from  previous   years   of  excavation)  often  ate  at  the  same  lunch  table  because  of  friendships  that  had  developed  over   time,   and   laboratory   groups   often   started   and   stopped   work   at   the   same   time,  therefore   bonding   as   a   ‘pod’   and   creating   socially   exclusive   units.   At   Çatalhöyük,   field  excavators  were  mostly  British,  therefore  a   ‘British  group’  was  very  present  on  site,  as  were   the   ‘Stanford   students’   group   from  America  who  were  united  by  age,  nationality   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     124 and  experience  [see  photo  in  Figure  9].  Again,  groups  like  those  of  specific  nationalities  were   often   formed   somewhat   accidentally,   despite   the   reality   of   their   extant   category  and  exclusive  bond.  The  British   field  excavators,   for  example,  were  often  asked  to   join  the   project   because   of   pre-­‐existing   social/work   networks,   from   a   current   team  member’s   personal   knowledge   of   a   former   colleague’s   competence   and   good  practice.  On   a   more   deliberate   level,   sometimes   entire   Çatalhöyük   teams   intentionally   stuck  together   in  social  and  work  settings,   such  as   the  West  Mound  Team.  The  West  Mound  Team   would,   for   the   most   part,   work   together,   eat   together   and   socialise   together,  mostly  distinct  and  separate   from  the  rest  of   the  East  Mound  Team.  This  division  was  created  because  of  the  very  real  geographical  distance  that  separated  the  East  and  West  Mounds   in   the   Çatalhöyük   landscape,   and   it   impacted   the   social   and   interpretive  exchange  that  occurred  between  these  two  groups.  This  kind  of  ‘culture  creation’  is  not  unique  at  Çatalhöyük;  Cornelius  Holtorf  records  very  similar  scenarios  at  his  excavation  site  at  Monte  Polizzo  in  Western  Sicily,  where  he  argues  that  “Learning  such  rules  of  the  game,  or  tacit  knowledge,  can  be  of  crucial  significance”  in  your  ability  to  succeed  as  an  archaeologist  (Holtorf  2006).  At  Çatalhöyük,  the  social  and  spatial   interaction  between  such   groups   directly   affected  what   persons   or   specialisms  were   present   in   any   given  physical  space  at  any  given  time—and  importantly—this  interaction  affected  what  ideas  and  intellectual  materials  were  exchanged  during  social  and  work  hours.       CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     125   Figure  9:  Darts  with  British  and  American  national  flags,  and  a  Turkish  beer.  These   symbols  of  recreation  also  represented  some  of  the  divisions  behind  groups  that  worked   as  tight  units  on  site.  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.     Finally,  there  was  a  distinction  in  space  and  structure  between  those  who  were  archaeologists,   and   those  who  were   not—public   versus   private,   expert   versus   novice,  observer  versus  participant.  Regardless  of  intent,  various  public  groups  were  physically  separated  in  space  (see  Section  4.3.2,  above),  which  promoted  alterity.  Because  the  site  was  divided  in  public  versus  private  spaces,  it  narrowed  and  could  be  limited  in  access.  This   led   to   a   distinct   ‘us’   versus   ‘them’   feeling   that   permeated   when   public   groups  visited   the   site.   The   Goddess   Community,   for   example,   while   welcomed   and   actively  included  in  the  site,  were  still  part  of  an  entirely  different  social  and  intellectual  group.  Both   groups—archaeologists   and   the   Goddess   Community—stuck   together   and   kept  within   their   own   boundaries  when   they   visited   the   site,   and   only   team  members   like  Shahina   Farid   and   Scott  Harlow,  who  were   scheduled   to   talk  with   them  or  who  were  specifically   invited,  attended  them.  After   the  departure  of   the  Goddess  Group,  many  of  the  other  Çatalhöyük  team  members  were  excited  to  hear   that   the  Goddess  group  had  visited  and  were  curious,  but  alterity  seemed  to  keep  the  two  groups  from  mingling  at  any   other   time.   Such   alterity   and   social   boundaries   extended   beyond   just   subaltern  groups  like  the  Goddess  community,  extending  even  to  professional  groups  that  came  to  visit.   One   notable   example  was   an   archaeological   team  of   a   nearby   excavation   run   by   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     126 Nicholas   Postgate   from   Cambridge,   which   included   many   postgraduate   and  undergraduate  students.  Like  the  Goddess  community,  they  were  allowed  back  into  the  more   private   areas   of   the   dig   house,   including   the   dining   room   and  were   given   brief  tours  of  the  labs—and  also  like  the  Goddess  community,  their  experience  was  controlled  and   heavily   guided   in   space   and   time,   and   their   access   and   duration   at   the   site   was  limited.   This   was   partially   due   to   the   strict   rules   and   watchful   eye   of   the   Turkish  government   representative,   but   also   due   to   the   nature   of   the   site   as   a  working   space  where  people  did  not  want  to  be  bothered.  In  some  cases,  this  was  also  arguably  because  inner-­‐circle  team  members  enjoyed  the  fruits  of  being  an  academic  whose  work  and  site  was  worth  witnessing,  and  who  appreciated  the  hierarchical  separation  that  comes  from  who  is  allowed  to  be  a  participant  versus  just  a  viewer  in  that  setting.    A  main  outcome  of  my  observation  and  fieldwork  at  Çatalhöyük  was  that  space  and   the   physical   consent   and   structure   of   any   experiential   plane   can   greatly   add   or  decrease   individual   or   group   authority   based   purely   on   who   executively   controls   or  narrows   the   access   of   that   physical   space.   Control   of   space   directly   affects   the  production  of  knowledge.  Who  is  allowed  to  get  closest  to  material  and  who  is  allowed  to   engage   with   experts   or   non-­‐experts   directly   affects   what   dialogues   even   have   the  opportunity  to  arise.  Hodder  himself  has  touched  on  this  subject  before,  by  recognising  that  “interpretation  begins  at  the  trowel  edge”  (i.e.  that  more  direct  and  physical  reach  of   the   material   in   question   breeds   more   ‘close’   and   arguably   more   ‘accurate’  interpretation,   lending   the   participant   more   authority).   However,   despite  acknowledging  this,  a  recognition  of  the  way  professional  authority  is  actually  operating  has  been   little  discussed.  Outreach  programs  may  be  described  and   celebrated  by   the  project   in   their   newsletters   and   archive   reports   (Atalay   2009),   but   the   basic  fundamentals  of  how  one  person  is  physically  enabled  to  touch  material  while  another  person   is   not,   and   how   such   a   difference   actually   effects   individual   and   collective  authority  in  the  construction  of  knowledge,  I  found  to  be  a  hazy  and  skimmed  subject  at  the  site.  This  lack  of  recognition  of  the  actual  operation  of  physical  things,  the  material  nature   of   interpretation,   and   the   accumulation   of   authority   was   also   present   in   the  interpretive   process   as  well   as   the  methodological   setup   of   the   site.   The   next   section  discusses  this  in  more  detail.     CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     127 4.4    Inscription,  Translation  and  Blackboxing:  Authority   in  the  Solidification  of  Representations  into  Accounts   4.4.1    Authority  through  the  Stabilisation  of  Practices  In   archaeology,   the   production,   exchange   and   consumption   of   academic  messages   involve   a   number   of   social   processes—notably,   inscription,   translation   and   blackboxing—which   affect   the   way   knowledge   stabilises   into   solidified,   authoritative  ‘final  product’  versions  of  original  fluid  and  processual  ideas.  Scholars  like  Bruno  Latour  (1987)  and  Michael  Callon  (1986)  coined  these  terms  from  their  observations  of  natural  scientists   at   work   in   the   field   and   laboratory.   Inscription   is   the   act   of   creating   new  material  products  that  represent  the  actions  and  ideas  behind  the  social  production  of  knowledge.  For  example,  in  archaeology,  the  creation  of  site  records,  like  elevation  plans  or  GIS  maps,  formalise  or  inscribe  a  moment  of  excavation  activity,  thereby  representing  a  four-­‐dimensional  source  (material  remains  excavated  at  a  specific  moment  of  time)  as  a  two-­‐dimensional  text  or  illustration.  Translation  is  the  process  by  which  various  actors  engage  with,  negotiate  and  make  choices  about  how  to  use  an  idea,  artefact  or  a  moment  to   benefit   their   own   aims   or   advantage.   For   example,   a   Goddess   Community  member  and  an  archaeologist  might  each  individually  view  a  female  figurine  found  at  Çatalhöyük  and   translate   their   own   meaning   and   interpretation   of   that   object   for   their   own  purposes.   By   translating   the   figurine   to   the   advantage   of   their   own   view   of   the  ontological   and   social  world,   they   further   advantage   their  own  authoritative  positions  within   their   own   social   group.   Blackboxing   is   the   process   in   which   methods   and  inscriptions  become  set  as  an  authoritative  standard  or  norm,  a  ‘way  of  doing  research’  which   goes   unquestioned—until   something   goes   wrong   or   contestation   brings   issues  about  the  way  a  system  operates  to  the  forefront.  This  section  expands  the  example  of  Çatalhöyük   in   order   to   address   the   way   these   three   processes   can   operate   in   the  discipline   of   archaeology.   It   also   highlights   where   and   how   authority   impacts   the  interpretation  of  archaeological  knowledge  through  these  methodological  processes.  Andrew   Pickering   likens   the   social   production   of   knowledge   to   an   interactive  struggle  between  human  and  material  agents,  where  “scientists  are  human  agents   in  a  field  of  material  agency…[and  where]  human  and  material  agency  are  reciprocally  and  emergently   intertwined”   (1995:   21).   It   is   through   this   reciprocal   interaction—social  practices   involving   the   routines   of   examination,   observation,   data-­‐collection,   analysis,  presentation   and   publication—that   “things   get   performed   (and   perform   themselves)  into   relations   that   are   relatively   stable   and   stay   in   place”   (Law   1999:   4).   Stabilising  knowledge   into  authoritative  accounts   is  an  active  and  performative  process,  whereby   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     128 the   fluid   actions   and   relationships   of   scientific   activity   become   stabilised   into   formal  end-­‐products.   Like   in   the   Archive   Report   front   page   photograph   [Figure   10],   where  human   and   material   agents   are   interacting   within   predefined   space,   it   is   through  performed  activity  itself  that  knowledge  is  constructed.         Figure  10:  Front  cover  photograph  of  the  2009  Çatalhöyük  Archive  Report.  Knowledge  is   actively  performed  through  the  processes  of  inscription  and  translation  (Çatalhöyük   Research  Project  2009).       4.4.2    Authority  in  Inscription  and  Translation:  Solidification  through   Representation,  Circulation  and  Mobilisation     The  production   of   texts   or   representations   is   often   referred   to   by   Science   and  Technology   Studies   (STS)   researchers   as   the   process   of   inscription.   In   archaeology,  textual   or   representative   products,   like   museum   displays   or   archive   reports,   are  frequently   the   most   stable   outcomes   of   our   knowledge   production   process.   To  paraphrase   Law,   inscriptions   are   the   systems   and   performances   that   result   in   new  materials.   New   materials   are   seen   to   be   related   to   ‘the   original   substance’   of   the  scientific   activity,   but   are   seen   to   be   things   that   summarise   or   ‘inscribe’   the   original  activities  and  materials   into  new  forms  (Law  2004:  20).  These  new  forms  are  the   ‘end  products’  that  emerge  from  scientific  activity—the  most  notable  of  which  are  texts.  The  focus  of  much  previous  STS  research  has  been  on  the  scientific  production  of   texts.  As  John   Law   writes,   “Energy,   money,   chemicals,   people,   animals,   instruments,   tools,   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     129 supplies,  and  papers  of  all  kinds,  move  into  the  laboratory.  At  the  same  time,  people  and  (different)   papers   and  maybe   instruments,   together  with  debris   and  waste,  move  out.  Looked  at  as  a  system  of  material  production,  then,  the  major  product  of  the  laboratory  turns  out  to  be  texts”  (Law  2004:  19,  emphasis  in  original).    In   archaeology,   like   in   natural   science,   we   create   texts   from   our   scientific  activity:   site   reports,   scientific   reports,   scientific   journal   articles   and   books.   In  archaeology   we   also   produce   other   material   end-­‐products   to   supplement   or   extend  beyond   our   texts,   such   as   maps   and   illustrations,   site   plans   and   elevation   charts,  museum  displays  and  physical  reconstructions,  all  of  which  are  inscribed  new  ‘products’  that   are   based   on   original   material,   which   inform   ‘knowledge’   about   the   past.   The  archaeological  practice  of   inscription   regards  “all   the   types  of   transformations   through  which   an   entity   becomes  materialized   into   a   sign,   an   archive,   a   document,   a   piece   of  paper,   a   trace…They   are   always   mobile,   that   is,   they   allow   new   translations   and  articulations   while   keeping   some   types   of   relations   intact”   (Latour   1999:   306-­‐307).  Pivotal   activities   of   archaeological   work   involve   the   production   of   inscriptions   like  notes,  drawings,  images,  texts  and  databases.    A  classic  example  is  the  discovery  of  a  pot  in  an  excavation.  After  its  discovery,  the  pot’s  dimensions  are  first  drawn  into  a  site  plan  and  recorded  on  a  context  sheet  by  an  excavator—inscribed   into  a  new  two-­‐dimensional  paper  record  and   image.  The  pot  may  be  removed  and  its  context  may  be  destroyed,  but  inscription  remains  as  a  material  representation  or  ‘knowledge’  about  that  moment  of  time.  In  some  cases,  the  actual  pot  may  go  into  storage,  while  the  inscriptions  are  studied  in  post-­‐excavation  work,  with  the  only   references   to   the   original   pot   in   a   database   record   or   GIS   system—further  inscriptions.  Later,  when  the  database  numbers,  photographs  and  GIS  data  of  the  pot  are  turned   into  descriptive   text   in  an  academic  article,   it   is  yet  again   inscribed   in   the  new  form  of  a  text.  The  pot  has  turned  from  a  material  artefact  into  a  virtual  inscription;  it  is  now  a  tangible  text,  but  a  virtual  reality.  Such  inscriptions  underpin  the  entire  notion  of  what  it   is   ‘to  do  archaeology’  and  what  is   ‘the  archaeological  record’.  We  have  come  to  rely   heavily   on   inscriptions   for   our   everyday   discourse   and   our   interpretive   practice  (Bateman  2006).  An   inscription  can  be  utilised   for  an  array  of  different  purposes   that  extend   beyond   the   original   material   from  which   it   is   based.   For   example,   a   site   plan  captures   a  moment  of   excavation   in   time,   recording   in   a  more  durable   representation  something   that   will   soon   be   destroyed.   A   site   plan   is   also   something   that   is  comparatively  mobile,   unlike,   say,   the  original   excavated  Neolithic  plaster   floor   that   it  represents.  A  plan  can  be  copied  and  distributed  to  a  far  greater  number  of  people—and   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     130 thus   the   value   an   inscription   comes   down   to   its   representational   and   mobile  importance.  The   use,   power   and   authority   of   inscriptions   often   comes   down   to   their  relationship  to  translation,  an  activity  that  often  actively  uses  inscriptions.  Bruno  Latour  explains   that   the   concept  of   translation   “refers   to   all   the  displacements   through  other  actors   whose   mediation   is   indispensable   for   any   action   to   occur…actors   modify,  displace,   and   translate   their   various   and   contradictory   interests”   (Latour   1999:   311).  The   term   translation   refers   to   the   activity   whereby   actants   (people,   things,   artefacts,  machines,   tokens,   anything   in   a   network)   are   changed   so   that   they   can  work  with   or  against  one  another,   forge  alliances  and  generally  circulate.  Translation  is  a  process  or  activity  through  which  executive  and  epistemic  authority  is  effectively  built,  changed  or  undermined  by  various  human  and  material  actors.  In   the   2009   field   season,   I   observed   two   major   types   of   translation   at  Çatalhöyük.  On  the  one  hand,  there  was  the  physical  circulation  and  translation  of  things  and   people.   I   highlighted   some   of   these   negotiations   involving   space,   structure   and  access   in   the   previous   section   in   this   chapter.   Through   the   translation   of   physical  things—that   is,   through  an   individual’s  negotiation  of   their  own  relationship  to  things,  other   people   and   their   understanding   of   social   and   physical   space—people   at  Çatalhöyük   articulated   the   world   around   them,   managing   their   own   place   within   the  site’s   social   orders   and   hierarchies,   and   manipulating   artefacts   and   inscriptions   to  maximise  benefit  to  their  own  aims  and  goals.    For   example,   in   order   for   an   archaeologist   to   gain   authority,   he  would   always  handle—or   translate—an  artefact   in   such  a  way   that   it  would  maximise  benefit   to  his  own  person.  An  undergraduate   apprenticing   student,   for   example,  might   simply  make  sure  that  he  excavates  an  artefact  in  the  most  logical  and  safest  way  possible,  handling  it  under  the  appropriate  protocol  and  with  care,  then  properly  inscribing  a  record  of  the  find  in  the  site  database  before  storing  it  properly  in  the  storehouse.  By  translating  an  artefact  in  such  an  ‘appropriate’  way,  this  student  gains  authority.  Others  higher  in  the  site  hierarchy  might  note  his  skill  and  competence,  raising  his  epistemic  authority  in  the  eyes  of  his  peers,  and  eventually  they  may  grant  him  more  executive  authority  to  access  the  site  if  he  shows  continued  competence  with  artefacts.  Similarly,  the  student’s  trench  supervisor   would   manage   the   artefact   through   (and   above   and   beyond)   the   student,  manipulating  it   in  such  a  way  that  the  record  of  the  artefact  was  inscribed  properly   in  the  site  diaries  or  was  appropriately  documented  in  the  end-­‐of-­‐season  Archive  Report,  which  might  be   in  her  charge.  Further  down  the   line,  a  site  specialist  might  physically  study   the   original   object,   or   perhaps   just   inscriptions   (like   site   plans,   photographs,   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     131 diagrams,   etc.),   and   then   reference   the   object   in   a   report   or   journal   article.   The  specialists’   aim   in   this   situation  would  be   to   ally   themselves   to   the  objects   and   to   the  inscriptions   of   those   objects   in   order   to   create   evidentiary   support   for   a   larger  intellectual  interpretive  argument  about  the  Neolithic  past.  By  doing  this,  the  specialist  would   translate   the   artefact   into   something   bigger   and   more   powerful:   an  interpretation,   part   of   a   larger   account   of   the   past,   a   ‘contribution   to   knowledge’.  Similarly,  Ian  Hodder  as  director  may  take  the  textual  accounts  of  the  artefact  written  by  the  specialists  (he  may  sometimes  also  look  at  the  original  object,  or  sometimes  only  use  the   indirect   inscriptions   of   that   object)   and   make   even   larger   ‘meta’   interpretations  about  the  Neolithic  past.  These  meta  interpretations  would,  again,  appear  as  inscriptions  in  ‘final  product’  books  or  reports.  The  translation  of  the  inscriptions  from  ‘nothing’  into  ‘something  important’  would  maximise  the  authority  of  all  of  the  materials  involved:  the  original   find,   the   evidentiary   inscriptions,   and   the   final   product   text   itself.   This   act   of  translation  would   also   place   a   great   deal   of  weight   and   trust   upon   the   archaeological  methodologies  and  processes  of  inscription  involved,  lending  status  and  authority  to  all  of   those   individuals   who   handled   the   material,   created   inscriptions,   and   translated  material  along  the  way.     This  latter  point  touches  on  the  second  major  type  of  translation  that  goes  on  at  Çatalhöyük—that   of   translating   the   archaeological   site   profile   itself—maximising  benefit  to  the  project  itself  through  a  high  degree  of  circulation  and  translation  of  what  I  would   call   ‘Çatalhöyük   as   an   Inscription’.   What   I   mean   by   this   regards   the   fact   that  Çatalhöyük   and   Ian   Hodder   both   have   a   high   degree   of   ‘name   brand’   circulation   in  academia—specifically  in  academic  arenas  that  debate  how  archaeology  is  theoretically  and  methodologically   practiced   at   the   site.   This   name   recognition   regards   both   James  Mellaart’s  past   sensational   cultural-­‐historical  practice,   as  well   as   Ian  Hodder’s  present  postprocessual   school.   Because   the   site   has   such   a   high   profile   and   high   degree   of  circulation,52   the   site   itself  has  become  a   label  or   an   inscription   that  has  been  utilised  and  translated  by  various  academics  for  their  own  benefit  and  authority.  Archaeologists  working   at   the   site   gain   authority   through   their   exposure   and  ability   to  discuss   ‘what  actually   happens’   with  method   at   Çatalhöyük   and   can   ‘expertly’   discuss   the   Neolithic  material  remains  that  they  are  now  familiar  with.  Global  archaeologists  in  the  classroom  also   use   the   site—because   it   is   high-­‐profile   and   thus   more   easily   known   or   52 Oguz Erdur recounts in his PhD: “There are more archaeologists here per square meter than anywhere else in the world, it’s been claimed. (Certainly mockery.)…Envy and mockery accompany interest and attention…I myself was scoffed at by an elderly archaeologist: ‘Oh dear! Why aren’t I surprised? Seems like, everybody’s going to Everybody-knows-land nowadays!’” (Erdur 2008: 557).   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     132 recognisable—as  leverage  in  debates  for  or  against  postprocessual  methods  and  theory.  Such  elevated  attention  around  the  site  seems  to  have  resulted  in  two  things.    First   the   site,   by   virtue   of   a   high   profile   and   its   insistence   on   greater  methodological  transparency,  has  generated  a  great  number  of  different  types  of  actors.  Because   Hodder   invites   anthropologists   and   general   scrutiny,   and   argues   for   ‘new  methods’   to   be   implemented   in   a  postprocessual   program   that   is   claimed   to  be   ‘more  right’  than  others,  the  Çatalhöyük  project  has  attracted  people  who  engage  with  the  site  material   for  different   reasons  and  who   inscribe   things   in  different  ways.  For  example,  the  PhD  student  Oguz  Erdur  attended  the  site   in  2006   in  order   to  understand  Turkish  identity  and  to  write  a  critical  anthropological  diary  of  site  activity  (Erdur  2006;  Erdur  2008),   and   Carolyn   Hamilton   attended   the   site   to   understand   what   she   called  anthropological   ‘fault   lines’   that   ruptured   between   field   excavators   and   specialists  (Hamilton   2000).   Meanwhile,   in   2009   graduate   students   Marin   Pilloud   and   Sheena  Ketchum   attended   the   site   to   study   Neolithic   human   remains   and   clay   remains,  respectively,  and  were  solely  at  the  site  to  gain  a  doctoral  degree  and  accreditation  for  their   work   on   identifying   and   interpreting   Neolithic   material   (Ketchum   and   Doherty  2009;   Pilloud   2009).   I  myself   attended   the   site   in   the   2009   field   season   to   study   the  movement  of  people  and  things,  with  my  own  motivation  to  observe  site  structures  and  authority,   and   to   grain   doctoral   accreditation   for   my   own  work.   Other  members   like  Shahina   Farid   works   year   round   on   the   project   to   both   manage   the   elaborate  documentation  and  groups  of  people,  as  well  as  to  dig  as  a  field  excavator  to  learn  more  about   the   Neolithic   past   (Baltar   2006:   122-­‐123).   Ian   Hodder   opened   the   site   and  continues   to  attend  the  project  because   it  represents  his  practical-­‐theoretical  program  of  postprocessual   excavation.  This   list   represents  only  a   fraction  of   the  hundred  or   so  excavators,  specialists  and  members  of  the  public  who  attend  the  site  each  season.  This  multiplication   of   people   and   purposes   at   the   site   has   resulted   in   more   people   in  attendance,  more  people  translating  the  site  for  their  own  means  and  purposes,  and  the  production  of  more  inscriptions.    I  found  this  situation  to  be  somewhat  problematic,  because  a  second  result  of  the  site’s  postprocessual  method  meant  that  there  was  also  an  explosion  of   inscriptions  at  the   site,   due   to   this   encouragement   of   multivocal   interpretations   and   instability,   an  active   desire   to   interact   with   new  mediums   and  methods.   On   the   one   hand,   I   would  argue  that  the  state  of  having  many  inscriptions  can  be  positive.  Any  person  wishing  to  find  an  inscription  of  previous  material  can  easily  find  a  host  of  inscriptions  at  the  site  on   any   one   find—diary   entries,   database   entries,   textual   accounts,   photographs,  illustrations,  displays,  etc.  They  can  use  a  plethora  of  documents  and  records  to  examine   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     133 and  then  translate  material  according  to  their  own  aims  and  purposes.  However,  I  would  also  argue   that   this  plethora  of   ‘stuff’   is  problematic.   It  has  also  resulted   in   ‘too  much’  data  or   inscriptions,   too  many  accounts   for   any  one   team  member  or   even  one  whole  team  to  get  a  handle  on,  fully  digest  or  comprehend.  As  archaeologist  Cornelius  Holtorf  has  noted,   the  site  has  reached  a  kind  of  data  saturation,  where  “More  effort  goes   into  managing   the   documentation   than   the   site…People   may   spend   more   time   watching  videos   of   each   other   and   navigating   through   huge   archives   than   looking   at   particular  features  of  the  site”  (quoted  in  Chandler  2002).  While  Hodder  might  actively  encourage  the  activity  of  endless  inscription  because  of  his  idea  that  “a  lack  of  stability  is  necessary  if   a   critical   approach   is   to   be   taken   and   if   the   project   is   to   remain   responsive   to   a  changing  world   around   it”   (Hodder  quoted   in  Farid:  27),   I  would  argue   that   a   kind  of  entropy  ensues.    While   Hodder   endorses   instability   within   his   team   and   his   own   site   practices  (Baltar  2010),  he  has  ironically  also  argued  the  opposite  point:  that  ‘having  things’—that  is,   creating   objects,   artefacts   and  material   things—breeds   a   kind   of   chaotic   instability  (Hodder  2009b).  In  his  H.H.  Young  lecture  at  the  Association  of  Social  Anthropology  in  the  Commonwealth  Conference  in  Bristol  2009,  Hodder  referred  to  instability  and  things  in  the  Neolithic.  He  argued  that  during  Neolithic,  people  began  making  many  things,  and  that   this   introduction   of  material   possessions   and   objects   seemed   to   breed   a   general  clutter,  seemingly  making  life  more  unstable  for  the  inhabitants  of  Neolithic  Çatalhöyük.  I   would   ask   Hodder,   what   is   different   from   the   Neolithic   to   now?   Why   would   this  principle   not   apply   to   humans   working   today,   doing   archaeology   and   creating  knowledge?  Why  would  having   so  many   things  not   breed   chaos   today,   as   he   suggests  they  did  in  the  Neolithic,  and  why  would  having  more  instability  and  more  inscriptions  lead   to   more   steady,   stable   and   authoritative   accounts   of   the   past—as   he   seems   to  suggest  in  his  argument  that  “a  lack  of  stability  is  necessary  if  a  critical  approach  is  to  be  taken”  (Hodder  quoted  in  Farid:  27)?  It  can  only  be  assumed  that  Hodder  thinks  that  a  ‘critical   approach’   and   ‘instability’   in   this   context   refers   to   a   kind   of   consensus   and  stabilization  bred   through  critical  peer   review.  However,  by  constantly  breaking  apart  any  consensus  that  does  stabilize  through  peer  review,  by  continually  forcing  instability  over  and  over  again,  he  seems  to  be  undermining  his  own  authority—and  the  authority  of   the   site  of  Çatalhöyük  as  a   representative  of  postprocessual  archaeology.  This   is   an  argument  that  I  will  refer  back  to  in  the  conclusion  of  this  chapter  (Section  4.5).  The   question   remains:   with   such   instability   of   ‘too   many   things’,   too   many  accounts  and  too  many  persons,  what  actually  seems  to  be  happening  to  interpretation  at  Çatalhöyük?  Do  more   things   and  more  accounts—more   things  and  more  entropy— CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     134 make   authority   more   accountable?   Does   the   instability   of   practice   actually   make   the  production  of  knowledge  itself  a  more  stable  enterprise?  The  next  section  deconstructs  these  questions  using  specific  examples  from  practice  at  Çatalhöyük.  I  argue  that,  while  Çatalhöyük   does   make   good   on   its   word   of   creating   instability   and   creating   multiple  pathways  to  knowledge,  it  seems  to  simultaneously  blur  or  collapse  the  idea  of  creating   of  multiple  inscriptions  with  the  idea  of  supporting  or  even  engaging  with  multivocality.  What  is  in  fact  happening  at  the  site  is  that  while  multiple  inscriptions  are  being  created,  only  one   translation—or  more  correctly  one  series  or  one  pathways  of   translation—is  actually   being   actively   used   by   the   archaeological   team,   as   regards   an   authoritative  account   of   the   Neolithic   past.   In   other   words,   only   one   authority   or   authoritative  pathway   is   present   in   a   given   ‘final   product’.   Hodder   has   not   argued   against   such  singularly  authoritative  pathways  (in  fact,  he  has  argued  very  strongly  for  a  kind  of  one-­‐stanced  authority  amidst  a  sea  of  alternatives:    It  does  seem  possible  to  argue  for  a  certain  authority  but  be  involved  in  a  plural,  multivocal  debate.  It  does  seem  possible  to  break  down  boundaries,  and  move  to  networks  and  flows,  without  losing  impact  and  purpose.  (Hodder  2000:  14)      But  in  the  same  breath,  there  seems  to  be  little  acknowledgement  by  Hodder  or  his  team  about     whose   ultimate   authority   is   actually   being   staked   and   claimed   in   any   one  situation.   There   has   been   no   acknowledgement   of   the   fact   that   their   plethora   of  inscriptions  are  so  many  and  so  great  that  they  often  get  lost  in  a  crowd  of   ‘too  many’.  This   usually   results   in   the   team   collapsing   back   into   a   more   simple   or   streamlined  accounting  process,  where  they  limit  themselves  to  only  certain  inscriptions  for  ease  of  access,   resulting   in   something   of   a   ‘standard’   (shall   I   even   say,   ‘processual’)   scientific  production  of  knowledge.  I  argue  that  ultimately  at  Çatalhöyük,  any  one  person  relies  on  one   convenient   set   of   knowledge   inscriptions   and   one   pathway   or   voice   when  constructing  their  own  personal  understanding  of  the  site  data.  This  process  of  ‘pathway  translation’,  and  a  reliance  on  simple  and  direct  authority,   impacts   the  construction  of  scientific  knowledge  at  Çatalhöyük.           CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     135 4.4.3    The  Translation,  Production  and  Currency  of  Representative  Things:   The  Example  of  the  Plastered  Skull  Burial       An   example   of   such   ‘authoritative   pathway’   translation   in   actual   practice   at  Çatalhöyük   can   be   seen   in   the   case   of   the   Plastered   Skull   Burial.53   This   case   study  exemplifies   how   a   wealth   of   inscriptions   (documentations,   photographs,  reconstructions,  textual  accounts),  based  on  material  remains  discovered  in  excavation  in   2004,   became   an   authoritative   ‘final   product’   account   of   the   past.54   The   burial  was  brought   to  my  attention   in  an   interview  with   Ian  Hodder   in  2009.   In   conversation,  he  mentioned  a  specific  exchange  that  had  occurred  between  himself  and  a  field  excavator  earlier   that   day   in   the   seminar   room,   which   he   recognised   as   being   an   executive  authority   issue.   According   to   Hodder,   an   experienced   and   competent   excavator   was  examining  data   from  previous   field   seasons   and  was  unsure   about  how   to   interpret   a  singular  instance  of  archaeological  recording.  The  excavator  was  checking  records  from  the   2004   season,   preparing   the   material   for   final   interpretation   in   the   next   series   of  major   site   publications.   This   field   excavator   was   a   highly   trained   professional   but,  according   to   Hodder,   she   seemed   to   lack   the   confidence   in   her   own   authority   to  interpret  the  past  when  the  record  seemed  unusual  or  extraordinary.  So  she  had  called  in   Hodder   and   Shahina   Farid   to   authorise   her   interpretation,   to   provide   external  confirmation  and  direction  (although  Hodder  said  to  me  that  he  thought  her  opinion  and  interpretation   was   equal   to   his   own   in   this   instance).   In   telling   this   story,   Hodder  seemed   to  be   implying   that  he   thought   this   case  was  of   interest  because  of   the  way  a  number  of  personality  issues—individual  personalities,  the  level  of  personal  security  in  one’s  own  interpretive  ability,  the  personal  need  for  validation  by  greater  authorities  at  the   site—could   impact   authority   and   the   interpretive   record.   However,   I   thought   this  exchange  was  much  more  interesting  because  of  the  way  in  which  authority  and  agency  affected   the   translation,   interpretation   and   reception   of   inscriptions,   and   in   the   way   53  I  was  not  able  to  personally  witness  the  actual  unearthing  of  these  remains  in  2004.  However,  I  chose  this  example  because  of  the  wealth  of  already  inscribed  archaeological  records  of  this  find  that  existed  when  I  was  first  introduced  to  it,  as  well  as  ‘final  product’  published  accounts  of  it  that  already  existed  in  books  and  reports  by  2009.  I  also  had  access  to  some  of  the  original  team  members  who  excavated,  inscribed  and  initially  studied  the  material  when  it  was  unearthed  in  2004,  and  who  relayed  their  accounts  of  discovery  to  me  in  interviews  during  my  fieldwork.  54  By  ‘final  product’,  again,  I  don’t  mean  to  imply  that  any  of  the  excavators  or  Ian  Hodder  ever  thought  that  interpretations  of  this  burial  should  be  understood  as  an  entirely  ‘finished’,  confident  account  or  a  closed  book.  But  it  was  certainly  translated  and  represented  as  a  polished  account  in  published  books/reports  in  order  to  represent  an  authoritative  and  stabilised  narrative.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     136 negotitation   of   authority   directly   impacted   the   production   of   archaeological   of  knowledge.  In  order   to  continue   this   line  of  argument,   I   later  met  with   the   field  excavator,  who  was  still  poring  over   the   records.  She   told  me   that   the  problematic   issue  at  hand  regarded  the  exact  placement  of  a  certain  burial—a  skeleton  holding  the  plastered  skull,  which  was  unearthed  in  2004.  While  re-­‐checking  the  2004  Harris  Matrix  chart  records,  she  had  realised  that  the  Harris  Matrix  and  several  other  records  from  the  2004  season  seemed  to  suggest  that  the  female  skeleton  (found  clutching  a  plastered  skull,  the  only  plastered   skull   ever   found   at   Çatalhöyük)  was   buried   first   in   a  midden,   and   then   the  foundations  of  a  house  were  built  on  top  of  the  burial  [see  Appendix  C  for  a  sample  of  a  Harris   Matrix   chart].   The   excavator   knew   that   this   sequence   was   unprecedented   at  Çatalhöyük,   because   burials   were   usually   cut   directly   into   plaster   platforms   inside   of  houses   that   were   already   built—not   cut   into   middens,   or   under   whole   house  foundations.  A  midden  cut  with   this  unusual  burial  of  a  woman  with  a  plastered  skull  meant  this  burial  was  a  unique—or  as  the  team  later  interpreted  it,   important—event.  The  field  excavator  checking  the  records  wanted  to  make  sure  she  was  “getting  the  data  right”   before   it   became   solidified   in   the   record   (personal   communication   2009).  Therefore   she   called   in   ‘higher   authorities’   like   Hodder   and   Farid   to   confirm   and  authorise   her   interpretation.   This   incident   brought   up   a   number   of   interesting   points  about   the   authority   of   stabilisation   through   inscriptions   and   translation   in  archaeological  practice.  First,   the  main   issue  with   the   records  was   that  details   of   the   event   itself  were  hazy.  The  burial  was  uncovered  at  the  end  of  the  2004  field  season,  and  because  of  time  and   financial   constraints,   the   team  was  on  a   time  crunch  and  so  only   the  plaster  skull  was  lifted  and  conserved  in  its  entirety.  The  whole  feature  [1517]—which  included  the  skeleton,  the  plastered  skull,  and  a  grave  goods  cluster  with  things  like  a  leopard  claw—was  separated,  and  the  plastered  skull  went  to  the  museum.  The  original  records,  mostly  written   by   field   archaeologist   Simon  McCann,   stated   that   the   grave   “appears   to   have  instigated   the  building  of  platform  F1501.  Cut   into  midden  deposits   from  the  phase  of  building  below   this   is   a   clear   example   of   burial   practice  determining   the   construction  and   architectural   erection”   (Çatalhöyük   Research   Project   2004:   Feature   1517,   online  database  record).     [See  Appendix  A  and  B].  When  asked  to  recheck  the  data   in  2009,  a  few   interesting   issues   arose   for   the   field   excavator   who   was   trying   to   stabilise   the  official  records.  First,  the  firm  account  of  the  platform  burial  as  cut  into  a  midden  rather  than  a  platform  seemed  accurate  from  the  original  records,  primarily  the  Harris  Matrix.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     137 However,  Simon’s  site  diary  from  the  next  year’s  (2005)  season  dig,  which  finished  the  excavation  of  Building  42  (atop  the  burial),  stated  that:  “I   was   struck   by   the   fact   that   all   our   original   ideas   about   the   burial   with   the  plastered   skull   F1517,were   that   it   had   gone   in   pre   layout   of   the   platforms,  F1501+2   and   prior   to   any   sort   of   activity   within   the   house   but   we   hadn’t  considered  whether  the  house  itself  was  built!    So  I  checked  the  matrix  to  make  sure   I   hadn’t   lost   it,   found   that   there  was   no   direct   strategraphic   relationship  between   the   burial   and   the   eastern   wall,   they   were   both   the   first   things   to  happen.   (It   is   entirely   possible   that   I   may   have   got   this   wrong   but   lets   just  imagine   for   a   while   that   I   know  what   I’m   doing)”.   [sic]   (Çatalhöyük   Research  Project  2005:  Excavation  Diary  Entry,  online  database  record)    [See  Appendix  B]    This   record   shows   that   the   official   account   of   the   burial   under   the   foundation   rests  solely  on  (1)  Simon’s  memory,  which  he  admits  is  hazy  and  only  stabilised  one  year  after  the  event  in  2005,  and  more  firmly,  (2)  the  Harris  Matrix  chart  that  he  recorded  in  2004.  All  of  the  textual  formalisations  of  Simon’s  account  seems  to  appear  in  2005,  a  full  year  after   the  original   recording  and  excavation   that  happened  at   the  end  of   the  2004   field  season.   For   an  archaeologist   like   the   field   excavator   in  2009,  who  was   rechecking   the  records  five  years  later,  this  seemed  potentially  problematic,  hence  her  insistence  to  me  that  she  “wanted  to  get  the  data  right”.       Interestingly,   the   initial   account   of   the   burial   under   the   platform   had   already  been   stabilised   in   a   number   of   documents   that   had   been   published   before   this   field  excavator’s  ‘rechecking  of  data’  in  2009.  Her  checking  and  questioning  the  records  were  only   a   secondary   contestation,   purely   to   settle   the   official   account   for   the   more  authoritative  site  volumes   that  were   to  be  published   in   the  upcoming  seasons.  Two  of  the   already   published   accounts   bear   special   mention.   First   is   an   illustration   by   John  Swogger,   the   site   illustrator.   As   Simon  McCann  wrote   in   his   2005   site   diary   (same   as  above),  the  burial  under  the  foundations  suggested  (for  him):  …a  public,  communal  event,  possibly  laying  claim  to  that  of  a  piece  of  real  estate,  or  public  due  the  importance  of  that  person  (skull,  female  or  both).  I  mentioned  this  to  John  Swogger  earlier  today  and  he  said  that  the  reconstruction  he  did  of  the  burial  was  without  walls  so  perhaps  we  were  thinking  along  the  same  lines?  (Çatalhöyük   Research   Project   2005:   Excavation   Diary   Entry,   online   database  record)  [See  Appendix  B]    While  Swogger’s  reconstruction  [Figure  11]  did  not  address  the  foundation  issue,  it  did  formalise  all  of  this  speculation  and  fluid  archaeological  activity  into  a  very  striking  and  stable   image   of   “what   the   burial   looked   like”   at   the   time   of   inhumation.   It  decontextualised  the  burial  away  from  houses  and  any  other  human  activity  that  might  have  taken  place.     CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     138   Figure  11:  John  Swogger’s  illustrations  of  the  Çatalhöyük  plastered  skull  burial.  On  the  left   is  the  plastered  skull,  on  the  right  is  the  skull  as  found  in  the  full  burial  context.   Illustrations  online:  http://myweb.tiscali.co.uk/jghsillustration/gallery_1.htm    A  second  and  more  notable  published  account  was  produced  by  Ian  Hodder.  In  his  book   The  Leopard’s  Tale:  Revealing  the  Mysteries  of  Çatalhöyük,  he  stated  firmly  that:  The  plastered  skull  was  found  held  in  the  arms  of  a  woman  who  had  been  placed  in  a  pit  as  part  of  the  foundation  of  a  new  building…This  building  (Building  42)  was  unusual  in  that  it  was  built  over  a  midden.  The  foundation  deposit  seemed  to   imply   that   if   one   could   not   erect   a   building   over   an   ancestral   building   one  could  erect  one  over  an  ancestor.  The  way  that  the  plastered  skull  occurred  in  a  single   pit/grave,   and   the  way   that   it   was   held   by   a   single   individual,   contrast  strongly  with   similar   rites   in   the   Levant   and   southeast   Turkey…We   cannot   be  sure  that  the  features  resembled  a  specific  historical  person,  although  the  shape  of  the  nose  seems  highly  distinctive.  (Hodder  2006:  148)    These  two  accounts—especially  the  latter—are  authoritative  in  their  solidarity.  They  do  not   belie   the  underlying   issues   that   the   later   field   excavator   seemed   to   have  with   the  official   site   record,  where   the   foundation   account   rested  heavily   on  one   inscription  of  the  original  burial  placement  (the  Harris  Matrix  chart,  which  even  the  original  excavator  was   relying  upon   to   jog  his  memory  about   the  original   excavation   in  2005).  Thus,   the  Harris  Matrix   chart   in   this   scenario  might   be   called   an   Obligatory   Passage   Point.   The  next  section  explains  what   this  means,  as  well  as   the     “moments  of   translation”  where  this  account  of  ‘foundation  burial’  initially  built  authority  and  then  finally  cemented  into  an  agreed-­‐upon  and  stabilised  authoritative  account.     The   term  Obligatory  Passage  Point  was  coined   in  a  study  by  Michael  Callon  on  the   ‘scallops  and  the  fishermen  of  Brieuc  Bay’  (Callon  1986).   In  this  study,  Callon  cites   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     139 four   “moments   of   translation”   that   can   be   discerned   where   actors   in   his   case   study  “impose  themselves  and  their  definition  of  the  situation  on  others”.  These  moments  are:  (a)  problematisation:   the  researchers  sought   to  become   indispensable   to  other  actors   in   the  drama  by  defining   the  nature   and   the  problems  of   the   latter   and  then   suggesting   that   these   would   be   resolved   if   the   actors   negotiated   the  ‘obligatory  passage  point’  of  the  researchers’  programme  of  investigation;      (b)  interessement:  a  series  of  processes  by  which  the  researchers  sought  to  lock  the   other   actors   into   the   roles   that   had   been   proposed   for   them   in   that  programme;      (c)  enrolment:  a  set  of  strategies  in  which  the  researchers  sought  to  define  and  interrelate  the  various  roles  they  had  allocated  to  others;      (d)   mobilisation:   a   set   of   methods   used   by   the   researchers   to   ensure   that  supposed   spokesmen   for   various   relevant   collectivities   were   properly   able   to  represent  those  collectivities  and  not  betrayed  by  the  latter.  (Callon  1986:  196)    While  these  ‘moments  of  translation’  are  very  case-­‐specific  to  Callon’s  study  of  scientists  studying  scallops  in  Brieuc  Bay  in  France,  they  offer  a  useful  template  for  examining  the  translation   of   authority   and   stabilising   of   accounts   in   the   case   of   the   plastered   skull  burial  at  Çatalhöyük.     In  the  case  of   the  plastered  skull  burial  (to  paraphrase  Callon’s  study),  a  single  question—was  the  burial  placed  before  the  building  of  house  foundations,  or  did  it  occur  within  a  normal  house  plaster  platform  burial?—was  “enough  to  involve  a  whole  series  of  actors  by  establishing  their  identities  and  the  links  between  them”  (Callon  1986:  205).  The   various   actors—the   plastered   skull   burial,   Simon,   Hodder,   Swogger,   Farid,   the  Harris  Matrix,  the  illustrations—became  indispensible  to  the  field  excavator,  who  found  herself  caught  between  an  original  account  and  a  potential  contestation  of  that  account.  The   field   excavator   also   found   herself   in   the   uncomfortable   position   of   being   a  ‘gatekeeper’,   a   person  whose   interests   of   all   other   actors   lay   in   her   admittance   of   the  proposed   research   interpretation.   Instead  of   embracing  her  position   as   an   gatekeeper  (as  Callon   seems   to   argue   the   scientists   in   the  Brieuc  Bay   case  were   actively  doing   to  further   their   authority),   she   sought   further   allies   and   confirmation   of   her   position,  allying  some  of  the  responsibility  of  the  gatekeeper  role  onto  another  figure  of  authority.  Hypothetically,   as   the   diagram   of   this   process   [Figure   12]   shows,   “problematization  describes   a   system  of   alliances,   or   associations,   between   entities   thereby   defining   the  identity   and   what   they   ‘want’”   (Callon   1986:   206).   In   this   case,   each   member   of   the  group  or  actor  has  some  kind  of  ‘road  block’  or  challenge  in  order  to  pass  this  Obligatory  Passage  Point  question,  and  have  a  stake  in  the  issue  at  hand.  For  the  field  excavator,  her   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     140 ‘road  block’  and  stake  was  her  position  of  authority  to  confirm  or  deny  the  foundation  account  of  this  burial.  In  Callon’s  original  French  terminology,  the  next   ‘moment  of  translation’  comes  in   interessment—that   is,   the   “group  of  actions  by  which  an  entity…attempts   to   impose  and   stabilize   the   identity   of   the   other   actors   it   defines   through   its   problemization”  (1986:  207-­‐208).  In  the  Çatalhöyük  example,  the  field  excavator  attempted  to  join  forces  with   all   of   the  other   actors   in  order   to   attain   a   certain  goal:   namely,   “getting   the  data  right”.  She  enacted  a  process  whereby  she  sorted  through  all  of  the  previous  records  and  inscriptions—photographs,   site  plans,   site  diaries,   as  well   as   consulted  with  other   site  authorities  like  Farid  and  Hodder—in  order  to  corroborate  the  Harris  Matrix  chart  and  the   hazy   accounts  made   by   Simon   five   years   earlier.   Like   Callon’s   case   of   Brieuc   Bay,  “these   interessment   devices   extend   and   materialize   the   hypothesis   made   by   the  researchers”   (1986:   209)—in   this   case,   the   inscriptions   were   utilised   to  extend/materialize  the  hypothesis  that  the  burial  was  cut  into  a  midden  and  then  house  foundations  were  established  on  top  of  the  burial,  which  was  an  unusual  site  activity.  As  Callon   explains,   “The   interessement,   if   successful,   confirms   (more   or   less   completely)  the  validity  of  the  problematization  and  the  alliance  it  implies”  (1986:  210).  In  the  case  of  the  plastered  skull  burial,  after  negotiating  the  various  records  and  inscriptions  of  the  material,   and   after   allying   her   own   process   with   that   of   other   authorities,   the   field  excavator  agreed  with  the  validity  of  the  original  problemetizing  question.    The   moment   of   ‘enrolment’   described   by   Callon   is   where   “social   structures  comprising  both  social  and  natural  entities  are  shaped  and  consolidated”  (1986:  211),  where   various   actors   and  materials   align   in   ‘roles’   that   are   “defined   and   attributed   to  actors   who   accept   them.   Interessement   achieves   enrolment   if   it   is   successful.   To  describe  enrolment   is   thus   to  describe   the  group  of  multilaterial  negotiations,   trials  of  strength   and   tricks   that   accompany   the   interessements   and   enable   them   to   succeed”  (1986:  211).  In  the  case  of  the  plastered  skull  burial,  when  the  field  excavator  negotiated  the  material  and  actors,  every  agent  aligned  in  agreement  with  the  hypothesis  that  the  burial  was  placed  before  the  foundation.  She  eventually  confirmed  the  original  account  that  “What  can  be  said  about  this  grave  is  that  it  appears  to  have  instigated  the  building  of  platform  F1501.  Cut  into  midden  deposits  from  the  phase  of  building  below  this  is  a  clear   example   of   burial   practice   determining   construction   and   architectural   erection”  (Çatalhöyük   Research   Project   2004:   Feature   1517,   online   database   record),   an   act   of  confirmation  that  then  stabilised  and,  thus,  authorised  the  account  into  an  authoritative  version.  If  she  had  further  contested  the  hazy  authority  of  this  material  from  her  review  of   the   past   record—again,   it   was   only   founded   on   the   Harris   Matrix   and   Simon’s   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     141 memory,   and   the   reliability   of   the   latter  was   contested   even   by   Simon   himself   in   the  2005  site  diaries—it  might  have  created  some  further  disruption  to  the  authority  of  the  published   accounts   and   images   that   had   already   been   produced.   In   this   case,   the  moment  of   ‘enrolment’  or  alignment  of   inscriptions  might  have  played  out  an  entirely  different  story,  with  some  allies  perhaps  linking  to  the  field  excavator’s  contestation  and  others  not.   For   example,   if   she   thought   she  had   found   reasonable   evidence   to   suggest  Simon’s   memory   was   misguided,   then   Hodder   perhaps   might   have   listened   to   her  contestation   and   backed   her   account,   allying   with   her   and   the   new   accounts   of   the  material.   At   that   point   the   Harris   Matrix   and   the   previous   illustrations   and   accounts  would   not   be   ‘enrolled’   or   aligned   as   allies   to   the   field   excavators  negotiation/contestation.   Instead,   the   divide  might   have   played   out   in   something   of   a  ‘battle   of   authority’   between   those   inscriptions   and   actors   advocating   the   foundation  account,  and  those  actors  like  the  field  excavator  and  Hodder  who  advocated  against  it.  In   such   a   case,   the   actors   with   greater   social   weight   and   executive   and   epistemic  authority,   like   the  newly   turned  Hodder,  would   likely  have  weighted   the   authority   on  their   side,   with   future   publications   advocating   against   the   foundation   burial,   or  dropping  the  account  completely  from  future  publications.  The   issue   of   enrolment   leads   to   Callon’s   final   ‘moment   of   translation’   called  ‘mobilisation’,   where   he   asks:   “Who   speaks   in   the   name   of   whom?   Who   represents  whom?…as   with   the   description   of   interessement   and   enrolment,   only   a   few   rare  individuals   are   involved”   (1986:   215);   thus,   there   is   a  mobilisation   and   authority   of  allies.   Similarly   with   the   plastered   skull   burial   case   study,   representation   is   a   key  component  of  the  second  stabilisation  of  the  foundation  burial  account.  Like  the  scallops  of   Brieuc  Bay,   some   actors   are   silent,  while   others   speak   or   represent   their   interests.  When   the   field   excavator   was   poring   over   the   records   and   negotiating   the   original  account  of   the   foundation  burial,   the  plastered  skull  burial  did  not  speak  for   itself,  but  rather   the   inscriptions   and   records   of   it   were   representative   of   the   original   event.  Similarly,  Simon  as  a  person  did  not  speak  directly  for  himself  to  the  field  excavator  in  2009,  but  rather  his   inscriptions  or  records  (in  the  form  of  Harris  Matrices,  site  diaries  and   other   excavation   records   like   context   sheets   and   photographs)   represented   his  memory   and   his   account   of   the   problematization.   Because   the   field   excavator   was   a  contesting   figure   in   this   specific   case   study,   she  became   the  primary  mobilising   actor,  upon  whose   account   (which  was   expected   to  materialise   through   her   ‘rechecking   the  records’   job  in  the  post-­‐excavation  assignment  in  the  2009  study  season)  rested  either  the   enrolment   and   interessment   of   the   problematization,   or   the   divergence   and  contestation  of  that  and  the  mobilisation  of  different  actors,  a  process  which  would  then   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     142 create  an  entirely  new  set  of  allies  that  would  align  with  a  negation  or  alteration  of  the  problematization.  As  Callon  explains  in  his  example,  “To  mobilize,  as  the  word  indicates,  is   to   render   entities   mobile   which   were   not   so   beforehand.   At   first,   the   scallops,  fishermen,   and   specialists  were  actually   all  dispersed  and  not   easily   accessible.  At   the  end,   three   researchers   at   Brest   said   what   these   entities   are   and   want”   (1986:   217).  Similarly   at   Çatalhöyük,   at   the   onset,   the   materials   of   the   plastered   skull   burial—including  the  various  records,  the  Harris  Matrix  chart,  Simon,  Farid,  Hodder,  as  well  as  the   various   already-­‐published   stable   ‘final   product’   accounts   of   the   burial—were  mobilised   by   the   field   excavator   and   came   together   in   the   process   of   her   negotiation  with  all  of   the  material,   and   in  her   final   acceptance  of   it   ‘as-­‐said’  by   the  Harris  Matrix  chart.     In   this   specific   case   study,   the   field   excavator   was   uncomfortable   with   her  ‘gatekeeper’   or   spokesman   role,   and   the   authority   that   it   entailed.   Thus,   she   called   in  Hodder  and  Farid  to  help  fulfil  that  role  as  ‘authorities’,  who  could,  in  part  or  in  whole,  take  over  some  of  the  responsibility  of  verifying  the  problematization.  A  similar  parallel  does  not  appear  in  Callon’s  account  of  the  scallops  of  Brieuc  Bay.  In  Callon’s  example,  he  states   that   “Three  men  have  become   influential   and  are   listened   to  because   they  have  become  the  ‘head’  of  several  populations”  (1986:  216).  In  the  case  of  the  plastered  skull  burial,  it  seems  that  the  story  is  more  complex  than  just  a  case  of  power  or  authority  in  the   hands   of   a   person   in   charge—it   comes   down   to   that   person’s   own   negotiation   of  their   position,   and   in   cases   like   the   field   excavator   and   the   plastered   skull   burial,   she  was   not   entirely   comfortable   the   gatekeeper   authority   role   she   found   herself   in.   In  Callon’s   example,   the   actors   are   entirely   active   in   their   attempts   to   garner   and   secure  allies   to   gain   authority,   and   in   their   attempts   to   gain   the   most   active   role   as   the  ‘gatekeeper’  mobilising  or  representing  agent.   In   the  plastered  skull  example,   the   field  excavator   found   herself   in   this   role,   but   she   instead  mobilised   others   to   validate   the  problematization   and   negotiated   her   own   authority.   In   multiple   instances,   the   field  excavator  felt  that  she  needed  to  defer  to  Simon,  “because  he  was  the  one  who  excavated  the  burial”  (field  excavator,  personal  communication  2009).  It  was  Simon’s  closeness  to  the  material   that   lent   him   authority   in   the   eyes   of   the   field   excavator,   and   it  was   his  memory   and   account,   his   act   of  witnessing   as  well   as   his  Harris  Matrix   records,   upon  which   the  entire  potential   contestation  would   rest.  The   field  excavator   seemed   to   feel  that  her  own  authority  on  this  matter  was  undermined  by  her  secondary  relationship  to  this  particular  original  find;  she  didn’t  have  Simon’s  first-­‐hand  ‘I  was  there’  power.  This  is  also  why  she  decided  to  turn  to  Farid  and  Hodder,  so  that  she  would  have  ‘authorities’  as  allies  to  step  in  and  confirm  or  deny  her  own  negotiations  and  interpretations.  It  was   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     143 this  last-­‐stage  lack  of  confidence  in  interpretive  positioning  that  Ian  Hodder  was  critical  of,   for  he   implied  that  he  thought  the   field  excavator  was  equally  qualified  to  make  an  interpretive  judgement  based  on  the  records.    This  example  presents  several   lessons.  First,  along  similar   lines  of  argument  as  Callon   in   his   Brieuc   Bay   study,   “Translation   is   a   process   before   it   is   a   result…It   also  permits   an   explanation  of   how  a   few  obtain   the   right   to   express   and   to   represent   the  many  silent  actors  of  the  social  and  natural  worlds  they  have  mobilized”  (1986:  224).  By  examining  translation  in  the  case  of  the  plastered  skull  burial,  it  becomes  apparent  that  authority   builds   and   accumulates   around   specific   actors   and   specific   arrangements   or  negotiations   of   ideas.   In   the   case   of   the   field   excavator,   she   ended   up   in   a   powerful  representative   spokesperson   or   ‘gatekeeper’   position,   with   the   authority   to   either  confirm   or   invalidate   Simon’s   account   of   the   plastered   skull   burial   under   the   house  foundation.  But  importantly,  what  this  example  demonstrates  that  goes  beyond  Callon’s  Brieuc  Bay  study,   is   that   in  archaeology  (1)   inscriptions  play  an  enormously   important  role  in  the  production  and  translation  of  authoritative  accounts  of  the  past,  and  that  (2)  certain   further   gatekeeper   authorities,   like   Farid   or   Hodder,   can   be   drawn   into   an  analysis  to  be  gatekeeper  spokespersons  or  representatives  as  executive  and  epistemic  ‘authorities’,  and  their  ‘authority’  positions  affect  the  production  or  stabilisation  of  ‘final  product’   accounts.  Regarding   the   first   point,   inscriptions   are   so   critically   important   in  archaeology  because  the  discipline  is  such  a  destructive  process.  Exact  replication  of  an  ‘archaeological   process   or   experiment’   is   never   possible   in   archaeological   methods.  Because  archaeology  is  such  a  destructive  process,  (and  what  material  we  don’t  destroy,  we  heavily  manipulate  to  turn  into  displays),  we  are  often  left  only  with  inscriptions  and  representations  of  original  excavations.  This  means  there  must  always  be  something  of  an   Obligatory   Passage   Point   in   the   production   of   archaeological   knowledge   which  involves   the   problemetization   of   using   inscriptions   to   validate   accounts   of   the   past.  Authority  in  the  discipline  today  is  founded  on  this  process.  Archaeology,   as   it   is   practiced   now,   forces   objects   to   ‘be   spoken   for’,   taking  original  material   and   turning   it   into   inscriptions   and   representations,  which   are   then  negotiated   by   various   actors.  Most   of   the  material   actors   involved   in   archaeology   are  dead   or   silent   things,   and   they   must   be   enlivened   and   enabled   through   their  mobilisation.   By   uniting   and   comparing   these   inscriptions   with   other   objects   and  inscriptions,  this  mobilisation  can  help  create  a  more  full  and  dynamic  understanding  of  the  past.  The  role  of  authorities   is  critical   in  this  process  of  mobilisation,  since  various  spokespersons  make  assumptions  that  (a)   the  past   ‘should’  be  or   ‘wants’   to  be  spoken  for,   and   that   (b)   the   objects   and   inscriptions   must   pass   through   obligatory   passage   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     144 points  that  the  spokespersons  (or  gatekeepers)  control.  In  the  example  of  the  plastered  skull  burial,  the  archaeologists  involved  in  the  knowledge  production  process  make  the  automatic  and  immediate  assumption  that  the  material  remains  should  ‘be  spoken  for’.  In   Callon’s   example   of   the   scallops   in   Brieuc   Bay,   the   scallops   “themselves   express  nothing.   However   they   end   up   having,   like   the   fishermen,   an   authentic   spokesman”  (1986:   215),   which   are   the   three   researchers   involved   in   the   study   of   scallop  development.  Callon  never  questions  the  authority  of  whether  or  not  scallops  should  be  spoken   for   in   the   first   place,   nor   why   the   three   researchers   were   able   to   claim   that  authority   in   their   roles   as   gatekeepers/spokespersons   sitting   at   the   bottleneck   of   the  initial  problematized  question  at   the  obligatory  passage  point.  Similarly,  at  Çatalhöyük  in   the   case   of   the   plastered   skull   burial,   the   archaeologists   claim   an   initial   role   of  authority  simply  by  performing  the  role  of  spokespersons  for  the  past,  and  by  physically  controlling  the  material  and  the  records  upon  which  the  question  of  the  burial  is  based.  This   leads   to   the   next   lesson   from   the   plastered   skull   burial   example:   not   all   spokespersons  or  actors  are  equal   to  others.  Not  all  actors  are  equal  and  committed.   In  the   case   of   the   plastered   skull   burial   at   Çatalhöyük,   some   actors   and   inscriptions   are  more   active   spokes-­‐agents,   who   have   power   over   more   passive   material   culture   or  inscriptions.  The  Harris  Matrix  chart,  for  example,  is  one  of  the  most  active  and  powerful  spokes-­‐agents   in   this   case,   due   to   its   stable   role   as   the   ‘most   reliable’   witness   to   the  event  (after  Simon  admits  his  memory  is  hazy  in  2005  and  he  himself  relies  back  on  the  charts   to   reference   the   excavation   events);   it   is   an   obligatory   passage   point   through  which  all  other  actors  must  pass.  Similarly,  the  field  excavator  becomes  an  active  agent,  because  she  sits  in  the  key  ‘gatekeeper’  role  that  decides  what  account  is  or  is  not  ‘valid’;  all   material   must   pass   through   her   approval,   and   she   will   stabilise   all   of   the   fluid  negotiation   and   contestation   into   a   ‘checked’   and   ‘final   product’   account.   Ian   Hodder,  also,  is  a  very  active  agent,  for  he  is  drawn  in  by  the  field  excavator  to  be  ‘an  authority’  who   confirms   or   denies   the   material   evidence,   and   he   has   motivation   to   keep   the  original  account  intact,  since  he  had  previously  published  such  a  firm  account  of  it  in  his  highly  authoritative  book  in  2006.    Each  of   these  powerful  agents   ‘translate’   the   inscriptions,  objects  and  accounts  that  they  are  committed  to  negotiate,  and  do  so  in  a  way  that  will  benefit  themselves  or  their  own  place  in  the  system.  The  field  excavator  wants  to  make  sure  that  she  “gets  the  data  right”  and  calls  for  other  peer  confirmation,  because  it  is  in  her  benefit  to  not  have  her  authority  questioned  at  a  later  time.  It  is  theoretically  in  Hodder’s  benefit  to  do  the  same,  because  the  foundation-­‐burial  account  has  already  been  formally  stabilised  in  his  own  2006  publications.  Finally,  it  is  in  the  benefit  of  the  Harris  Matrix  inscription  to  be   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     145 confirmed  as  ‘valid’,  because  if  its  account  of  the  foundation  burial  was  ‘invalid’,  then  the  matrix  could  be  seen  as  a  poor  representation  or  ‘wrong’  inscription,  opening  a  huge  can  of  worms  about   the  nature  of   the  Harris  Matrix  chart  as  a  reliable  method,  or  Simon’s  ability  to  properly  record  excavation  features.  In  all  of  these  cases,  these  more  powerful  authorities   or   agents   hold   power   because   they   sit   in   bottleneck,   or   narrow   points   of  passage  where  inscriptions  are  negotiated,  where  they  confirm  or  restructure  accounts.  This   exemplifies   how   in   many   cases,   archaeological   authority   is   necessitated,   and  inherently   a   matter   based   upon,   the   setting   of   up   bottleneck   and   obligatory   passage  point  moments,  where  humans  mediate   for  material   culture,   and   inscriptions  mediate  for  humans.    A  final  lesson  from  this  exploration  comes  from  Callon’s  question  in  moblization,  “Who   speaks   in   the  name  of  whom?  Who   represents  whom?”   (1986:   214),  which   is   a  question   of   ultimate   authority.   An   initial   response   in   the   plastered   skull   burial   case  study   is   that   the   field   excavator   is   speaking   in   the  name  of   all   of   the   inscriptions,   the  original  material  and  the  original  excavators,  as  well  as  for  the  entire  Çatalhöyük  team  when   her   validation   of   the   account   is   published   in   the   next   series   of   official   site  publications  (still  forthcoming).       CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     146       Figure  12:  Diagram  of  the  problematization  of  the  post-­‐excavation  ‘rechecking’  process  of   the  Çatalhöyük  plastered  skull  burial.  Note  the  ‘gatekeeper’  position  of  the  Field  Excavator   and  the  Obligatory  Passage  Point,  and  note  the  ‘authorising  presence’  of  Ian  Hodder  and   Shahina  Farid,  who  were  brought  in  as  ‘authorities’  to  confirm  the  validity  of  the   foundation  burial  account.  This  diagram  is  based  on  Michael  Callon’s  representation  of  the   scallops  of  Brieuc  Bay  (Callon  1986:  207).      However,   an   even  more   specific   and   relevant   answer   relates   through   this   question—who   represents   whom?   In   actuality,   Ian   Hodder   represents   the   field   excavator,   and  becomes  arguably  a  more  powerful  authority  and  voice  in  this  case,  because  he  is  drawn  in   by   the   field   excavator   to   supplement,   authorise   and   be   an   ally   for   her   own  spokesperson   role.   He   is   also   the   highest   gatekeeper   and   holder   of   authority   in   the  whole   Çatalhöyük   project,   the   representative   of   all   the   other   representatives   in   this  team  effort,  a  fact  which  carries  greater  implications  for  how  the  accounts  of  the  past  are  produced  at  the  site.  It  is  Hodder’s  penultimate  account  of  the  plastered  skull  that  shows  up  in  a  glossy  bound  volume  in  2006;  it  is  his  account  (along  with  field  director  Shahina  Farid)   that   first   introduces   the  plastered   skull   find   in   the   2004  Archive  Report—both  accounts   that  appear   in  high-­‐profile  public  media  outlets—and   it   is   this  authority   that  most   stabilises   the   account   and   lends   it   the   most   weight,   authorising   it   as   a   ‘final  product’   account   of   the   past.  What   is   happening   at   Çatalhöyük   is   that,  while  multiple  inscriptions  are  being  created  and  while  multiple  actors  are  engaged  and  necessary  to   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     147 produce  knowledge,  only  one  translation—or  more  correctly,  one  pathway  or  series  of  translations   through   an   obligatory   passage   point,   and   through  more   or   less   powerful  gatekeepers—is   most   active   and   authorizing   any   account   of   the   past.   While  interpretation  may  “begin  at  the  trowel’s  edge”,  it  can  only  end  after  passing  through  the  appropriate  processing,  being   lent  the  appropriate  weight  and  status  by  an  authorized  source  and  spokesperson.   4.4.4    An  Irreconcilable  Contradiction?  Direction  versus  Multivocality  at   Çatalhöyük       The  authority  of  the  Çatalhöyük  project,  as  it  stands  today,  rests  on  one  critical  tension.  The  postprocessual  program  promoted  by  Ian  Hodder  is  based  on  the  concept  of   transparency   in   the   intellectual   process:   transparency   of   method,   transparency   of  space   and   structure,   transparency   of   the   human   and  material   networks   and   activities  that  produce  knowledge  in  the  practice  of  archaeology.  However,  too  much  control  over  that   transparency   at   Çatalhöyük   has   had   an   un   undermining   effect   on   the   overall  authority  of  Hodder’s  postprocessual  program.    Hodder   has   argued,   “We   cannot   impose   an   authority   based   on   an   objective  science.   Rather,   we   have   to   argue   an   authority   in   terms   of   a   well-­‐informed  understanding  of  the  data”  (Hodder  2000:  14).  During  my  2009  fieldwork  at  Çatalhöyük,  this   authority   of   “well-­‐informed   understanding”   most   powerfully   manifested   in   how  much   time   an   individual   or   team   spent  with   the   site   and   the  material,   and   how   close  they   could   get   to   it,  which   practically   affected   the   authority   of   persons   and   accounts.  Perhaps   even  more   important—which   are   often   neglected   in  Hodder’s   person-­‐centric  approach  to  archaeological   interpretation—are  the  nonhuman  and  material  actors  and  networks   which   create   and   stabilise   authority   through   their   own   agency   and  constraints.   In   my   observation   of   site   activity   at   Çatalhöyük,   these   aspects   heavily  influenced  the  way  material  was  handled  and  impacted  interpretation.  People  who  had  been   at   a   site   for   a   longer   duration   and   who   had   worked   with   material   for   longer  amounts  of  time,  or  those  who  had  more  direct  access  to  or  experience  of  certain  things,  were   assumed   to  have   a  more   ‘well-­‐informed  understanding’   of   the  Neolithic   past,   an  important   leverage   of   authority   at   the   site.   Importantly,   there   was   stability   to   these  people,   in   the   way   their   practices   and   understandings   could   collapse   into   familiar  routines   or   settings.   This   stability   emerged   through   their   constant   negotiation   and  interaction   with   routines,   materials   and   ontological   boundaries.   Paradoxically   this   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     148 stabilisation  of  space,  material,  people  and  authority  seemed  to  bring  up  a  conflict  with  the  postprocessual  approach  at  the  site.    Hodder  has  consistently  argued   that   structural   instability   should  be  present   in  order  to  maximise  creative  input  and  to  challenge  interpretations—a  kind  of  ‘resistance  and   accommodation’   that   he   has   theorized  would   lead   to  more   thorough   or   accurate  renditions  of  the  past.  The  idea  behind  this  is  that,  through  constant  consideration  and  renegotiation   in   the  wake   of   unstable  methods,   some   kind   of   stronger   consensus  will  eventually  arise.  This  at  the  outset  is  the  argument  for  peer  review—that  multiple  voices  leading  to  consensus  makes  for  a  stronger  or  ‘more  correct’  argument.  However,  Hodder  has  paradoxically  continued  to  try  to  take  this  setup  one  step  further  by  arguing  that  this  consensus-­‐forming   is   no   good,   and   that   “a   lack   of   stability   is   necessary   if   a   critical  approach  is   to  be  taken  and  if   the  project   is   to  remain  responsive  to  a  changing  world  around  it’”  (Hodder  quoted  in  Farid:  27).  The  paradox  in  this  situation  is  inevitable—for,  after  consensus  is  stabilised  through  familiarity  with  material,  then  forcing  it  to  become  unstable  again  undermines  the  authority  that  has  already  accumulated  and  stabilised.    In   terms   of   structural   stability,   Hodder   has   previously   argued   that   “it   is  impossible   to   remain   simply   a   service  provider   or   a  mediator…One   is   forced,   then,   to  take  a  stand”  (2000:  11),  recognising  the  need  for  archaeologists  to  promote  their  own  stable  and  unified  accounts  of  the  past  based  on  material  evidence,  while  still  allowing  other  voices  to  create  meaning  for  their  own  groups  on  their  own  terms.  However,  in  the  same  breath,  he  argues  that:  [T]he   notion   of   ‘the   site’   is   one   of   the   main   building   blocks   of   archaeological  knowledge   and   archaeological   authority.   Archaeologists   talk   of   ‘my   site’;   they  say  ‘come  and  visit  my  site’,  or  ‘what  site  are  you  digging  at  the  moment’?  There  is  some  notion  in  these  statements  of  ownership…But  at  Çatalhöyük  we  see  the  site   disperse…varied   groups,   with   their   different   interests   and   expectations  approach   the   site,   they   construct  different   versions  of   it  which   are  only  partly  rooted   in   the   finds   made   at   the   physical   location   called   Çatalhöyük   …The  boundaries  around  the  discipline  are  eroded,  and  the  enclosed  self-­‐sufficiency  of  the  academy  is  punctured.  (2000:  10)    Hodder   sees   Çatalhöyük   as   a   different   kind   of   site,   one   that   meets   the   challenge   of  opening   transparency   of   method   to   both   inside   and   outside   challenge,   allowing   a  contestation  of  authority  and  structural   instabilities  and  divisions,   in  order   to  create  a  kind   of   strength   that   emerges   from   more   peer   review,   which   will   elevate   the   site’s  authority   through   multiple   voices   and   contestation.   Again,   the   idea   is   that   constant  multiplicity  and  instability  will  breed  a  kind  of  authority  and  better  stability—a  paradox.  His   main   point   is   perhaps,   “Rather   than   being   decried   as   chaotic,   this   diversity   is  welcomed  since  it  is  preferable  to  a  single  perspective  and  monolithic  approach”  (2000:   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     149 9).   Again,   this   is   the   argument   of   peer   review,   the   argument   that   more   agreement  creates  more  accuracy  or  validity,  and  that  disagreement  or  contestation  makes  practice  and  errors  more  transparent,  which  can  then  be  contested  and  fixed  through  consensus.  But  the  question  that  emerges  from  this  stance  is,  what  happens  when  you  force  instability   and   multiplicity   at   a   site   that   simultaneously   stresses   the   importance   of  empirical   authority?   The   postprocessual   agenda   at   Çatalhöyük   has   been   heavily  consumed  with  the  theory  of  multivocality  and  of  reflexivity.  So  much  so  that  Ian  Hodder  has   pushed   strongly   for   one   new   paradigm   in   archaeological   thinking,   and   he   has  become   a   ‘foremost   figure   in   postprocessual   theory’   (Renfrew   and   Bahn   2000:   44),  stressing   this   paradigm   of   multivocality,   multiple   voices,   a   lack   of   stability   that   is  ‘necessary’  to  archaeological  interpretation.  Have  these  ideals  in  theory  have  panned  out  in   actual   practice?   Has   practice   at   Çatalhöyük   really   encouraged   transparency   and  multiple  inputs,  or  does  it  really  force  or  comply  to  just  one  trajectory,  one  gatekeeper  or   authoritative   voice,   one   series   of   representative   spokespersons  who   hold   ultimate  authority  at   the  site?  According  to  what   I  witnessed   in   terms  of  space,   translation  and  structure  at   the   site,   I  would  say   that   transparency  at   the   site   is  heavily   controlled  by  this  authoritative  vision  or  voice—but  not  the  authority  of  this  actual  practice.    This   vision   perhaps   is   no  more   obvious   than   in   the  most   recent   changes   that  have  happened  at  the  site,  first  announced  in  the  summer  field  season  of  2010,  one  year  after   my   ethnographic   study   of   the   site.   After   speaking   with   the   team   leaders,   Ian  Hodder  sent  out  a  team-­‐wide  email  that  stated:    I   feel   strongly   that   the  project   needs  new  energy   -­‐   that   is   new  questions,   new  theoretical   perspectives,   critiques   of   what   we   have   come   to   take   for   granted,  new  methods.   Perhaps  we   could  have   achieved   this  without   personnel   change  but   I  do  not   think   that  would  have  assured   the  new  energy,   the  new  windows  into  Çatalhöyük.  (Hodder  2010a)        This  commentary  followed  with  the  announcement  that  Hodder  had  fired  all  of  his  team  leaders.  Hodder's  decision  affected  most  of   the   specialists  on   the   site  who  headed   the  various   laboratory   communities   or   ‘pods’,   such   as   human   remains,   faunal   remains,  obsidian,  ceramics,  archaeobotany,  and  so  forth.  Field  excavators  were  allowed  to  keep  their   positions,   although   according   to   one   team   member   who   asked   to   remain  anonymous,  some  of  the  field  excavators  were  considering  not  returning  to  the  dig  out  of   loyalty   to   their   friends  on   the   team  who  had  been   fired  (anonymous   team  member,  personal  communication  2010).    According  to  Hodder’s  email,  and  in  subsequent  press,  the  reason  he  decided  to  fire  his  team  was  for  purely  intellectual,  theoretical  and  interpretive  reasons;  he  was  not  dissatisfied  with  the  work  of  his  team  leaders,  but  rather,  “it  was  time  for  a  shake-­‐up...It   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     150 has  been  a  really  remarkable  team,”  Hodder  says,  “I  have  felt  over  recent  years  that  the  project  was  getting  comfortable  with   itself  and  so  not  challenging  each  other  or  me  or  the   assumptions   that   we   were   all   taking   for   granted”   (quoted   in   Baltar   2010)   [See  Appendix   D].   Hodder’s   feeling   that   the   project   archaeology   was   becoming   ‘more  comfortable’   aligns   with   what   I   observed   and   discussed   with   various   team  members  during   my   ethnography   of   the   2009   field   season.   Familiarity   with   the   material   at  Çatalhöyük  was   stabilising   into   a  more   settled   understanding   of   the   past,   and   greater  duration   of   time   and   familiarity   with   space   and   material   also   stabilised   individual  interpretations   of   team  members,   creating   ‘authorities’   at   the   site   (who   were  mainly  returning  team  leaders  and  other  specialists).  However,  from  what  I  could  gather  from  speaking  with  members  of  the  team  in  2009,  longstanding  members  of  the  team  might  argue   that   they  had  earned   their   expertise   and  authority   to,   say,   recognise   a   ‘midden’  from  a  mere   ‘pit’  on   the  site,  and  an  arbitrary  opening  or   ‘access’   in  a  building   from  a  ‘street’,   through  their  years  of  experience.  By  his  actions,55  Hodder  seems  to  think  that  the   collapse   of   open   interpretive   categories  was   not,   in   fact,   bred   from   familiarity   or  expertise  at  all,  but  rather   “assumptions”  and  a   “taking   for  granted”  of  categories  by  a  team   that   has   become   disinterested   in   his   postprocessual   challenge   to   maintain  instability   in   the  archaeological  method.  His  move  seems   to  suggest   that   the  only  way  interpretation  can  perhaps  ‘work  better’  is  to  bring  in  an  entirely  new  set  of  people  who  have  “new  energy”.    According  to  the  press,  this  was  a    sudden  and  abrupt  decision,  and  “Many  team  members,  some  of  whom  have  been  working  with  the  project  since  the  mid-­‐1990s,  are  stunned  and  confused”  (Baltar  2010).  One  team  member  reportedly  called  it  “the  night  of   the   long   knives”   (quoted   in  Baltar   2010).   Because   “Such   a  mass   dismissal   is   highly  unusual   at   long-­‐running   archaeological   excavations”   (Baltar   2010),   this   decision  sparked   a   host   of   commentary   within   the   public   and   the   archaeological   community.  After  the  initial  press  announcement,  online  forums  flooded  the  web  with  commentary  like   the  Twitter   comment:   “Mass   dismissals   at   Catal  Höyuk.  Hodder  wants   new  blood  (himself  excluded)”  (Larsson  2010).  On  one  news  website  which  announced  the   initial  online  press  release,  people  flooded  the  page  with  online  commentary.  Some  of  the  more  relevant   selections   reflect   highly   emotional   opinions   about   Hodder’s   use   of   executive  authority  [See  Appendix  D]:       55  Here  I  stress  that  this  is  an  assumption  bred  from  the  admittedly  small  amount  of  interview  material  currently  available  in  the  public  domain  about  his  decision  to  fire  his  team.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     151 Hmm,  maybe  the  director  himself  needs  to  step  aside  to  let  new  blood  in  at  the  very   top!     I  think  this  move  was  brilliantly  Machiavellian.  Bravo!     …The  guy  at  the  top  is  responsible   for   leadership,   if   it   isn't  working  then  it   is  HIS   fault,  not  theirs'.  What  sort  of  leadership  do  you  provide?  None,  it  would  appear…       Regardless  of  what  one  thinks  of  Hodder's  "intellectual  courage"  or  his  intentions,   this   strikes  me  as   exceptionally  poor   leadership  on  Hodder's   part.   If   he   truly  has   "felt  over  recent  years"  that  the  team  was  growing  complacent,  then  it  was  his  job   as  director  to  motivate  the  team  to  challenge  each  other,  Hodder,  and  their  shared   assumptions…I   feel   truly   sorry   for   the   team  members  whose  hard  work  certainly   bolstered  Hodder's  career.     …Has  the  religiosity  of  archaeology  got  so  fervent  that  you  can  ignore  the  real-­‐life   impacts   of   sacking   so  many   people?   As   obvious   as   it   seems,   Hodder   imposes   his   agendas   on   all   specialists   so   surely   getting   a   proxy   Grand  Master   to   fill   his   own   shoes  is  the  more  obvious  answer?  I  am  sure  there  are  things  beneath  the  surface   here  beyond  theory,  but  if  this  is  the  paradigm  dig  that  he  planned,  then  surely  the   rest  of  us  are  buggered  when  it  comes  to  recycling  our  staff  every  few  years...     …Well   if   Ian   himself   resigned,   and   the   project   took   on   a   new   director,   then   new   questions,   perspectives   and   methods   would   be   even   more   guaranteed,   wouldn't   they?          [sic]  (Baltar  2010)          Most  of  these  comments  seem  to  be  highlighting  the  fact  that  Hodder  seems  to  be  forcing  new  voices  into  the  mixture  of  his  own  site  structure.  If  his  agenda  is  to  open  the  site  to  new  interpretation,  he   is  undoubtedly  making  this  happen  by  controlling  which  voices  are   to  be  present  at   the  site  by  evicting  other  voices   that  he   thinks  are  complacent  or  overly  stable.  This  creates  a  conundrum.  Some  of  the  other  comments  on  the  same  press  release  identify  the  other  side  of  this  coin:     I  think  it  is  a  brilliant  move.  The  point  is  to  get  at  the  truth  of  this  site  not  prop  up   researchers.  This  work  will  be  left  to  history.  It  needs  to  be  exhaustive.     If   the   situation   is   as   it   is   represented   here,   then   Hodder   is   to   be   praised   for   his   intellectual   courage.  However,   events   in   recent   years   on   other   fields   have   shown   that  scientists  are  not  immune  to  ulterior  motives  and  'hidden  agendas.'     (Baltar  2010)      Commentary   like   this   highlights   the   underlying   question:   what   is   archaeology   really  about   if   not   encouraging   better   interpretation?   If   Hodder   really   thinks   that  interpretation  is  being  undermined  by  complacency  at  his  site,  might  not  a  mass  eviction  be   justified?   By   firing   his   whole   team,   Hodder   seems   to   think   yes,   his   duty   as   an   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     152 executive  authority   is   to  encourage  a  more  accurate   interpretation  of   the  past,   and  he  seems  to  think  that  instability  is  the  means  to  that  end.  However,  when  reflecting  upon  the   actual   reality   upon   which   executive   and   epistemic   authority   of   archaeological  practice   is   based—which   I   have   deconstructed   in   the   previous   sections—the   whole  situation  creates  a  conundrum  for  Hodder.    While  Hodder  seems  to  be  encouraging  a  process  involving  disorder,  entropy  and  multiple   lines   of   thinking,   he   is   ultimately   still   aiming   for   one   product:   a   solidified  account  of   knowledge.  Under   the   theory  of  multivocality,   the   idea   is   that  by   including  many  voices  of  challenge,  the  process  of  contestation  will  create  better  clarity,  order  and  more   robust   accounts   of   the   past   through   peer   review—a   process,   I   must   point   out,  which  fundamentally  rests  on  stabilisation.  Multiplicity  and  peer  review  should  lead  to  a  stronger   consensus;   they   aim   to   solidify   a   ‘best   interpretation’   of   the   available   data,  creating  an  authoritative  vision  of  the  past.  The  sort  of  radical  multivocality  that  Hodder  is  seeking  through  his  actions—forcing  instability,  firing  and  shaking  up  his  team—run  counter  to  his  primary  goal  of  empirical  authority.  As  I  argue  in  this  chapter,  empirical  authority   demands   stabilisation.   Individuals   in   the   scientific   production   of   knowledge  gain   authority   by   engaging   in   the   ‘appropriate’   behaviours,   by   handling   objects   in  ‘appropriate’  ways,  and  by  following  pathways  of  translation  in  the  interpretive  process.  They   increase   their   authority   through   time   and   familiarity   with   material   that  ontologically  constrains  their  interpretations.  The  problem  with  Ian  Hodder’s  paradigm  of  continuous  instability  is  that  he  is  trying  to  force  instability  once  again  after  authority  has   accumulated   through   this   stabilisation   of  materials,   inscriptions,   translations   and  people.  Regardless  of  his  frustration  with  the  process  of  stabilisation,  and  regardless  of  his  desire  to  create  new  ‘mess’  and  instability  with  a  new  team,  it  will  inevitably  stabilise  again   if   the   site   is   to   continue   to   create   authoritative   accounts   of   the   past.   Thus,   by  continually   trying   to   force   instability   after   his   team   has   already   accumulated   and  stabilised   things,   people   and   interpretations,   he   is   actually   undermining   his   own  authority—and  undermining  the  authority  of  those  persons  and  materials  that  worked  hard  at  creating  empirical  authority  in  the  first  place.         CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     153 4.5    Chapter  Conclusion   4.5.1    Conclusions  on  Authority:  The  Importance  of  Non-­‐Human  Actors  and   Stability  in  the  Production  of  Authoritative  Knowledge   Science  studies  scholar  John  Law  has  argued  that  a  major  end-­‐product  of  science  is   authority   itself.  He  writes,   “And   the  purpose  of   all   this?   It   is   to  produce   statements  that  carry  authority,  that  tell  about  the  outside  world”  (Law  2004:  27).  This  chapter  has  argued  that,  in  the  discipline  of  archaeology,  authority  manifests  through  the  processes  of   stabilisation,   inscription,   translation  and  blackboxing.  The  production  of  knowledge  in   archaeology   has   a   purpose:   namely,   to   produce   texts   or   other   products   like  reconstructions   or   museum   displays,   which   are   weighty   and   authoritative,   validating  theories  or  trumping  other  texts.  Authority  is  an  ultimate  end-­‐goal  of  scientific  activity,  embedded  in  both  the  production  and  the  consumption  of  texts  and  other  scientific  end-­‐products.   Authority   is   partially   structural,   and   that   structure   comes   from   the  negotiations  and  translations  of  material  and  people  and  ideas  through  space.  Authority,  as  an  outcome  of  social  access  and  constraint  as  well  as  a  matter  of  translation,  impacts  the  way  knowledge  settles  into  stable,  authoritative  and  authorised  forms.  This   chapter   took   the   case   study   of   Çatalhöyük   and   used   Latour’s   ‘translation  model’  (Latour  1986:  266-­‐269;  also  see  Section  2.2.4  in  this  dissertation)  to  show  how  authority   is   an   accumulated   affect   from   many   different   actors,   interactions   and  outcomes  in  a  given  network.  This  chapter  made  three  linked  contributions.  The  first  is  the   identification   and   exposing   of   many   underlying   mechanisms   through   which  authority   is   produced   and   maintained   at   an   archaeological   site,   addressing   the   root  causes   and   concerns   of   authority   in   the   production   of   archaeological   knowledge.  Secondly,   this  chapter  argued  for  the   importance   in  acknowledging  of   the   full  range  of  actors   that   are   instigated   in   authority.   In   most   previous   studies   of   archaeological  authority,   the   only   actors   present   in   any   debate   are   people.   Past   discussion   over  authority   at   a   site   like   Çatalhöyük   has   followed   human   impact   on   human   authority—contesting   issues   of   human   access,   individual   rights   over   interpretation,   and   local  relations.  However,   as   this   chapter   demonstrates,   authority   is   a   complex   process   that  accumulates  from  the  interactions  of  both  human  and  nonhuman  actors.  The  ontological  world   has   as   much   impact,   and   places   as   much   constraint   upon,   authoritative  interpretation   as   the   humans   that   interact   with   it.   Social,   physical   and   temporal  dimensions  of  archaeological  practice,   like   the  division  of  space,  durations  of   time  and  the   handling   of  materials,   impact   the  way   authority   is   accumulated   and   translated   by  individuals.  At  Çatalhöyük  specifically,   Ian  Hodder  has   long  recognised  the   importance   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     154 of  authority  in  the  archaeological  process,  but  he  has  conceptualised  a  site  and  a  practice  where  the  primary  actors  are  human.  Instead,  I  argue,  the  most  influential  actors  in  the  production   of   knowledge   are   methods   and   programs   of   inscription   and   translation,  which   create   both   the   necessary   stabilisation   for   authoritative   knowledge   as   well   as  ‘authorities’  who  can  claim  expertise  or  power  in  epistemic  authority.  On   a  methodological   level,   the   nature   of   the   ‘Finds   Assistant’   role   is   a   critical  example  of   the   importance  of  nonhuman  actors   in   individual  authority.  At  Çatalhöyük,  the   identity   of   a   Finds  Assistant—who  has   the   rare  power   and  authority   to   enter   any  laboratory  or  excavation  site  without  much  attention  or  question—centres  around  her  role   as   a   specialist   who   deals   with   ‘finds’.   As   discussed   in   Section   4.2.2.3,   all   newly  excavated   material   at   Çatalhöyük   is   first   taken   to   the   Finds   Desk,   where   the   Finds  Assistant  then  records  all  of  the  data  from  the  artefact  bags  into  the  database.  Then  she  takes  the  material  in  boxes  and  redistributes  them  into  all  of  the  appropriate  laboratory  rooms.   Her   role   is   to   transfer   a   physical   single   context   into   the   database,   and   then  transfer  the  material  on  for  more  detailed  study.  The  Finds  Assistant’s   identity,  access,  accountability   and   authority   at   the   site   is   entirely   defined   by   the   material   that   she  interacts  with.  Her  authority  to  enter  all  of  the  laboratories  comes  from  her  authority  as  a   ‘gatekeeper’  of   that  material.  She   is  watched  by  others  and  gains  or   loses  status  and  authority   based   on   her   appropriate   translation   of   this   material,   and   based   on   her  method  in  turning  the  original  finds  into  appropriate  inscriptions  that  go  into  the  central  dig  house  database—a  technology  and  inscription  that  all  team  members  rely  upon.  It  is  critical  to  note  that  the  processual,  nonhuman,  physical,  material,  spatial  and  temporal  aspects   of   her   role—as   well   as   her   performative   interactions   in   a   network   of   both  human  and  nonhuman  things—are  all  mangled  and  interlocked  in  her  identity  and  her  authority  as  an  archaeologist  and  a   ‘knowledge  producer’.  Similarly,  on  an  interpretive  level,   the  example  above  (Section  4.4.3)  of   the   field  excavator  and  her  authority   in   the  interpretation   of   the   plastered   skull   burial   shows   the   importance   of   material  inscriptions   on   the   production   of   a   ‘final   product’   account.   In   this   case,   the   field  excavator  was  involved  in  a  kind  of  ‘resistance  and  accommodation’  (Pickering  1995)  of  humans   and   nonhumans,   where   the   narrowing   of   interpretive   access,   the   ‘voice’   of  nonhuman   actors   like   inscriptions,   and   the   socio-­‐politics   of   a   site   hierarchy   played  critical   roles   in   the   authority   of   final   product   accounts.   Archaeological   authority   is  necessitated   by,   and   inherently   a   matter   of,   bottleneck   and   obligatory   passage   point  moments   of   translation,  where   humans  mediate   for  material   culture,   and   inscriptions  mediate  for  humans.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     155 Finally,  this  chapter  argues  that  empirical  authority  demands  stabilisation.  Using  the   case   of   Çatalhöyük,   this   chapter   demonstrated   that   authority   is   created   and  maintained   through   the   stabilisation   of   interpretations,   which   are   both   enabled   and  constrained  by   the  ontological  world.   In  2009,   the  people   at  Çatalhöyük  who  held   the  greatest  epistemic  authority  were  those  who  had  spent  more  time  at  the  site,  who  had  more   familiarity   and   experience   with   repetitive   material.   In   a   scientific   project   like  Çatalhöyük,  this  stability  equated  to  greater  presence  and  executive  authority  to  access  social  and  physical  spaces.  Interpretations  and  accounts  were  stabilised  by  the  authority  of   those   who   had   experienced   the   site   first   hand   for   a   long   duration   of   time,   from  repeated   ontological   interaction   with   archaeological   material   that   was   repetitive   in  nature,  therefore  allowing  recognisability,  and  finally,  from  the  negotiation  of  authority  between   the  various   team  members  who  were  assessing  or   interpreting   that  material.  Thus,   higher   status   personalities   (team   leaders   or   other   experienced   returning   team  members)  had  authority  which  resulted  a  strong  presence  and  greater  epistemic  power  over  the  production  of  knowledge.    This   reality   of   stabilisation—and   its   important   role   in   the   authority   of  knowledge   production—still   goes   unacknowledged   by   Ian  Hodder,   as   he   continues   to  seek   out   ways   to   create   instability   in   his   site   structure.   Hodder’s   current   theoretical  model  relies  on  the  argument  of  contestation  as  a  means  toward  better  transparency,  on  a   model   of   multivocality   that   leads   to   consensus   through   peer   review.   However,   by  neglecting  the  nonhuman  actors  and  methods  that  lend  structure,  repetition,  familiarity  and   stability   to   the   knowledge-­‐production   process,   he   is   in   essence   undermining   his  own   interpretive   authority   by   continuing   to   unravel   the   very   processes   that   created  empirical  authority  for  himself  and  his  team  in  the  first  place.  The  most  influential  actors  in  knowledge  production  are  the  methods  and  programs  of   inscription  and  translation  that   create   both   the   stabilities   and   authorities   that   he   seems   to   resist.   His   model   of  radical   multivocality   runs   at   odds   with   his   site’s   thoroughly   scientific   and   stable  methods.  Hodder’s  own  empirical  authority  comes  from  the  way  his  methods  and  team  are  producing  recognizable  and  defendable  outcomes,  and  any  empirical  defence  of  his  own  theoretical  and  interpretive  models  must  come  from  that  stability.     In  short,  what  this  case  shows  us  is  that  authority  is  an  outcome  of  complex  social  and  physical  factors,  that  nonhuman  actors  and  processes  play  a  critical   role   in  stabilizing  and  establishing  that  authority,  and  that  this  sense  of  stability  is  central  to  the  maintenance  of  authority  over  time.       CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     156 4.5.2    Final  Conclusions  and  Reflections  on  this  Study     Finally,   it   is   important   to   reflect   on   the   successes   and   failures   of   this   study   of  authority  at  the  Çatalhöyük  project.  This  study  contributes  original  and  distinct  research  to  a  host  of  previous  Çatalhöyük  ethnographic  studies.  But  in  some  ways,  it  also  fails  to  present   a   fully   coherent   analysis   of   authority   at   Çatalhöyük—largely   due   to   the  interesting  nature,  history  and  trajectory  of  the  Çatalhöyük  project  itself.  First,   it   is   important   to  address   the  distinctiveness  of   this   thesis’s  argument   in  light  of  previous  studies  of  the  Çatalhöyük  project.  As  discussed  in  detail  earlier  in  this  thesis  (see  Section  2.3.3,  Section  3.2.1.2  and  Section  3.3.2.2),  the  Çatalhöyük  project  has  been  something  of  a  magnet  for  ethnographic  and  reflexive  studies  of  its  archaeological  practice.   Particularly   as   discussed   in   Section   3.2.1.2   and   Section   3.3.2.2   of   this   thesis,  previous  studies  contributed  methodological  and  intellectual  worth  to  my  own  research  design.  Notable  similar  studies  include  the  work  of  Sharon  Webb  (2002),  whose  doctoral  dissertation   focused   on  multiple   interpretations   and  museum   displays   at   Çatalhöyük.  The   anthropological   dissertation   by   Oguz   Erdur   (2008),   whose   literary   ‘site   diary’  stressed   issues  of  Turkish  nationalism  and  an  outsider’s   perspective  of   archaeological  practice,   also   offered   interesting   methodological   and   intellectual   insight.   Perhaps   the  most   cited   ethnographic   study   of   Çatalhöyük   is   Carolyn   Hamilton’s   analysis   of   ‘fault  lines’—rifts   and   conflicts   between   excavators   and   specialists   on   site   (1996).  Ethnographic  attention  has  continued  up  until  the  present  day.  Since  my  study  in  2009,  two  new  studies  of  note  appeared  in  the  2010  Çatalhöyük  Archive  Report:  a  study  called   Evaluation   of   reflexive   methods   by   Björn   Nilsson   &   Åsa   Berggren,   which   assesses   the  success   or   failure   of   reflexive   methods   throughout   Çatalhöyük’s   long   history,   and  another   study   called   Practices   of   archaeological   knowledge   production   at   Çatalhöyük   2010  by  Tonia  Davidovic,  which  (like  my  own  research)  draws  on  SSK-­‐oriented  methods  but  focuses  specifically  on  excavation  practices  at  the  site  (Çatalhöyük  Research  Project  2010a:   158-­‐159).   In   the   2010   Archive   Report,   these   two   budding   studies   represent  ‘things  to  come’  on  the  Çatalhöyük  research  agenda,  but  they  also  represent  merely  the  ‘latest’  in  a  proliferation  of  site  ethnographies.  The  fact  that  there  have  been  so  many  ethnographies  of  Çatalhöyük  practice   in  the   first   place   is   an   important   issue   to   consider.   Ian   Hodder   has   openly   encouraged  reflexive  study  at  the  site.  Because  he  is  so  welcoming,  many  ethnographic  researchers  find   the   invitation   and   opportunity   to   study   archaeological   practice   at   Çatalhöyük  almost   irresistible.   Because   the   site   has   a   long   history   of   ethnographic   tradition,  extending  that  work  seems  to  be  a  unique  opportunity.  However,  at  the  end  of  my  own   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     157 work   I   find   that   I   question:  with   all   of   these   similar   studies,  what   is   really   distinct   in  adding  yet  another  ethnography  to  the  pile?   In  answering  this  question,   I   find  that  my  own  study  has  its  successful  contributions,  along  with  some  noteworthy  failures.  A   distinct   and   successful   argument   in   this   thesis   is   that   the   construction   of  authority  in  archaeological  practice  is  an  inherently  messy,  mangled  and  material  affair.  This  thesis  demonstrates  that  authoritative  knowledge  relies  upon  the  interrelations  of  deeply   embedded,   active,   messy   materiality   as   well   as   humans   to   construct  archaeological   knowledge.   As   argued   throughout   this   chapter   (climaxing   in   Section  4.4.3),  archaeological  authority  demands  stabilisation,  which   is  amassed  and  solidified  from   a   very  messy   and  mangled   interaction   of   humans,   materials   and   processes   like  inscription   and   translation.   This   thesis   distinctly   argues   that   the   ontological   world  intrudes  upon  human  action   and   thought   in   archaeological  methodology,   and   that   the  construction  of  authoritative  knowledge  relies  upon  the  stabilizing  material  limitations  placed  upon  human  interactions  and  processes  over  time.  Unlike  previous  ethnographic  studies  of  Çatalhöyük,  this  study  distinctively  and  forcefully   highlights   the   importance   of  material  actors   and  processes   of   interaction   in  the  production  of  knowledge  in  archaeology.  Previous  studies  of  Çatalhöyük  have  been  far   too   focused   on   the   agency   of   human   actors,   representing   archaeological  interpretation  as  a  human-­‐centric  affair.  By  drawing  on  insights  from  other  disciplinary  methodologies   such   as   SSK,   this   study   argues   that   our   focus   should   be   reoriented   to  acknowledge   the   active   processes   of   inscription   and   translation   in   our   own   practice.  Much  more  thought  should  be  given  to  the  fact  that  we  as  humans  operate  in  messy  and  complicated  ways,  in  a  mangled  material  world,  where  humans,  materials,  instruments,  institutions   and   personalities   all   materially   interrelate   and   interact   to   produce  knowledge.  Perhaps  most  importantly,  it  should  be  recognized  that,  in  all  of  this  messy  reality,  archaeological  practice  also  accumulates  the  messy  and  amorphous  by-­‐product  of   ‘authority’—a   higher   or   lower   status   attached   to   the   perceived   and   performed  ‘correctness’   or   power   of   particular   knowledge   and   ideas   (the   performance   and  reception  of  authority  is  a  topic  more  closely  discussed  in  the  next  chapter,  Chapter  5).  No  previous  ethnographies  of  Çatalhöyük  have  so  strongly  addressed  the  importance  of  material   agents   in   archaeological  method,   the  processes   and  power  of   translation  and  inscription,  and   the  unbridled  messiness  of   the  archaeological  process   that   is  not  only  inherent   in   the   construction   of   knowledge   but   crucial   to   the   production   and  sustainability  of  authority.  Unlike   previous   studies,   this   chapter   also   builds   the   distinct   argument  (climaxing   in   Section   4.4.4)   that   many   previous   reflexive   studies   of   the   Çatalhöyük   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     158 project  have  confused  and  conflated  different  concepts  of  multivocality.  As  discussed  in  Section   2.3.2.,   the   theories   of   multivocality   and   reflexivity   are   central   postprocessual  themes  of  the  Çatalhöyük  excavations.  These  theories  directly  engage  with  the  notion  of  authority,   questioning  who   has   the   power   to   speak   for   and   about   the   past.   They   ask,  “how  should  we  respond   to   the   fact   that   so  many  groups  want   to   tell  different  stories  about  the  site?”  (Hodder  2000:  4).  They  are  a  critique  of  taken-­‐for-­‐granted  assumptions  about   what   knowledge   is   and   how   it   is   formed   (Hodder   2003:   58).   With   reflexivity,  stress   is   generally   placed   on   the   act   of   self-­‐examination   or   self-­‐reflection   of   our   own  methods.  With  multivocality,   the   focus   is   on   “changing   practices   and   contexts   so   that  disadvantaged  groups  have   the  opportunity   to  be  heard  and   responded   to.   It   involves  trying  to  move  away  from  the  methods  and  principles  that  are  attuned  to  the  Western  voice.  It  involves  ethics  and  rights”  (Hodder  2008:  196).  However,  as  argued  in  Section  4.4.4,  the  authority  of  the  Çatalhöyük  project’s  use  of  reflexivity  and  multivocality  now  rests   on   a   critical   tension.   The   postprocessual   program   promoted   by   Ian   Hodder   is  based   on   the   concept   of   transparency   in   the   intellectual   process:   transparency   of  method,   transparency  of  space  and  structure,   transparency  of   the  human  and  material  networks   and   activities   that   produce   knowledge   in   the   practice   of   archaeology.  However,   too   much   control   over   that   transparency   at   Çatalhöyük   has   tended   to  undermine  the  overall  authority  of  Hodder’s  postprocessual  program.    This  thesis  departs  from  previous  ethnographic  studies  of  Çatalhöyük  by  making  the  distinctive  argument   that   there   is  no   real   ‘multivocality’  happening  at   the   site—at  least,   not   in   any   sense   of   true   commensurability   or   real   ‘power   sharing’   (see   Section  4.3.2).  While  Hodder’s  postprocessual  program  of  reflexivity  has  succeeded  (in  the  fact  that   he   and   many   members   of   his   team   have   actively   stepped   back   to   consider   and  reflect   upon   their   own   impact   on   the   archaeology   they   produce,   which   has   been   a  successful   exercise),   I   strongly   disagree   that   there   is   any   program   of   commensurable  ‘multivocality’   at   the   site.   For   example,   ethnographies   by   the   longtime   site   member  Sonja   Atalay   have   focused   on   conducting   “community-­‐based   participatory   research   in  archaeology”,   or   CBPR.   In   her   2010   article,   Atalay   writes   that   “The   CBPR   project   in  Çatalhöyük  offers  an  excellent  example  of  CBPR’s  successful  application  to  archaeology”  (2010:   421)   and   that   CBPR   is   about   “democratizing   knowledge”   (2010:   426).   Unlike  such  overly  cheery  and  performative  studies,  this  thesis  argues  (see  Section  4.4.4)  that  ‘multivocality’  at  Çatalhöyük  has  been  a  misused  and  conflated  idea  which  needs  to  be  opened  and  addressed  in  a  more  appropriate  way.  From  what  I  witnessed  on-­‐site,  team  members  at  Çatalhöyük  are  not  practicing  any  kind  of  real   ‘multivocality’  nor  are   they  really   ‘democratizing   knowledge’.   Rather,   they   are   engaging   in   non-­‐empowered   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     159 Indigenous   archaeology,   a   term   coined   by   Donna   Yates   in   her   doctoral   dissertation  (2010).  According  to  Yates:  In   non-­‐empowered   Indigenous   archaeology   the   archaeologist   retains   decision-­‐making  power.  First,  in  this  model,  the  archaeologist  has  approached  the  project  with   their   own   questions   that   address   their   own   research   agenda.   The  archaeologist  makes   the   choice   to   contact   the   Indigenous   community,   but   it   is  likely   that   excavation   could   take   place   without   consultation.   Nothing   specific  forces   the   archaeologist   to   look   for   Indigenous   input,   and   if   permission   to  excavate   is   denied   by   an   Indigenous   group,   the   archaeologist   can   choose   to  ignore   the   denial.   The   balance   of   power   is   not   shifted,   as   some   commentators  seem  to  believe.  (Yates  2010:  22)    In  her  thesis,  Yates  specifically  criticizes  sources  by  both  Atalay  and  Hodder,  particularly  on   the  assumption   that  all   local   communities  naturally  want   or  need   archaeologists   to  graciously   ‘consult’   with   them,   and   in   the   fact   that   they   have   yet   to   consistently  acknowledge  that  the  balance  of  power  in  a  ‘consultation’  always  sides  in  favour  the  of  the   archaeologists,   with   no   real   democracy   in   decision-­‐making   (Yates   2010).   Yates’s  model  of  non-­‐empowered  Indigenous  archaeology  contrasts  with  the  alternative  model  of   empowered   Indigenous   archaeology,   where   local   groups   can   assert   significant   control  over  both  excavation  methodologies  and  final  interpretive  outcomes.  At  Çatalhöyük,  one  can   argue   that   Turkish   stakeholders   have   perhaps   forced   archaeologists   to   interact  more   with   the   local   community   and   consider   their   needs,   and   that   Hodder’s   “at   the  trowel’s   edge”   commentary   has   acknowledged   the   archaeologist-­‐favoured   power  balance  of  any  consultation;  however,  despite  these  departures  from  Yates’s  model,  I  do  think   that   it   is   fair   criticism   to   argue   that   the   community   archaeology   practiced   at  Catalhoyuk   is  non-­‐empowered,   in   that   it   is   solely   powered   by—and   the   result   of—the  research  self-­‐interests  of  individual  Çatalhöyük  team  members.  The   term   ‘multivocality’   simply   means   including   ‘multiple   voices’   in  archaeological   practice,   and   indeed,   this   is   what   many   community-­‐based   studies   at  Çatalhöyük   are   setting   out   to   do   (Webb   2002;   Hodder   2003;   Rountree   2007;   Hodder  2008;  Atalay  2009;  Atalay  2010).  But  when  I  visited  the  project  in  2009,  I  only  found  a  cacophony   of   ‘multiple   voices’   existing   in   parallel.   Rather   than   finding   any   truly  commensurable   multivocality   at   Çatalhöyük,   I   instead   found   that   interpretation   and  method   was   heavily   controlled   by   one   authoritative   vision   or   voice.   As   detailed   in  Section   4.3.2,   while   previous   literature   has   argued   that   it   is   “reasonable   to   abandon  abstract   objectivity   and   make   trials   of   resistance   commensurable…Talk   to   people,  understand  them,  persuade  if  necessary;  instead  of  patronising  them  by  playing  expert”  (Shanks   and   Hodder   1995:   20),   I   instead   found   a   kind   of   ‘parallel’   multivocality  practiced  at  Çatalhöyük,  where  multiple  voices  were  being  ‘allowed’  or  ‘sought  out’,  but   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     160 were   not   really   integrated   into   final   interpretations   or   methodology.   As   described   in  Section   4.3.2,   the   archaeologists   ‘conducted  multivocality’   by   creating   a   setting  where  outsider   groups,   like   the   Mother   Goddess   community,   felt   respected   and   had   the  opportunity  to  add  their  voices  to  a  general  discussion.  Neither  side  was  foolish  enough,  though,   to   think   that   the   archaeologists   were   trying   to   engage   in   a   dialogue   of  commensurability  or  were  not   ‘playing  expert’,   or  where  outsider  or   alternative   ideas  would   have   deep   impact   on   the   archaeologists’   final   interpretation   of   the   material  record.56   In   the   specific   setting   I   observed   between   the   Goddess   Community   and  archaeologists  at  the  site  in  2009,  the  lines  were  clearly  drawn,  and  the  archaeologists  asserted  their  interpretive  authority  over  material  things  and  physical  space.  Hodder   has   previously   argued   that   “Subordinate   groups   who   want   to   be  involved   in   archaeological   interpretation   need   to   be   provided   with   the   means   and  mechanisms   for   interacting   with   the   archaeological   past   in   different   ways”   (Hodder  1992:   186).   But   as   I   argue   in  more   detail   later   in   Chapter   6   (Section   6.3.1),   the   very  sentence   structure   of   this   comment   reveals   that   Hodder   and   his   team   are   in   the  authoritative   position   of   providing   subordinate   groups   with   ‘means   and  mechanisms’  while   subordinate   groups   are   at   the   receiving   and   disadvantaged   end   of   this   process,  dealing  with  whatever  means  or  mechanisms   they  are  allowed  or  allotted.  The   team’s  intent   to   empower  members   of   subordinate   groups   stems   from  a   real   desire   to   allow  greater   accessibility   and   freedom   to   archaeology,   and   I   do   think   subordinate   groups  have  felt  empowered  in  some  ways  through  their  collaboration  with  the  site.  However,  it  must  still  be  recognised  that  this  empowerment  is  always  controlled  by  those  who  are  higher  in  the  social  hierarchy  of  archaeological  practice.  This  is  a  point  I  revisit  in  more  detail   in   Chapter   6.   For   now,   I   argue   that   it   is   time   for   the   project   to   recognize   the  important   distinction   between   two   alternative   uses   of   the   terminology—‘commensurable  multivocality’  versus  simply  ‘respectful  or  parallel  multivocality’—and  to  address  the  merits  and  failures  of  its  own  idealism.    This   brings   me   to   reflect   on   some   of   the   related   shortcomings   of   my   own  research.  In  some  ways  my  study  fails  in  its  aims  to  present  a  fully  coherent  analysis  of  authority   in   archaeological   practice.   I   would   argue   that   this   has   happened   in   part  because  of  difficulties  navigating  the  unique  nature  of  the  Çatalhöyük  project  itself.  One   56  Importantly  here,  I  again  stress  the  power  of  the  material  and  ontological  world  that  intrudes  upon  human  interpretation.  Archaeologists  trained  in  scientific  methods  feel  constrained  by  the  ontological  stabilisation  of  evidence,  thus  ‘multiple  voices’  have  much  less  of  an  impact  on  archaeologists  as  they  are  empirically  trying  to  ‘interpret’  or  ‘understand’  data.  Archaeologists  put  great  attention  and  stress  on  the  material  world  that  they  study,  which  constrains  and  enables  their  interpretations.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     161 failure   of   this   study   has   involved   the   limited   time   that   I   had   available   for   fieldwork.  Simply  because  I  spent  less  than  a  full  season  at  the  site,  I  had  only  a  short  time  to  ‘drop  the  bucket   in   the  well   to  draw  water’.  Any   time   that  a   researcher   spends  only  a   short  period  of  time  doing  fieldwork,  particularly  in  the  middle  of  a  longer  work  season  in  the  middle  of  a  much  longer  multi-­‐year  project,  the  results  will  be  necessarily  constrained  in  scope.   This   work,   then,   is  merely   a   sample,   instead   of   a  more   complete   vision   of   the  detailed   and   intricate   processes   that   contribute   to   the   production   of   authority   at  Çatalhöyük.  My  limited  stay  at  the  site  has  also  affected  my  study  in  a  more  subtle  way:  in  some  ways,  this  study  fails  in  its  aims  to  present  a  fully  coherent  analysis  of  authority  because   the   Çatalhöyük   project   is   a   particularly   complicated,   disconnected,   tangled,  messy,  scattered  and  disintegrated  place.    As   I  argue   in  Section  4.1.2  of   this   thesis,   the  Çatalhöyük  project  has  created  an  unusually   large   multiplicity   of   things   and   people—site   diaries   and   database   images,  community   forums   and   websites,   experimental   houses   and   virtual   reconstructions,  visual  text  and  visitor  platforms,  a  general  explosion  of  inscriptions  at  the  site—due  to  the   encouragement   of   multivocal   interpretations,   the   encouragement   of   instability   in  people  and  practice,  and  an  active  desire  to  constantly  interact  with  new  mediums  and  methods.  While  this  plethora  of  ‘stuff’  allows  any  researcher  to  have  a  host  of  records  at  hand   to  examine  and   then   translate  according   to   their  own  aims  and  purposes,   it  also  creates   a   sense   of   chaos   at   the   site.   While   Hodder   has   actively   encouraged   endless  inscriptions  because  of  the  idea  that  “a  lack  of  stability  is  necessary  if  a  critical  approach  is  to  be  taken  and  if  the  project  is  to  remain  responsive  to  a  changing  world  around  it”  (Hodder  quoted  in  Farid:  27),  I  argue  that  a  kind  of  entropy  ensues.  Two  things  result.  First,  the  large  number  of  people  who  have  access  to  the  Çatalhöyük  project,  who  speak  for  the  project  and  the  activities  taking  place,  means  that  more  ‘buzz’  or  sense  of  worth  and  value  has  been  generated  around  the  project,  compared  to  discussion  around  many  other  similarly  sized  excavations.  Much  of  Çatalhöyük’s  authority  and  the  prestige  of   Hodder’s   postprocessual   program   relies   on   a   continuous   discussion   in   academic  literature   and   introductory   textbook   materials.57   Ironically,   this   stabilising   effect   of  continuous   discussion   that   grounds   Çatalhöyük’s   academic   authority,   even though so 57  I  would  also  argue  that,  paradoxically,  the  overwhelming  and  slippery  nature  of  ‘too  many’  inscriptions  might  be  the  reason  there  has  been  much  less  ‘buzz’  and  academic  discussion  about  the  project  over  time.  The  project  arguably  reached  its  peak  of  academic  discussion  in  the  late  1990s.  Perhaps  the  decline  of  interest  in  the  academic  community  is  due  to  the  ‘too  many’  inscriptions  and  voices  at  the  site,  as  it  becomes  more  and  more  difficult  to  really  get  a  sense  of  what  is  actually  happening  on  site  or  who  is  actually  contributing  at  any  given  time,  and  this  generates  confusion  over  how  this  model  of  chaotic  method  might  be  useful  or  helpful  when  extending  this  model  to  other  excavating  practices.   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     162 much of that discussion is about the project's purported instability.   By   having   so   many  researchers  attend  the  site,  continuously  conducting  new  research  and  speaking  for  the  project,   and   by   continually   having   the   name   of   Çatalhöyük   repeated   and   cemented   in  ‘authoritative’   introductory   texts   and   classroom   teaching,   the   project   and   its   many  central  personalities  become  more  and  more  concrete  and  stabilised  in  academic  canon,  thus  creating  and  sustaining  a  sense  of  authority.  It  is  important  to  note  that  this  process  itself   is   a  messy,  mangled  and  complicated  affair,   involving   interwoven  people,  places,  things,   personalities,   loyalties,   texts,   time   and   materials.   I   argue   that   the   project’s  strongest  moments  of  authority  come  when  all  of  the  mess  and  mangle  stabilizes  in  just  one  authoritative  voice—usually  Hodder’s—which  rises  out  of  the  chaos,  solidifying  the  inscriptions   and  messy  method   in   one   formal   book   or   report   narrative.   Today,   a   new  reader   or   visitor   to   the   site   is   first   confronted   with   an   overwhelming   instability   of  people   and   great   confusion   over   ‘too  many’   inscriptions.   In   the   heat   of   this   confusion  and  entropy,  the  reader  then  stumbles  across  the  solid  formal  introductions  in  reports  and  the  hardbound  books  published  by  Hodder  or   the  core  team,  and  these  come  as  a  cool  relief.  There  is  a  strong  sense  of  authority  when  one  stable  voice  rises  up  out  of  the  chaos,  appearing  to  understand  it  all.  For  my   own   research,   I   found   that   this   constant   practical   chaos,   this   constant  instability  of  new  people  and  things  tumbling  in  and  out  of  the  site  while  offering  ‘new  ideas’,  has  also  created  a  strong  performance  of  what  postprocessual  archaeology  should  ‘look  like’   in  the  field.  As  a  visiting  researcher  only  on-­‐site   for  a  short  period  of  time,   I  perceived   a   sense   of   showmanship   at   the   site.   This   performance   manifested   most  strongly   when   I   observed   outside   archaeology   groups   visiting   on   what   I   called   a  ‘pilgrimage’   to   see   ‘postprocessual   archaeology   in   action’   (see   Section   4.2.2.3).   These  archaeology   groups,   often   heavy   with   students,   would   come   to   see   the   Çatalhöyük  excavations  and  laboratories;  they  would  ask  questions  to  the  site  directors  with  a  hope  to   ‘contribute’,   then   depart   without   having   much   impact   on   the   site   specialists,   who  mostly  just  wanted  to  get  on  with  their  work  in  quiet  laboratories.    This  sense  of  performance  further  manifested  as  I  went  through  my  five  weeks  as  a  ‘site  ethnographer’.  When  I  first  arrived  on  site,  I  felt  a  sense  of  unease  when  I  was  immediately   labelled   as   ‘another   ethnographer’   and   my   work   was,   at   times,   quietly  resisted   by   archaeologists   who  were   tired   of   being  watched   and   studied   (although   it  must  be  said  that  my  questions  were  never  dismissed  or  rejected,  and  people  warmed  to  me   the   longer   I   stayed   at   the   site).   For   example,   many   of   the   returning   members  expressed   a   slight   sense   of   exasperation   and   humour   when   they   first   met   me:   ‘yet  another  ethnographer  showing  up  for  duty’.  During  my  time  there,  I  got  the  sense  that   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     163 many   of   the   Çatalhöyük   team   members   were   simply   a   ‘performing   for   the  anthropologist’.  In  my  field  notes  on  Day  Two,  I  wrote:  Really   interesting   conversation   I   just   had   [with]   one   of   the   human   remains  specialists   who   is   sharing   a   room   with   me.   She   mentioned   jokes   that   went  around  about  what  exactly  I’m  doing  –  and  asked  directly,  almost  bluntly,  what   exactly   it   is   that   I  would  be  doing  here?:  would   I  would  be  walking  around  the  site  with  a  notepad  and  clipboard  looking  at  everyone  as  if  they  were  monkeys?  She  said  that  she  and  a  few  others  were  in  the  showers  this  morning,  and  then  suddenly   there  was  no  water.  They   joked   that  maybe   they  should  all  go  out   in  the   veranda   with   buckets   of   water   and   splash   it   on   themselves—then   the  ethnographer  could  come  and  watch  the  primitives  ‘doing  their  thing’.    On   the   same   day,   my   field   notes   relate   a   separate   conversation   with   another  disillusioned  specialist  who  told  me  that  the  team  specialists  really  just  felt  like  “middle  management”  working  away  on  archaeological  details  day  in  and  day  out,  while  “  higher  powers”  watched  and  made  commentary.  The  specialist  said  that  many  members  of  the  team  often  “just  felt  like  amoeba  in  Hodder’s  Petri  dish”,  since  the  director  continued  to  disrupt   the   site  by   “inviting   controversy   for   the   sake  of  his  next  paper”.  This   sense  of  disillusionment,  which  was  rife  at  the  site  when  I  visited  in  2009,  no  doubt  contributed  to  Hodder’s  decision  to  fire  most  of  his  team  to  bring  in  “new  energy”  (see  Section  4.4.4).  This  reality  means  that  my  own  study  has  certainly  failed  in  some  ways  to  fully  pin   down   the   complex  mangle   of   authority   at   the   site   of   Çatalhöyük.   I   argue   that   this  archaeological   project   is   perhaps   overly   scrutinized:   it   is   too   studied,   too   observed.   It  produces  too  many  voices,  which  are  never  fully  integrated,  because  there  is  too  much  instability  and  too  many  inscriptions  to  manage.  As  I  argue  in  Section  4.4.2,  because  of  this   confusion  and   instability,   the   team  usually   collapses  back   into  a  more   simple  and  streamlined   accounting   process   as   they   interpret   data,   where   any   one   person  necessarily  relies  on  only  one  convenient  set  of   inscriptions  or  one  set  of  voices  when  constructing  their  own  understanding  the  site  data.  Out  of  all  of  the  chaos  and  ‘too  many  things’,  emerges  just  one  authoritative  voice  for  simplicity’s  sake—and  it  is  this  relief  in  the  stability  of  one  strong  authoritative  voice  lifted  above  chaos  that  the  true  authority  of  the  project  lies.  Thus,   in   the   same   continued   vein,   my   research   has   simply   contributed   yet  another   inscription   to   the  mess  and  tangle  of   the  Çatalhöyük  project.   I,   too,  have  been  forced  to  rely  on  only  one  set  of  inscriptions  or  limited  series  of  events  to  stake  my  own  arguments.  In  this  way,  my  own  study  is  undermined  because  of  the  limitations  in  trying  to  get  a  grasp  on  ‘too  much’  data.  The  site  is  so  studied,  so  scrutinized,  so  inscribed  that  any  comprehensive  account  of  the  project’s  authority  through  time  and  space  would  be  a  mammoth  undertaking,   requiring   an   enormous   amount   of   time   and   familiarity  with   CHAPTER  4                                                                                                                                                                                                    ÇATALHÖYÜK  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     164 the   site—which  perhaps   goes   above   and  beyond   anything   a   new   researcher  might   be  able  to  perform.  Perhaps  only  a  longstanding,  stable  and  returning  member  of  the  site,  like  Shahina  Farid,  could  offer  something  remotely  close  to  a  comprehensive  discussion  on  the  construction  of  authority  at  Çatalhöyük.    Finally,   I  would  argue   that  my  research   is  ultimately  undermined  because   it   is  only   a   study   of   a   performance.   People   and   things   at   Çatalhöyük   operate   in   a   complex  web   of   practice   that—to   any   new   researcher—is  merely   a   performance   of   an   idea   of  what   methods   and   spatial   setup   ‘should   be   like’   at   the   site,   and   not   what   is   actually  happening.   I   do   think   that   this   chapter   has   in   some   small   way   scratched   the  performative   surface  of  Çatalhöyük  and  begun  a  discussion  on   the  project’s   authority,  but   I   also   think   that   its   results   might   be   compromised   by   the   fact   that   I   have   been  studying  people  who  are  overly  aware  of  my  observing  eyes,  overly  trained  to  ‘deal  with’  being  observed,  and  who  have  simply  performed  ‘postprocessual  archaeology  in  action’.    Because   of   these   difficulties   undertaking   research   at   Çatalhöyük,   this   chapter   does   in  some   ways   fail   to   present   a   fully   comprehensive   analysis   of   authority.   However,   it  contributes   a   solid   illustration   of   just   how   truly   messy   and   mangled   archaeological  practice  can  be,  and  it  strongly  argues  that  authority  in  the  entire  discipline  rests  on  the  stabilizing   of  material   performances   and   interactions   of   things   and   people.   The   next  chapter,  which  focuses  on  the  case  to  the  Bosnian  Pyramids,  extends  this  discussion  of  performance   and   participation   in   the   construction   of   authority   in   archaeological  practice.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     165 CHAPTER  FIVE:     Authority  in  Politics  and  Performance:                           The  Bosnian  Pyramids  as  a  Case  Study       “In  arguments  for  hypotheses,  as  against  textbook  expositions  of  findings,  the  best  scientists  sound   like  honest,   intelligent   lawyers  and  like  principled,  mutually  respectful  people  engaged  in  political   controversy.”  (Miller  1987:  155)     “The  conceptualisation  and  representation  of  the  past  is  fraught  with  difficulty,  not  simply  because   of  the  paucity  of  the  data,  but  because  the  construction  of  history,  written  or  oral,  past  or  present,  is   a  political  act.”  (Whitelam  1996:  11)       5.1    Introduction   5.1.1    Introduction:  Authority  from  Context,  Institutions  and  Socio-­‐Politics  Using  the  case  of  Çatalhöyük  in  the  previous  section,  I  explained  how  authority  manifests  through  the  processes  of  inscription,  translation  and  the  stabilisation  of  fluid,  complex  scientific  practices.  Authoritative  things,  people  and  accounts  in  such  a  case  are  first   negotiated   in   localised   arenas,   in   the   translations   of   people   working   with   the  physical  world  and  under  social  institutions  of  scientific  practice;  however,  authority  in  the   production   of   archaeological   knowledge   is   yet   more   complex.   In   some   cases,  individuals  or  collectives  are  often  drawn  to  charismatic  leaders  and  social  movements  in   the   hope   to   attain   some  measure   of   authority   or   benefit   from   authority.   People   in  search   of   or   ‘in   possession   of’   authority   can   turn   into   powerful   consumers   and  producers  of  authoritative  goods.  Authority  can  also  be  mimicked  and  performed,  and  people   often   make   deliberate   choices   in   how   to   perform,   seek   out,   or   undermine  authoritative  people,  things  or  knowledge.    The  latter  points  bring  up  the  specific  question  that  drives  this  chapter:  what  is  happening   in   a   case   like   the   Bosnian   Pyramids?   In   Bosnia,   a   group   of   people   (and   in  particular,   one   individual)   has   successfully   promoted   an   image   of   archaeological  authority,   even   though   their   interpretations  of   excavated  material  have  no  ontological  significance.   The   amateur   Bosnian   Pyramid   project   has   held   a   dominant   or  ‘authoritative’   position   in   popular   culture,   over   more   ‘justified’   accounts   of   the   past  promoted  by  professional  archaeologists.  Archaeological  authority,  then,  fundamentally   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     166 rests  on  external  social  contexts  which  affect  the  reception  of  accounts  with  the  general  public.   The   issue   of   authority   in   archaeological   practice   goes   beyond   just   how   actors  might   translate   material   and   ‘gatekeep’   power   in   localised   arenas   of   practice.   This  chapter   argues   that   in   cases   like   the   Bosnian   Pyramids,   archaeological   authority   is  drawn   from   performative   and   participatory   acts   that   are   contextual   in   nature.   Socio-­‐politics   plays   a   crucial   role   in   the   way   authority   can   be   created   and   translated   by  archaeologists,   as  well   as   by   amateurs   and  members   of   the   general   public,   and   in   the  way   accounts   are   successful   at   garnering   authority   in   public   arenas.   This   study  demonstrates  that,  by  drawing  on  institutions  of  social  authority  and  science  as  a  master  discourse,  epistemic  and  executive  authority  can  be  constructed  and  maintained  on  the  basis  of  performance  and  participation.    The  first  section  of  this  chapter  introduces  the  idea  of  authority  behind  the  act  of  classification,  the  power  in  dividing  what  is  authentic,  authorised  and  authoritative  from  what  is  not  in  a  scientific  discipline  like  archaeology.  The  second  section  uses  the  case  of  the   Bosnain   Pyramids   to   illustrate   the   role   of   socio-­‐politics   and   institutions   in   the  translation   of   authority,   and   it   argues   that   politics   have   a   major   impact   in   the  construction   and   maintenance   of   archaeological   authority,   especially   relating   to   the  general  public.  The  third  section  argues  that  scientific  authority  is,  in  large  part,  due  to  appropriate  performance,  and  the  success  or  failure  of  authority  can  come  down  to  how  one  draws  on  the  appropriate  scientific  acts,  institutions  of  legitimisation  and  the  idea  of  science  as  a  master  discourse.  This  last  point,  regarding  science  as  a  master  discourse,  is  fully   expanded   in   the   final   section  of   this   chapter,   using   the   specific   case   study  of   the  radiocarbon   results   presented   at   the   1st   International   Scientific   Conference   of   the  Bosnian  Pyramids.     5.1.2    Case  Study  Parameters:  Relevant  Project  Background  In   2005,   a   Bosnian-­‐American   businessman   and   alternative   historian   named  Semir  Osmanagić  made   international  news  headlines  when  he  announced   that  he  had  discovered   the   largest   and   oldest   man-­‐made   pyramids   in   the   world.   These   ancient  pyramids,  he  claimed,  are   located   in  the  small   town  of  Visoko,  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina,  20  miles  northwest  of  Sarajevo  [Figures  13,  14].  Osmanagić  has   identified  five  pyramidal-­‐shaped  hills  located  in  the  Visočica  river  valley,  which  he  has  claimed  are  technological   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     167 feats   of   a   Paleolithic58   Bosnian   supercivilisation   (BosnianPyramids.org   2006;   ICBP  2008).   The   largest   of   the   purported   pyramids,   Visočica   Hill,   is   185.5   metres   high.   If  genuinely  man-­‐made,   this  would  make   it   the   largest  pyramid   in   the  world,   as  Khufu’s  pyramid  in  Egypt  is  only  146.5  metres.  Osmanagić  renamed  all  of  the  pyramidal  hills  in  the  valley  with  titles  like  ‘Pyramid  of  the  Sun’  and  ‘Pyramid  of  the  Moon’,  because  they  supposedly   resemble   the  Maya   step  pyramids   in  Mexico.  According   to  Osmanagić,   the  three   largest   pyramids   purportedly   form   a   perfect   triangle,   and   the   four   sides   of   the  largest  ‘Pyramid  of  the  Sun’  align  to  the  four  cardinal  points  of  the  Earth’s  compass.  His  hypothesis  also  claims  that  these  pyramids  are  connected  by  an  intricate  underground  tunnel  network,  and  the  walls  are  adorned  with  the  world’s  earliest  writing  and  letters  that   resemble   ancient   Nordic   runes.   Osmanagić   has   associated   two   other   sites   with  Visoko:   a   hypothetical   ‘rock   quarry’   site   in   the   village   of   Gornja   Vratnica,   and   a   river  ravine   near   Zenica   filled   with   ancient   ‘mysterious   stone   balls’   (Osmanagic   2007c;  Osmanagic  2007a).    These   sensational   claims   are   a   bit   of   a   two-­‐headed   Janus:   on   the   one   hand,  Osmanagić  and  his  team  stress  that  their  project  is  scientific,  based  in  ontological  reality  and  physical  truth.  On  the  other  hand,  Osmanagić  and  his  team  consistently  connect  the  project  to  new  age  mysticism,  fringe  beliefs,  alternative  archaeologies  and  esoterica.  For  example,   the   project   releases   “Scientific   Reports”   as   well   as   media   coverage   of   the  project  as  a  genuine  scientific  archaeological  enterprise  (Osmanagic  2007b;  ICBP  2008;  Pazdur   2008)   [See   Appendix   H],  while   simultaneously   presenting   itself   as   a   site  with  ‘mystical’  and   ‘mysterious  properties  with  connections  to  energy  beams,  cosmic   forces  and   geological   anomalies   (Coppens   2008a;   Coppens   2009).   Despite   the   fringe  associations,   the   scientific   and   physical   reality   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   is   by   far   the  most  prevalent  narrative  pushed  by  Semir  Osmanagić  and  his   team,  and   it   is  arguably  the   ‘scientific’   and   ‘empirical’   account  of   the   site   that  holds   sway  and  authority   in   the  eyes  of  the  general  Bosnian  public.    Semir   Osmanagić   is   originally   from   Sarajevo.   He   holds   a   Masters   degree   in  politics  and  economics,  and  in  2009,  he  defended  a  PhD  from  the  University  of  Sarajevo  on  unconventional  fringe  theories  about  the  Maya  (Osmanagic  2007b;  Osmanagic  2009).  Osmanagić   settled   in   Houston,   Texas   before   the   Yugoslav   Civil  War   (1992-­‐1995)   and  now  owns  a   successful  metal   construction  business   that  oversees  100  employees—an   58 The exact dates for these ‘pyramids’ have varied over time by pyramid supporters, with little consistency. In some cases Osmanagić also refers to the pyramids as having a Neolithic date or as being built by the Illyrian civilisation around 12,000BC (Coppens 2009); however, in this thesis I use the term ‘Palaeolithic’ to reflect the radiocarbon dates of around 34,000 BC that have been heavily promoted by Semir Osmanagić and the Bosnian Pyramid Foundation (see Section 5.5.2). CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     168 accomplishment   reflecting   his   considerable   skill   as   an   entrepreneur.   Regarding   his  archaeological   background,   Osmanagić   claims   to   have   studied   pyramids   around   the  world  in  his  free  time  over  the  past  20  years  and  is  the  author  of  several  works  of  ‘fringe’  archaeology  (Foer  2007)  [See  Appendix  E].  His  book  The  World  of  the  Maya,  for  example,  suggests   that   the   Maya   were   descended   from   aliens   from   the   Pleiades,   “inherited  knowledge   from   their   ancestors   at   Atlantis   and   Lemuria   (Mu)”,   and   that   “pyramids  erected  on  these  energy  potent  locations  enabled  the  Maya  to  be  closer  to  the  heavens  and  to  other  levels  of  consciousness”  (Osmanagic  2005c;  Osmanagic  2005b:  70).  Most  of  Osmanagić’s   alternative   history   works   espouse   the   same   genre   of   ‘fringe’   ideas  (Osmanagic  2005a).       Figure  13:  Map  showing  the  location  of  Visoko  in  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina.  Map  by  Tera  Pruitt.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     169   Figure  14:  This  iconic  image  of  Visoko  was  taken  in  1973,  and  it  is  widely  distributed   online,  in  pyramid  brochures  for  tourism  and  ‘scientific  studies’,  and  on  tourist  postcards   and  other  souvenirs.  This  is  the  most  stunning,  straight-­‐lined  side  of  Visočica  Hill   (renamed  Pyramid  of  the  Sun).  Incidentally,  this  is  also  the  most  photographed  angle  of   Visočica  Hill.  This  is  a  freely  distributed  image.     Osmanagić’s   pyramid   theories   quickly   gained   local   and   national   attention   and  support,   including  support   from  the   international  alternative  history  community  (Foer  2007;   Coppens   2009).   Most   professional   archaeologists,   however,   have   since   agreed  that  Osmanagić’s   theories   are  not   supported  by   any   evidentiary  material   found  at   the  site,  despite  Osmanagić’s  claims   to   the  contrary   (Bohannon  2006a;  Rose  2006b).  Most  mainstream   archaeologists   define   the   site   as   ‘pseudoarchaeology’,   an   act   of   amateur  archaeological  practice  that  “invokes  the  aura  of  scholarship  without  being  scholarly  in  fact  and  blurs  the  distinction  between  real  scholarship  and  ‘alternative’  output”  (Jordan  2001:   288-­‐289).   In   spite   of   the   negative   professional   academic   reaction,   Osmanagić’s  project  has   continued   to  operate  and   thrive   through   to   the  year  2010,  with  continued  backing  from  the  Bosnian  public,  media  and  government  (Pruitt  2007;  Woodard  2007a).  Use  of  mass  media  has  been  the  single  most  important  reason  that  information  and   support   for   the   pyramid   project   spread   so   rapidly.   Print   news   first   released   and  distributed   Semir   Osmanagić’s   story,   and   television   and   Internet   media   fanned   the  debate  between  supporters  and  opposition.  Debra  Spitulnik  writes:  “Mass  media…are  at  once   artifacts,   experiences,   practices,   and   processes.   They   are   economically   and  politically  driven,   linked  to  the  developments   in  science  and  technology,  and   like  most   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     170 domains  of  human  life,  their  existence  is  inextricably  bound  up  with  the  use  of  language”  (Spitulnik   1993:   293).   Interactions   that   Osmanagić’s   team,   the   general   public,  politicians,   academics   and   other   groups   have   had   with   the   media   have   created   a  complex  web  of  performance,  contribution,  theatricality  and  distribution.  Mark  Rose  of   the  Archaeological   Institute  of  America  writes  of   the   initial  press  interest:  “The  story  has  swept  the  media,  from  the  Associated  Press  and  the  BBC,  from  papers  and  websites  in  the  U.S.  to  those  in  India  and  Australia”  (2006b).  Most  of  these  initial   reports   demonstrated   support   for   the   project.   According   to  Rose:   “Every  major  media  outlet  that  initially  covered  this  story  got  it  wrong.  It’s  clearly  crackpot  stuff,  but  apparently  nobody  bothered  to  check  the  story”  (quoted  in  Woodard  2007b).  Eventually  bigger   news   outlets   started   checking   the   story   and   released   more   sceptical   reports;  however,   local  newspapers,   “don’t  have  science  desks…Bosnian  archaeologists  dismiss  the  majority  of   local   journalists   as   ill-­‐educated.  Hence  April’s  Avaz   headlines   like   ‘The  pyramid  will  be  visible  by  the  end  of  the  year’”  (Kampschror  2006:  27).  Television  media  was   the  most   influential   in   spreading  supportive   information  to   a   wide   audience   (Osmanagic   2007c).   Woodard   reports,   “Federation   television,   the  largest   Sarajevo-­‐based   network,   provided   extensive   coverage,   and   soon   thousands   of  people  were  visiting  Visoko  every  day”  (2007b).  Local  media  stations  also  arranged  for  ‘face-­‐offs’   between   Osmanagić   and   mainstream   archaeologists   and   distributed   many  supportive   campaigns   for   his   site   (Osmanagic   2006).   Foreign   television   networks   like  ABC  advertised  excited  programs  that  would  “travel  to  Bosnia  to  follow  this  modern  day  Indiana   Jones”   (ABC  2006).  Osmanagić  was  quick   to  use  his  new  clout  with   the  press,  travelling  around  the  world—to  places   like  Easter   Island,  Peru,  England,  and   Jordan—with   Bosnian   TV   to   create   documentaries   that   boosted   his   site’s   profile   (Osmanagic  2007c)  [See  interview  transcript  in  Appendix  E].  In  the  meantime,  other  private  groups  released   professional   documentaries   about   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   (BBR   2007).   Local  newspapers  relished  the  attention  from  foreign  press,  exaggerating  foreign  interest:  “all  local  television  news  shows  trumpeted  the  presence  of  CNN,  AP,  Reuters,  and  the  BBC—without   mentioning   that   most   outlets   covered   it   as   a   cute   human   interest   story”  (Woodard   2007b).   With   international   media   attention   fuelling   the   local   media,  excitement   and  positive  press   spread   the   story   like   fire.  Almost   overnight,  Osmanagić  became  the  mastermind  and  poster  boy  of  a  national  sensation.  [Figure  15]     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     171           Figure  15:  Osmanagić  courts  both  the  local  (left)  and  foreign  (right)  Television  Press.     Mark  Rose  writes,   “one  might   have   thought   that   the   Ice   Age   Bosnian   pyramid  story  would  collapse  like  a  bad  soufflé,  but  no.  Mainstream  media  has  become  somewhat  more  critical  of  stories  emanating  from  Visoko,  but  much  of  the  real  work  in  dissecting  the  claims  has  appeared  on  blogs  and  message  boards,  such  as  The  Hall  of  Ma’at”  (Rose  2006a).  While  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  project  gathered  force  and  popularity  through  print  and   television   formats,   Osmanagić’s   bad   archaeology   was   exposed   mostly   in   online  formats.  The  Internet  has  become  the  biggest  media  for  those  who  oppose  the  pyramid  project,   undoubtedly   because   of   its   interactive   and   dynamic   format.   Anti-­‐pyramid  websites   come   in   three   types:   independent   websites   devoted   to   anti-­‐pyramid  sentiments,   blog   postings   and   commentary   on   personal   websites,   and   forum  commentary   attached   to   previously   established  websites   (Feagans   2007;   Reece   2007;  Irna  2010).  Websites  like  In  the  Hall  of  Ma’at  operate  a  general  list  of  articles  and  forum  discussions   that   dispute   alternative   history   stories   for   the   general   public.   Ma’at’s  developer,   Katherine   Reece,   says   she   built   the   site   to   “help   those   people   who   were  searching  for  the  truth  about  history  to  have  an  easily  accessible   ‘mainstream’  counter  to  these  ‘alternative’  claims”  (2006:103).  Her  forum  has  featured  heated  and  emotional  debate  about  pseudoscience  at  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  site.  Other  websites  and  blogs  like  IRNA  (Irna  2010)  continue  to  release  frequent  bouts  of  news,  information  and  evidence-­‐based  arguments  against  the  pyramid  project.    In   2006,   Osmanagić   established   an   officially   registered   ‘Archaeological   Park:  Bosnian   Pyramid   of   the   Sun   Foundation’   (referred   to   this   dissertation   as   simply   ‘the  Foundation’),  establishing  a   fully-­‐fledged  business  and  administration  centre.  His  team  of  35  to  80  individuals,  depending  on  the  season,  is  mostly  composed  of  amateurs  with  an   interest   in  history,  but  also   includes  PhD  holders   from  countries  such  as  Egypt  and  Russia  (Osmanagic  2007c;  ICBP  2008).  The  Foundation  has  maintained  that  its  ultimate   (Image courtesy of Gabriele Lukacs: http://www.magisch-reisen.at/pyrm.gif) (Image courtesy of Beth Kampschror: http://www.archaeology.org/0607/abstracts/bosnia.html) CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     172 goal  is  to  establish  Visoko  as  a  major  tourist  attraction  and  get  the  pyramids  listed  as  a  UNESCO  world  heritage  site  (Kosmo  2009).  The  team  runs  fully  invasive  and  extensive  excavations  in  Gornja  Vratnica,  and  at  Visočica  and  Plješevica  Hills  in  Visoko  (‘Pyramid  of   the   Sun’   and   ‘Pyramid   of   the   Moon’,   respectively).   International   professional  archaeologists  have  particularly  criticized   the  Foundation’s  haphazard  and  destructive  excavation   methods.   Osmanagić’s   amateur   team   has   damaged   genuine   medieval   and  iron  age  archaeological   remains   in   the  Visoko  hills   in   their  search  of   ‘proof’  of  ancient  pyramids  (Rose  2006b).  Supporters  and  opponents  alike  have  compared  Osmanagić  to  Heinrich  Schliemann:  his  supporters  praise  Osmanagić’s  determination  for  pursuing  his  vision   despite   objections   from   the   established   academe   (in   reference   to   Schliemann’s  background  as  a  passionate  amateur).  His  opponents  reference  Schliemann’s  penchant  for   destroying   all   archaeological   evidence—from   medieval   to   Roman—that   stood  between  him  and  his  sought-­‐after  Trojan  stratigraphy.  [Figure  16]  Osmanagić   and   his   Foundation   publish   voraciously:   everything   from   scientific  reports  aimed  at  a  general  public  audience  to  tourist  brochures  aiming  to  boost  business  in   the   region.   Osmanagić   has   lectured   at   Bosnian   Embassies   throughout   the   world  (Osmanagic   2007a),   has   hosted   his   own   sizeable   international   scientific   conference  (ICBP  2008)  and  has  made  frequent  appearances  in  local  schools  and  on  television  (ABC  2006).   The   pyramid   phenomenon   in   Bosnia   was   initially   seen   as   an   overwhelming  success,   bringing   in   important   positive   economic   changes   to   the   post-­‐war   town   of  Visoko  (Foer  2007;  Woodard  2007a;  Woodard  2007b).  Much  of  the  enthusiasm  behind  the   project   has   involved   the   money   it   brings   to   the   region   through   tourism.   Bosnia  experienced  a  great  deal  of  suffering  in  the  recent  war  (1991-­‐1995),  which  divided  the  country  ethnically  and  politically,   leaving  its  citizens  very  insecure  and  its  government  politically  disjointed:  “Fears,  hatreds,  memories,  grief  for  the  dead,  nostalgia  for  the  lost  native  places  and  homes,  shattered  dreams,   insecurity,  disappointment,  pessimism  are  continuing   to   haunt   everybody”   (Zhelyazkova   2004:   17).   In   this   context,   the   pyramid  project   has   provided   a   positive,   unifying   symbol   for   post-­‐war   Bosnian   nationalism,  holding   significant   authority   in   the   region   because   of   its   useful   role   in   a   national   and  ethnic  dialogue  (Pruitt  2007).       CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     173   Figure  16:  Excavation  site  at  Plješevica  Hill  (renamed  Pyramid  of  the  Moon).  Photo  by  Tera   Pruitt.    The  questions  that  emerge  from  this  situation  are  difficult.  Who  has  the  right  to  Bosnia’s  past?  Who  has  the  authority  to  use  Bosnia’s  past?  This  project  is  undoubtedly  helping  Bosnia’s  economy.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  undoubtedly  disrupting,  and  perhaps  destroying,   genuine   archaeology   in   Bosnia.   This   scenario   forces   us   to   ask   distressing  questions:  might  an   imagined   site   like   the  Bosnian  pyramids  be  worth  more   than   real  archaeology?  Who  has  the  right   to  put  a  value  on   it?  Who  has  the  authority   to  own  or  excavate   archaeological   space,   or   to   construct   narratives   based   in   archaeology   (or   at  least   in   the   notion   of   what   ‘archaeology’   might   entail)?   This   site   is   an   economic   and  social  asset  to  different  groups  in  Bosnia,  with  different  values  for  different  reasons.  For  many   politicians   and   members   of   the   public,   the   question   is   not   whether   or   not   the  pyramids  are  real,  but   rather   if  people  will   come   to  see   it,   spend  money   in   the   tourist  shops,  and  use  it  as  a  cultural  and  economic  artefact.  For  others  the  site’s  very  existence  questions   fundamental   ideas   about   government,   personal   control   and   academic  authority.    This   case   study   also   raises   important   questions   about   the   power   of  representation   and   performance,   and   the   appropriate   ‘presence’   and   ‘presentation’   of  archaeological   accounts.   The   performative   aspects   of   this   case,   coupled   with   the  participatory  involvement  by  members  of  the  public,  offers  an  interesting  contrast  to  the  idea  that   ‘facts’  and   ‘validity’  are  objective  concepts  that  might  exist  outside  of  a  social   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     174 context,   which   involves   politics   of   ‘convincing’.   Instead,   we   are   forced   to   involve  complex  arenas  of  authority  such  as  performance  and  display   in  order   to  explain  why  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  account  of  the  past  has  been  so  successful  and  accepted.  While  my  previous  work  on  this  case  study  for  my  MPhil  dissertation  (Pruitt  2007)  focused  on  the  socio-­‐political   heritage   concerns   that   this   project   has   raised,   this   thesis   is   primarily  concerned   with   the   questions   raised   by   the   site’s   construction   and   maintenance   of  epistemic  and  executive  authority  in  Bosnia.           5.2    Authority  Behind  Categories  and  Alterity   5.2.1    The  Authority  behind  Classification  and  Boundaries:  Archaeology  as   a  Knowledge-­‐Producing  Culture       Archaeology  derives  its  social   identity  from  the  way  specific  people,  things  and  actions   are   classified   as   being   archaeological.   As   a   discipline,   archaeology   gains  authority   from   its   classification   as   a   knowledge-­‐producing   culture;   people   and   things  within   the  discipline  hold   authority   from   their   status  within   this   category.  As  Bowker  and   Star  write,   “to   classify   is   human…a   classification   is   a   spatial,   temporal,   or   spatio-­‐temporal  segmentation  of  the  world”  (1999:  1-­‐11).  As  humans,  we  categorise  the  world,  often  tacitly,  by  sorting  activities  and  materials  into  classification.  By  doing  so,  we  create  social  and  moral  order  out  of  the  world  we  experience.  Categories  are  defined,  created  and  sustained  by  their  social  reproducibility.  The  identity  of  archaeology  as  a  descriptive  category—and  a  discipline—is  maintained,   upheld   and   recreated  moment  by  moment  by  the  social  re-­‐enactment  of   its  method  and  meaning.  Archaeology   is   identifiable  as  a  subject   by   the   acts   that   society   deems   are   archaeological,   by   the   spaces   and   the  materials   that   are   deemed   to   be   archaeological,   and   by   the   tangible   products   of   the  system  that  are  deemed  by  general  social  consensus  to  be  appropriately  archaeological.  The   identity   of   archaeology   as   a   category   can   change   or   evolve,   but   only   through  legitimate  means,   and   only   through   consensus   by   the  majority   of   people   who   accept  changes  to  archaeology  as  an  appropriate  category.  If  there  is  no  social  consensus  on  a  category,   or   if   the   legitimate   means   are   contested,   power   struggles   may   arise—as  exemplified  in  the  case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids.  Such  a  case  raises  questions  about  the  very  nature  of  categories,  consensus,  and  who  has  the  authority  to  pick  and  choose  what   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     175 is   or   is   not   ‘appropriate’,   which   can   lead   to   debates   about   who   has   the   executive  authority  to  access  or  alter  physical  space  or  ground.  The  act   of   identifying   and   classifying   archaeology   is   important:   the  very   act   of  creating  a  classification  or  naming  things  or  people  within  the  category  is   inherently  a  ‘diving  practice’.  ‘Dividing  practices’,  conceptually  popularised  by  Foucault  (c.f.  Foucault  1965;  Foucault  1979;  Foucault  1982;  Rabinow  1984:  8-­‐11),  involve  the  construction  of  inclusive  lists  of  things  and  actions  which  orient,  structure  and  define  what  it  is  to  be  or  to  do   something—say,   ‘to  be’   an  archaeologist   is   a  definitive   category   that  necessarily  excludes  everything  that  is  ‘other’—say,  what  it  is  ‘to  not  be’  an  archaeologist,  or  to  be  a  pseudoarchaeologist,   for  example.  As  Foucault  has  argued,   ‘dividing  practices’  have  an  essential   power/knowledge   relationship.   The   act   of   classifying   sets   up   categories   of  inclusion/exclusion,   creating   relationships   of   asymmetric   power.   The   very   nature   of  dividing   objects   and   acts   as   appropriately   or   inappropriately   under   a   classification  creates   an   immediate   imbalance   of   authority:   on   the   one   hand,   what   is   classified   as  archaeological   has   the   power   of   definition,   and   on   the   other   hand,   all   the   excluded  activities  of  the  rest  of  the  world  have  the  powerless  state  (relative  to  the  category)  of  being   simply   ‘other’.59   Thus,   there   is   a   great   deal   of   power   vested  both   in   the   state   of   being  classified  and  in  who  has  the  power  to  name  or  choose  the  categories.    A  case  like  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  is   innately  tied  to  the  authority  of  categories.  Scholars  like  Reba  N.  Soffer  have  argued  that,  “in  the  long  run,  the  success  of  a  discipline  is   not   determined   by   its   powers   of   protection   or   patronage”,   but   rather   “successful  professions  have  maintained  a  monopoly  over  a  special  body  of  knowledge  and  skills…of  a   real   benefit   to   the   public”   (1982:   801).  When   an   ‘alternative’   case   of   archaeological  practice   like   the  Bosnian  Pyramids   clashes  with   ‘professional’   practice,   it   can  provoke  hostile   reactions   from   those   who   see   themselves   as   protecting   the   boundaries   and  reproducibility  of  the  discipline.  That  is  especially  so  when  an  alternative  case,  though  it  may  lack  fidelity  to  the  truth,  is  nevertheless  arguably  “of  a  real  benefit  to  the  public”.  A  site   like   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   challenges   the   social   authority   that   lies   behind   the  boundaries,  control,  influence  and  territory  of  the  discipline  of  archaeology.     59  This  is  not  to  say  that  all  the  rest  of  the  ‘other’,  non-­‐archaeology  things  have  no  power  under  other  names,  only  that  in  the  immediate  instance  of  classification  and  naming,  they  have  less  power  than  the  things  identified  in  the  named  category.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     176 5.2.2    Challenging  Categories:  Professional  Authority  and  Alternative   Archaeological  Claims     60Competing   ‘alternative’   archaeological   claims—claims   that   sit   outside   of   the  generally   recognised   category   of   ‘archaeology’—have   existed   since   the   beginning   of  archaeology’s  professional  development   (Feder  2002).  Many  of   these  claims,  however,  have   been   neglected   by   mainstream   archaeology   as   insignificant   side   issues,   only  noteworthy  as  examples  of  bad  archaeology  or   laughable  enterprises.  This  neglect  has  been   critically   challenged   in   the   last   few   years.   Archaeologists   have   begun   to   see   the  value,  and  perhaps  necessity,  of  studying  alternative  claims  to  the  past.  Influences  from  Marxism   to   postmodernism,   indigenous   rights   and   values,   and   heritage   institutional  accountability   to   public   funding   have   led   the   field   to   be   aware   of   pluralistic  interpretations   about   the   past   and   forced   archaeologists   to   recognize   the   historical  contingency  of  their  own  profession  (Trigger  1989;  Skeates  2000;  Merriman  2004).  The  study  of   ‘alternatives’  has  most  thoroughly  developed  regarding  indigenous  values  and  notions   of   the   sacred   (Goldstein   and   Kintigh   1990;   Downer   1997;   Wallis   2003).  However,   many   archaeologists   feel   that   other   alternative   archaeologies—such   as  nationalistic  manipulations  of  history,  imagined  reconstructions,  or  pseudoscience—are  also   relevant   to   mainstream   archaeology.   According   to   these   arguments,   alternative  claims   challenge   the   authority   and   the   very   fundamentals   of   learned   archaeological  research.  The  study  of  alternative  claims  helps  us  to  understand  and  justify  reasonable  archaeological   interpretations,   and   to   separate   them   from   irrational   speculations  ranging   from   the   misguided   to   the   intentionally   malicious   (Schadla-­‐Hall   2004;   Fagan  2006a;   Renfrew   2006).   Furthermore,   it   is   becoming   more   apparent   that   alternative  claims  are  not  as  one-­‐sided,  simplistic  and  dismissible  as  many  professionals  are  prone  to   think.  Complex  alternative  claims  contest   the  authority  of  professional  archaeology,  and   they   highlight   underlying   questions   about   the   nature   of   authority   in   scientific  disciplines—addressing   the   way   performance   and   socio-­‐politics   can   directly   raise   or  lower  the  status  and  authority  of  interpretations  about  the  past.    This  thesis  uses  the  case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  to  illustrate  issues  of  authority  that   emerge   from   this   developing   professional   debate.   Most   archaeologists   have  dismissed   or   simply   acknowledged   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   case   as   cut-­‐and-­‐dry  pseudoarchaeology.   It   seems   to   fit   securely  within  any  diagnosis  of   fabricated  science,   60  Sections  of  this  text  have  come  from  my  MPhil  (Pruitt  2007)  research.  Some  text  remains  intact  from  my  original  work,  but  it  has  been  substantially  edited,  updated  and  integrated  into  this  doctoral  thesis.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     177 leaving   no   question   as   to   how  mainstream   archaeological   professionals   should   define  and  categorize   it   (Fagan  2006).  But  a  closer   look  shows   that   this   type  of  case  study   is  much   larger   and   more   complicated   than   simple   labels   like   ‘real’   or   ‘pseudo’   can  characterize.   The   Bosnian   Pyramid   project   and  many   of   its   individual   team  members  have  held  a  great  deal  of  authority  with  the  Bosnian  public,  while  also  garnering  support  from   a   number   of   accredited   professionals   and   institutions.   However,   from   the  beginning,   it   has   also   held   no   valid   authority   with   most   professional   (‘mainstream’)  archaeologists.    The  site  is  not  a  hoax,  or  a  forgery,  or  entirely  ‘unscientific’.  The  Foundation  has  engaged   in   many   genuine   and   authoritative   scientific   methods;   it   has   previously  employed  accredited  professionals  (along  with  many  more  unaccredited  amateurs)  and  has   found  a  number  of  objects   that  can  be  arguably  called   ‘archaeological’   (along  with  many  more  ‘non-­‐archaeological’  finds).  The  site  holds  a  kind  of  executive  and  epistemic  authority,  yet  not  credibility.  What  does  this  mean?  What  are  the  implications  of  such  a  complex,   messy   site   in   relation   to   the   professional   discipline,   and   to   the   scientific  authority   of   archaeological   inquiry?  An   essential   power  behind   this   project   lies   in   the  way   it   serves   different   symbolic,   socio-­‐political   and   economic   purposes   on   local   and  worldwide   scales,   and   how   it   is   intimately   attached   to,   and   working   within,   larger  conditions   of   politics   and   performance.   In   essence,   this   case   draws   its   authority   from  much   larger   issues   than   just   archaeology.   Its   ‘authoritative   knowledge’   is   created   and  sustained  through  contextual  social  arenas.     5.2.3    Categorising  Alterity:  Pseudoarchaeology  The   term   ‘alternative   archaeology’   refers   to   a   wide   and   amorphous   range   of  claims  about  the  past.   Indigenous  spiritual  and  reburial   issues,  malicious  manipulation  of   history   for   propaganda   purposes,   pseudoarchaeological   claims   about  supercivilizations,   and   even   some   professionally   interpreted   archaeological  reconstructions   can   all   be   included   under   a   blanket   category   of   ‘alternative’.   The  Bosnian   Pyramid   case   study   can   be   generally   categorised   as   pseudoarchaeology.  Mainstream   archaeologists   frequently   define   the   term   ‘pseudoarchaeology’   by  explaining   what   it   is   not:   mainstream   archaeology,   hoax   or   myth.   Mainstream  ‘archaeology’  is  defined  as  the  discipline  that  focuses  on  the  scientific  “recovery,  analysis,  and   interpretation   of   the   physical   remains   of   past   human   activity”   (Fagan   2006:   24).  Pseudoarchaeology,  unlike   archaeology,  does  not  master   a   logical   chain  of   thinking  or  analysis;   it   is   “not   a   set   of   serious   archaeological   principles…designed   to   gain   the   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     178 confidence   and   support   of   professional   archaeologists.   The   aim   is   to   propose   a   set   of  alternative  principles  and  alleged  records  of  sites  that  will  attract  and  hold  the  interest  and   belief   of   the   general   public   and   the   popular   media”   (Flemming   2006:   68).   The  Bosnian  Pyramid  project   fits   this  definition  of  pseudoarchaeology.   It   is  not  a  hoax   like  the  Cardiff  Giant  or  the  Piltdown  Man,  which  were  tricks  designed  to  fool  academic  and  non-­‐academic  audiences  alike.  Nor  is   it  a  myth  based  on  ignorance  of  data,   like  the  so-­‐called   myth   of   the   Moundbuilders   (Feder   2002).   Semir   Osmanagić’s   project,   again,  “invokes  the  aura  of  scholarship  without  being  scholarly  in  fact  and  blurs  the  distinction  between  real  scholarship  and  ‘alternative’  output”  (Jordan  2001:  288-­‐289),  a  classic  case  of  pseudoarchaeology.    Following   the   notion   that   there   is   a   ‘classic’   type   of   pseudoarchaeology,  academics   such   as   Fagan   (2006),   Flemming   (2006),   and   Lefkowitz   (2006)   have  developed  something  akin  to  rubrics  that  map  out  qualities  of  pseudoarchaeology.  Fagan  (2006:   30-­‐42),   for   example,   “diagnoses”   pseudoarchaeology   as   maintaining   the  following  characteristics:    1.  Dogged  adherence  to  outdated  theoretical  models      2.  Disparaging  academia  3.  Appeal  to  academic  authority  4.  Huge  claims  5.  Selective  and/or  distorted  presentation  6.  The  “kitchen-­‐sink”  mode  of  argument  [multi-­‐disciplinary]  7.  Vague  definitions        8.  Superficilaity,  sloppiness,  and  grossness  of  comparison  9.  Obsession  with  esoterica  10.  A  farrago  of  failings  [logical  fallacies]  11.  Expectation  of  a  reward  at  quest’s  end    The  Bosnian  Pyramid  site  exactly  matches  such  formal  definitions.  Mark  Rose,  with  the  AIA,   referred   to   this   case:   “this   kind   of   tale   is   a   staple   of   the   pseudoarchaeology   or  fantastic  archaeology  genre”  (Rose  2006b).  However,  simply  defining  or  categorising  this  type  of  site  as  ‘pseudoarchaeology’  does   not   satisfactorily   characterize   the   complexity   and   breadth   of   the   situation.  Although   attention   has   been   turned   towards   the   issue,   which   is   a   step   in   the   right  direction,   cases   of   pseudoarchaeology   are   ultimately   social   processes   within   larger  socio-­‐historical  contexts,  and   they  need  to  be  recognized  as  such.  Wiktor  Stoczkowski,  from  The  École  des  Hautes  Études  en  Sciences  Sociales  in  Paris,  writes  that:   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     179 What   is   at   stake   is   rather   our   capacity   to   grasp   the   cultural   dimension   of  pseudoscience.  In  fact,  once  we  have  shown  that  it  is  inferior  to  academic  science  (which  is  a  truism  for  most  of  the  scientists  and  their  public),  we  still  have  done  nothing  to  understand  pseudoscience  as  a  social  phenomenon.  (2007:  472-­‐473)    This  argument—that  complex  contexts  and  conditions  allow  for  alternative  archaeology  to  become  preferred  accounts  of  history—is  key  to  understanding  how  authority  plays  out  in  the  development,  defining  and  categorising  of  what  is  or  is  not  appropriate  in  any  scientific  discipline.  It  also  qualifies  what  makes  ideas  authoritative  or  marketable,  and  offers  insight  to  how  the  play  of  socio-­‐politics  in  any  given  case  of  archaeology  can  walk  a   fine   line   between   something   that   gives   meaning   to   the   study   of   the   past,   and  something  that  overwhelms  and  unethically  takes  control  of  history.       5.3    Socio-­‐Politics  and  the  Reception  of  Archaeological   Authority     5.3.1    Introducing  Socio-­‐Politics  and  the  Case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  This   section  examines   the  way   socio-­‐politics   can  directly   affect   the  production  and   reception   of   archaeological  messages.   In   the   case   of   the  Bosnian   Pyramids,   ‘facts’  have  been  constructed  for  personal  and  political  gain.  This  section  argues  that  scientific  authority  may  be  positively  or  negatively   received   in   a   situation   entirely   governed  by  politics,  without  regard   to  ontological  validation.  This  section   first  gives   the  structural  and  executive  context  of   the  pyramid  project,  and   it  explains  the   important  role  of   the  media  in  propagating  and  authorising  the  accounts  of  the  past  produced  by  the  pyramid  project   team.   It   then   identifies   the   deeply   rooted   socio-­‐political   processes   involved   in  the  case  and  exposes  the  ways  in  which  various  people  and  groups  invest  meaning  in  an  account   of   ancient   pyramids   in   Bosnia.   After   explaining   the   context   of   places   and  materialities,   and   ethnic   claims   and   divisions,   this   chapter   argues   that   four   types   of  politics   create   meaning   around   the   site:   national   identity,   ethnic   claims,   politics   of  money   and   politics   of   academics.   This   chapter   argues   that   socio-­‐politics   affect   how  receptive  an  audience  may  be  to  an  account  of  the  past,  and  that  in  many  cases,  issues  of  validation,   fidelity   and   ontological   significance   matter   far   less   than   individual   or  collective  social  values  in  the  way  a  public  initially  receives  or  promotes  archaeological  authority.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     180 5.3.2    The  Power  of  Politics,  Places  and  Materialities    Laurajane   Smith   writes:   “Heritage   is   about   a   sense   of   place.   Not   simply   in  constructing   a   sense   of   abstract   identity,   but   also   helping   us   position   ourselves   as   a  nation,   community   or   individual   and   our   ‘place’   in   our   cultural   social   and   physical  world”   (2006:   75).  Historically,   Bosnian   culture  has   intertwined  materiality   and  place  with  ethnic  and  religious  identity:  “the  physical  and  social  landscape  of  a  region  is  more  than  a  palimpsest  of  long-­‐term  settlement  features;  it  is  an  imprint  of  community  action,  structure   and   power   on   places”   (Chapman   1994:   120).   Places   in   Bosnia   are   more  complex   than   just   backdrops   and   settings.   They   are   intimate   features   of   social   life,  power  and  politics.  Archaeology  and  heritage  play  a  key  role  in  this  embedded  cultural-­‐spatial   landscape,   where   identity   “is   forged   through   association  with   the  monuments  and  artifacts  of  past  ancestors,  for  there  was  often  strong  residential  and  manufacturing  continuity  in  towns  and  villages  from  late  medieval  to  modern  times”  (Chapman  1994:  120).  All  Bosnian  towns  have  a  long  history  closely  associated  with  their  ethnic-­‐religious  populations.   Visoko,   for   example,   is   considered   a   primarily  Muslim  Bosniak   town   and  has   a   long   history   of   Islamic   influences   since   the   medieval   invasion   of   the   Turks  (Malcolm  2002).  (Clancy  2004;  Kampschror  2006)  Especially  in  post-­‐war  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina,61  nothing  goes  without  an  identity  of  place   and   ethnicity.   Layton   and   Thomas   remark   that   many   people   from   the   former  Yugoslavia   “had   always   thought   of   themselves   as   Yugoslavs   rather   than   Serbs   or  Croatians.   As   Yugoslavian   unity   broke   down,   however,   so  many   found   it   increasingly  expedient…to   secure   a   national   identity”   (Layton   and   Thomas   2001:   15).   Today,   the  main  ethnic  groups  within  Bosnia  are  trying  to  cling  to  both  a  sense  of  national  identity  and   a   separate   ethnic   one,  which   segments   the   country   into   different   religious-­‐ethnic  material  cultures.  Every  thing,  person,  and  place  is  tensely  divided:  Bosniak,  Croat,  Serb.  Every   individual,   town   sector,   market,   or   heritage   site   has   its   respective   religion:   61 Bosnia-Herzegovina has often been called “the microcosm of the Balkans” (Malcolm 2002: 1). The current country is divided and identified by ethnic and religious groups of people who associate themselves with different nationalities, notably: Bosniak Muslims, Croatian Catholics, and Serbian Orthodox Christians. The same mixed ethnic racial groups, which inhabited Bosnia-Herzegovina more or less peaceably for hundreds of years, developed into national identifications with the countries of Bosnia, Serbia, and Croatia in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries under Austro-Hungarian rule. These groups were momentarily unified after World War I under the single Balkan state of Yugoslavia. Serbia, however, held ambitions for Yugoslavian dominance when the state began to collapse in 1989. The resulting Yugoslav civil war in Bosnia (1992-1995), was a violent, international mess. The Serbian army besieged the capital of Sarajevo, killing many civilians. Bosnian Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks were divided, and the country became a three-way ethnic battlefield between Bosnia, Serbia and Croatia. Although atrocities were committed on all sides, Bosniak Muslims were the most targeted and victimized ethnic group. The country experienced the largest genocide in Europe since the Holocaust; it is estimated that 150,000 people died, mostly Muslims, and half the population was left homeless or fled the country (Clancy 2004: 47; Kampschror 2006: 24). CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     181 Muslim,   Catholic,   Orthodox.   The   Mostar   Bridge   is   considered   Bosniak   Muslim,   for  example,  the  old  Bas  Carsija  market  of  Sarajevo  is  Muslim,  and  the  pilgrimage  site  and  city  of  Medjugorje  is  Croat  Catholic.  Heritage  sites  such  as  these  and  hundreds  of  others  were  deliberately  shelled  by  combating  ethnic  armies  during  the  recent  war.  Most  were  targeted   for   their   material   culture   associations   with   an   opposing   ethnic   identity  (Chapman   1994:   122;   Barakat,  Wilson   et   al.   2001:   171).   Ideologically,   “the   deliberate  destruction  of  mosques,  churches,  museums,  civil  records,  monuments  and  artefacts  in  the  Balkans  suppresses  the  evidence  of  a  culturally  diverse  and  hybrid  past,  in  favour  of  a  mythical  ‘golden  age’  of  ethnic  uniformity”  (Layton  and  Thomas  2001:  12).  Each  ethnic  group   has   a   history   of   trying   to   claim   that   vision   of   a   ‘golden   age’   as   their   own.   It   is  within   this   climate   of   material   identity,   of   post-­‐war   ethnic   “tolerant   hostility”  (Zhelyazkova  2004:  17),  that  Osmanagić’s  golden  pyramid  hills  have  inevitably  become  deeply  entrenched  in  the  politics  around  them.       5.3.3    Constructing  Authority  through  Nationalism  and  Identity  From  the  early  stages  of  its  development,  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  project  has  been  attached   to   national   identity   politics.   Semir   Osmanagić   has   made   a   brave   attempt   to  construct   and   claim   the   site   “for   everyone,”   of   all   Bosnian   ethnicities,   as   a   site   of  monumental   importance   because   it   transcends   ethnic   quibbling   and—for   once—can  represent   Bosnia   as   a   national   whole.   Osmanagić   insists   that   his   site   is   a   matter   of  national   pride,   “something   that   can   unite   people   instead   of   dividing   them”   (quoted   in  Foer  2007).  Osmanagić  maintains  that,  “Bosnia  and  the  Adriatic  pool  is  the  second  oldest  oasis  of  life  in  Europe,  with  27.000  years  on  uninterrupted  presence  of  intelligent  man”  [sic]  (BosnianPyramids.org  2006).  He  continues  that,  “Bosnia  is  a  source  of  civilization  of  Europe   and   that   is   a   reason   enough   that   Bosnians   should   be   proud   of   their   heritage”  (BosnianPyramids.org  2006).  These  bold  statements  suggest  that  not  only  is  Bosnia  the  origin  of   all   the   country’s   ethnic   groups,   but   it   also   is   an  origin  of  Europe  as   a  whole.  Pyramid-­‐unifying  nationalism  is  even  visually  identified:  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  of  the  Sun  Foundation  logo  is  a  yellow  pyramid  icon  attached  to  an  inverted  top  blue  triangle  and  stars   of   the   Bosnian   national   flag.   [Figure   17]     Such   visual   propaganda   makes   the  pyramid  literally  part  of  the  national  flag,  strongly  stating  that  the  pyramids  and  Bosnian  nationalism   are   one   and   the   same.   Thus,   the   visual   message   is   that   to   believe   in  pyramids  is  to  believe  in  Bosnia,  and  to  not  believe  in  pyramids  is  to  be  a  traitor  to  unity  and  nationalism.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     182 This   is   doubtlessly   why   some   Bosnian   professionals   who   oppose   the   project  have   been   called   national   “traitors”   in   the   country.   Foreign   academics   have   been  “treated  to  abuse  and  ridicule”  and  told  that  they  should  stay  out  of  business  they  do  not  understand   (Harding   2007:   43).   Members   of   the   public   have   recognised   that,   “[a]ny  criticism  over  such  pseudoscientific  approach   in  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina   is   stamped  as  an  unpatriotic   act   while   critics   are   stigmatized   as   traitors   in   public,   since   the   pyramid  project  has  since  its  beginning  been  identified  with  a  ‘national  interest’”  (Stultitia  2007).  Project   opponents   are   often   explicitly   identified   and   condemned.   In   one   letter,   for  example,   Osmanagić   accuses   specific   professionals   of   trying   to   divide   the   country  politically:  The   group   of   anti-­‐pyramid   opposers   like   Blagoje   Govedarica,   Zilka   Kujundzic,  Svetozar  Pudaric,  Mirko  Babic,  Gavrilo  Grahovac,  Ivan  and  Dubravko  Lovrenovic,  are  working  hard  to  debunk  the  pyramid  research  project,  spreading  voices  that  the  project  is  supported  only  by  ‘Bosniak  ambiences’.  They  are  trying  to  destroy  the  project  by   transforming   it   in  a   sad  story   in   three  pieces  about   the  Bosnian  national   and   religious   reality.   Those   persons   intentionally   ignore   the   fact   that  the  Foundation  always  underlined  that  this  project  has  nothing  to  do  with  single  nations,   religious  beliefs,  but   that   it  belongs   to  an  ancient  past  about  which  all  should  be  proud  off.  Thus,  becoming  an  integrative  factor  that  should  unite,  not  divide.  [sic]  (Osmanagic  2006)      Some   academics   have   responded   to   such   propaganda   with   anger,   contempt   and  pleading.  Bosnia’s  foremost  prehistoric  archaeologist,  Zilka  Kujundzic-­‐Vejzagic,  received  threatening  letters  for  speaking  out  against  the  project  (Foer  2007).  Nevertheless,  many  academics  both  in  Bosnia  and  abroad  launched  several  unsuccessful  campaigns  to  try  to  stop  the  program,  sending  out  petitions  (Archaeology.org  2006;  NoPyramid  2006),  and  even  appearing  opposite  Osmanagić  on  television  programs.                     Figure  17:  Official  logo  of  The  Bosnian  Pyramid  of  the  Sun  Foundation  (left).  The  logo   incorporates  an  inverted  Bosnian  flag.  Compare  with  Bosnian  national  flag  (right).         Osmanagić  also  endorses  a  political  unity  campaign  through  national  Federation  politicians   and   parties.   Although   some   of   his   networking   is   undoubtedly   for   financial  gain   (see   Section   5.3.4),   Osmanagić   also   seems   to   be   genuinely   promoting   a   sense   of   (Image courtesy of Archaeological Park: Bosnian Pyramid of the Sun Foundation) (This is a freely distributed image) CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     183 national  pride  through  political  support.  In  an  online  interview,  Osmanagić  says,  “We  all  agree?   Well   you   see,   it   is   possible!     Bosnian   pyramids   have   united   all   levels   of  government   showing   political   maturity   starting   with   Visoko   municipality”  (BosnianPyramids.org   2006).   High-­‐level   political   support   is   abundant;   important  politicians   like   the   former   President   Chairman   Sulejman   Tihic   have   approved   the  project.  The  President  Chairman  publicly   announced   to  Montenegro   that   they  and   “all  other   regional   presidents   as   well   as   the   media   [should]   come   and   see   the   pyramid  remains”  (HINA  2006).  And  when  Osmanagić’s  project   faced  an  uncertain   future  when  its  permits  were  pulled  in  June  2007,  the  Federation’s  Prime  Minister  Nedzad  Brankovic  stepped   in,   restored   the  permits,   and   voiced   support   for  Osmanagić.   Brankovic   firmly  stated,  “The  government  will  not  act  negatively  toward  this  project”  (Woodard  2007a).  Speaking   to   reporters,   he   asked,   “Why   should   we   disown   something   that   the   entire  world  is  interested  in?”  (Woodard  2007a).  Supporters  seem  absorbed  with  the  prospect  of   achieving   international   recognition—or   at   least   appearing   to   have   it—and  much   of  the  authority  behind  the  project  comes  from  the  prestige  of  simply  being  high-­‐profile  in  the  media.  Bruce  Trigger  writes  of  nationalistic   archaeology:   “The  primary   function…is   to  bolster   the   pride   and   morale   of   nations   or   ethnic   groups.   It   is   probably   strongest  amongst  peoples  who  feel  politically  threatened,  insecure  or  deprived  of  their  collective  rights  by  more  powerful  nations”  (Trigger  1984:  360).  This  description  certainly  applies  to   Bosnia,   which   experienced   a   great   deal   of   suffering   in   the   recent   war,   leaving   its  citizens   in   a   state   of   “tolerant   hostility”   (Zhelyazkova   2004:   17).   In   this   context,   the  pyramid  narrative  provides  a  positive  symbol  of  nationalism,  and  it  is  hardly  surprising  that  so  many  members  of  the  public  and  national  politicians  have  supported  the  project.  Tangible,   visible   symbols,   like   the   Foundation   logo,   as   well   as   the   monumental   and  striking  pyramidal   hills   in   the   landscape,   are  material   reminders   of   ‘great   things’   that  could  have  happened  in  the  past  and  might  happen  again  the  future.  I  would  argue  that  much  political  support  for  the  project  has  emerged  because  people  have  been  grasping  for  more  tangible,  rooted  symbols  of  their  newfound  nationalism.  The  material  nature  of  the   pyramid   ‘archaeology’   means   that   a   rebuilding   nation   has   something   sturdy   and  identifiable   to   reach   out   for;   the   nonhuman   and   material   aspects   of   this   case   are   as  important   as   the   socio-­‐politics   that   are   contextualising   them.   I   would   argue   that   the  inherent   materiality   of   the   project—which   has   been   created   through   physical  interactions   with   the   landscape,   and   deliberate   manipulation   of   iconography   and  logos—is  central  to  its  authority  in  political  arenas.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     184 5.3.4    Authority  through  the  Politics  of  Money  Politics  of  money  are  also  intimately  attached  to  the  success  and  authority  of  the  project.   In   depressed   post-­‐war   Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina,   money   is   a   sensitive   issue.   The  country   is   still   rebuilding   and   stabilising,   struggling   against   high   levels   of  unemployment   and   a   lagging   economy   “due   to   the   fact   that   there   are   no   strong  institutions   or   political   stability”   (Zhelyazkova   2004:   14).   Regarding   the   Bosnian  Pyramid   project,   there   are   two   sides   to   this   coin:   the   first   is   the   argument   that,  regardless  of  its  pseudoarchaeological  nature,  the  project  has  already  demonstrated  real  economic  benefits  to  the  region.  Secondly,   there  is  the  argument  that  the  money  spent  on  the  project  would  be  better  spent  on  post-­‐war  restoration  efforts,  or  at  least  on  ‘real’  professional   archaeology.   Much   of   the   site’s   high-­‐profile   status   and   presence   has  emerged  from  this  financial  debate.  Those  who  have  argued  that  the  pyramids  will  bring  social  benefits  have  already  seen   results.   The   project   has   pumped   money   into   Visoko   and   the   broader   country  through   tourism,   and   it   offers   hope   of   more   to   come.   By   2007,   Visoko   had   already  changed  dramatically  from  its  dilapidated  post-­‐war  state.  Before  the  pyramids,  the  town  received  around  10,000  visitors  a  year.  In  2007,  it  reported  having  that  many  visitors  in  a  single  day.  The  project  attracted  250,000   tourists   to   the   town   in  2006,  bringing   in  a  flood  of  new  money  and  an  economic  boost   (Monaim  2007).  Visoko   residents   initially  welcomed   this   change   as   something   of   a   miracle.   When   interviewed   by   a   foreign  reporter,   Esref   Fatic,   the   owner   of   a   souvenir   shop   in   Visoko,   emphatically   insisted,  “something  will  be  found  under  the  hill”  and  thought  that  “any  kind  of  discovery  means  a  lot  after  so  many  years  of  nothing…people  will  come  here  and  spend  money  and  that  would  mean  our  youth  has  something  to  do”  (Zimonjic  2006).    Most  of  the  town’s  population  still  enjoys  an  influx  of  people.  In  2006,  the  main  hotel   in   Visoko   changed   its   title   from   “Hotel   Hollywood”   to   “Motel   Piramida   Sunca”,  which  translates  to  ‘Pyramid  of  the  Sun  Motel’  (Bosnian-­‐pyramid.net  2006).  Craft  stores  sell   tee   shirts   and   pyramid   souvenirs,   and   cafés   serve   coffee   with   pyramid-­‐stamped  sugar   packets   and   pyramid-­‐shaped   pizza   (Economist.com   2006).   One   child   I  interviewed,   a   ten-­‐year-­‐old   local   boy,   now   makes   more   money   than   his   parents   by  waiting  alongside  the  road  and  offering  tours  to  visitors.  Local  volunteers,  like  this  boy,  also   employ   much   of   their   free   time   by   excavating   with   ‘Mr.   Semir’   and   the   other  volunteers   (local   interview,   personal   communication   2007).   Another   local   resident   I  interviewed  pockets  a  good  bit  of  money  by  selling  homemade  pyramid  crafts  from  his  house   garage   (local   interview,   personal   communication   2007).   In   his   spare   time,   he  takes   visitors   to   a   new   restaurant   that  was   built   just   to   accommodate   tourists,  which   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     185 advertises   by  way   of   a   pyramid  made   of   bricks   decorating   the   lawn   [Figure   18].   The  resident   insisted   to   me   that   these   changes   were   just   the   beginning   of   the   town’s  development:   in   summer,   when   visitor   numbers   are   highest,   the   town   roads   cannot  handle   the   traffic,   so,   he   said,   the   city  has  plans   to  widen   the   roads   and  pave   the  dirt  ones   the   lead   up   the   hill   [Figure   19]   (interview   with   local   resident,   personal  communication  2007).  Pyramid  hype  also  extends  outside  of  Visoko.  Tourist  Agencies  in  Sarajevo   and   neighbouring   areas—even   as   far   as   Croatia—have   started   advertising  organized   pyramid   tours   (Maestral   2007;   Negra   2007).   Brochures   line   the   tourist  information   desks   in   the   capital   city   of   Sarajevo.   More   than   one   professional  archaeologist,  knowing  nothing  about  the  site  beforehand,  has  been   lured  to  Visoko  to  go   see   the   archaeology   listed   in   the   brochures.   In   these   tourist   brochures,   the   site   is  often   listed   as   a   highly   respected,   authorised   and   genuine   archaeological   project  (interview   with   Ezra   Zubrow,   personal   communication   2010).   The   authority   of   the  project  is  latent  in  the  streamlined  and  professional  logos  on  the  brochures,  and  in  the  authoritative  displays  of  the  magazines  set  out  on  tourism  counters.       Figure  18:  New  businesses,  like  the  one  above,  were  built  in  Visoko  to  accommodate  the   influx  of  tourists.  This  restaurant  sits  near  the  entrance  to  one  of  the  pyramid  tunnels,   outside  the  main  city  streets.  The  business  advertises  with  a  large  brick  pyramid  on  its   front  lawn.  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     186 From  the  beginning,  Osmanagić  and  the  pyramid  Foundation  have  had  their  eye  on   tourism.   In  2006,  Osmanagić   announced  plans  of   “research   activity”   that  would  be  “opening  more   areas   of   the   Pyramid   to   tourists”.   He   claimed   that   his   “main   research  focus   from   2008   onwards   will   be   the   provision   of   more   tourist   facilities”  (Piramidascunca.ba   2006),   insisting   that   Visoko  would   eventually   have   over   a  million  tourists   a   year.   Volunteers   and   local   residents   have   seen   pyramids   as   a  way   into   the  future:  “The  pyramids  will  help  us  speed  the  development  of  the  economy,  and  when  we  have  done  that  the  EU  will  accept  us”  (quoted  in  Economist.com  2006).  The  idea  that  a  grand  archaeological  site  could  boost  political  authority  of  a  small  country  and  launch  it  onto   the  world   stage   alongside   bigger   powers   like   the   European   Union   is   tantalising.  These   outsized   hopes   also   explain   why   political   parties   interested   in   the   site   for   its  economic   potential   have   engaged   in   “outright   political   posturing”   (Foer   2007).   Haris  Silajdzic,   a   Bosniak   member   of   the   rotating   presidency,   publicly   stated,   “these  enthusiasts   are   getting   people   excited   and   interested   in   something   positive   and   are  helping   the   economy  of   a   poor   part   of   the   country”   (Woodard  2007b).  Many   of   these  interested  politicians  have  used   the  site  as  a  campaign  strategy,  patting  Osmanagić  on  the  back  and  smiling  at  the  camera.  [Figure  20]       Figure  19:  Tourism  is  new  to  Visoko.  Makeshift  souvenir  shops,  like  the  this  garage-­‐ turned-­‐business,  are  now  common.  Local  residents,  like  the  boy  in  the  foreground,  can   make  money  giving  tours  to  visitors.  Plješevica  Hill  (Pyramid  of  the  Moon)  can  be  seen  in   the  distance,  behind  the  garage  shop.  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     187     Figure  20:  Semir  Osmanagić  poses  for  the  camera  with  Ivica  Saric  (left),  Sarajevo’s   Minister  of  Culture  in  2006.  A  large  number  of  volunteers  can  be  seen  excavating  in  the   background.  Image  courtesy  of  John  Bohannon:   http://www.johnbohannon.org/NewFiles/bosnia.pdf    These  campaign  strategies  usually  operate  as  external   factors,  pumping  up   the  authority   of   the   site   beyond   Osmanagić’s   control.   One   notable   Sarajevo   radio  presentation  in  2006  exemplifies  how  stunned  Osmanagić  was  to  hear  how  he  was  used  in  a  campaign:   ANCHOR:  Have  you   thought  about..   that   the  whole   idea  of  pyramids   in  Visoko  could  be  used  for  preelection  purposes?     OSMANAGIĆ:  […]  My  wish  is,  in  fact,  that  this  project  has  support  of  all  political  establishments,  because   I   think   that   is   in   the   interest  of   this   country  …  and  it  will  not  interfere  with  political..  uhm..  elections  […]   ANCHOR:  But  what  if  political  elections  interfere  with  the  Foundation?   OSMANAGIĆ:  How?   ANCHOR:  By  Sulejman  Tihic  coming  to  kiss  you  […]  do  you  think  that  this  kiss  will  not  be  worth,   I  don’t  know,  a   thousand  votes   in  Visoko   tomorrow?  Because  you’re  not  popular  only   in  Visoko,  but   in   that  region,  have  you  thought  about  that?   OSMANAGIĆ:  No.              [sic]  (Radio-­‐202  2006)    The   creation   and   promotion   of   the   site   has   gone   beyond   just   the   control   of   Semir  Osmanagić.   Many   politicians   seem   to   realize   that   Osmanagić’s   excavation   is  pseudoarchaeology,   yet   they   have   continued   to   promote   the   project   because   of   its  economic  potential.  On  whether  or  not  the  project  should  be  shut  down,  President  Haris  Silajdzic  said,  “Let  them  dig  and  we’ll  see  what  they  find.  Besides,  it’s  good  for  business”  (Harding   2007).   A   spokesman   for   the   foreign   Federation   representative   in   charge   of   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     188 Bosnian   Affairs,   Christian   Schwarz-­‐Schilling,   supported   the   project,   calling   it   “the  world’s  first  victimless  pyramid  scheme”  (quoted  in  Foer  2007).    But  those  who  oppose  the  project  see  plenty  of  victims.  Many  people,  especially  foreign  academics,  have  said  that  the  social  and  economic  gains  are  probably  only  short-­‐term  and   that   the  money  spent  on   the  project  would  be  better  put   to  use   in  post-­‐war  reconstruction  efforts.  Ahmed  Khattab,  Egypt’s  ambassador  to  Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina,  says  the   pyramids   “should   not   be   a   top   priority.   This   digging   will   require   millions   and  millions,   and  meanwhile  artifacts  are  being  damaged   in   the  museums   for   lack  of  heat.  Bosnia  is  a  poor  country,  and  there  have  to  be  different  priorities”  (quoted  in  Woodard  2007b).  The  project’s  actual  figures  are  daunting.  In  2006  alone,  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  of  the   Sun   Foundation   raised   about   $500,000,   not   counting   in-­‐kind   donations   such   as  estate   cars   and   free   loans   of   bulldozers   and   transportation.   Osmanagić   personally  contributed   about   $100,000   (Foer   2007;  Woodard   2007b;   Harding   2007;   Foundation  interviews,   personal   communication   2007).   These   figures   are   staggering   in   post-­‐war  Bosnia,   which   is   still   littered   with   damaged   cultural   property   that   suffers   for   lack   of  reconstruction  funds,  such  as  the  damaged  National  Museum  and  the  National  Library,  which   still   sits   as   a   burnt-­‐out   shell   in   downtown   Sarajevo   (Chapman   1994;   Barakat,  Wilson  et  al.  2001).  Archaeologists  such  as  Anthony  Harding  of  the  University  of  Exeter  have   expressed   distaste   at   the   amount   of   money   going   into   the   Bosnian   Pyramids  project:  “it  adds  insult  to  injury  when  rich  outsiders  can  come  in  and  spend  large  sums  pursuing  their  absurd  theories…instead  of  devoting  their  cash  to  the  preservation  of  the  endangered   genuine   sites   and   monuments   in   which   Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina   abounds”  (2006).    The  politics  of  money  add  a  crucial  dimension  to  the  project.  Once  again,  it  is  the   tangible   and   material   results   of   the   project   that   matter   as   much   or   more   than   the  abstract   conceptualisation   of   the   archaeology   as   ‘fact’   versus   ‘fantasy’.   The   value,  acceptance   and   authority   of   this   case   rests   fundamentally   on   its   physical   presence,  which  can  be  pointed  to  by  politicians  and  the  public  alike  as  something  that  materially  benefits  people  and  places.       5.3.5    The  Politics  of  Experts  and  Expertise   5.3.5.1    The  Authority  of  Credentialed  Experts:  The  Egyptians  Along  with  his  own  amateur  archaeology  work,  Osmanagić  has  also  engaged  the  authority  of   ‘authorised’  or   credentialed  scientists  and   institutions   to  back  his  project.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     189 Notably,   he   has   enlisted   a   number   of   “scientific   experts”   to   support   his   work  (Piramidasunca.ba   2007).   Although   he   initially   engaged   in   “a   naughty   habit   [of]  announcing  project  support  from  foreign  archaeological  authorities  who  either  weren’t  supportive  or  weren’t  authorities”  (Foer  2007),  Osmanagić  did  later  employ  a  number  of  professionals  on  his  team  who  do  hold  some  level  of  credentialed  authority  within  the  mainstream  discipline.    The  most  notable  academic   supporters  have  been  a  group  of  Egyptian  geology  experts  who  came   to  Visoko  with  a  passionate  desire   to  help  support  Bosnia  after   the  war.  Among   these  are  Dr.  Aly  Abd  Alla  Barakat,  a  geologist   from  the  Egyptian  Mineral  Resources   Authority,   and   Dr.   Mohammed   Ibrahim   Aly,   who   has   reportedly   taught  Egyptology  and  other  subjects  at  the  University  of  Cairo.  The  latter  is  reported  to  have  visited  Visočica  Hill  (Pyramid  of  the  Sun)  and  said  the  site  was  “extraordinary,  definitely  not  made   by   nature”   (Piramidasunca.ba   2007).   Perhaps   the  most   publicised   Egyptian  supporter   is   Dr.   Nebil   Swelim,   an   Egyptologist   from   Cairo,  who   claims   three   doctoral  degrees  (Swelim  2010a),  and  whom  I  discuss  in  more  detail  below.  The  fact  that  these  scholars  are  from  Egypt  and  have  only  tenuous  knowledge  of  Bosnian  archaeology  has  not  seemed  to  faze  supporters.  For  many  in  the  general  public,  the  idea  of  ‘pyramids’  is  so  intertwined  with  the  identity  of  ancient  Egypt  that  many  have  seemed  to  have  taken  the  authority  of  these  Egyptian  geologists  and  Egyptologists  at  face  value.62    Dr.  Nebil  Swelim’s  participation  with  the  Foundation  is  a  particularly  interesting  saga  of  authority  and  expertise.  In  the  public  eye,  Dr.  Swelim  has  been  promoted  by  the  Foundation  as  one  of  the  most  prestigious—and  perhaps  one  of  the  only  ‘archaeological’  as  opposed   to   ‘geological’   or   ‘independently   researching’—academic   supporters  of   the  pyramid   project.   His   name   and   authority   has   been   exploited   by   Osmanagić   and   the  Foundation  in  strategic  ways,  such  as  naming  Swelim  the  (ceremonial)  President  of  the  Foundation  and  President  of  the  ICBP  Conference.  By  naming  a  ‘triple  doctorate  expert’  the   ceremonial   head   of   a   controversial   organisation,   Osmanagić   shifts   the   burden   of   62 This connection of the Bosnian ‘pyramids’ to the Egyptian pyramids has also resulted in a great many Bosnian Pyramid publications with a heavy hyperdiffusionist slant. Osmanagić claims to have visited pyramids around the world, implying that this makes him ready to identify and study archaeology in Bosnia if it appears in pyramidal form. In general, significant controversy about the appropriateness of ‘pyramid’ qualifications has followed Osmanagić, as well as many of the Egyptian team members. In an interview [see Appendix G], former Foundation team member Andrew Lawler said that, “Apart from Aly Barakat, [the Egyptians’] role was little more than that of tourists. I know that some…felt they were being used as promotional tools” (Foundation member, personal email communication 2010). In the same interview, the former team member said that Dr. Nebil Swelim, unlike some of his colleagues, relished being in the limelight. This suggests that Swelim had personal and political motivations to support the project, since Swelim’s supportive reports in favour of the Bosnian pyramid site were written “after spending under 2 hours on Visocica”.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     190 authority   and   expertise   to   Swelim,   who   can   be   promoted   as   a   more   established   and  senior  foreign  expert.  For  the  public,  when  a  multi-­‐credentialed  expert  with  connections  to  ‘other  pyramids’  is  advertised  as  a  project  leader,  the  pyramid  narrative  appears  to  be  backed  by  more  substantial  institutions  than  just  one  celebrity  in  an  Indiana  Jones  hat.  This   strategy   is   what   Bruno   Latour   calls   ‘bringing   in   allies   and   support   for   the  argument’,   a   classic   “argument   from   authority…it   creates   a   majority   to   impress   the  dissenter  even  though  the  dissenter  ‘might  be  right’”  (Latour  1987:  31).    Swelim   has   consistently   defended   his   interest   in   the   project   as   his   way   of  offering   support   to   post-­‐war  Bosnian   people,   and   he   has   thrown  his   full   support   into  Osmanagić’s   version   of   quasi-­‐archaeological   science.   Swelim’s   support   has   surprised  some   of   his   personal   friends.   In   an   interview   at   Cambridge,   Dr.   Seif   El   Rashidi,   the  coordinator  of  the  Durham  World  Heritage  Site,  called  his  friend  Swelim  a  “serious,  no-­‐nonsense   kind   of   man”   with   sincere   academic   interest   in   archaeology   (personal  communication,   2009).   This   account   of   Swelim’s   personality   contrasts   with   those   of  Semir   Osmanagić   and   other   core   members   of   the   Foundation,   who   have   employed   a  considerable   degree   of   whimsy   in   their   approach   to   the   past,   with   their   constant  references   to   conspiracy   theories,   alien   encounters,   new   age  wisdom   and   paranormal  activity.   Since   Swelim   has   never   excavated   at   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   site,   and   has   only  published   lengthy   ‘reports’   about  what   he   argues   is   the   ‘nature’   of   a   pyramid   (which  boils  down  to  the  practically  simple  and  unoriginal  argument  that  pyramids  are  artificial  structures  with  large  bases  and  pointy  tops),  his  support  of  the  Bosnian  project  might  be  seen  as  politically  motivated  (Swelim  2007;  Swelim  2011).    While  scholars  like  Swelim  seem  to  have  good  intentions,  they  have  given  no  real  evidentiary  justification  for  their  support.  In  response  to  a  number  of  articles  and  emails  published   by   opponents   who   criticise   his   role   in   the   project   (Irna   2008b),   Swelim  published  a  variety  of  reports  about  Visočica’s  ‘pyramid’  status:    These   arguments   led   to   5   conclusions:   1.   The   pyramid   hill   Visočica   is   a   new  introduction  to  the  local  scenarios  of  pyramid  science.  2.  Visočica  is  justified  for  a   pyramid   nomination.   3.   The   main   subjects   to   understand   the   pyramid   hill  Visočica  are  geological.  4.  Perhaps  our  present  wealth,  technology  and  recourses  are   not   capable.   [5.]   The   true   measure   of   a   pyramid   expert   is   his   output   on  pyramid  science.  (Swelim  2010b;  Swelim  2011)    Swelim’s   insistence  on   the  existence  of   something  called   ‘pyramid  science’   is   telling   in  and  of  itself.  By  extracting  a  ‘pyramid’  or  any  archaeological  object  or  structure  out  of  its  cultural   context,   you  make   it   virtually  meaningless—pyramids   in   ancient   Egypt   were  constructed  for  a  multitude  of  cultural  reasons.  Those  reasons  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  pyramidal  structures  built  in  the  Bosnian  past,  supposing  such  pyramids  existed  in   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     191 the  first  place.  Swelim  is  attempting  to  culturally  compare  ancient  Egypt  of  2600  BCE  to  an  alleged  culture   in  Bosnia  at  34,000  BP  (see  radiocarbon  dating,  Section  5.5.2).  This  comparison   across   thousands   of   years   and   miles   is   meaningless   without   some  justification—and  none  is  given.    In  his  most  recent  report,  Swelim  concludes  by  commenting  on  what  makes  the  authority  of  a  scientific  ‘expert’:    Some  scholars  gain  a  reputation  of  being  “pyramid  experts”  by  occupying  a  post  or   an   administrative   or   a   teaching   position   for   some   time.   Others   develop   a  charisma  and  become  stars  on  TV  documentaries;  unfortunately   some  of  what  they  claim  is  received  without  any  verification  or  checking.  The  true  measure  of  a  pyramid  expert  is  his  output  on  pyramid  science.  (Swelim  2010b)      Such   a   statement   is   somewhat   at   odds   with   the   current   situation   in   Bosnia.   Most   of  Osmanagić’s   experts   seem   to   lend   authority   to   the   site   by   simply   occupying   a   title   or  position,  or  through  credentials  claimed  by  having  ‘looked  at  pyramids  for  some  time’.  In  public  arenas,  Osmanagić  himself  has  become  seen  as  an  ‘expert  authority’  through  his  media   personality,   charisma   and   celebrity   status   from   TV   documentaries.   Osmanagić,  Swelim   and   the   other   members   of   the   team   have   not   been   able   to   publish   in   peer-­‐reviewed   journals,   where   their   work   would   be   ‘verified’   and   ‘checked’   before   public  release.   The   important   point   is   that,   to   the   public,   these   ‘official   reports’   and   ‘strong  statements   of   authority’   that   are   published   online   by   Swelim   and   Osmanagić   lend  authority   to   the   project,   not   only   because   Swelim   takes   such   a   simple,   hard-­‐line   and  confident   approach   to   what   he   believes   is   ‘right’   or   ‘wrong’,   but   also   because   of   the  language  used:  they  talk  of  reports,  publishing,  pyramid  science,  output  and  credentials.  To  many  members  of   the  public,   these  arguments   sound  much   likes  ones   that  are   fair  and   justifiable.   Indeed,   they   sound   just   like   the   arguments   voiced   by   the   professional  archaeologists  who   oppose   the   project   (Sarajevo   interviews,   personal   communication  2008).    I   observed   further   controversy   around   the   Egyptian   authority   in   the   project  during   my   attendance   at   the   1st   Scientific   International   Conference   of   the   Bosnian  Pyramids   (ICBP)   in  August  2008   (more  discussion  on   this   conference   in  Section  5.5.3,  below).   A   large   group   of   Egyptian   professors   and   students   from   the   Library   of  Alexandria   and   the   University   of   Cairo   were   invited   to   participate   at   this   ‘scientific  conference’.   Both   sides—members   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   Foundation   and  members  from  the  Egyptian  attendees—quietly  criticized  what  happened  at   the  conference.  One  Egyptian   hydrogeology   expert   I   interviewed   said   that   in   his   opinion   the   whole  landscapes   of   Visoko   and   Zenica   (where   the   stone   balls   were   found)   were   naturally  formed  mountains  and  stone,  made  by  glacial,  hydrogeological  processes.  This  geologist   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     192 implied  that  he  was  attending  the  ICBP  conference  to  socially  support  post-­‐war  Bosnia,  as  well   as   to  enjoy  a   free   trip   to  a   “beautiful   country”   (participant   interview,  personal  communication   2008).   During   the   conference,   another   Egyptian   geological   expert,   Dr.  Mohamed  Ibrahim  El  Anbaawy,  viewed  the  excavations  on  the  first  day,  then  disagreed  sharply  with  Osmanagić’s  pyramid  hypothesis.  For  the  rest  of  the  conference,  he  spent  considerable  time  trying  to  teach  basic  geological  principles  to  the  conference  attendees  and   the   pyramid   team,   arguing   that   hydrogeology   could   explain   all   of   the   formations  that  the  pyramid  project  had  excavated  and  uncovered.  The  Foundation  members  were  unhappy  with  his   criticism,  and  more   than  one  Foundation  member  at   the   conference  expressed  their  frustration  with  his  opinions.  At  one  point,  when  Dr.  El  Anbawwy  tried  to  point  out  natural  geological  stratigraphy  to  a  group  of  pyramid  supporters,  tensions  mounted  to  raised  voices  and  yelling  [Figure  21].  On  the  other  side  of  the  divide,  some  members   of   the   pyramid   team  also   (quietly)   expressed   frustration   and  dissatisfaction  with  the  Egyptians,  complaining  that  Osmanagić  had  paid  for  the  Egyptians’  trip  to  the  conference   and   many   of   them   were   more   interested   in   shopping   than   in   validating  pyramid  archaeology.                 Figure  21:  Dr.  El  Anbawwy  lecturing  to  members  of  the  Foundation  and  the  ICBP   conference  participants,  arguing  for  a  natural  and  geological  origin  of  the  supposed   pyramids.  (He  is  the  man  the  grey  shirt:  on  the  left  photograph,  he  is  standing  and   gesturing  on  the  right  side  of  the  crowd;  on  the  right  photograph,  he  is  seated  with  a   notepad  and  trying  to  give  a  geology  lecture  to  a  crowd  of  pyramid  supporters.  Photos  by   Tera  Pruitt.     Such   interaction   is   clearly   fraught   with   politics,   and   this   critical   and   messy  interaction  between  the  Foundation  and  their  own  ‘supporters’  has  not  been  published  for   public   scrutiny   in   any   meaningful   way.   During   the   conference,   the   dissenting  geologist   Dr.   El   Anbawwy   was   on   the   final   panel   for   drafting   public   conference  conclusions,  and  Dr.  Swelim—who  voiced  utmost  support,  but  was  also  of   the  opinion  that   the   hills   are,   at   least   at   base,   natural   formations—both   insisted   the   geological   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     193 significance  of   the  hills  needed   to  be   included   in   the   conference   conclusions   (much   to  the  chagrin  of  Osmanagić  and  other  alternative  theorists  on  the  panel).  The  compromise  by  the  Foundation  was  the  inclusion  of  the  phrase  ‘geo-­‐archaeological’  in  the  final  press  releases,  which  I  would  argue  (after  observing  the  whole  of  the  ICBP  interactions)  was  primarily   the   result   of   the   week-­‐long   contestation   by   Dr.   El   Anbawwy.   The   final  publications  and  press  conferences  of  the  ICBP  conference  simply  included  the  line  that  the   Bosnian   Pyramid   project   was   “important   geo-­‐archaeological   and   epigraphical  research  that  requires  further  multidisciplinary  scientific  research”  [sic]  (ICBP  2008)—meaning  the  site  was  debated  as  being  geo-­‐archaeological,  and  some  participants  of  the  conference   thought   the   ‘pyramid’   conclusion   was   far   from   clear-­‐cut.   To   the   public  however,   this   strong   statement   ‘blackboxes’   all   contestation,   belying   any   empirical  debate  and  projecting  a  robust  and  authoritative  tone.    I   would   argue   that   contestation   and   exchange   at   the   ICBP   conference  represented   some   genuine   academic   engagement,   at   least   on   the   part   of   Dr.   El  Anbawwy,  who  successfully  critically  engaged  the  pyramid  supporters  and  shifted  some  of   the   conference   conclusions   to   include   the   terms   like   ‘geological’.   But   all   ‘backstage’  contestation  was  ultimately  ‘blackboxed’  in  the  final  press  releases  made  for  the  public  [Figure  22].  Instead  of  referencing  any  contestation  or  genuine  nuance  in  the  empirical  record,   the  public   release   lent   the  appearance  of  validation  by  a   long   list  of   ‘academic  heavyweights’  with  PhDs.  The   conclusions  were  professionally   edited,  were  broadcast  on  TV  and  were  shiny-­‐looking,  a  performance  which  lent  authority  to  the  much  simpler  account  of  “pyramids  in  Bosnia”.   5.3.5.2    The  Authority  of  Credentialed  Experts:  Team  Members  In   addition   to   outside   experts   like   Swelim,   a   handful   of   Foundation   team  members   have   had   academic   degrees   behind   their   names.   Two   accredited  archaeologists  were  briefly  employed  to  excavate  for  Osmanagić’s  team,  although  both  have  now  quit  the  project.  One  was  an  archaeologist  named  Rafaella  Cattaneo,  who  only  briefly  joined  the  project.  Later,  an  archaeologist  named  Andrew  Lawler,  who  graduated  with  a  BA  in  archaeology  from  the  University  of  Cambridge  in  2006,  spent  significantly  more   time  at   the   site.  After  working  with   archaeological   field  units   in   the  UK,  Lawler,  who  had  a  general  desire  to  work  in     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     194   Figure  22:  Conclusions  from  the  ICBP  Conference,  which  'black  box'  almost  all  of  the   debate  and  contestation  that  occurred  during  the  conference  proceedings.  Conclusions   online  at:  http://icbp.ba/2008/index.php/News/Latest/CONCLUSIONS-­‐OF-­‐THE-­‐FIRST-­‐ INTERNATIONALS-­‐SCIENTIFIC-­‐CONFERENCE-­‐ABOUT-­‐THE-­‐BOSNIAN-­‐PYRAMIDS.html   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     195 Bosnia,   joined  Osmanagić’s   team.  During   his   time  with   the   project,   Lawler   kept   a   low  profile   and  did  not   openly  discuss  his   negative   opinion   about   the   ‘non-­‐archaeological’  nature  of   the  site   (Lawler,  personal  communication  2009).  Noting   the  project’s   lack  of  organisation,   recording   and   trained   archaeological   methodology,   Lawler   instituted   a  field   guide  manual,   an   artefact   organisation   system,   a   stratigraphic   recording   system,  context  sheets  and  other  standard  archaeological  methods.  His  primary  work  area  was  on  Plješevica  Hill  (Pyramid  of  the  Moon)  site.  In  an  interview  I  had  with  Lawler  after  he  left  the  project,  he  explained:    “Nearly   everything   was   fantasy   during   my   time   there.   Only   the   burnt   stones  from   the  Moon   pyramid  were   real   and   older   than   the  war.   At   KTK   tunnel,   an  abundance   of   19th   and   20th   century   stuff   was   coming   out,   but   most   of  disappeared,   and   I   guess   since   I   left   the   rest   has   been   disposed   of.   When   I  reorganised  the  artifact  store,  about  10%  of  what  was  in  there  was  real.  The  rest  was  fossils  or  ‘pretty  stones’.  There  was  some  Neolithic  and  medieval  pottery,  a  flintlock,  an   iron  knife  (presumably  medieval)  some  animals  and  glass,  and  10-­‐20   animal   bones,   along   with   some   bone   fragments.”   (Lawler,   personal   email  communication  2009)  [See  Appendix  F  and  G  for  interview  transcripts]    Lawler   also   took   radiocarbon   samples   and   sent   them   off   to   various   radiocarbon   labs,  like  Oxford  and  Kiel,  at  the  request  of  Semir  Osmanagić.  While  Lawler  did  institute  more  professional   standards   at   the   Moon   Pyramid   site,   he   was   not   in   charge   of   any   other  excavation   location,   such   as   Visočica   Hill   (Pyramid   of   the   Sun),   Gornjia   Vratnica   (the  ‘rock  quarry’  site),  Zavidovići  (stone  balls  near  Zenica)  or  any  of  the  tunnel  sites.  These  sites,   he   says,  were   simply   dug  with   backhoes   and   shovels   by   volunteers   in   the   local  community   on   their   own   time.   While   Lawler   did   record   data   in   methodologically  appropriate  ways,  none  of  his  interpretations  of  the  data  ever  became  part  of  the  official  record   on   the   site.   Osmanagić   was   in   charge   of   publishing   reports   and   books   on   the  project,  producing  almost  all  of  the  project’s   ‘final  product’  accounts  of  the  past.  When  Lawler  presented  his   report  on   the   radiocarbon  samples   from  the   tunnels  at   the   ICBP  conference,   he   (and   his   unmodified   report)   suggested   that   there   were  natural/geological   causes   for   the   organic   debris   that   had   been   dated.   Some   of   the  paragraphs   on   the   natural   origin   for   the   radiocarbon   material   were   later   edited   by  Osmanagić  before  he  put   the  report  on  his  website,   in  order   to  promote   the  supposed  artificial/human  origin  for  the  organic  material  (Irna  2008c;  Irna  2008a;  Lawler  2008).  Lawler   quit   the   organisation   soon   after   he   presented   this   material   to   the   ICBP  conference  (Lawler,  personal  communication  2008;  2010).    In   terms  of   leadership   and   accreditation,   Semir  Osmanagić   has   (only   recently)  achieved   recognised  degrees  and  accreditation   for  himself,   in   the   field  of   archaeology.  When  Osmanagić  began  the  project  in  2005,  he  only  held  a  Masters  degree  in  economics,   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     196 and   his   credentials   solely   rested   on   experience   travelling   the   world   and   looking   at  pyramids  from  different  cultures,  along  with  his  authoring  of  books  like  The  World  of  the   Maya  which  argued  for  extraterrestrial  origins  of  the  Maya  culture  (Osmanagic  2005b;  Osmanagic  2005c).  This  changed  in  2010,  when  Osmanagić  obtained  a  PhD  degree  from  the  University   of   Sarajevo,   in   the   Faculty   of   Political   Science  under   the   supervision   of  Prof.   Hidajet   Repovac,   History   of   the   Civilizations   (Osmanagic   2009).   Osmanagić’s  doctoral  thesis  on  the  ancient  Maya  included  a  number  of  controversial  claims,  such  as  the   argument   that   they  were   responsible   for   the   creation   of   advanced   science,  which  was   justified   with   dubious   artefacts   like   crystal   skulls63   (Sax,   Walsh   et   al.   2008;  Osmanagic   2009).   In   his   dissertation   abstract,   Osmanagić   immodestly   references   his  own  doctoral  work:    There   is   no   scientific   precedence   that   could   serve   as   an   example   of   this  pioneering   research   and   analyses…Assertions   that   the   Zapotecs   (or   Olmecs,  depending   on   the   author)   were   the   cradle   of   all   other   cultures   (including   the  Maya,   Toltecs   and   Mistecas)   are   no   longer   valid.   The   archaeological   evidence  shows  that  the  Maya  are  the  oldest  civilization  in  this  region.  (Osmanagic  2009)    The  fact  that  Semir  Osmanagić  now  has  full  doctoral  accreditation  from  the  University  of  Sarajevo,   a   widely   respected   university   in   Bosnia-­‐Herzegovina,   is   meaningful.   At   the  beginning   of   the   project,   when   Osmanagić   held   only   unrelated   degrees,   professional  archaeologists   used   his   background   to   try   to   undermine   his   authority.   Bosnian  archaeologist   Enver   Imamovic,   a   former  director   of   the  National  Museum   in   Sarajevo,  was   quoted   as   saying,   "This   is   the   equivalent   of   letting  me,   an   archaeologist,   perform  surgery   in   hospitals”   (Rose   2006b),   implying   that   Osmanagić   did   not   have   the  appropriate   expertise,   training   or   degrees   to   excavate.   However,   with   official  accreditation,   the   weight   of   authority   shifts   in   Osmanagić’s   favour,   at   least   in  appearance.   Regardless   of  whether   Osmanagić’s   PhD  may   be   attributable   to   his   high-­‐profile   celebrity   status   in   the   country,   or  whether   he   earned   his   degree   by   crafting   a  genuinely   strong   thesis   for   his   controversial   claims,   the   fact   remains   that   his   use   of  expertise  and  accreditation  is  central  to  Bosnian  Pyramid  project’s  continued  status  and  high  degree  of  authority  in  the  country.     I  talk  in  detail  of  the  role  of  experts  and  expertise  in  the  project  because  of  the  vital   impact   that   their   presence   has   had   on   the   authority   of   the   project   as   a   whole.  Accreditation  and  institutionality—at  least  the  discourse  around  it  and  the  appearances  of  it—have  been  some  of  the  main  ways  the  project  has  bolstered  its  own  authority  and   63  Crystal  skull  artefacts,  like  the  Mitchell-­‐Hedges  Crystal  Skull  which  Osmanagić  has  previous  associations  with,  are  asserted  to  be  ‘fakes’  by  academic  scholars,  who  argue  that  they  are  modern  creations  (Sax,  Walsh  et  al.  2008).   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     197 clout.   By   attaching   itself   to   scientific   institutions   and  methodology,   and   by   promoting  connections   to   apparent   credentials   and   peer   review,   they   are   engaging   in   a   classic  “argument   from   authority”   strategy.   This—it   should   be   stressed   again—is   meant   to  create  the  appearance  of  “a  majority  to  impress  the  dissenter  even  though  the  dissenter  ‘might  be  right’”  (Latour  1987:  31),  and  in  the  case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids,  the  strategy  works  well  to  construct  the  appropriate  performance  of  scientific  support.     5.3.6    Contestation  and  Academic  Authority  International   professional   archaeology   has   responded   to   the   project   in  waves.  Following  the  media’s  initial  portrayal  of  Osmanagić  as  a  serious  amateur  archaeologist,  professional   archaeologists   expressed   interest.   Dr.   Bruce   Hitchner   at   Tufts   University  initially   stated,   “My   impression   is   that   they  may  be  monumental   elite   tombs   from   the  pre-­‐Roman   period”   (Blogger.ba   2007).   Zahi  Hawass,   former  Head   of   Egypt’s   Supreme  Council   of  Antiquities   in  Giza,   initially   said,   “It   is   quite  possible   there   are  pyramids   in  Bosnia”  (Blogger.ba  2007).  The  Archaeological  Institute  of  America  (AIA)  even  hosted  a  blurb   about   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   excavation   on   its   fieldwork   opportunities   website,  advertising  Osmanagić’s  request  for  field  volunteers  (Rose  2006b).    But  as  Osmanagić’s  unsubstantiated  claims  and  ‘fringe’  background  became  fully  apparent,   this   congenial   reaction   soon   turned   to   cynicism   and   scoffing.   The   AIA  fieldwork  advert  was  quickly  withdrawn.  Archaeologist  Anthony  Harding,  who  was  then  the  head  of  the  European  Association  of  Archaeologists,  was  one  of  the  first  objectors  to  respond:   “In   most   countries   of   Europe   those   with   wacky   theories   about   ‘hidden  mysteries’   on   presumed   archaeological   sites   are   free   to   propound   them   but   not   to  undertake  excavation…it  adds   insult   to   injury”   (Harding  2006).  Zahi  Hawass   retracted  his   previous   speculations   and   issued   a   public   letter   stating   that,   “Mr.   Osmanagić’s  theories   are   purely   hallucinations   on   his   part,   with   no   scientific   backing”   (Hawass  2006).  This  cynicism  soon   turned   to  panic  when   it  became  apparent   that   the  pyramid  frenzy   was   not   subsiding,   that   it   was   actually   growing.   Major   publications   like   Archaeology  Magazine  (Kampschror  2006;  Rose  2006a;  Rose  2006b),  Science  Magazine  (Bohannon   2006a;   Bohannon   2006b),   British   Archaeology   (Harding   2007),   Discover   Magazine   (Bohannon   2008)   and   Smithsonian   Magazine   (Woodard   2009)   published  sombre,  warning  articles.  Today,  most  professional  archaeologists  recognize  the  site  as  pseudoarchaeology.   Richard   Carlton,   archaeologist   at   the   University   of   Newcastle,  despairs:  “Support  of  this  raft  of  nonsense  has  only  increased.  I  have  no  idea  what  to  do  other  than  to  continue  to  present  reasonably  argued  opposition”  (Bohannon  2006b).     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     198 During  this  initial  reaction,  one  group  of  academics  entreated  politicians  to  force  Osmanagić   to   stop   excavations   on   Visočica   Hill   (Pyramid   of   the   Sun),   citing   the  importance   of   the   medieval   fort   that   sat   on   the   summit,   and   giving   evidence   that  Osmanagić   had   already   destroyed   some   genuine   medieval   and   Neolithic   sites   in   the  surrounding  area  (Archaeology.org  2006).   In  2007,   the  Bosnian  government  restricted  Osmanagić   from   excavating   anywhere   near   the   top   of   Visočica  Hill   near   the  medieval  fort.   Meanwhile,   professional   archaeologists   from   the   National   Museum   in   Sarajevo  were   granted   permits   to   excavate   the   medieval   fort   themselves,   starting   in   2008.  However,   attempts   to   restrict   Osmanagić   from   excavating   at   the   base   of   Visočica   Hill  (Pyramid   of   the   Sun)   or   the   nearby   Plješevica   Hill   (Pyramid   of   the  Moon)   ultimately  failed.  This  has  resulted  in  one  professional  team  excavating  on  the  top  of  one  hill,  and  one   amateur   pyramid   team   excavating   at   the   bottom   of   the   same   hill—neither   team  communicating,   hardly   acknowledging   one   another.   Osmanagić’s   project   is   still   by   far  more  popular,  more  supported,  and  holds  more  authority  than  the  professional  project  in  the  eyes  of  the  general  public,  despite  the  fact  that  the  medieval  fort  played  a  critical  role  in  Bosnian  national  history,  as  once  the  seat  of  the  Bosnian  independent  medieval  kingdom  (Malcolm  2002).    It  is  constructive  to  contrast  this  post-­‐war  state  of  affairs  in  Bosnia  with  a  nearly-­‐identical  pre-­‐war  case  of  pseudoarchaeology,  which  started  like  the  pyramid  project  but  had   a   different   outcome.   In   the   1980s,   a   Mexican   hotel   owner   named   Salinas   Price  announced   that  he  had   found  evidence   that  Homeric  Troy  was   located   in   the  Bosnian  town   of   Gabela,   in   the   Neretva   River   valley   (Stultitia   2007).   At   that   time,   Bosnian  archaeologists   exercised   their   authority   to   stop   the   pseudoarchaeological   dig,  making  sure   that  Price   could  not   get   excavation  permits   (Kampschror  2006:   26).   The   state   of  affairs   is   considerably   different   now   in   post-­‐war   Bosnia,   where   any   person   can   take  action  on  his  pseudoarchaeological   claims  due   to  political   instability.  Enver   Imamovic,  an  archaeologist  at  Sarajevo  University  and  former  director  of  the  National  Museum  of  Sarajevo,  thinks  “our  system  is  to  blame,  our  institutions,  which  are  not  doing  anything”  (Harris  2006).  Bruce  Hitchner,  professor  at  Tufts,  thinks  that  “the  scam  is  made  possible  by   the   lack   of   effective   central   authority”   and   that   Osmanagić   has   “exploited   that  weakness”  (Kampschror  2006:  27).       CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     199 5.3.7    Socio-­‐Politics  as  Integral  to  Scientific  Authority  I  would  argue  that  Osmanagić  has  indeed  exploited  the  weakness  of  an  unstable  country,   by   gathering   momentum   through   political   support,   and   by   using   his   own  networks   and   connections   in   government   (for   example,   his   father   was   once   the  Secretary  for  Industry,  Energy  and  Trade  in  the  former  Republic  of  Bosnia).  But  it  is  also  equally   true   that   Osmanagić   and   his   pyramid   project   has   also   been   exploited   by   that  very  same  system.    International  professional  academics  have  responded  to  the  project  as  if  it  was  a  top-­‐down  program  directed  by  a  maverick,  whose  claims  to  authority  can  be  snuffed  out  by  appropriate  rational  and  empirical  arguments.  In  reality,  the  project’s  authority  is  much  more  complex.  The  success  of  the  project  has  resulted  from  material  desires  and  material  results,  some  of  which  have  been  driven  by  Osmanagić  himself,  but  many   others   which   have   been   actively   performed   into   existence   through   the  participation   of   an   audience   eager   for   a   material   symbol   of   economic   success   and  nationalism.   They   are   translating   the   project   into   something   that   goes   beyond  archaeology—a  tangible  symbol  of  nationalism  and  money.    This  project   is   an  economic  and   social   asset   to  different  groups   in  Bosnia,   and  the  project   is  deeply   ingrained   in  national  and  ethnic  Bosnian  history.  Eric  Hobsbawm  writes:  ‘Invented   traditions’   have   significant   social   and   political   functions,   and   would  neither   come   into   existence  nor   establish   themselves   if   they   could  not   acquire  them…the   most   successful   examples   of   manipulation   are   those   which   exploit  practices  which  clearly  meet  a  felt—not  necessarily  a  clearly  understood—need  among  particular  bodies  of  people.  (1983a:  307)    Such   a   need   for   pyramids   clearly   exhibits   itself   at   Visoko:   the   pyramid   site   satisfies  specific   socio-­‐political   needs.   It   offers   a   world-­‐class   monument   that   outstands   every  other   major   national   monument   in   the   world,   right   there   in   “little   Bosnia.”   It   offers  politicians   a   diversion   from   unstable   government   problems   and   offers   a   campaign  strategy.  It  gives  a  war-­‐struck  town  a  thriving  economic  boost.  In  short,  it  fulfils  serious  social  needs.  For  many  members  of  the  public  and  politicians,  the  question  isn’t  whether  or  not  the  pyramids  are  real,  but  rather  if  people  will  come  to  see  it,  spend  money  in  the  tourist  shops,  and  use   it  as  a  cultural  and  economic  artefact.  For  others   the  site’s  very  existence   questions   fundamental   ideas   about   government,   control   and   academic  authority.    Archaeologists  who   have   been   desperately   trying   to   ‘knock   sense’   into   people  about  the  true  nature  of  the  site  have  seemed  to  be  unmindful  of  these  issues.  Telling  a  supporter  that  their  pyramids  don’t  exist  is  futile  when  people  are  praying  for  the  site  to   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     200 be   found:   Visoko   local   Rasim   Kilalic,   who   turned   his   weekend   home   into   a   café,   said  “Please  God,  let  them  find  a  pyramid,”  [while]  rushing  to  serve  crowded  tables”  (quoted  in  Sito-­‐Sucic  2006).  Kilalic  and  those  like  him  are  not  concerned  with  arguments  about  what   ‘is’   or   ‘is   not’   authentic   archaeology.   When   people   feel   it   necessary   to   pray   for  pyramids,  when  they  have  a  stake  in  making  sure  the  notion  of  pyramids  survives,  then  there  are   larger  considerations   in  play  than  unerring  fidelity  to  ontological   truth.  Such  active,  participatory  inventing  is  exemplified  in  one  quote  by  a  local  Visoko  resident:  “If  they  don’t  find  the  pyramid,  we’re  going  to  make  it  during  the  night.  But  we’re  not  even  thinking   about   that.   There  are   pyramids   and   there  will   be   pyramids”   (quoted   in   Foer  2007).   This   is   exactly  what   the   participating   public,  media   and   Osmanagić   are   doing:   constructing  pyramids  through  their  participation.  Osmanagić  is  only  able  to  invent  his  heritage   and   sustain   his   authority   through   the   continued   participation   from   a  supportive  audience  that  allows  his  ideas  to  gain  momentum  and  security.  The  site  and  members   of   the   Foundation—particularly   Osmanagić—have   been   crafting   a   complex  performance   of   executive   and   epistemic   authority   through   the   use   of   institutions   and  expertise.             5.4    Performing  Science:  Gaining  Authority  Through   Appropriate  Performance     5.4.1    Making  Realities:  Authority  Created  in  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  Project  John  Law  writes  that,  “The  practices  of  science  make  relations,  but  as  they  make  relations  they  also  make  realities”  (Law  2004:  29).  Here,  Law  is  referring  to  the  fact  that  facts   are   created   through   the   practice   of   science,   and   that   facts   are   by   definition:  “Something  that  has  really  occurred  or  is  actually  the  case…a  particular  truth  known  by  actual  observation  or  authentic  testimony,  as  opposed  to  what  is  merely  inferred,  or  to  a  conjecture   or   fiction”   (OED   1989).   The   key   concept   here   is   that   of   authenticity   in  observation   and   testimony,   a   reliance   of   representation   on   ontological   truth,   which  raises  questions  about  the  nature  of  epistemic  authority.  In  a  discipline  like  archaeology,  what  makes  an  account  of  the  past  authentic  or  faithful  to  what  actually  happened  in  the  past?   How   do   you   begin   to   classify   experiences,   observation   and   testimony   into  categories  of  the  ‘actual’  and  ‘authentic’?  How  does  this  play  into  the  scientific  methods  of  ‘fact-­‐finding’,  excavation  and  the  publication  of  archaeological  knowledge?   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     201 In  archaeology,   facts  are  created   through   the   interactive  process  of  excavating,  post-­‐excavation   recording,   publishing   and   display.   Actors   create   categories   in   the  process   of   ‘doing   archaeology’,   but   the   process   itself   can   also   create   actors   and  categories.   This   is   the   ‘factual   construction   of   social   agents’  whereby,   for   example,   an  untrained  student  who  goes  on   fieldwork  becomes  an  archaeologist   through   the  act  of  excavating  (Van  Reybrouck  and  Jacobs  2006).  A  student  gains  status  as  an  archaeologist  through  his  appropriate  behaviour  and  performance,  and  he  accumulates  authority  by  performing   appropriate   actions   in   the   category   of   ‘archaeology’.   In   such   cases,   the  performative  aspect  of  what  it  means  ‘to  do’  science  and  ‘to  be/become’  a  scientist—at  least   in   terms   of   the   authority   of   appearing   so—can   be   almost   as   important   as   the  validation  of  data.  Facts  are   constructed  equally   through   the  performance   of   authentic  observation  and  testimony,  as  they  are  in  the  politics  of  category-­‐making  and  meaning  making.  This  section  offers  a  discussion  on  the  performative  aspects  of  authority  in  the  production  of  knowledge,  highlighting  how   the  performance  of   scientific  practices   can  construct  powerful  new  realities.     5.4.2    Actualities  and  Virtualities       In  studying  how  nonexistent  material  can  become  an  extant  ‘reality’  for  so  many  people  in  Bosnia,  it   is  useful  to  explore  what  might  be  theoretically  framed  ‘actualities’  and   ‘virtualities’.   In   “Theorizing   Heritage”   (1995),   Barbara   Kirschenblatt-­‐Gimblett  retells  a  story  of  a  travel  writer  who  visited  the  historic  site  of  Cluny  church  in  France:  Last  year  700,000  tourists  came  to  see  Cluny  and  the  church  that  isn’t  there…  A  museum  dedicated   to   the   church   stands   a   few   feet   away   from   the   excavation.  Inside,   I   look   at   an   animated,   three-­‐dimensional   computer   re-­‐creation…Back  outside,  I  stare  at  the  void.  The  computer  model  is  still  so  fresh  in  my  mind  that  an   image  of   the  enormous  edifice   seems   to  appear  before  me.   I’m  not  alone   in  this   optical   illusion:   everyone   else   leaving   the  museum   seems   to   do   the   same  double  take  outside.  It’s  as  if  we’re  having  a  mass  hallucination  of  a  building  that  no  longer  exists.  (quoted  in  Kirschenblatt-­‐Gimblett  1995:  15)        Kirschenblatt-­‐Gimblett  offers  this  example  as  “virtualities  in  the  absence  of  actualities.  It  produces  hallucinatory  effects.  On  the  basis  of  excavation  and  historical  reconstruction  and  in  collaboration  with  visitors,  the  museum  openly  imagines  the  site  into  being—in  the  very  spot  where  it  should  be  still  standing  but  is  no  more”  (1995:  377).  The  museum  has   a   mediating   effect   which   (re)invents   a   virtual   site,   where   “we   travel   to   actual  destinations  to  experience  virtual  places”  (1995:  377).     The   Cluny   church   and   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   share   a   common   feature:   the  ‘inventing   of   a   site   through   the   blurring   of   what   Kirschenblatt-­‐Gimblett   terms   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     202 “actualities”  and  “virtualities”   (1995:  375).   In   the  pyramid  case,  media  communication  (using  language,  images,  and  a  combination  of  performance  and  participation)  acts  as  a  medium   in   which   Semir   Osmanagić   and   others   collectively   create   the   pyramids.   The  notion  that  the  ‘virtual’  is  opposed  to  the  ‘actual,’  and  the  idea  that  the  two  can  become  blurred  or  that  the  former  can  replace  the  latter,  is  not  new  in  literature.  Eric  Hobsbawn,  for  example,  argues  that  there  is  an  underlying  and  genuine  custom  in  which  traditions  come  to  be  invented  and  then  exist  (1983a:  2).  Scottish  kilts,  for  instance,  were  largely  artificial  traditions  that  later  merged  with  and  ‘became’  Scottish  custom  (Trevor-­‐Roper  1983),   and  many  nationalistic   traditions,   such  as  national  holidays  and   festivals,  were  mass-­‐invented   in   state-­‐led   generations   in   Europe   between   1870-­‐1914   (Hobsbawm  1983b).  These  invented  traditions  were  in  a  sense  ‘virtualities’  that  became  ‘actualities’  in  pre-­‐existing  custom.    Jean  Baudrillard  goes   further  with  this  notion  of   the   ‘virtual’  as  opposed  to  the  ‘actual’   in  his  philosophical  work  Simulations  (1988).  Baudrillard  specifically  discusses  ‘simulacrum’,   a   Latin   word   that   essentially   means   “to   put   on   an   appearance   of”.  According   to   traditional   philosophers   like   Plato   and   Nietzsche,   a   simulacrum   is   an  unsatisfactory   reproduction   of   something   existing   in   reality,   something   like   a   Roman  copy   of   an   original   Greek   statue   (Nietzsche   1990;   Plato   2004).   However,   Baudrillard  departs   from  Plato  and  Nietzsche,  arguing   that  a  simulacrum   is  not  a  copy  of   the  real,  but   rather   something   virtual   that   becomes   truth   or   replaces   truth   in   its   own   right,  something   that   is   ‘hyperreal’   (Baudrillard   1988).   The   ‘hyperreal’   characterizes   the  inability   to   distinguish   between   the   ‘actual’   and   the   ‘virtual’.   For   example,   if   media  radically  shapes  and  filters  an  event  and  a  viewer’s  reality  becomes  enmeshed   in  both  facts  and  invented/altered  information,  then  his  reality  is  ‘hyperreal’.  This  discourse  of   ‘simulacrum’,  and  the  ‘actual’  and  the  ‘virtual’,   is  a  useful  lens  to   view   the   way   pyramids   are   being   constructed   at   Visoko.   Kirschenblatt-­‐Gimblett’s  Cluny  church  “hallucinations”  and  Semir  Osmanagić’s  pyramids  can  be  seen  as  cases  of  ‘simulacrum’,   where   ‘virtual’   imaginings   are   created   through   a   mediating   factor   (the  museum   is   mediating   reality   in   Cluny,   and   various   media   sources   mediate   reality   in  Bosnia).   In   both   cases,   viewers   experience   the   ‘hyperreal’,   where   imagined  understandings  of  history  merge  with  an  ‘actual’  site  in  reality.  The  Bosnian  pyramids  do  not   exist   as   Semir   Osmanagić   and   his   followers   say   they   do.   The   hills   are   simple  geological   formations,   and   no   matter   how   hard   Osmanagić   may   search,   he   will   not  produce   real   evidence   of   a   supercivilisation.   One   can   distinguish   the   ‘actual’   from   the  ‘virtual’  at  Visoko,  just  like  visitors  to  the  Lascaux  Caves  in  France  “could  easily  be  made  to  understand  how  they,   let  alone  an  art  historian,   can   tell   the  difference  between   the   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     203 real  and  a  fake”  (Butler  2002:  114).  Osmanagić,  however,  does  claim  that  pyramids  exist  at  Visoko,  he  performs  science  as  if  he  is  in  the  act  of  uncovering  them,  and  he  has  more  or   less  devout   followers  who  support  his  project,  acknowledge  his  epistemic  authority  and  claim  to  see  what  he  sees.    This  situation,  I  argue,  is  occurring  because  Osmanagić  is  successfully  creating  a  simulacrum   of   the   site   and   performing   a   hyperreal   history,   primarily   by   using  authoritative  mass  media   outlets   as   the  medium   to   disseminate   his   ideas   [Figure   23].  Osmanagić  is  presenting  a  ‘virtual’  (irrational  and  invented)  image  of  ancient  pyramids  through  various  communication  networks,   in   the  same  way   that   the  museum  at  Cluny  provides   a   ‘virtual’   (rationally   argued   for)   image   of   the   inexistent   Cluny   church.   The  major   distinction   is   not   in   how   these   two   images   are   presented,   performed   or   in   the  ostensible  authoritative  support  behind  their  claims.  Rather,  the  distinction  rests  on  the  fact   that   the   church   at   Cluny   actually   existed   in   the   past   and   there   is   ontological  evidence  behind  this  reality,  and  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  did  not  exist  in  any  ontological  sense   outside   of   a   hyperreality   based   on   smoke   and   mirrors.   This   process   of  performative  inventing,  the  importance  of  hyperreality  as  a  means  to  authority,  and  the  questions  that  these  concepts  raise  are  expanded  upon  further  in  the  next  section.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     204           Figure  23:  The  Pyramid  Project  is  a  performance,  and  Semir  Osmanagić  is  in  the  spotlight.   Photos  by  Tera  Pruitt.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     205 5.4.3    Method  to  the  Madness:  Inventing  Authority  through  Performance   and  Media       In  2006,   the  television  station  ABC  Houston  13  broadcast  a  special  story  about  Osmanagić   and   his   pyramids.64   This   story   exemplifies   how   Osmanagić’s   performance  and   his   use   of   communication   networks   construct   and   authorise   the   idea   of   ancient  pyramids  by  creating  the  idea,  or  the  simulacrum,  of  pyramids:   [Image:  logo  brand  of  a  pyramid  with  the  words:  “Houston’s  Indiana  Jones”]   DESK  ANCHOR:  Travel   to  Bosnia   to   follow   this  modern  day   Indiana   Jones  and  his  search  for  Bosnia’s  great  valley  of  pyramids.   [Footage  of  Semir  Osmanagić  walking  at  the  Pyramid  of  the  Sun,  wearing  a  khaki   shirt  and  trousers  and  an  Indiana-­‐Jones  style  hat]   OSMANAGIĆ:  You  are  enjoying  the  most  beautiful  place  on  the  planet.   ANCHOR:  You  don’t  know  Semir  Osmanagić,  but  to  the  people  of  Bosnia,  he  is  a  national   hero.   [Cut   to   a   scene   with   school   children   clapping   for   him].  Congratulated,  applauded,  and   loved  wherever  he  goes.   [Cut   to   scene  of   more   children   presenting   Osmanagić   a   pyramid-­‐shaped   cake].   This   is   a  land  which  has  been  torn  by  war  and  civil  conflict,  but  resurrected   in  a  way  by  one  man  […]  Indeed,  his  story,  if  true,  could  change  the  history  of  the  world.   OSMANAGIĆ:   [walking   at   the   Pyramid   of   the   Sun;  where   the   site   appears   to   be   excavated  professionally]  We  are  going  back  thousands  of  years  from  the  ancient  times  and  the  Roman  and  the  Greek.   ANCHOR:  As  a  history  buff,  a  sort  of   living  Indiana  Jones,  he  travels   the  world,  exploring  mysteries  […]   OSMANAGIĆ:  All  you  need  to  do  is  disregard  the  trees,  the  greenery,  the  soil,  and  you  will  see  the  object,  clearly  in  your  mind.  […]   ANCHOR:   Semir   used   satellite,   thermal,   and   topography   analysis   on   tens   of  thousands  of  hills   in  his  search   for  pyramids  […]   If  a  person  could   look  back   and   just   visualize   this   place   as   you   see   it,   eight   thousand,   ten  thousand  years  ago,  they  would  see  a  massive  stone  city.     OSMANAGIĆ:   What   they   would   see   would   be   the   most   magnificent   city   ever  built  on  the  face  of  the  planet.           (ABC  2006)  The  transcript  above  vividly   illustrates  how  Osmanagić  and  his  supportive  media  have  performed   a   ‘virtual’   pyramid   site   onto   the   landscape   in   Visoko:   the   story   invites   the  viewer  to  “disregard”  the  site  as  it  stands  today,  consider  the  work  Osmanagić  has  done,  and  “visualize”  a  “magnificent  city”.  This  evocation  of  simulacra—images  not  only  of  that  city,   but   of   the   genuine   scientifically   accredited   archaeological   project   that   found   the  city—occurs  in  a  number  of  ways,  elaborated  further  in  the  sections  below.  The  first  is   64  I  find  this  example  of  the  ABC  13  broadcast  particularly  appropriate,  since  Semir  Osmanagić  has  often  played  this  same  media  clip  during  many  of  his  own  public  presentations  (notably,  his  presentation  at  the  Bosnian  Embassy  in  London  in  2007,  and  at  the  ICBP  Conference  in  2008).  The  fact  that  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  have  made  it  onto  the  well-­‐known  American  network  ABC  has  often  been  leveraged  for  authority  and  legitimation.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     206 Osmanagić’s  self-­‐representation:  language  and  images  provoking  associations  with  pop-­‐cultural  icons.  The  second  is  Osmanagić’s  deliberate  narrative  establishment  of  a  villain  (mainstream   archaeologists   and   political   opponents)   that   helps   to   root   the   pyramid  story  as  a  cause  ‘for  good’.  The  third  is  through  the  Foundation’s  penchant  for  logos  and  branding,  rooted  in  modern  ‘pop  culture'  and  stereotypes,  and  which  actively  establish  the   project.   The   last   is   the   performance   of   ‘doing   science’   and   the   creation   of   an  appearance   of   methodology   through   the   appropriation   of   scientific   manners,  outsourcing  of  genuine  scientific  results,  and  the  mimicking  of  scientific  documents  and  utilising  the  rhythm  of  scientific  language.       5.4.3.1    Self-­‐Representation:  Icons  and  Personalities     In   his  work,  Osmanagić   references   several   specific   icons   of   self-­‐representation  that   lend   authority   to   his   own   image   as   an   expert   on   the   past   (c.f.   Holtorf   and   Drew  2007).  First  and   foremost,  Osmanagić  represents  himself  as  an  adventurer.  Osmanagić  builds  on  a  prevalent  archaeological  icon  from  media  and  literature:  the  khaki-­‐wearing  adventurer,  who  knows   that   “anyone   is   capable  of  discovery  and   the  non-­‐professional  may  participate  in  the  grand  adventure”  (Ascher  1960:  402).  Osmanagić  fully  endorses  this   image,   always   wearing   rugged   khaki   and   rarely   appearing   in   public   without   his  wide-­‐brimmed   Indiana   Jones-­‐style   fedora.   [Figure   24]     Osmanagić   describes   his  work  with  adjectives   like   ‘dangerous’,   ‘brave’,   ‘exotic’,  and   ‘mysterious’.  His  tone  is  dramatic,  alluding   to   ‘secrets’,   ‘mysteries’   or   ‘treasures’   of   the  past.  The  ABC  Houston   transcript  above,   for   example,   claims   that   he   is   a   “living   Indiana   Jones,   he   travels   the   world,  exploring  mysteries”  (ABC  2006).    Osmanagić   has   offset   this   adventurous   image  with   two   perhaps   contradictory  self-­‐representations:   the  hardworking   academic   and   the   cool   socialite.  He   asserts   that  his  time  is  dedicated  “to  the  intensive  research  of  certain  enigmas  of  the  past”  involving  cultures   such   as   the   Maya,   Assay,   and   pre-­‐Illyric   cultures   in   Bosnia  (BosnianPyramids.org   2006).   He   claims   he   has   “read   40-­‐50   books   a   year”  (BosnianPyramids.org   2006).   On   many   occasions   he   has   emphasized   that   the  Foundation  has  dedicated  over  “300,000  man  hours”  to  the  pursuit  of  evidence,  many  of  which   are   presumably   his   own   (Osmanagić,   personal   email   communication   2008).  Somewhat   paradoxically,   Osmanagić   has   also   been   initiated   into   the   artsy,   ‘just   plain  cool’   side   of   popular   culture.   His   excavations   have   been   launched   with   concerts   of  popular  rock  groups  and  pyramid-­‐themed  art   installations.  He  has  even  appeared   in  a  music  video  (Harris  2006;  Dedic  2007).  In  interviews,  members  of  the  public  who  have   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     207 watched  Osmanagić  on  TV  have  told  me  that  they  see  him  as  a  “famous”  person  and    a  “celebrity”  who  has   charismatic   authority   because   he   is   so   present   in   popular   culture  (Sarajevo  residents,  personal  communication  2010).  Osmanagić   also   represents   himself   as   a   hero-­‐crusader   on   a   quest   for   truth,  attempting   to   save   a  war-­‐torn   land.  The  ABC   show  above,   for   example,   explicitly   calls  him  a  “national  hero”  who  will  “resurrect”  a  war-­‐torn  country  (ABC  2006).  The  humble  public  servant  image  is  not  far  behind.  In  one  interview,  Osmanagić  recognizes  that  he  is  in   the   spotlight   of   his   project,   but   says   “affirmation   of   the   project   on   the  world  wide  scene  and  of  course  the  contact  with  the  media,  are  all  a  part  of  this  process.  However  I  will  slowly  move  away  from  the  center  of  the  attention  as  more  people  get  involved  in  various   activities”   (BosnianPyramids.org   2006).   Osmanagić’s   image   as   the   modest  public  servant  and  dedicated  martyr  coexist  in  statements  like:  “I  was  aware  the  in  this  initial  period  there  would  be  critics  who  will  publicly  or  privately,  speak  out,  insult  and  challenge  this  vision.  That  is  why  I  did  not  want  to  put  anyone  else  forward,  but  instead  I  answered   to   all   provocations   with   the   culture   of   dialogue   and   scientific   arguments”  (BosnianPyramids.org  2006).     With   these   various   and   often   conflicting   personalities,   it   is   perhaps   surprising  that  Osmanagić  has  achieved   such  a   successful   authoritative  media   image.  But  he  has,  for  two  reasons:  first,  these  images  are  stereotypes,  seemingly  drawn  from  a  collective  understanding   of  what   is   to   be   an   archaeologist   (from  pop-­‐cultural   icons   like   Indiana  Jones,   to   academic   notions   of   public   servitude   and   intensive   research)   (Holtorf   and  Drew  2007).  The   second   reason   is   that  he   establishes  one   solitary  opposite   force:   the  villain.  Osmanagić  creates  a  solid  base  for  his  own  authority  by  juxtaposing  his  various  self-­‐images  against  one  antagonist.     5.4.3.2    Narration  of  Villain    Garret   Fagan   writes   of   pseudoarchaeology,   “There   is   another   powerful  storytelling  feature  in  this  genre,  one  usually  lacking  in  good  archaeological  television:  a  villain.   For   many   pseudoarchaeology   shows,   the   villain   is   archaeology   itself”   (Fagan  2003).   Vilification   “is   a   kind   of   symbol-­‐making   that   groups   engage   in   under   certain  conditions   in  order  to…build  consensus  and  morale   for  certain  kinds  of  social  actions”  (Klapp  1959:  71).  Osmanagić  has  successfully  established  mainstream  archaeologists  as  the  primary  villain  to  his  cause.   It   is   through  this  move  of  opposition  that  he  has  been  able  to  maintain  his  own  narrative.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     208   Like  a  classic  hero,  Osmanagić  has  consistently  kept  up  a  performance  of   ‘good  guy’  versus  ‘bad  guy’  with  the  academic  establishment,  saying  that  “every  new  idea  has  opponents     in  the  beginning.  The  bigger  the   idea,  more  aggressive  the  opponents  [sic].  But,   it  does  not  influence  my  goals  and  determination  for  an  inch”  (Osmanagic  2007c).  Osmanagić   has   used   the   instability   of   the   post-­‐war   academic   establishment   to   his  advantage,   saying   that   archaeologists   are   incompetent   and   lax   in   their   work  (BosnianPyramids.org   2006).   Osmanagić   has   also   accused   Bosnian   archaeologists   of  “longtime   carelessness”   [sic]   and   cites   foreign   scholars   as   “clueless   about   the   real  situation  and  state  of  Bosnian  Cultural  Heritage”  (BosnianPyramids.org  2006).     Osmanagić   has   represented  mainstream   academics   as   insulting,   fearful   groups  who   conspire   to   attack   his   higher   truth.   On   one   website,   Osmanagić   has   directly  politicised  and  polarised  his  academic  opponents:   “convinced  about   their  conservative  views,  [they]  promptly  attacked  the  hypothesis  and  tried  to  debunk  it’s  author.  Some  of  them,   showed   a   typical   bosnian   [sic]   propensity,   by   launching   labels   and   insults   from  behind   the   scenes”   (Osmanagic   2006).   He   has   also   used   forceful   language   to   depict  mainstream   scientists   as   afraid,   jealous   and   small-­‐minded:   “Are   they   afraid   about   the  material  evidence   that  will  make  collapse   their  world  views?”   [sic]   (Osmanagic  2006);  “The   trades   like   geology   and   archaeology   will   be   the   last   to   accept   [the   pyramids],  because   it’s   a   revolution”   (quoted   in  Foer  2007).  Like  every  good  crusader  and  public  servant,   Osmanagić   refers   to   his   opponents   in   a   tone   of   ‘humble   citizen’   versus   the  ‘corrupt  establishment,’  conjuring  a  crusader  image  of  fighting  for  truth  against  all  odds.    A   prime   example   of   such   behaviour   is   a   letter   that   Osmanagić   addresses   to  “Professors,  Museum  Councilors   [sic],  Member  of  Federal  Committees  and   Journalists”  (Osmanagic   2006).   The   letter   explicitly   entreats   academics   to   help   a   cause   that   will  improve   the   country,   a   cause   that   intends   to   give   sublime   hope   and   goodness   to   the  world   and   will   stand   (and   has   already   stood)   the   ‘tests   of   time’.   However,   the   letter  seems  to  imply  that  the  antagonistic  archaeologists  are  endangering  a  ‘good’  cause  that  represents  an   ‘underdog’   country,   trying   to  disunite  ethnic  groups  and   take  sides,  and  fighting  economic  growth  and  development  in  the  country:  The   pyramids   will   survive   all   of   us.   In   One   Hundred   Years,   nobody   will  remember  our  names.  But,   those   collassal   [sic]   stone   structures,   located   in   the  small,  but  proud  country  called  Bosnia,  will  radiate  a  positive  energy  out  into  the  world.   Please,   let   me   invite   you   once   again   to   unite   the   modest   Bosnian  potentials…In  five  years,  one  million  of  tourists  [sic]  will  visit  the  Bosnian  Valley  of   Pyramids.   Our   wish   is   that   Bosnia   and   Herzegowina   [sic]   becomes   a   lively  place   where   explorers,   students,   professors,   volunteers   of   lightened   faces  exchange   their   international   scientific   knowledge.   Tourism   will   develop   the  market,   the   economy   will   raise   and   infrastructures   will   be   built.   (Osmanagic  2006)   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     209  While   drafted   as   an   open   letter   to   opposing   archaeologists,   this   document   actually  appears  on  a  fanatically  supportive  public  website  that  mainly  draws  advocates  who  are  looking   for   confirmation   of   the   pyramids   (Bosnian-­‐pyramid.net   2006,   poll   data).   The  letter,  therefore,  is  not  really  directed  at  the  indicated  professionals,  but  rather  toward  a  supportive  general  audience.  The  actual  intended  reaction,   it  can  be  assumed,  is  not  to  convert   the   putative   addressees.   Rather,   Osmanagić   seeks   to  make   his   general   public  audience   see   the   great   benefit   of   the   project   and   to   collectively   rally   against   the  dispassionate  and  antagonistic  academics.  As  propaganda,  it  does  a  great  deal  to  reduce  the  authority  of  mainstream  scientists  while  simultaneously  elevating  Osmanagić’s  own  authority.       5.4.3.3    Drawing  on  Institutions,  Logos  and  Branding  Osmanagić   creates   the   image   of   a   villainous   establishment   of   scientists,   with  professional  archaeology  being  a  small-­‐minded  enterprise.  However,  he  simultaneously  uses  the  authority  of  logos  and  branding,  drawing  on  scientific  institutions  when  it  suits  his   own   means   to   an   authoritative   image.   He   does   this   in   several   ways,   from   the  promotion  of  cultural  assumptions  about   foreign  academia,   to   the  use  of  brand  names  and  signage.  He  uses  media,  which  by  nature,  “[enable]  marketers  to  project  brands  into  national  consciousness”  (Muniz  and  O’Guinn  2001:  413).  For  example,  Osmanagić  never  fails   to  mention   that   he   has   been   living   and  working   in  Houston,   Texas.   According   to  some  Bosnians,  living  and  working  abroad  (especially  in  places  like  the  United  States  or  the  European  Union)  is  considered  an  attractive  and  authoritative  feat   in   its  own  right  (Sarajevo   resident,   personal   communication   2007).   Along   with   his   American   label,  Osmanagić  builds  his   self-­‐image  on  prevalent  pop-­‐cultural   icons.  His   “sort   of  modern-­‐day  Indiana  Jones”  image  is  his  own  personal  logo  (ABC  2006).  Headlines  brand  him  as  “Bosnia’s   Indiana   Jones,”   “Houston’s   Indiana   Jones,”   or   “Indiana   Jones   of   the   Balkans”  (ABC  2006;  Hawton  2006).  This  self-­‐branding  provides  enough  drama  and  assumption  to  give  Osmanagić  a  look  of  amateur  authority,  and  he  is  an  easily  recognisable  celebrity  icon  in  media  contexts.  [Figure  24]     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     210           Figure  24:  For  years,  Semir  Osmanagić  rarely  appeared  in  public  without  wearing  his   signature,  iconic  hat.     As   well   as   branding   himself,   Osmanagić   also   seizes   every   opportunity   to  promote  other  people  with  official  political   labels  or  degrees  behind  their  name.  Along  with   encouraging   national   political   sponsorship   and   his   own   Foundation   supporters,  Osmanagić   courts   international   professors   or   students   who   give   his   project   an  appearance   of   authoritative,   scientific   presence   (see   Section   5.3.5   on   experts   and  expertise,   above).   At   the   excavation   sites,   this   courtship   is   full   of   friendliness   and  hospitality.   However,   casual   visits   by   curious   academic   professionals   have  more   than  once   been   later   spun   as   support   for   the   project’s   authority,   when   in   reality,   no   such  support   existed.   For   example,   in   July   2010,   Dr.   Ezra   Zubrow   from   the   University   of  Buffalo   SUNY   travelled   through   Sarajevo   and   saw   authoritative-­‐looking   blurbs   about  ‘archaeology   in   Visoko’   listed   in   tourist   brochures.   Unaware   of   the   site’s   academic  controversy   and   project’s   lack   of   peer   review,   Zubrow   visited   Visoko.  Within   a   short  span   of   time,   he   found   himself   at   the   centre   of   attention,   surrounded   and   courted   by  Osmanagić,  cameras  and  other  team  members.  When  a  video  camera  appeared  at  lunch,  he  jovially  made  comments  about  how  archaeological  sites  should  go  on  “unfettered”  by  politics.  He   left  Visoko  without  having   seen  much  of   the   site,   and  with   the   impression  that   Visoko  was   full   of   hospitable   local   people.   Later,   he  was   surprised   to   read   news  headlines  that  boldly  stated:  “U.S.  Professor  Gives  Thumbs  Up  To  Bosnian  Pyramid  Find”  (Osmanagic   2010).   Zubrow   felt   that   his   visit   was   grossly   misinterpreted   and  manipulated   to   read   as   ‘expert   consensus’   and   ‘proof’   of   pyramids   (Zubrow,   personal  communication  2010).    In  another  instance,  Dr.  Robert  Schoch,  a  controversial  academic  in  his  own  right  from  the  University  of  Boston,  travelled  with  Dr.  Colette  Dowell  to  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  site  to  see  what  the  fuss  was  about.  They  were  both  courted  and  then  manipulated  for   (Image courtesy of OKOsokolovo: http://www.okosokolovo.com/galerija.php? akcija=slika&id=535&top=da) (Image courtesy of BBC: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/4912040.stm) CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     211 press  interest  by  Semir  Osmanagić  and  members  of  the  Foundation.  Dowell  narrates  the  event:     Television,  news  papers   and  websites…announced  our   arrival   in  Bosnia   as   the  “American   Superstars,”   who   would   credit   the   claims   of   Semir’s   pyramids   and  Bosnia  would  receive   its  glory.   It  was  a   terrible  position   for  us  to  be  placed   in.  Semir  would  make  a  point  of  introducing  us  to  investors  and  politicians  and  have  us  all  stand  around  posing  together  for  our  pictures.  (Dowell  2007)    Another   example   of   the   Pyramid   Project’s   fondness   for   authoritative   labels   has  manifested  during  Semir  Osmanagić’s  public  presentations.  For  example,  at  the  Bosnian  Embassy   in   London   in   2007,   Osmanagić   opened   his   lecture   by   saying   that   his  “excavation   team   includes   an   Oxford   university   archaeologist”   (Bohannon   2006b;  Osmanagic  2007a).  Osmanagić  showed  a  brief  video  clip  of  a  young  man  at  the  Pyramid  of  the  Moon  stating  that  he  felt  “convinced  that  there’s  certainly  some  kind  of  large-­‐scale  man-­‐made   structure”   (Bosnianpyramid.com   2006).   Peter   Mitchell,   an   Oxford  archaeologist,   told   Science   Magazine   that   the   boy   in   the   video   was   only   an  undergraduate  student  and  “does  not  have  any  expertise  and  in  no  way  represents  the  university”   (Bohannon   2006b).   Nevertheless,   months   after   the   event,   Osmanagić  continued   to   promote   this   ‘Oxford   archaeologist’   video   on   his   website,   undoubtedly  because  of  the  weight  the  ‘Oxford’  name  carries.    The   Bosnian   Pyramid   project   has   also   drawn   heavily   on   the   names   of   policy  institutions  to  gain  and  sustain  the  project’s  authority.  Along  with  the  links  made  to  the  University  of  Oxford,  the  project  has  also  made  more  substantial  links  to  the  Library  of  Alexandria   in  Egypt,   the  Russian  Academy  of  Natural  Sciences  and—notably—UNESCO  and   the   World   Heritage   List.   In   an   article   headlined   “Alexandrian   Archaeologists  Impressed   By   The   Scientific   Approach   Of   The   Bosnian   Pyramids   Research”,   the  Foundation  describes  how  the  president  of  the  University  of  Alexandria  “expressed  his  willingness  to  closely  cooperate  with  the  Foundation  in  the  future”  and  how  “[a]fter  the  successful   presentation,   Osmanagić   as   offered   a   membership   to   this   prestigious  institution  which  he  accepted  with  much  pleasure”   (The  Archaeological  Park:  Bosnian  Pyramid  of   the  Sun  Foundation  2009).  Both  accounts  are   true:   the  Egyptian  group  did  induct  Osmanagić  as  a  member.  The  group  members  such  as  Dr.  Nebil  Swelim  and  Prof.  Monna  Haggag,  who  support  the  project  for  deeply  personal  Islamic  and  socio-­‐political  reasons.  Osmanagić   has   similarly   been   inducted   in   the   Russian   Academy   of   Natural  Sciences.  This  organisation  is  not  the  same  as  the  famous  Russian  Academy  of  Sciences  (which  is  limited  in  number  to  500  full  members,  including  multiple  Nobel  Laureates);  it  is   entirely   independent.   Osmanagić   gained   his   induction   through   Dr.   Oleg   B.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     212 Khavroshkin,  a  geophysicist   from  the  Schmidt   Institute   in  Moscow  and  member  of   the  Russian  Academy  of  Natural  Sciences.  Khavroshkin  also  spoke  at   the   ICBP  conference.  His  high-­‐profile  name  and  scientific-­‐appearing  presentations  quickly  led  him  to  be  very  much   relied  and  drawn  upon  during   the   ICBP  conference.  As  a  member  of   audience,   I  watched   Dr.   Khavroshkin   present   on   the   “Seismic-­‐Physical   Structural   Model   Of  Pyramids”,   which   included   opaque   PowerPoint   slides   full   of   seemingly   meaningless  formulas  and  diagrams  [Figure  25]  (Khavroshkin  and  Tsyplakov  2008).  Dr.  Khavroshkin  presented   geophysical   results   from   tests   he   had   taken   at   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   site;  however,   he   used   his   conference   presentation   time   to   drift   off   topic   and   bolster   his  claims   that   life   on   Earth   is   extraterrestrial   in   origin   (ICBP   conference   2008).   Dr.  Khavroshkin’s   actual   ‘scientific   contribution’   to   the   pyramid   project   bordered   on   the  nonsensical;   however,   his   name,   degrees   and   institutional   background   lent   the  appearance   of   a   supportive   “scientific   heavyweight”   (Coppens   2008b).  Osmanagić   has  drawn   authority   for   himself   and   his   project   from   such   experts   who   support   him  politically   and   socially,   who   have   been   able   to   induct   him   into   establishments   with  names   like   the   “Russian  Academy  of  Natural   Science”   and   the   “Library  of  Alexandria”,  which  sound  weighty  and  foreign.    Semir   Osmanagić   and   the   Foundation   have   also   drawn   on   the   brand   and   the  authority   of   the   United   Nations   and   UNESCO,   simply   through   a   discussion   and  promotion   of   the   UNESCO   World   Heritage   List   as   an   eventual   aim   of   their   pyramid  tourism  plan.  From  the  project’s  inception,  they  have  explicitly  aimed  to  “install  a  plaque  declaring  the  site  a  UNESCO  World  Heritage  Site”  (Piramidascunca.ba  2006;  Wikipedia  2010).   In  2006,  members  of   the  professional   community  wrote   a  petition   to  UNESCO,  signed  by   a   large  number  of   academics  with  doctorates   and  positions   at   authoritative  establishments.  The  petition  argued  that  Osmanagić’s  project  should  be  halted  and  not  seriously  considered  by  UNESCO  (Archaeology.org  2006).  In  response,  UNESCO  officials  released  an  official  statement  saying  that  they  did  not  intend  to  send  a  mission  to  Visoko  (Woodard   2007b).   Political   supporters   in   Bosnia   were   unmoved,   and   the   project  continued  to  endorse  its  UNESCO  World  Heritage  List  hopes  to  the  public  as  their  vision  of   a   way   to   get   ‘little   Bosnia’   on   the   map.   In   June   of   2010,   the   Bosnian   Pyramid  Foundation  released  an  article  headlining:   “Bosnian  Pyramids   in  United  Nations”.  This  article   states   that   the  United  Nations  held   the  Ninth  Permanent  Forum  on   Indigenous  Issues  on  16  June  2010  in  New  York,  and  that  during  this  session,  one  member  of  a  non-­‐governmental  organisation  (called  the  Ecospirituality  Foundation  from  Italy)  urged  for  a  number   of   European   sites   to   be   protected   by   the   UN.   The   Bosnian   pyramids   was  included   in   their   list   of   sites   (Piramidasunca.ba   2010).   This   very   weak   connection   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     213 between   the   UN   and   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   is   apparent.   However,   the   headline’s  unabashed   connection  of   the  pyramid  project   to   the  United  Nations   is   enough   to   lend  weight  and  status  to  the  Bosnian  Pyramids,  through  the  simple  and  sustained  mention  of  an  institution  as  powerful  as  the  UN.    Finally,   there   is   authority   stemming   from  modern   concepts   of   using   logos   and  establishing  brand   identity.  At   the  most  obvious   level,  Osmanagić’s  penchant   for   logos  and   brand   names   appears   in   the   way   he   has   trademarked   the   Foundation:   a   shiny,  official-­‐looking   logo   that   directly   references   the   power   of   government   [Figure   17].   In  2006,   he   successfully   trademarked   the   individual   names   of   the   pyramids   and   ‘The  Archaeological  Park:  Bosnian  Pyramid  of  the  Sun  Foundation’  (Schoch  2007).  In  Visoko,  official   government   signs   point   toward   the   pyramids,   and   an   array   of   formal  professionally   manufactured   Foundation   signage   mark   the   site   [Figure   26].   This  obsession  with  logos  and  branding  creates  the  feeling  of  establishment  and  authority,  a  point   that  also  emerges   in   the  way  Osmanagić   tries   to  represent   the  site  as   ‘scientific’.  This  point  is  expanded  in  the  next  section.       Figure  25:  A  sample  slide  from  the  PowerPoint  lecture  of  Dr.  Oleg  B.  Khavroshkin,  titled   ‘Seismic-­‐Physical  Structural  Model  of  Pyramids’  (Khavroshkin  and  Tsyplakov  2008).     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     214                   Figure  26:  Example  of  the  authoritative,  professional-­‐looking  signage  that  marks  the   Bosnian  Pyramid  excavation  sites.  The  red  signs  with  the  official  Foundation  logo  give   tourists  interpretive  information.  This  photo  also  shows  a  professional  Foundation  poster   advertisement  (hanging  below  the  red  sign)  which  advertises  the  upcoming  1st   International  Conference  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  (ICBP).  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.     5.4.3.4    Scientific  Representation    In  his  self-­‐representation,  Osmanagić  has  moved  seamlessly  from  performing  as  a   ‘modest   people’s   adventurer   who   despises   elite   academics’,   to   the   completely  contradictory   performance   of   ‘visionary   amateur   scientist   who   leads   a   team   of   elite  experts   and   carries   out   intensive   scientific   analyses’.   Historically,   Osmanagić   has  carefully  manipulated  images  and  language  so  that  his  methods  appear  scientific,  while  actually  having  no  basis  in  real  evidence  or  accepted  methodology.  Osmanagić   has   always   argued   that   he   has   conducted   serious   academic   work  dedicated   “to   the   intensive   research  of   certain  enigmas  of   the  past”   involving  cultures  such  as  the  Maya,  the  Assay,  and  the  pre-­‐Illyric  cultures  in  Bosnia  (Bosnian  Pyramids.org  2006).  He  continues   to  stress   that  his  research   in  Visoko   is  a  controlled  and  extensive  scientific  experiment.   In  2007,  he  released  a  document  called  Scientific  Evidence  about   the  Existence  of  Bosnian  Pyramids  [see  Appendix  H],  which  states:    Discovery   of   Bosnian   Pyramids   was   not   simply   an   ad-­‐hoc   affair,   but   required  combination   [sic]   of   classic   geo-­‐archaeological   methods   with   modern  geophysical  and  remote  sensing  technologies.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     215 The   Archaeological   Park   Foundation   believes   that   only   a   multi-­‐disciplinary  approach,   with   serious   scientific   argumentation   on   internationally   recognized  level  [sic]  will  yield  a  successful  realization  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  project.    The   team,   therefore,   includes   not   only   archaeologists,   but   also   geologists  (mineralologists/petrologists,  hydrologists  and  sedimentologists),  geophysicists,  paleontologists,   speleologists,   anthropologists,   mining   engineers   as   well   as  anthropologists.   Each   one   of   these   experts   brings   a   new   element   of   problem  understanding   and   integrate   their   qualifications   and   expertise   into   the   project  with  a  great  enthusiasm  and  collegiality.   (Osmanagic  2007b:  1)     [See  Appendix  H]    Such   language   intentionally   connects   his   project   to   mainstream   scientific   work   and  methodologies.   Consider   the   language   used   in   this   example   article   in   the   2004  Çatalhöyük  Archive  Report:    [The   project]   aims   to   understand   this   sequence   at   a   landscape   scale   through  multi-­‐disciplinary  research  that  includes  fieldwalking,  surface  collection,  survey,  excavation,   archaeobotany,   archaeozoology,   ceramic   analysis,   geomorphology,  micromorphology  and  soil  science.  (Mills  2004)    Despite   the   similarities   in   language,   considerable   differences   exist   between   the  professional  work  done  by  archaeologists  like  Steven  Mills  at  Çatalhöyük  and  the  claims  made  by  Osmanagić  in  his  scientific  report.    While   Osmanagić’s   language   intentionally   connects   his   project   to   mainstream  scientific   work   and   methodologies,   none   of   his   statements   (including   his   long   list   of  team  experts)  are  ever  documented  or  supported  with  any  real  evidence.  His  scientific  reports   usually   have   short   paragraph   entries   with   intricate   titles   such   as   “Apparent  thermal   inertia  measurements”   or   “Geodetic   topographic   contour   analyses”.   His   data,  however,   usually   boil   down   to   nothing   but   simple   statements   that   “geospatial  anomalies”   exist   (Osmanagic   2007b:   2)   or   only   reveal   vague   generalizations,   such   as  “the  sides  of  Visočica/Bosnian  Pyramid  of  Sun  are  exactly  aligned  with  the  cardinal  sides  of   the  world   (north-­‐south,   east-­‐west),   which   is   one   of   the   characteristics   often   noted  with   the   existing   pyramids”   (2007b:   3).   These   ‘data’   entries   each   have   corresponding  images,   which   at   first   glance   appear   to   be   technical   and   evidentiary;   but   on   closer  inspection,  the  images  and  their  accompanying  legends  are  meaningless.  [Figure  27]     These  reports  vividly  show  that  what  Osmanagić  says  is  less  important  than  how  he   says   things.   The   reports   mimic   language   patterns   of   professional   archaeological  documents,   drawing   on   the   established   institution   of   science,   creating   a   tone   of  authority.  This  tone,  coupled  with  colourful,  technical  images  give  the  project  a  feeling  of  weight   and  worth.   The  official   Foundation  website   and   logos   are   formatted   to   appear  formal  and  official,  yet  inviting  and  inclusive  for  a  wider  public.  In  this  case,  Osmanagić  and   his   team   are,   through   mimicry,   performing   authority.   The   next   section   in   this   Table 4 Table 4 CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     216 chapter   expands   on   this   point   by   discussing   how   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   project  deliberately  connects  to  science  as  a  master  discourse.         5.5    Authority  from  Science  as  a  Master  Discourse   5.5.1    Drawing  on  Science     Historically,  most  of  the  academic  debate  in  this  case  study  has  revolved  around  what  material  evidence  has  (or  has  not)  been  found  by  the  pyramid  team,  arguing  for  or  against  the  validity  of  Osmanagić’s  grand  interpretations  about  the  ‘greatest  civilisation  in   the   world’.   As   discussed   in   the   section   above,   most   of   Osmanagić’s   scientific  documents   engage   in   mimicry   of   scientific   methods,   with   little   meaning   or   message  behind   their   presentation.   However,   the   story   is   yet  more   complicated,   as   Osmanagić  and   his   team   have   proven   themselves   to   be   adept   at   constructing   an   ‘authoritative’  presence,   and   have   constructed   accounts   of   the   past   that   have   been   received   as  ‘authoritative’   by  many   in   the  Bosnian   public.   A  main   reason   behind   this   success   and  authority,   I   would   argue,   is   drawn   from   their   use   of   genuine   scientific   methods,   in  activity  that  I  call  an  “outsourcing  of  scientific  ethics”  (see  Section  5.5.4,  below).  In  some  instances,   such   as   the   use   of   radiocarbon   data   and   testing,   the   team   have   accurately  sampled  and  received  results  from  prestigious  labs.  Osmanagić’s   team   uses   accredited   professionals   to   take   samples   of   genuine  organic   material,   sends   them   off   to   get   tested   by   accredited   laboratories,   and   gets  accredited   persons   to   present   accurate   results.   But   they   do   this   activity   based   on  inaccurate   assumptions   about   the   source   material,   and   they   draw   illogical  interpretations  from  the  results.  By  relying  on  credible  scientific  sources  and  discourses,  the  team  has  outsourced  its  own  accountability  and  authority:  it  has  used  a  sprinkling  of  ‘scientific’  data  based   in   fact,  but  has  ultimately   taken   this  data  out  of   context   to  yield  outlandish   interpretations.   This   translation   creates   a   complex   web   of   performance,  authority   and   accountability.   The   following   section   explains   this   practice   and  performance  in  more  detail,  focusing  on  the  radiocarbon  dating  data  presented  at  the  1st  International  Scientific  Conference  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  (ICBP).   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     217       Figure  27:  This  is  a  sample  page  from  Osmanagić’s  Scientific  Evidence  about  the  Existence  of   Bosnian  Pyramids  report.  Three  arbitrary  arrows  and  scientific  jargon  on  a  topographic   map  are  supposed  to  represent  ‘data’,  but  when  examined  closely,  they  are  empirically   meaningless  (Osmanagic  2007b:  14).   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     218   5.5.2    The  Example  of  Radiocarbon  Dating  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  In  November  2008,  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  of  the  Sun  Foundation  announced  in  an  online  article  that:    The   first   radio-­‐carbon   [sic]   analysis   of   the   organic   material   found   above   the  megalithic   blocks   (within   the   conglomerate)   revealed   sensational   results:   The  blocks  with  engraved  symbols  have  been  covered   for  more   than  30,000  years!  These  analyses  coincide  with  the  ancient  paintings  in  Northern  Spain  and  South  France.   (Lascaux;  32,000  years).   (The  Archaeological  Park:  Bosnian  Pyramid  of  the  Sun  Foundation  2008)    Next   to   the   article   is   a   photo   of   archaeologist   Andrew   Lawler,65   wearing   a   hard   hat,  taking   samples   of   organic   material   from   the   wall   of   one   of   the   tunnels.   This   ‘final  product’  report  states  in  no  uncertain  terms  that  “engraved  symbols”  in  these  ‘pyramid  tunnels’  were  dated  to  30,000  BP.66   (Smart  2009)    The  importance  of  the  radiocarbon  sample   is  due  to  two  major  events:  (1)  this  was   the   first   organic   material   the   project   had   come   across   that   could   qualify   for  radiocarbon  testing,  and  (2)  the  piece  of  wood  was  found  embedded  in  conglomerates  inside   one   of   the   tunnels,   only   a   few   metres   from   a   rock   the   team   called   the   “T1  Megalith”.   Dr.   Muris   Osmanagić   (Semir   Osmanagić’s   father   and   a   mining   expert)   has  controversially   claimed   that   this   ‘megalith’   is   engraved   with   ‘proto-­‐Bosnian   script’.  These  carvings  on  the   large  rock   in  the  tunnel  have  a  dubious  history.  Multiple  people  assert   that   they   saw   the   rock   on   earlier   occasions   without   the   ‘script’   carvings   on   it  (Dowell  2008).  This  controversy  sets  up  a  dualistic  scenario  for  the  project:   if  the  rock  was   previously   observed   without   scripts   on   it,   then   the   rock   (and   potentially   the  authority   of   their   whole   narrative)   is   a   clear   hoax   created   by   the   project   or   an  enthusiastic  supporter.  But  if  the  scripts  are  genuine,  then  the  project  could  try  to  argue  for   ‘ancient’   human   activity   in   the   tunnels.   Despite   the   controversy,   the   Foundation  proceeded  to  do  radiocarbon  sampling  on  the  assumption  that  the  scripts  were  ancient.  They   argued   that   the   organic  material   they   found  was   encased   by   the   conglomerates  covering   the   ‘T1   Megalith’.   Therefore,   if   radiocarbon   dated,   this   organic   material   in  would  give  an  accurate  date  of  the  ‘megalith’  sealed  by  the  conglomerate,  indicating  the  years  of  ‘pyramid  activity’  (Irna  2008c;  Lawler  2008).     65  Lawler  holds  a  B.A.  in  archaeology  from  the  University  of  Cambridge.  See  Section  5.3.5.   66 Later, the Foundation even published a ‘guide to understanding radiocarbon dating’ for the public on their official website to further the apparent transparency and importance of the radiocarbon dating process (Smart 2009). CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     219 Archaeologist   Andrew   Lawler,   while   he   was   still   working   for   the   Foundation,  took   the   first   samples  of  organic  material  and  sent   it   to   two  radiocarbon   laboratories:  (1)  the  Research  Laboratory  for  Archaeology  and  the  History  of  Art  at  the  University  of  Oxford   in   the  United  Kingdom  and   (2)  Leibniz-­‐Laboratory   for  Radiometric  Dating  and  Stable   Isotope   Research   at   Christian-­‐Albrechts   University   in   Kiel,   Germany.   Another  sample  (3)  was   taken  by   the  untrained  Dr.  Muris  Osmanagić  (PhD   in  Mining)  and  was  later   sent   to   the   radiocarbon   laboratory   at   the   Silesian   University   of   Technology   in  Gliwice,   Poland.  Oxford   refused   to   return   a   result   on   the   sample.   In   their   report,   they  state:   The   small   graphite   sample  was  measured  on  our  AMS   system,  but  produced   a  very   low   target   current   (4.19mA)   and   poor   reproducibility.   These   factors  together  resulted  in  our  decision  to  fail  the  sample  because  any  result  would,  in  our  opinion,  be  inaccurate  and  potentially  misleading.    Our   conclusion   is   that   the   sample   delivered   to   our   lab   is   not   wood,   but   low  carbon  sediment.  As  such  we  do  not  think  that  we  can  attach  any  archaeological  significance  to  its  radiocarbon  content.  (Higham  2008)      However,  the  two  other  laboratories  dated  the  material  and  returned  relatively  similar  results.   Kiel   dated   the   conventional   age   to   30,600   +540/-­‐510   BP.   Gliwice   dated   the  material  to  34,800  +/-­‐  1500.  These  results  were  first  presented  at  the  ‘1st  International  Conference  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids’  (ICBP)  in  August  2008,  and  they  later  appeared  in  press   releases   and   in   reports   on   the   official   Foundation   website   (Pazdur   2008).   The  following   section   identifies   some   of   the   interpretive   issues   involving   epistemic   and  executive  authority  that  emerge  from  this  activity.     5.5.3    The  1st  International  Scientific  Conference  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids       These   radiocarbon   conclusions   formed   the   centrepiece   of   the   1st   International  Scientific  Conference  of   the  Bosnian  Pyramids   (ICBP),  which  was  held   for   five  days   in  August   2008.   The   conference   itself   was   an   elaborate   production   put   on   the   Bosnian  Pyramid   Foundation.   No   expense   was   spared   in   the   conference   materials,   booklets,  nametags  and  transportation  [Figure  28],  and  many  of  the  high-­‐profile  participants  (PhD  holders,  mainly  Egyptian)  were  financed  for  the  duration  of  the  conference.  The  first  two  days  involved  morning-­‐to-­‐evening  guided  tours  of  the  ‘pyramid  complex’,  including  the  hills   in   Visoko,   multiple   tunnel   sites,   and   other   areas   of   interest,   including   Gornja  Vratnica   and  Zadvidovici   (where   a   supposed   rock  quarry   and   ‘mysterious’   stone  balls  were   located,   respectively).   The   last   three   days  were   comprised   of   all-­‐day   conference  presentations.  The  conference  presentations  were  held   in   the  Hotel  Grand   in  Sarajevo,   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     220 and   the   academic   portion   of   the   event   was   opened   by   local   political   dignitaries.   The  whole  event  was  book-­‐ended  by  public  press         Figure  28:  Various  papers  and  booklets,  as  well  as  the  official  conference  guest  badge,   given  to  participants  in  the  ICBP  conference,  Sarajevo  2008.  The  conference  was   professional-­‐looking  and  well  organised.  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.    conferences.   In   appearance,   the   conference  was   streamlined   and   professional   [Figure  30].  Most  of   the  presenters  had  advanced  degrees  behind  their  names,  and  the   format  followed   conventional   scientific   conferences   around   the   world,   such   as   the   Annual  Meeting   of   the   European   Association   of   Archaeologists.   Before   the   actual   event,   the  Foundation   released  public   conference   leaflets,  brochures,   radio  broadcasts,   television  promotions  and  advertisements  as  large  as  motorway  billboards,  and  they  followed  the  conference  with  public   press   releases   that   promoted   the   ‘conference   conclusions’   and  ‘expert  agreement’.  The  aim  of  the  conference,  officially  promoted  during  and  after  the  event,  was  to  bring  together  experts  and  evidence  so  that  discussion  and  debate  could  flourish—and  so  that  the  project  could  ostensibly  legitimise  itself  through  propaganda.  However,  it  also  became  apparent  during  the  conference  that  a  primary  aim  of  the  event  was  to  establish  an  appearance  of  authority,  by  drawing  on  institutions  and  systems  of  scientific  accreditation  to  establish  a  sense  of  legitimacy.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     221   The  conference  itself  was  a  checkerboard  of  science  and  pseudoscience  [Figure  31].   The   majority   of   presentations   by   ‘accredited’   professors   and   researchers   had  nothing   to   do  with   the   Bosnia   Pyramid   project   or   archaeology   in   Bosnia.  Most   of   the  Egyptian  and  Russian  presenters,  for  example,  discussed  topics  that  were  of  interest  to  them  and  their  own  regions  of  work;   for  example,   “The  Ancient  Library  of  Alexandria:  Pioneering   the   Universal”   or   “The   Step   Pyramid   at   Saqquara:   The   Motive   and  Realization”.   Some   of   the   presentations   that   were   listed   in   support   of   the   Bosnian  pyramid   hypothesis   actually   derailed   during   the   presentations,   like   that   of   Dr.   Oleg  Khavroshkin   from  the  Schmidt   Institute   in  Moscow,  Russia,  who  drifted  off-­‐topic   from  Bosnian  Pyramids   to  discuss   extraterrestrial   origins  of   life   (see   Section  5.4.3.3,   above,  for  more  discussion  on  Dr.  Khavroshkin).    Two  Chinese  scholars   from  Xi’an67  both  attended   the  conference  and  gave  rich  and   exciting   presentations   on   genuine   archaeological   excavations   of   pyramidal   tomb  complexes  in  Xi’an  China.  Neither  scholar  spoke  English;  they  wrote  their  abstracts  and  gave   their   presentations   entirely   in   Chinese.   The   presentations  were   translated   by   an  amateur  Chinese  translator  living  in  Sarajevo,  employed  by  the  Foundation  solely  for  the  conference.   During   the   first   two   days   of   conference   tours,   it   became   clear   that   both  Chinese   scholars   were   visibly   confused   by   the   (lack   of)   archaeology   they   saw   at   the  ‘pyramid’  sites,  and  when  they  tried  to  explain  this  to  Osmanagić  and  other  participants  in  Chinese   (with   the   translator   trying   to  help),   it  was   to  no  avail.  At   the  various   sites,  Osmanagić   would   take   them   by   the   arm   and   show   them   his   site   stratigraphy,  metaphorically  patting  them  on  the  head,  while  they  stood  together  shaking  their  heads,  unconvinced  [Figure  29].  The  Chinese  translator,  on  the  other  hand,  was  visibly  moved  by  what  she  saw  and  heard  at  the  conference;  while  she  had  no  training  or  experience  in  archaeology,  she  did  have  PhD   in  an  unrelated  discipline,  and  she  wrote  a  very  strong  letter  of  support  for  the  pyramid  project  which  she  then  printed  and  handed  out  to  all  of  the  conference  participants.  Importantly,  when  the  dust  had  settled  after  the  conference,  these   two   Chinese   scholars   were   mentioned   as   “supporters”   in   the   official   post-­‐conference   press   releases,   even   though   I   suspect   that   they   had   little   idea—to   use   the  idiom—of  what  they  were  getting  themselves  into.     67  Dr.  Jiao  Nanfeng,  Director  of  the  Archaeological  Institute  of  Shaanxi  Province,  and  Dr.  Cao  Fazhan,  leading  archaeologist  in  Han  Yangling  Mausoleum  project.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     222     Figure  29:  Semir  Osmanagić  attempting  to  convince  one  of  the  sceptical  Chinese  scholars   that  these  bedrocks  are,  in  fact,  'pyramid  blocks'.  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.     Alongside  the  credible  presentations  on  Egypt  and  China,  ‘alternative’  or  ‘fringe’  papers   were   also   given   at   the   conference.   Among   these   was   a   presentation   by   John  Cowie,  an  alternative  amateur  and  independent  researcher  living  in  the  United  Kingdom.  His  talk,  which  was  a  late  inclusion  in  the  conference  and  therefore  did  not  appear  in  the  original   program,  was   based   off   of   his   self-­‐published  book   Silbury  Dawning:   The  Alien   Visitor  Gene  Theory,  the  thesis  of  which  is:  My  theory  is  that  the  rapid  evolution  of  our  intelligence  is  due  to  the  arrival  on  Earth  of   a   highly   intelligent   extra-­‐terrestrial   being,   or   race  of   beings   –  which   I  will   call   the   Alien   Visitor   throughout   this   book   –   that   bred   with,   or   somehow  planted   its   genetic  material   and   educated   our  Homo   sapiens   ancestors.   (Cowie  2000:  2)    Another   fringe   presentation   by   the   prolific   New  Age  writer   and   alternative   journalist  Philip   Coppens   seems   to   have   been   given   more   weight   by   conference   participants.  Coppens  gave  a  talk  called  “The  New  Fire  Ceremony:  kingship  &  renewal  as  a  template  for  pyramid  construction”,  which  he  had  previously  given  at  a  another  conference  and  published   online.   In   it,   Coppens   argues   that   the   scientific   establishment   and   “the   old  status   quo”   have   not   recognised   the   true   importance   and   prevalence   of   pyramids  throughout  history:  The  old  status  quo   that   it  were  but   the  ancient  Egyptians  and   the  Mayans   that  built  pyramids  has  been  upset  and  over  the  past  decade,  hardly  a  month  seems   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     223 to  have  gone  by  without  a  pyramid  being  found;  and  almost  each  year,  a  gigantic  pyramid  or  pyramid  complex  is  found  somewhere.  Today,  it  is  clear  that  massive  pyramids   are   a   feature   of   many   civilisations,   while   the   pyramids   of   Italy   and  Bosnia   are  not   easily   associated  with  any   culture   that   is   known   to  have  either  built  such  large  remains  or  built  pyramids.  Over  the  past  decade,  the  landscape  of   the   pyramid   debate   has   therefore   radically   changed   and   offers   science   a  challenge.  Today,  I  want  to  set  out  the  challenge,  as  well  as  provide  some  of  the  answers   that  may  be   the  key  revelation  of  what   the  pyramids   truly  are.   I  hope  that  it  will  stimulate  debate  and  can  become  a  “foundation  stone”  of  what  I  have  termed  “The  New  Pyramid  Age”.  [sic]  (Coppens  2007)    His   talk  went  on  to  describe  how  many  new  pyramids  have  been  discovered   in  recent  years   and   how   ‘the   establishment’   would   soon   have   to   agree   with   what   ‘alternative  amateurs’   have   known   all   along—that   pyramids   are   profound   and   central  markers   of  human  civilisation,  and  mysteriously  culturally  interconnected.  While  Cowie  was  taken  to  be   a   somewhat   extreme  personality   at   the   conference,   Coppens   garnered   authority  and  respect  from  other  conference  participants  and  became  a  central  personality  by  the  end  of  the  week,  even  appearing  in  the  final  press  conference  and  advising  on  the  final  outcomes  and  conclusions.  Less  than  a  year  after  the  ICBP  conference,  Semir  Osmanagić  was   invited   to   speak   at   Philip   Coppens’s   own   alternative   ‘Histories   &   Mysteries  Conference’   in   Edinburgh   (Coppens   2008a),   an   event   promoting   fringe   archaeology,  highlighting   the   archaeological   and  mystical   significance  of   the   controversial  Mitchell-­‐Hedges  Crystal  Skull.     ‘Alternative’  ideas  and  ‘establishment’  ideas  seemed  to  meet  halfway  at  the  ICBP  conference.  While  a  number  of  ‘alternative’  presentations  did  appear  at  the  conference,  they  were  sandwiched  between  other  presentations  that  did  present  ‘scientific’  data:  the  Chinese   presentations   of   mound   excavations   in   Xi’an,   mentioned   above,   along   with  authoritative  presentations  on  Egypt  by  participants   like  Dr.  Mostafa  El  Abbadi  on   the  Library  of  Alexandria  Project.  There  was  also  a  thorough  lecture  given  by  Chris  Norman,  a   Development   Control   Manager   of   the   West   Lothian   Council   in   Scotland.   Norman’s  lecture,  titled  Tourism  and  the  Cultural  Heritage:  Towards  a  Sustainable  Approach,  which  came  out  of  a  solid  vein  of  heritage  management  policy  in  the  United  Kingdom.  Norman  addressed  how  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  project’s  potential  for  tourism  could  be  maximised  by  planning  and  development,   and  he  outlined   important   steps   that   could  be   taken   to  create   a   sustainable   tourism   industry   in   the   region   (Norman   2008).   Norman’s  presentation   gave   sound   suggestions   for   improving   tourist   infrastructure   and  promotion—all   useful   suggestions   that   one   might   see   in   any   policy   consultation   for  heritage  in  the  United  Kingdom.    Finally,   two   individuals   presented   the   genuine   results   from   the   radiocarbon  testing   at   the   ICBP   conference:   Andrew   Lawler,   who   was   the   project’s   Permanent   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     224 Archaeologist  at  the  time  and  who,  again,  held  a  B.A.  in  archaeology  from  the  University  of   Cambridge,   and   Dr.   Anna   Pazdur,   a   physicist   and   the   head   of   the   Department   of  Radioisotopes   at   the   Gliwice   Radiocarbon   Laboratory.   The   Gliwice   Radiocarbon  Laboratory   in   Poland   is   described   online   as   having   “received   the   status   of   Centre   of  Excellence  GADAM  (Gliwice  Absolute  DAting  Methods  Centre)”,  and  Dr.  Pazdur,  who  is  head  of  the  radioisotopes  department,  is  listed  as  having:    [p]ublished  more   than  50  papers   in   international   reviewed   journals   and  more  than  150  of  other  papers  and  reports,  author  or  co-­‐author  of  several  chapters  in  monographs,  author  of  one  monograph,  co-­‐editor  of  one  monograph.  Editor-­‐in-­‐Chief   of   Geochronometria:   Journal   on   Methods   and   Applications   of   Absolute  Chronology.  (ATIS  2010)    At   the   ICBP   conference,   Dr.   Pazdur   presented   the   radiocarbon   results   from   her  laboratory,   and  Lawler   presented   the   findings   from  Kiel   (Lawler   2008;   Pazdur  2008).  Dr.  Pazdur’s  presentation  merely  explained  what  radiocarbon  dating  methods  were  and  how  they  operate,  and  she  ran  through  the  procedures  that  her  laboratory  took  in  order  to  reach  the  date  of  34,000BP  (or  42,000  BP  calibrated).       Lawler’s   presentation   on   the   results   from   Kiel   was  more   in-­‐depth.   He   argued  that  the  radiocarbon  results  were  consistent  with  many  different  possible  conclusions:  (1)  the  carbonized  wood  and  sediments  might  have  been  deposited  in  the  time  of  the  C-­‐14   results,   before   the   tunnels   (and/or   carvings)  were  made,   and   then   the   tunnel  was  used  and  abandoned  before  conglomerate  collapsed  onto  the  T1  Megalith  ‘carvings’;  (2)  the  tunnels/cave  system  might  have  existed  in  the  pre-­‐human  Upper  Miocene,  then  was  later  infilled  during  the  C-­‐14  dates  by  localized  flooding  from  river  or  glacial  melt  water,  after  which  the  tunnels  could  have  been  used  by  humans  but   later  abandoned;  (3)  the  wood  was  embedded  by  humans  for  unknown  reasons,  possibly  as  a  support  or  fixing,  then   carvings   could   have   been   made   on   large   stones   encountered   in   the   sediments.  Lawler  presented  all  of  these  different  potential  scenarios,  but  implied  that  he  thought  the   organic   material   was   natural   in   origin   and   had   little   interpretive   value.   Semir  Osmanagić  and  other  conference  organizers  did  not  receive  this  ‘natural’  interpretation  well—at  one  point  Dr.  Muris  Osmanagić   (Semir  Osmanagić’s   father)   actually   stood  up  and   belittled   Lawler   in   front   of   the   conference   audience.   Lawler   left   his   employed  position  with  the  Foundation  soon  after  the  conference,  in  part  because  of  irreconcilable  differences   that   had   hit   a   tipping   point   at   the   conference   (Lawler,   personal  communication  2008).  Later,  Lawler’s  report  appeared  in  modified  form  on  the  official  Bosnian  Pyramid  website,  and  the  modified  document  stressed  the  human  origins  of  the  material   and   downplayed   Lawler’s   original   suggestions   about   the   material’s   natural  origin  (Irna  2008a;  Lawler  2008).   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     225       Figure  30:  Image  from  the  ICBP  Conference.  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.       Figure  31:  Foundation  volunteer  proudly  showing  off  a  'pyramid  artefact'  (which  has  been   marked  with  a  number  for  recording  purposes).  In  reality,  this  is  not  an  artefact,  only  a   rock.  Photo  by  Tera  Pruitt.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     226   5.5.4    Drawing  on  the  Authority  of  Radiocarbon  Methodology  I  would  argue  that  during  the  ICBP  conference,  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  team  drew  heavily  on  the  radiocarbon  results  because  of  the  authority  that  the  method  holds  in  the  field   of   archaeology   and   in   the   eyes   of   the   popular   media.   Archaeologists   have   long  recognised  the  importance  of  radiocarbon  as  a  dating  method.  It  was  invented  in  the  late  1940s   by   William   Libby   and   it   “revolutionized   our   understanding   of  prehistory…[providing]   new,  more   reliable,   and  universally   applicable   techniques”   for  recording  chronological  sequences  and  ordering  time  (Trigger  1989:  384).  Before  C-­‐14  dating,   archaeological   sequences   and   chronologies   had   to   be   created   from   rough  typologies  that  were  tediously  correlated  with  historic  references  from  ancient  Egypt  or  other  ancient  societies.  Radiocarbon  dating  revolutionized  the  field  by  allowing  precise  dates   to   be   pinned   down   on   specific   stratigraphic   layers   and   archaeological   objects.  Desmond  Clark  observed  that  without  radiocarbon  dating  "we  would  still  be  foundering  in   a   sea   of   imprecisions   sometime   bred   of   inspired   guesswork   but   more   often   of  imaginative  speculation"  (1979:  7).  As  Clark  implies,  radiocarbon  dating  is  seen  as  very   scientific  and  robust  method,  in  that  it  observes  the  decay  of  atoms  in  the  natural  world  and  equates   this   to  measurable   time.  When  deep  history  and   time   is  measurable  by  a  scientific  method,  this  is  quite  a  powerful  display  of  authority  and  promise.    Because  of  the  importance  of  radiocarbon  dating  as  a  technology  and  a  scientific  method,   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   project   has   drawn   heavily   on   the  method   for   scientific  presence   and   authority.   The   radiocarbon   results   were   the   centrepiece   of   the   ICBP  conference,  and  the  results  have  been  mentioned  constantly  in  press  releases  ever  since.  For   example,   one   headlining   feature   for   Osmanagić’s   induction   in   the   Library   of  Alexandria  Society  stated  that:  “The  Egyptian  experts  gave  a  special  attention  to  the  new  radiocarbon  results  of  the  tested  samples  from  the  complex  of  the  underground  tunnels  beneath  the  pyramids  that  point  to  a  much  older  civilization  than  the  Butmir  Culture”.  The  article  is  titled,  “Alexandrian  Archaeologists  Impressed  By  The  Scientific  Approach  Of  The  Bosnian  Pyramids  Research”  (The  Archaeological  Park:  Bosnian  Pyramid  of   the  Sun  Foundation  2009).    As  a  technology,  the  popular  understanding  of  what  a  radiocarbon  date  does  is  relatively  straightforward:  you  measure  the  rate  of  decay  of  carbon  in  an  organic  sample  using  the  correct  radiocarbon  dating  tools  and  technology,  and  you  receive  in  return  a  reliable   historical   date   for   the  material.   The   actual   methodological   process,   however,  involves  many  more   diverse,   complex   and   social   steps:   for   example,   there   is   complex   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     227 preparation   of   samples,   accurate   sampling   by   an   expert   who   has   received   the  appropriate  sampling  training,  pre-­‐treatment  and  avoiding  of  contamination,  testing  and  results  processing  (Briant  and  Lawson  2008).  The  reality  is  that  radiocarbon  dating,  like  most  methodological   technologies,   relies  heavily  on  humans,   their   social  methods  and  their  ability  to  interact  with  and  judge  the  final  data  output.  Thus,  the  interpretation  of  seemingly  objective  data  is  heavily  influenced  by  the  social  production  of  knowledge.  The  meaning  and  authority  behind  the  radiocarbon  method  might  be  compared  to  that  of  Magnetic  Resonance  Imaging  (MRI)  in  the  field  of  medicine.  In  an  article  called   Appealing   Images:   Magnetic   Resonance   Imaging   and   the   Production   of   Authoritative   Knowledge  (2005),  Kelly  Joyce  writes  that  “popular  accounts  ‘black-­‐box’  crucial  decision  and  practices   that  shape   the  use  and  quality  of  MRI  examinations   in  medical  practice”  (2005:   438).   She   argues   that   “broader   cultural   views   that   link  mechanically   produced  pictures  to  the   ‘revelation’  of  the  physical  world  and  the  production  of  truth,  enhances  the  status  of  anatomical  images,  thereby  increasing  their  significance  in  the  construction  and  assertion  of  authoritative  knowledge  in  contemporary  medicine  and  culture”  (2005:  439).  Joyce  is  stressing  that  the  power  of  the  MRI  as  an  ‘authoritative’  tool  is  behind  the  popular  notion  that  the  MRI  process  renders  an  ‘apparent’  image  or  ‘direct  window’  into  the   body,   simply   ‘revealing   truth’   about   the   bodily   state.   The   popular   idea   is   that   the  images   produced   by   MRI   machines   simply   ‘reveal’   these   truths   about   the   body’s  condition,  such  as  where  tumours  are  located  or  what  disease  is  ailing  a  person.    However,  in  reality,  when  professionals  use  and  create  MRI  images,  a  great  deal  of  imprecise  social  interpretation  and  practice  goes  into  the  construction  of  knowledge  about  the  body.  Doctors  use  these  images  cautiously,  as  mere  tools  for  interpreting  what  may  or  may  not  be  worthy  of  interest  or  further  examination.  Joyce  explains  that  when  doctors  ‘read’  an  MRI  image,  they  heavily  interpret  what  they  see,  as  some  of  the  fuzzy  lines   or   blobs   might   represent   a   number   of   different   realities   about   the   body.  Furthermore,  even   if   the   image  has  a  clearly  recognisable   image,   the  doctor  at  hand   is  always  socially  interpreting  the  image  and  rendering  meaning  from  it.  The  image  itself  does   not   ‘reveal’   truth;   rather,   truth   about   the   body   is   constructed   from   social  interactions  in  a  network  between  the  body,  the  machine,  the  image  and  the  doctor.  This  reality  of   the   technology’s   interpretive  and  social  aspect   is   ‘blackboxed’   in   the  popular  understanding  of  MRI  images,  and—importantly—the  authority  and  status  of  the  MRI  as  a  scientific  method  comes  from  this  misconception  of  the  method  as  being  ‘relevatory’,  a  process  of  producing  apparent  truths.    Radiocarbon   dating   has   a   similar   problem.   A   popular   understanding   of  radiocarbon  methods   also  presupposes   that   the   technology   is   ‘relevatory’.   The   idea   is   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     228 that  an  archaeologist  simply  inputs  carbon  samples  of  organic  material  into  a  machine,  and  then  the  data  outputs  ‘tell  us’  the  age  of  archaeological  material.  The  authority  and  status  of  radiocarbon  dating  comes  from  this  notion  that  the  ‘scientific  results’  in  some  way  present  us  with  ‘truths’  about  the  natural  world.  But  in  reality,  radiocarbon  dating  presents   results   in   a   similar   way   to   MRI   testing:   radiocarbon   output   charts   must   be  interpreted   by   a   (human)   expert,   the   sampling   process   must   be   assessed   for  contamination,   and   the   material’s   original   location   and   content   must   also   be   socially  interpreted.   The   whole   technology   is   based   on   a   social   construction   of   authoritative  knowledge.  The  activity  of  sampling  itself,  of  choosing  what  to  sample,  and  of  conducting  or   refusing   to   test   organic  material   is   inherently   social   and   interpretive,   a   point   that  Joyce  similarly  argues  in  her  study  of  MRI  imaging  (Joyce  2005).    In   the   case   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramids,   the   team’s   decision   to   take   radiocarbon  samples  emerged  for  socio-­‐political  reasons,  as  mentioned  in  the  previous  section;  there  was  a  great  deal  of  social  pressure  for  the  project  to  provide  a  way  to  ‘reveal  truth’  and  produce   ‘proofs’   about   the   ‘archaeological’   material   under   contestation.   Radiocarbon  dates  provided  the  means  for  that  revelation  and  authority  for  the  project’s  account  of  the  past.  Despite  the  fact  that  Oxford  refused  to  participate,  the  dates  that  were  returned  from  Kiel  matched   those   that  were   returned   from  Gliwice—approximately   35,000   BP  (uncalibrated).   Trained   experts,   like   the   Cambridge-­‐trained   archaeologist   Andrew  Lawler   and   Dr.   Anna   Pazdur  who   is   the   Head   of   the   Department   of   Radioisotopes   at  Gliwice,   presented   the   radiocarbon   results   at   the   conference.   The   ICBP   conference  presentations  by  Lawler  and  Pazdur  were  straightforward,  scientific  and  solid;  they  ran  through  their  methods—the  accurate  and  correct  steps  that  were  taken  to  sample  and  test  the  organic  material  from  the  ‘pyramid’  tunnel—as  well  as  the  results.  The  results  in  particular   have   been   promoted   on   the   official   Bosnian   Pyramid   Foundation   website,  most   notably   the   fancy   output   graphs   and   charts   that   show   the   calibration   dates   and  ranges  (ICBP  2008;  Pazdur  2008).    In  this  instance,  the  data  coming  from  the  Foundation’s  ‘final  product’  account  of  the   past   was   not   a   mere   drawing   upon   or   manipulation   of   institutions   to   seal   the  performance   of   scientific   authority.   The   activity   in   question—radiocarbon   dating   and  results  presented  by  experts   in   the   field—was  arguably   ‘real’   science   taking  place,  not  pseudoscience.   However,   the   human   activity   was   a   taken-­‐for-­‐granted   story.   The   final  interpretations  that  appeared  in  public  press  releases  and  other  social  media  headlined  that:   “the   new   radiocarbon   results   of   the   tested   samples   from   the   complex   of   the  underground  tunnels  beneath  the  pyramids  that  point  to  a  much  older  civilization  than  the  Butmir  Culture”  (The  Archaeological  Park:  Bosnian  Pyramid  of  the  Sun  Foundation   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     229 2009).   But   there  was   no   good   evidence   that   the   organic  material   under   question   had  anything  to  do  with  human  activity,  and  the  script  on  the  ‘megalith’  was  of  questionable  provenance.   The   radiocarbon   results,   properly   interpreted,   have   nothing   to   say   about  these  crucial  questions.  Alone,  they  merely  reveal  that  a  certain  lump  of  organic  material  likely   dated   to   the   ancient   past.   In   reality,   the   organic  matter—although   scientifically  tested   by   experts   through   a   reliable  method—was   likely   a   piece   of   tree   root   or   other  organic   matter   that   had   washed   into   a   natural   cave   system   from   flooding   of   glacial  melts.   But   because   of   the   popular   understanding   of   radiocarbon   dating   as   a   reliable  technology   that   ‘reveals   truth’   about  past   people   and  not   just  past   organic  matter,   the  story  of  Palaeolithic  pyramids  sounded  plausible  to  the  public.  The  project’s  use  of  the  radiocarbon  method  and  their  appropriate  performance  of  presenting  the  radiocarbon  results  was  immensely  successful  at  accumulating  attention,  prestige  and  a  great  deal  of  authority  for  the  project  in  the  eyes  of  the  general  public.       5.6    Chapter  Conclusion:  Authority  in  the  Politics  and   Performing  of  Pyramids     This   case   study   raises   questions   about   what   makes   something   appear  authoritative  different   from  something  that   is  authoritative?  Collins  and  Evans  suggest  that,  “The  problems  of  legitimacy  and  of  extension  arise  because  ‘the  speed  of  politics  is  faster  than  the  speed  of  science’”  (2007:  125).  Certainly  this  case  study  embodies  such  a  scenario;   the   site   has   been   lifted   in   authoritative   status   and   popularity   because   of   its  politics,   and   because   of   the   way   scientific   methods   are   being   socially   applied   and  performed  to  bolster  pseudoscientific  theories.  The  Bosnian  Pyramid  site’s  context,  and  its   ‘authority’   in   relation   to   the   science   it   performs,   is   complicated   by   the   layering   of  social   and   scientific   politics   at   play.   The   site   is   drawing   its   sense   of   legitimacy   from  performance  by  using  select  scientific  methods  and  traditions  that  have  been  authorised  by   the   scientific   community.   In   a   case   like   the   Bosnian   Pyramids,   the   lines   between  authoritative   categories   in   science—authoritative,   authorised,   legitimate,   and   merely  appearing   authoritative—are   blurred   and   nuanced,   and   such   context   in   a   field   like  archaeology   raises   larger   questions   and   conditions   about   what   it   means   to   have  authority  in  a  scientific  discipline  This  chapter  argues  that  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  project  has  accumulated  authority  for  two  main  reasons.  First,  the  public  in  this  case  study  are  actively  participating  in  the   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     230 invention  of  the  notion  of  pyramids.  The  pyramid  project  is  deeply  ingrained  in  national  and  ethnic  Bosnian  history.  Director  Semir  Osmanagić  is  able  to  construct  his  vision  of  Bosnian   archaeology,   and   continues   to   hold   authority,   only   through   the   continued  participation   by   a   supportive   audience   who   allows   his   ideas   to   gain   momentum   and  security.   A   variety   of   interest   groups   attach   different   values   and   meanings   to   the  pyramid  narrative.  To  stress  again,  Eric  Hobsbawm  writes:  ‘Invented   traditions’   have   significant   social   and   political   functions,   and   would  neither   come   into   existence  nor   establish   themselves   if   they   could  not   acquire  them…the   most   successful   examples   of   manipulation   are   those   which   exploit  practices  which  clearly  meet  a  felt—not  necessarily  a  clearly  understood—need  among  particular  bodies  of  people.  (1983b:  307)    Such   a   need   for   pyramids   clearly   exhibits   itself   at   Visoko.   Unlike   the   unsuccessful  pseudoarchaeology  site  of  Gabela,  where  another  pseudoarchaeologist  claimed  to  have  found  Troy,68  Osmanagić’s  pyramid  site  satisfies  specific  socio-­‐political  needs.  It  offers  a  world-­‐class   monument   that   outstands   and   out-­‐sizes   every   other   major   national  monument  in  the  world,  right  there  in  ‘little  Bosnia’.  It  offers  politicians  a  diversion  from  unstable   government   problems   and   offers   a   campaign   strategy.   It   gives   a   war-­‐struck  town   a   thriving   economic   boost.   It   fulfils   serious   social   needs.   Osmanagić   presents   a  simulacrum  and  hyperreality,  a   ‘virtual’   story   that  overlays   the   ‘actual’   truth—but   it   is  only   through   the   full  acceptance  and  participation   in   this  vision   that   the  site  comes   to  fruition.   This   active,   participatory   inventing   is   exemplified   in   one   quote   by   a   Visoko  resident,  which  bears  repeating:  “If  they  don’t  find  the  pyramid,  we’re  going  to  make  it  during  the  night.  But  we’re  not  even  thinking  about  that.  There  are  pyramids  and  there   will  be  pyramids”   (quoted   in  Foer  2007).  This   is  exactly  what   the  participating  public,  media,   and   Osmanagić   are   doing:   they   are   constructing   pyramids   through   their  participation.    Secondly,   the   project   is   constructing   and   maintaining   authority   through   their   performance  of  authority.  This  argument  has  several  facets.  In  Section  5.4  of  this  chapter,  I  refer  to  the  performative  process  by  which  Osmanagić  is  inventing  a  site  and  a  sense  of  authority  by  acting  the  role  of  amateur  archaeologist,  creating  the  appearance  of  serious  academic  project.  To  explain  more  deeply—in  the  book,  How  to  Do  Things  With  Words,  J.L.  Austin  distinguishes  between  ‘statements,’  which  are  utterances  that  simply  describe  something,  and  ‘performative  language’,  which  are  neither  true  nor  false  statements,  but  rather  utterances  which  perform  certain  kinds  of  action.  When  you  utter  performative  language,  and  when  the  circumstances  are  appropriate,  the  language  does  not  describe   68  See  Section  5.3.6.   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     231 something,  but  rather  does  something  (for  instance,  saying  “I  name  this  ship  the  Queen   Elizabeth”  in  the  appropriate  circumstances  will  perform  the  action  as  it  is  said)  (Austin  1962).  Although  Austin  was  certainly  discussing  more  narrow  and  specific  utterances,  the  general  idea  can  be  applied  to  the  performances  occurring  at  Visoko.  By  repeatedly  saying  that  there  are  pyramids,  and  by  describing  an  inexistent  site  as  existent  in  what  appears  to  be  authoritative  circumstances,  Osmanagić  is  creating  pyramids.  By  saying  on  ABC  television,  for  example,  that  “If  a  person  could  look  back  and  just  visualize  this  place  as  you  see   it,   eight   thousand,   ten   thousand  years  ago,   they  would  see  a  massive  stone  city”  (ABC  2006),  he  is  uttering  performative  language.  He  is  not  describing  the  faux  city,  because  it  does  not  exist.  It  is  through  the  verbal  narration  of  this  city—and  through  the  appropriate  circumstances  that  give  him  authority  (namely  authoritative  media)—that  the  city  is  being  invented.  Another  facet   in  this  project’s  performance  rests  on  its  reliance  on  science  as  a  master   discourse.   The   Foundation’s   performative   language   and   mimicry   of   scientific  documents   are,   I   would   argue,   quite   literally   inventing   a   heritage   site.   This   point   is  perhaps   best   driven   home   in   regards   to   the   physical   site   excavation.   When   visitors  approach   the   Pyramid   of   the   Moon,   they   find   large-­‐scale   excavations   of   monumental  steps  leading  up  the  mountain.  Visitors  like  Joshua  Foer  exclaim,  “Suddenly  it  dawns  on  me—and  I’m  shocked  that  it  has  taken  me  so  long  to  figure  this  out—that  Osmanagić  is   carving   pyramids   out   of   these   pyramid-­‐shaped   hills”   (2007,   emphasis   added).  Osmanagić  has  chipped  away  at  the  mountainside  until  it  physically  resembles  pyramid  steps.  This  behaviour  is  performative:  Osmanagić  is  playing  the  part,  constructing  (quite  literally)   the   right   image,   and   thus   inventing   heritage.   This   last   point   is   particularly  relevant,  because  Osmanagić’s  work  at  the  site  is  an  enormously  complex  operation,  and  it   relies   on   structures   of   authority   that   are   embedded   not   only   in   the   discipline   of  archaeology,   but   also   in   popular   conceptions   of   what   it   is   to   do   archaeological  research—which,  perhaps  unsurprisingly,  affect  popular  and  professional  receptions  of  archaeological   interpretations.   The   contestation   behind   this   case   study   questions   the  underlying   practices   of   legitimation   that   we   use   in   our   own   practices   in   disciplinary  archaeology,  and  it  addresses  the  ethical  use  and  abuse  of  authority  in  archaeological  or  amateur  research.       A  final  consideration  in  this  chapter  concerns  the  way  archaeological  authority  is  driven   by   public   and   academic   confusion   over   the   nonhuman   actors,   technology   and  methods   involved   in   the   production   of   knowledge.   The   physicality,   materiality   and  technicality   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   project   play   critical   roles   in   the   creation   and  sustenance  of  authority.  Like  in  the  case  of  Çatalhöyük,  the  case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids   CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     232 shows  that  authority  is  an  accumulation  or  outcome  of  many  different  translations  and  negotiations  by  many  different  actors  in  a  given  social  network.    Human   motivations—political   desires   and   social   desires,   like   a   wish   for  popularity  or  personal  attention—do  drive  much  of  the  authority  in  this  case.  However,  I  would   argue   that   the  material   and  nonhuman   actors   are   even  more   important   in   this  scenario.  On  the  one  hand,  it  is  the  physicality  and  materiality  of  this  case  that  has  had  such   an   impact   on   its   successful   reception   as   an   authoritative   site.   The   reason   the  pyramid  story  is  so  well-­‐received  by  the  public  is  that  it  offers  a  very  tangible  symbol  for  Bosnian   nationalism.   This   national   symbol   is   derived   not   only   from   the   monumental  presence  of  pyramids   in  the   landscape—which  are  very  striking  physical  markers  that  can   be   deliberately   pointed   to   as   something   ‘there’   and   ‘important’   looming   over   the  town—but  also  it  is  a  symbol  that  can  be  easily  inscribed.  The  most  obvious  example  is  the   use   of   the   pyramidal   shape   in   the   official   Foundation   logo,   which   inscribes   this  pyramid   into   the  Bosnian  National  Flag,   creating  a  mobile,  powerful  and  very   tangible  symbol  of  nationalism  and  pride.  Such  an  inscription  becomes  an  agent  itself,  reinforcing  the   authority   of   the   project   and   its   pyramids   through   its   very   visible   connection   to  nationalism  and  socio-­‐politics.  The  project  has  also  had  a  very  real,  material  impact  on  the   landscape  and  region.  Much  of  the  success  of  this  project   involves  the  way  various  people—locals,   politicians,   volunteers,   interested  visitors—can  get  physically   involved  in  the  project  and  see  very  real,  material  economic  returns.  There  is  no  confusion  over  the  positive  economic  impact,  or  the  material  and  psychological  gains,  that  members  of  the  public  have  felt.  But  confusion  does  emerge  when  the  ‘science’  and  ontological  significance  of  the  project   is   examined   more   closely.   Professional   archaeologists   who   have   opposed   the  project  have  highlighted  the  fact  that  the  Foundation’s  claims  for  scientific  accuracy  are  unsupported,  and  they  are  right.  For  a  few  members  of  the  public  that  I  interviewed,  the  accuracy   of   the   project  was   a   non-­‐issue:   they  were   purely   interested   in   the   economic  and  material   benefits   the   project   could   bring.   However,   it   was   far  more   common   for  people   to   express   a   sense   of   support   for   the   project   because   they   thought   it   was   a  genuine,   scientific   archaeological   site.   This   means   Semir   Osmanagić   has   successfully   performed  the  role  of  a  scientist  or  academic  archaeologist,  engaging  in  the  appropriate  mannerisms  and  behaviours,  collecting  the  right  credentials  and  stereotypical  logos  and  brands  of   an  archaeologist   (like  his   Indiana   Jones  hat),  without  having   the  ontological  evidence  to  back  up  his  claims.  Many  members  of  the  public  have  not  been  privy  to  the  lack   of   evidence   and   contestation   around   the   site,   and   have   only   seen   the   façade   of  scientific  activity.     CHAPTER  5                                                                                                                                                        THE  BOSNIAN  PYRAMIDS  AS  A  CASE  STUDY     233 Osmanagić   has   been   mobilising   the   appropriate   nonhuman   actors   and  methods—like   experts   and   radiocarbon   dates   and   conference   badges—but   he   denies  them   the   necessary   public   scrutiny   to   give   them   the   authority   of   facts.   All   of   the  nonhuman  actors   in   the  case  of   the  Bosnian  Pyramids  are  mobilised,  but  remain  mere  performances   and   methods,   never   evolving   the   necessary   stability   and   consensus   to  turn  into  ‘facts’.  Authority  in  this  case  manifests  in  a  theatre  of  ‘doing  science’,  where  the  nonhuman   actors   have   no   agency   of   their   own,   for   they   are   employed   to   play   very  specific  roles  set  up  by  Osmanagic  and  his  team.  For  example,  objects  like  rocks  (such  as  the   one   held   by   the   very   eager   volunteer   in   Figure   31)   have   been   mobilised   by   the  pyramid   team  to  represent   “pyramid  artefacts”.  These  objects  appear   to  appropriately  perform  their  roles  in  the  pyramid  story,  until  they  are  examined  further  and  the  details  become  contestable.  In  the  act  of  further  scrutiny,  the  true  ontological  state  of  being  ‘just  a  rock’  becomes  clear,  and  the  authority  of   the  pyramid  story  starts   to  unravel.   In  this  case,  when  the  surface  façade  is  scratched  and  the  physical  ‘smoke  and  mirrors’  behind  the  performances  are  examined   in  more  detail,   then  the   ‘evidences’  and   ‘proofs’  of   the  project  fall  apart,  and  their  actual  roles  in  support  of  the  narrative  become  far  less  clear.  At  some  point,  authority  fails  to  accumulate  when  the  ontological  and  material  evidence  runs  out  and  can  no  longer  be  mobilized.      Authority   is   very   strongly  based   in   the   appropriate  performances   of   roles   and  categories.  Socio-­‐politics  and  institutions  can  dramatically  affect  the  reception  of  certain  accounts  of  the  past.  However,  the  ontological  world  plays  a  very  significant  role  in  the  overall   stabilisation   and   maintenance   of   scientific   authority   and   the   production   of  authoritative   knowledge.   This   case   illustrates   how   active   participation   by   both  knowledge   producers   and   knowledge   consumers   is   inherent   in   the   construction   and  maintenance   of   authority.   Nonhuman   and   human   actors,   performances   and  participation,   institutions   and   individuals   are   always   interlinked   and   essential   to   the  role  of  sustained  authority  in  the  production  of  knowledge.  They  are  accumulative,  and  each  must  necessarily  feed  back  into  each  to  establish  an  authoritative  vision  of  the  past.     CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     234 CHAPTER  SIX:     Conclusion:  Authority  in  the  Production  of   Archaeological  Knowledge       “Science,  if  it  can  deliver  truth,  cannot  deliver  it  at  the  speed  of  politics.”  (Collins  and  Evans  2007:  1)          “…science  rests,  in  the  long  run,  on  the  consensus  of  scientists,  not  on  the  authority  of  any  on   individual,  no  matter  how  outstanding.”  (Goldstein  and  Goldstein  1978:  255)             6.1    Introduction  and  Summary  This   thesis  began  by  questioning:  what   is   authority   in   archaeological  practice?  What  contexts  and  conditions  lie  behind  the  creation  and  maintenance  of  archaeological  authority?   This   thesis   addressed   the   problem   that,   while   the   field   of   archaeology   has  seemed   ready   to   engage  with   issues   of   authority   and   power   rights   in   communities   of  practice,  rarely  has  the  root  conceptual  understanding  of  what  authority  is,  and  how  it  manifests   in   the   first   place,   ever   been   explicitly   discussed.   Chapter   Two   of   this   thesis  deconstructed   the   concept   of   authority   in   relation   to   the  production  of   archaeological  knowledge.   It   analysed   the   term   ‘authority’   in   existing   literature   and   observed   how  formal   accounts   and   representations   of   the   past   rely   on   the   underlying   notion   of  authority:   personal   and   institutional,   epistemic   and   executive.   Chapter   Three   outlined  the  methodology   used   to   examine   two   case   studies,  which   illustrate   the   development  and  mobilisation  of  authority  in  actual  archaeological  practice.  Chapter  Four  introduced  and  analysed  the  case  study  of  Çatalhöyük;  it  demonstrated  how  authority  is  embedded,  used,   networked   and   translated—structurally,   conceptually   and   spatially—in   the  production  of  archaeological  accounts  of   the  past.  Chapter  Five  used   the  case  study  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  to  illustrate  how  authority  can  be  drawn  from  socio-­‐politics  and  science   as   a   master   discourse,   and   it   argued   that   performance   and   participation   are  integral   to   the   way   archaeological   ‘final   product’   interpretations   are   successfully  received  by  the  general  public.    The   following  sections  of   this  conclusion  chapter  examine   the  main  arguments  that  can  be  drawn  from  this  study.  The  first  section  offers  a  considered  summary  of  the  two  major   case   studies,   addressing   the   similarities   and  differences  between   them  and   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     235 their   significance.   The   second   section   of   this   chapter   revisits   the   argument   that  authority   begins   in   dividing   practices,   in   the   activity   of   defining   boundaries   and  categories,  in  setting  up  a  sense  of  alterity.  The  next  section  argues  for  the  importance  of  recognizing  authority  as  a  cumulative  process.  The  active  processes  of   translation  and  stabilisation,   as   well   as   the   important   role   of   nonhuman   actors   in   the   production   of  knowledge,  are  critical  in  the  creation  and  maintenance  of  authority  in  the  discipline  of  archaeology.  The  following  section  defines  the  importance  of  epistemic  dependence,  the  concept   that   all   knowledge   is   built   upon   indirect   evidentiary   support,   in   the   trust   in  experts   and   the   notion   of   expertise.   These   aspects   of   knowledge   production   sit  alongside,   and   are   directly   impacted   by,   ontological   evidence   in   the   creation   and  production   of   authority.   This   chapter   concludes   by   asking   how   we   might   deal   with  authority  in  the  field  of  archaeology,  suggesting  future  research  in  this  area.         6.2    Comparison  and  Significance  of  the  Case  Studies     6.2.1    Introduction:  Summarising  Case  Studies   This   thesis   has   been   intentionally   structured   around   two   case   studies,  Çatalhöyük  and  the  Bosnian  Pyramids,  analysed  in  Chapters  Four  and  Five.  As  explained  in  Section  3.3.5,  these  case  studies  were  chosen  to  be  compatible,  so  that  when  brought  together   in   a   discussion,   remarks   about   their   operation   would   provide   meaningful  conclusions  in  an  analysis  of  ‘authority’.  These  case  studies  were  not  examined  simply  to  compare   and   contrast   two   different   case   studies,   as   Çatalhöyük   and   the   Bosnian  Pyramids  are  not  directly  comparable  and  equal  sites.  Rather,   these  case  studies  were  explicitly  chosen  as  compatible  examples  that  illustrate  solid  examples  of  how  authority  manifests  and  operates   in  the  production  of  archaeological  accounts  of  the  past.  These  case   studies   demonstrate   key   points   of   this   thesis:   that   authority   is   an   accumulative,  material  and  social  phenomenon  (see  Section  6.3,  below).  The  following  sections  briefly  discuss   the  results   from  the   two  case  studies  of   this  dissertation,   in  order   to   integrate  the  demonstrable  qualities   of   these   studies   into   the   final   arguments   on   authority   that  make  up  the  rest  of  this  concluding  chapter. CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     236 6.2.2    Differing  Research  Results  and  the  Successes  and  Failures  of  the  Two   Case  Studies  Used  in  This  Thesis   As  explained  in  Section  3.1.2  and  3.3.1  of  this  dissertation,  I  chose  to  study  one  case  of  professional  archaeology   (Çatalhöyük)  and  one  case  of  alternative  archaeology  (Bosnian  Pyramids),   since   both  projects   produce   their   own   ‘authoritative’   accounts   of  the  past  through  their  practices,  publications  and  public  presentations.  At  the  end  of  this  study,   I   find   that  my   results  have  yielded  different  outcomes,  with  different   successes  and  failures.    The  differences   in   research  outcomes  are  due   to   the  variable  amount  of   time   I  spent   conducting   fieldwork   at   each   of   my   case   studies,   as   well   as   the   nature   of   the  studies   themselves.   With   the   Bosnian   Pyramids,   I   had   a   very   long   and   familiar  relationship  with   the   project’s   development.   I   followed   its   progress   from   the   earliest  news  coverage  in  2005.  In  2006,  I  began  studying  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  in  depth  for  my  2007   Master’s   dissertation   on   the   socio-­‐politics   of   the   project   (Pruitt   2007).   For   my  doctoral   work,   I   continued   to   research   the   site   through   2009,   taking   multiple   short  fieldwork  trips  to  Bosnia  over  five  years  (intervals  from  2006-­‐2011),  with  an  extended  stay   in   the   country   through   the   summer   of   2008.   Because   of  my   familiarity   with   the  project’s  history  and  the  socio-­‐politics  that  sustain  it,  I  believe  I  have  had  much  greater  success  in  using  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  as  a  case  study  in  this  thesis.  Drawing  from  my  case  study  in  Bosnia,  this  thesis  provides  a  comprehensive  look  at  how  authority  can  be  drawn  from  socio-­‐politics  and  science  as  a  master  discourse,  comprehensively  arguing  that  performance  and  participation  are  integral  to  the  way  archaeological  ‘final  product’  interpretations  are  successfully  received  by  the  general  public  (see  Chapter  5).    I  spent  a  much  shorter  duration  of  time  conducting  fieldwork  at  Çatalhöyük:  just  five  weeks   in   2009,   late   into   the  project’s   history   and  development.   Because   of   this,   I  think   that   alongside  my   successes,   I   have   also   had   some  noteworthy   failures   in   using  this   case   study   in   this   thesis.   In   Section   3.3.2.2,   I   explain   how   I   chose   to   conduct  fieldwork   for   five   weeks   at   Çatalhöyük   in   the   summer   in   2009.   Since   I   felt   I   was  extending   ethnographic   research   at   an   already   much-­‐studied   archaeological   site,   I  deliberately   designed   my   fieldwork   to   mirror   previous   Çatalhöyük   ethnographies   of  similarly  short  lengths—notably  those  of  Hamilton  in  the  1996  season,  Rountree  in  the  2003   season,   and   Erdur   in   the   2006   season   (Hamilton   2000;   Rountree   2007;   Erdur  2008).  Because   I   reviewed   so  much   literature   about   the  project   in   advance,  my   initial  aim  for  on-­‐site  fieldwork  was  just  to  gain  familiarity  with  the  site  structure  and  to  have  the  opportunity  to  talk  with  the  archaeological  team  and  members  of  the  visiting  public.  But  I  discovered  that  project  structure  and  methods  on  site  were  far  more  complex  and   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     237 interesting   than   I   had   initially   assumed   (and   had   read   about),   and  my   dissertation   in  turn  focused  more  on  my  own  fieldwork  than  originally  planned.  As  discussed  in  more  depth  in  Section  4.5.2,  the  final  outcome  of  this  approach  has  led  to  some  failures  as  well  as  successes.  For  example,   I   find  that  some  of  my  results  may  have  simply  contributed  another  ethnography   to  an  already  almost-­‐toppling   ‘pile’,  and  some  of  my  results  may  have  been  compromised  by  an  overly  wary  and   ‘too  studied’  project  team  (see  Section  4.5.2   for  a  detailed  discussion  on   these   failures  and   limitations).  Despite   the   insights   I  gained  about  authority   in  disciplinary  practice,  my  limited  time  at  the  site  has   led  to  a  less  comprehensive  study  on  authority  at  the  Çatalhöyük  site  itself  than  envisaged.  The  Çatalhöyük  project  is  multi-­‐layered,  chaotic  and  complex,  and  any  comprehensive  study  of  authority  and  the  production  of  knowledge  at  this  project  must  rely  on  an  extensive  familiarity  with  the  site,  which  I  was  unable  to  obtain  in  the  limited  time  and  space  I  had  available  for  doctoral  work  (see  Section  4.5.2).      This   thesis   has,   however,   successfully   employed   both   the   Çatalhöyük   and  Bosnian  Pyramids  case  studies  to   illustrate  the  original  argument  that  authority   in  the  production   of   knowledge   is   a   messy,   mangled   and   material   affair.   Despite   the   very  different   backgrounds   of   these   case   studies,   both   demonstrate   how   authority   in   the  discipline  rests  on  the  stabilizing  of  material  performances  and  on  the  complex  material  interactions  of   things  and  people.  The following sections, starting in 6.2.3 and continuing through the rest of this chapter, discuss the overall conclusions that these two studies offer on the significance of material evidence in producing authority in archaeology.   6.2.3  Case  Studies  Comparison  and  Significance:  Contribution  to   Understanding  Authority  and  the  Importance  of  Material  Evidence  in   Archaeological  Practice     The  Çatalhöyük  and  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  case  studies  sit  on  opposite  sides  of  the   ‘demarcation   line’,   and   their   complementary   use   in   this   thesis   has   maximised  demonstrative   value   of   the   argument   that   authority   is   an   accumulative,   performative  and   contextual   social   process.   As   explained   in   Section   3.3.1,   the   ‘demarcation   line’   in  philosophy  of  science  studies  refers  to  the  academic  attempt  to  demarcate  authorised  or  ‘real’  science  from  non-­‐scientific  or  pseudoscientific  enterprises  (Curd  and  Cover  1998:  2).   Çatalhöyük   is   a   professionally   organised   and   empirically   thorough   archaeological  project,   and   it   has   provided   a   sound   case   for   how   authority   can   operate   within  standardised,  professional  boundaries.  Chapter  Four  of  this  thesis  targeted  the  physical,  spatial,  temporal  and  social  aspects  of  the  Çatalhöyük  project,  outlining  the  way  human   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     238 and  nonhuman  actors  within  the  project  produce  knowledge  at  the  Çatalhöyük  mounds  and   dig   house.   Chapter   Five   of   this   thesis   examined   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   project,  highlighting   the  way   the  authority  of   this  pseudoarchaeological  project   rests  on   social  performance   and   participation.   Despite   the   very   different   approaches   and   the   very  different   ontological   value   of   these   sites,   both   projects   ‘have   authority’   in   certain  contextual   arenas.   Furthermore,   both   of   these   projects   and   the   contributing  archaeologists   involved   in   the   production   of   knowledge   arguably   lose   or   undermine  some  of   their  own  authority  because  of   continued  misuse  of  ontological  evidence,  and  because   of   confusion   over   the   nonhuman   actors   that   are   necessary   for   the   continued  stabilisation   and   accumulation   of   authority   (see   Section   6.3.2   below,   for   detailed  discussion  on  this  point).  As   explained   in   Chapter   Four,   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   project’s   executive   and  epistemic  authority   is  apparent   in  how  it  has  been  given   full  permissions  and  political  support  by  the  national  government,  has  been  treated  as  authentic  and  authoritative  by  many  media  outlets,  has  the  support  of  many  people  with  authoritative  credentials  and  institutions  behind  their  names,  and  has  been  directed  by  a  man  who  a  majority  of  the  Bosnian  public   considers   to  be   an   authority   about   the  past  due   to  his   credentials   and  performance   as   an   archaeologist.   Director   Semir   Osmanagić   has   been   treated   as   an  expert   authority   on   archaeology   in   Bosnia   by   the   media   and   public,   as   well   as   by  professional   institutions   like   the   University   of   Sarajevo   and   the   Library   of   Alexandra.  Similarly,   as   explained   in   Chapter   Five,   Çatalhöyük   is   also   an   authoritative   site,  supported   by   the   national   government   as   well   as   by   numerous   political   and   social  institutions,   and   it   is   acknowledged   by   the   entire   professional   archaeological  community.  Furthermore,  a  majority  of  media,   the  profession  and  the  public  also  treat  director   Ian   Hodder   as   an   authority   about   the   past   because   of   his   strong   empirical  program   and   novel   ideas   implemented   at   Çatalhöyük.   This   thesis,   using   two   sites   on  oppose  sides  of  the  demarcation  line,  which  are  both  creating  ‘authoritative’  accounts  of  the   past,   has   examined   the   fundamental   tensions   behind   what   makes   someone   an  authorised  authority  and  what  makes  an  account  of  the  past  authoritative.       Sometimes  a  picture  can  be  worth  a  thousand  words,  so  I  refer  to  the  images  in  Figure   32,   which   represent   some   the   similarities   and   differences   between   these   two  studies.  Both  of  these  sites  are  large  earth-­‐moving  operations,  and  both  have  a  diverse  team,  with  credentials  from  reputable  institutions,  who  claim  passion  for  finding  a  kind  of   ‘truth’   about   the   prehistoric   past.   Both   projects   have   figureheads   who   exude   a  knowledgeable   presence,   who   staunchly   argue   for   ‘correct   approaches’   and   the  empirical  or  scientific  validity  of  their  claims,  and  who  strongly  argue  for  the  voices  of     CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     239         Figure  32:  Photographs  of  two  ‘authorised’  archaeological  ‘authorities’—the  top  photo  is   of  Semir  Osmanagić  lecturing  to  a  public  crowd  in  front  of  the  public  and  media;  the   bottom  is  Ian  Hodder  lecturing  to  members  of  the  public  on  tour.  Photos  by  Tera  Pruitt.     CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     240 subaltern  groups  to  be  heard.  Both  projects  are  highly  valued  by  the  media  and  by  the  many   people   whose   lives   are   directly   touched   and   improved   upon—socially,  economically,  nationally,  professionally—by  the  existence  of  the  sites  in  the  first  place,  and   by   the   archaeological   interpretations   which   develop   from   the   teams’   activity.   In  both  projects  (perhaps  most  clearly  seen  in  these  images),  the  orientation  of  humans  in  relation   to   the  material   and   physical   space   is   heavily   controlled   at   the   archaeological  sites   by   the   archaeologists   in   their   respective   teams.   This   physical   control   directly  enables  and  limits  the  power  hierarchies  and  the  authority  of   individuals  who  interact  with  archaeological  material,  and  this  directly  impacts  the  authority  of  claims  about  the  past.  At  both  of  these  sites,   individual  and  institutional  authority   is  entirely  dependent  upon  the  physical  and  material  world,  as  well  as  the  human  and  nonhuman  actors  who  enable   and   constrain   the   interpretive   value   of   accounts,   directly   resisting   and  accommodating  authority.  This  discussion  is  expanded  upon  in  Section  6.3,  below.     It   is   important   to   revisit   critical   points   addressed   in   previous   chapters   of   this  dissertation.  Major  differences  exist   in  the  way  these  two  case  studies  operate:   in  how  they   treat   the   nonhuman   actors   involved   in   their   archaeologies,   in   the   way   their  empirical   authority   operates,   and   in   the   sustainability   of   their   authority.  As   argued   in  Chapter   Five,   Semir   Osmanagić’s   site   in   Bosnia   relies   upon   what   I   call   ‘smoke   and  mirrors’   performance   and   participation.   There   is   no   true   ontological   evidence   of  prehistoric   pyramids   in   Visoko;   there   is   no   material   evidence   of   an   ancient   Bosnian  supercivilisation.   The   site   has   gained   its   authority   primarily   through   the  performance  and  outsourcing  of  science  by  the  key  players  involved,  such  as  Osmanagić  himself  and  many  of  his  team.  Furthermore,  I  argue  the  site  is  critically  supported  by  the  public  and  many  credentialed  ‘experts’  because  they  actively  want  to  participate  in  the  construction  of  meaning,   value   and  national   symbolism   in   a   post-­‐war   country.  While   the   economic  and   social   benefit   of   the   pyramids   project   is   very   much   real,   the   authority   that   lies  behind  this  claim  of  pyramids—and  behind  the  people  who  insist  upon  it—is  ultimately  unsustainable.  As  argued  in  the  conclusion  of  Chapter  Five,  people  like  Semir  Osmanagić  are   forcing   the  nonhuman  actors   in   this   site   to  play  very   specific   roles   in   a   theatre  of  ‘doing   science’.   Objects   like   rocks   are   being   inappropriately   mobilised   to   represent  ‘pyramid  artefacts’.  When  these  objects  are  no  longer  mobilised  by  participatory  actors,  when   they   lose   their significance in a narrative of post-war Bosnian social reconstruction, then they will lose all authority. Authority is a cumulative process, and in the case of the Bosnian Pyramids, that accumulation will run out of steam at a certain point of time. This site demonstrates how authority is strongly based in the appropriate performances of pre-authorized roles, categories and institutions (like CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     241 ‘science’ or ‘radiocarbon dating’); performance within established socio-politics and institutions can dramatically affect the reception of certain   accounts   of   the   past.  Ultimately,   however,   the   ontological   world   intrudes   upon,   stabilizes,   maintains   or  disrupts   scientific   authority   in   the   production   of   authoritative   knowledge.   It   is   in   this  respect  that  the  authority  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  case  study  fails  over  time.     Chapter   Four   demonstrated   exactly  how   this   process   of   stabilization  works   in  detail,   by   deconstructing   the   way   authority   operates   in   human   and   nonhuman  interactions  at  the  site  of  Çatalhöyük.  As  the  conclusion  of  that  chapter  argued,  authority  is   an   outcome   of   complex   social   and   physical   factors.   Nonhuman   actors,   as   well   as  processes  like  inscription  and  translation,  play  critical  roles  in  creating  and  maintaining  authority  in  the  production  of  archaeological  knowledge.  This  case  study  demonstrated  how  physical   and   temporal   factors—such   as   the   layout   and   territoriality   of   dig   house  space,  along  with  personal  familiarity  with  repetitive  archaeological  material  over  long  periods   of   time—can   lead   to   personal   and   institutional   authority.   This   chapter  demonstrated  how  the  most  influential  actors  in  knowledge  production  are  nonhuman  actors,  along  with  the  methods  and  programs  of  inscription  and  translation  that  create  both   stabilities   and   authorities.   Unlike   in   Bosnia,   the   team   at   Çatalhöyük   have   been  actively   establishing   stability   and   familiarity  with  material   at   the   site,   accumulating   a  great   deal   of   empirical   authority   based   on   continued   agreement   about   the   material  evidence,   stabilising  a  sense  of  ontological   reality.  However,   like   in  Bosnia,   the  project  has  not  fully  addressed  the  way  authority  is  actually  operating,  and  how  it  is  ultimately  reliant   upon   its   nonhuman   actors   and   the   processes   of   inscription   and   translation.  Director   Ian  Hodder   has   arguably   begun   to   undermine   his   project’s   own   authority   by  continually  insisting  that  instability  is  key  to  the  construction  of  more  valid  realities  or  accounts   of   the   past.   In   reality,   this   authority   is   formed   from   continued   familiarity   or  stability  with   repetitive  material   culture,   and   the   consensus   formed   from  peer   review  and  from  multiple  voices  leading  to  stabilization.     The   important   similarities   of   these   case   studies   rest   in   the  way   both   projects  seem  to  misunderstand  the  active  role  that  nonhuman  actors,  as  well  as  processes  like  inscription  and  translation,  play  in  the  construction  and  maintenance  of  authority.  The  important   differences   in   these   case   studies   rest   in   the   ultimate   direction   of   the   two  projects,   in   the  exact  way   this  misunderstanding  affects   their  authority.   In  Bosnia,   the  entire  project’s  premise  and  future  is  at  stake,  as  the  lack  of  ontological  reality  to  back  its  claims  will  make  the  project’s  public  support  collapse,  or  perhaps  reduce  its  authority  to   merely   a   fringe   following.   In   Çatalhöyük,   the   project’s   role   as   a   cutting-­‐edge  archaeological   project   or   an   influential  model   of   archaeological  method   is   at   stake,   as   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     242 any   new   instability   that   is   artificially   forced   upon   this   empirically   based   study   of   the  past  will   simply   stabilise   once   again   in   the   future,   as   various   team  members   develop  greater   familiarity   with   recognisable   and   repetitive   archaeological   material.   The  following  section  of  this  chapter  offers  the  concluding  arguments  of  this  thesis  regarding  the  significance  of  the  findings  from  these  two  case  studies  and  the  role  of  authority  in  the  production  of  knowledge  in  archaeology.           6.3    Deconstructing  Authority  in  the  Production  of   Archaeological  Knowledge     6.3.1    Authority  in  Dividing  Practices,  Categories  and  Alterity     A  major  way  authority  operates  in  the  production  of  archaeological  knowledge  is  in   the   solidification,   definition   and   categorization   of   what   it   is   to   be   ‘appropriately  archaeological’.   In  any  discipline,  a  great  deal  of  power  and  authority   is  vested  in  both  the   state   of   being   classified   and   in  who   has   the   power   to   name   or   choose   categories.  ‘Dividing   practices’   (c.f.   Foucault   1965;   Rabinow   1984:   8-­‐11)   are   both   physical   and  intellectual  and  have  an  essential  power/knowledge  relationship.  The  act  of  classifying  people   and   things   creates   relationships   of   asymmetric   power,   through   practices   of  inclusion/exclusion.   To   repeat   from   Bowker   and   Star:   “to   classify   is   human…a  classification   is   a   spatial,   temporal,   or   spatio-­‐temporal   segmentation   of   the   world”  (1999:  1-­‐11).  As  humans,  we   classify   the  world,   often   tacitly,   by   sorting  activities   and  materials  into  categories.  By  doing  so,  we  create  social  and  moral  order  out  of  the  world  we  experience,  and  we  construct  self-­‐identities  that  exist  against  categories  of  what  we  see  as   ‘other’.   In  an  academic  discipline,   the  very  nature  of  classifying  objects  and  acts  creates  greater  and  lesser  authority  by  those  who  are  dividing  and  being  divided.  This  thesis   examined   two   specific   case   studies   that   illustrate   how  dividing   practices   in   the  discipline   of   archaeology   can   construct   categories   through   a   sense   of   validity   and  alterity—groupings   we   distinguish   as   ‘us’   versus   ‘them’,   ‘archaeological’   versus   ‘not  archaeological’,   ‘authorised’   versus   ‘unauthorised’.   Dividing   practices   impact   our  method  and  interpretation  in  archaeology,  and  impact  our  understanding  of  authority.  The  photos   in  Figure  32,   above,   represent   some  of   the   issues   in   categorisation  and  alterity.  These  photos  from  both  the  Çatalhöyük  and  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  project  show  how  archaeological   (and  pseudoarchaeological)  spaces  can  be  physically  divided   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     243 by   place,   people,   actors   and   materials,   all   of   which   tacitly   operate   within   a   social  hierarchy   of   access   and   authority.   In   both   photos,   the   leading   representative  authorities—Semir   Osmanagić   in   Bosnia   and   Ian   Hodder   in   Çatalhöyük—stand   in   a  position  of   intimate  access   to  remains   from  the  past.69  Both  men  hold  PhDs  and  other  credentials   from   recognised   universities.   Both   hold   requisite   government   permits   to  access  archaeology.  Both  voice  their  desire  to  engage  in  a  dialogue  of  transparency  and  scrutiny.  Both  have  the  highest  level  of  executive  authority  and  access  in  their  respective  archaeological   sites   and   projects.   In   both   photos,   members   of   the   public   stand   on  platforms  above  on  ground  level,  looking  on  while  they  are  lectured  to  by  the  authorities  below   them;   they   are   shown   what   is   worth   seeing   and   what   information   is   valuable  enough   to   be   interpreted   and   narrated.   In   both   pictures,   the   interpretations   and  accounts  of  the  past  being  narrated  by  the  authorities  are  also  being  mediated  in  a  way  that  further  elevates  their  accounts  and  accountability—in  the  case  of  Bosnia,  television  crews   capture   and   relay   the   interpretations   by   Semir   Osmanagić,   and   in   the   case   of  Çatalhöyük,   public   display   signage   lines   the   site   and   supplements   Ian   Hodder’s  presentation   with   information   that   has   been   chosen   represent   the   most   stable   and  authorised  information  about  the  Neolithic  past.  These  two  photographs  illustrate  how  the  divisions  we  create   in  physical  and  intellectual  space  promote  a  sense  of  authority  through   alterity.   Dividing   practices   are   one   of   the   most   fundamental   ways   that  archaeology  operates  as  a  social  science.  Our  science  and  our  methods  are  what  set  us  apart   from   ‘the  others’;  our  divisions  of   space  and  place   set  our   teams  apart   from   the  general   public;   the   nature   of   division   creates   social   asymmetries,   elevating   some   to  positions  of  authority,  and  others  to  subaltern  roles.       As  addressed  in  Chapter  Four,  during  my  fieldwork  at  the  site  of  Çatalhöyük  in  2009,   a   great   deal   of   site   activity   and   interpretation   emerged   through   such   social  categories:  spatial,   temporal,   interpretive  and   inscriptive.  Laboratory  spaces   in   the  dig  house,  for  example,  were  arranged  according  to  artefact  types,  indicative  of  the  way  the  profession  has  developed  around  specialties  that  focus  on  materials  such  as  obsidian  or  faunal   remains.   This   arrangement   of   ‘pod-­‐like’   laboratory   cultures   very   physically  affected   the   division   of   material   remains   in   the   dig   house.   It   also   socially   impacted  groupings   of   people   and   practices,   which   directly   affected   interpretation   and   the  production   of   knowledge,   based   on   the   way   such   groupings   physically   enabled   or  constrained   how   individuals   could   build   their   own   social   and   epistemic   authority.  During  my  visit  in  2009,  people  and  spaces  at  Çatalhöyük  were  arranged  and  controlled   69  Or  in  the  case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids,  presumed  remains  from  the  past.   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     244 according  to  executive  hierarchy  in  the  site  social  structure.  For  example,  certain  rooms  were  tacitly  restricted  to  only  certain  specialties  or  individuals,  unless  permissions  were  obtained  by  the  appropriate  authorities  or  representatives,  and  the  whole  dig  house  was  tacitly  controlled  by  the  narrowing  or  consent  of  access.  More  spaces  were  accessible  to  those  who  held  more  executive  access,  due  to  their  strong  social  and  temporal  ties  to  the  site.     On  a  disciplinary/public  level,  scholars  like  Reba  N.  Soffer  have  argued  that,  “in  the  long  run,  the  success  of  a  discipline  is  not  determined  by  its  powers  of  protection  or  patronage”,   but   rather   “successful   professions   have   maintained   a   monopoly   over   a  special  body  of  knowledge  and  skills…of  a  real  benefit  to  the  public”  (1982:  801).  When  certain   individuals   own   or   possess   the   physical   arenas   of   knowledge   production,   like  archaeological   sites,   they   owe   a   great   deal   of   responsibility   to   the   other   stakeholders  who   may   wish   to   have   access.   At   Çatalhöyük,   Hodder   and   his   team   have   tried   to  accommodate  multiple  stakeholders  and  voices  by  allowing  them  greater  access  to  more  private   areas   of   the   dig   house   and   less   accessible   materials.   However,   alterity   and  authority  are  still  staunchly  (and  in  some  ways,  necessarily)  maintained  at  Çatalhöyük.  While  Hodder  has  previously  argued  that  “Subordinate  groups  who  want  to  be  involved  in  archaeological   interpretation  need   to  be  provided  with   the  means  and  mechanisms  for  interacting  with  the  archaeological  past  in  different  ways”  (Hodder  1992:  186),  the  very   sentence   structure   of   this   comment   allows   that   Hodder   and   his   team   are   in   the  authoritative   position   of  providing   subordinate   groups  with   ‘means   and  mechanisms’,  while   subordinate   groups   are   at   the   receiving   and   disadvantaged   end   of   this   process,  dealing  with  whatever  means   or  mechanisms   they   are   allowed   or   allotted.  While   the  team’s   intent   to   empower   members   of   subordinate   groups   in   this   case   is   highly  motivated  with  a  real  desire  to  allow  greater  accessibility  and  freedom  to  archaeology,  and  while  I  do  think  subordinate  groups  have  been  empowered  in  many  ways  through  their   collaboration  with   the   site,   it  must   still   be   recognised   that   this   empowerment   is  always  controlled  by   those  who  are  higher   in   the  social  hierarchy  of  archaeology.  Any  subaltern   empowerment   has   been   necessarily   portioned   out   with   the   aim   and  understanding   that,  by  giving  away  site  access  and  authority   to  subordinate  groups,   it  should   never   undermine   any   benefit   to   archaeologists   themselves.   This   defence   of  ensuring   the   boundaries   from   what   is   ‘authorised’   from   what   is   ‘other’   (the   public,  Goddess   Community,   local   communities,   etc.)   is   highly   motivated   by   the   status   of  archaeology  as  a  discipline,  where  archaeologists  are  factually  constructed  through  their  appropriate  practice  and  familiarity  of  behaviours  within  that  discipline,  and  they  need   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     245 to   secure   their   own   positions   in   an   intellectual   and   professional   arena   by   defending  their  own  sense  of  self,  practice  and  careers.  It   should   also   be   recognised   that   professional   authority   of   access   and  territoriality   is   arguably   not   always   a   bad   thing,   as   a   case   like   the   amateur   Bosnian  Pyramid   project  may   illuminate.  Many   professional   archaeologists   have   criticised   this  project   for   its  pseudoarchaeology.   It  has  damaged  genuine  archaeological  remains  and  threatened   historical   accounts   of   the   Bosnian   past.   Nevertheless,   this   case   critically  shows  that  there  is   fundamental  power  to  be  had  in  the  control  of  physical  access  and  epistemological   space.   The   amateur   Bosnian   Pyramid   project   has   created   and  maintained  authority  through  its  control  over  the  physical   landscape,  and   its  ability  to  successfully   define,   label   and   alter   physical   and   intellectual   space.   It   has   acquired   the  requisite   permits   from   a   supportive   government,   developed   status   and   attention  through   its   influence   on   popular   media,   and   manipulated   the   landscape   to   appear  archaeological.   However,   unlike   the   case   of   Çatalhöyük,   the   Bosnian   project’s   control  over  physical   space   involves  only  a   careful  performance   of   scientific   authority,  heavily  controlling  only  an   image  of  an  authoritative  account  of   the  past.   Its   claims  have   little  ontological   significance.   In   a   case   like   Çatalhöyük,   Hodder   and   his   team   control   and  defend   their  epistemological   space   through   the   translation  of  evidentiary  support   that  they  accumulate  from  the  ontological  world.  This  highlights  an  important  distinction  in  the   construction   of   authority   in   archaeology:   nonhuman   actors   actively   enable,  constrain  and  limit  how  authority  can  be  sustained  over  time.  This  point  is  expanded  in  the  following  section.     6.3.2    Authority  in  Translation,  Stabilisation  and  the  Agency  of  Nonhuman   Actors  One   of   the  most   important   arguments   that   has   emerged   from   this   research   is  that,   in   science,   authority   is   inherently   rooted   in   the   act   of   constructing   things  recognized   as   ‘facts’.   In   the  production  of   knowledge,   the   construction  of   facts   is   very  different   from   the   mere   production   of   accounts   or   narratives.   The   case   studies   of  Çatalhöyük  and  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  critically  address  this  point,  for  in  both  cases,  the  authority   of   certain   individuals   and   their   theoretical   programs   are   undermined   by  confusions  and  misrepresentations  of  the  roles  of  nonhuman  actors.  This  thesis  argues  that  the  active  role  of  the  nonhuman  processes  and  objects  involved  in  the  production  of  knowledge  are  critically  important  to  the  authority  of  facts  and  ‘final  product’  accounts  of  the  past.   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     246  Chapter  Four  of  this  thesis  used  the  case  study  of  Çatalhöyük  to  demonstrate  the  importance  of  translation  and  inscription  in  the  production  of  knowledge.  The  chapter  used    Latour’s   ‘translation   model’   (Latour   1986:   266-­‐269;   also   see   Section   2.2.4   in   this  dissertation)   to  show  how  executive  and  epistemic  authority  accumulates   through   the  translations,  negotiations  and  interactions  of  many  different  actors  in  a  given  network.  Chapter   Five   used   the   case   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   to   illustrate   that,   while   human  socio-­‐political   desires   are   main   contributing   factors   to   the   executive   authority   and  popularity  of  an  archaeological  project,  the  authority  of  a   ‘final  product’  archaeological  account  fundamentally  rests  on  the  material  and  ontological  significance  of  its  evidence.  In  projects   claiming  scientific   roots,   the  authority  and  agency  of   the  ontological  world  will   eventually  win  out  over   the  performances  and  politics   that  might   lend   immediate  authority   to   the   site.   Previous   literary   discussions   about   authority   in   archaeological  practice   have   focused   on   the   presence   and   impact   of   human   actors—a   great   deal   of  debate  has  surrounded  issues  of  gender,  site  control,  the  power  and  voice  local  publics,  as   well   as   individual   rights   over   interpretation.   However,   this   thesis   argues   that  authority   is   a   complex   process   that   accumulates   from   the   interactions   of  both   human  and  nonhuman  actors.   It   should  be  recognised   that   the  ontological  world  has  as  much  impact,  and  places  as  much  constraint  upon,  authoritative  interpretation  as  the  humans  that  interact  with  it.    At   Çatalhöyük,   Ian  Hodder   has   long   recognised   the   importance   of   authority   in  the   archaeological   process,   but   he   has   mis-­‐conceptualised   archaeology   as   a   practice  where  the  primary  actors  are  human.  Hodder  has  vigorously  promoted  the  nonhuman  actors   at   his   site   through   a   very   strong   program   of   empirical   practice,   with   at-­‐hand  specialists  in  the  field  and  unprecedented  attention  to  scientific  detail.  However,  he  has  paradoxically  promoted  a  theory  of  practice  where  interpretation  and  fact-­‐construction  are  a  human-­‐centric  affair.  He  continues   to  promote  the   idea  that   instability   in  human  presence  at  an  archaeological  site  will  bring  better  interpretation  to  the  archaeological  accounts  of  the  past  produced  there.  The  idea  is  that  humans  will  better  think  through  the  material  they  handle  if  they  are  forced  to  continually  contest  their  relationship  with  it.  However,  as  I  argue  in  Chapter  Four,  this  continuous  instability  neglects  the  essential  authority  of  the  ontological  world  by  denying  the  agency  and  constraints  that  nonhuman  actors  place  upon  human  interpretations.  The  stability  that  Ian  Hodder  tries  to  resist  is,  in   fact,   precisely  where   his   empirical   authority   is   rooted:   in   the   familiarity,   repetition  and   stability   of   evidence.   Physical   space,   landscapes,   material   objects,   artefacts   and  tools,   methods   and   practices   are   all   rooted   in   physicality   and   materiality.   They   go   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     247 beyond  playing  the  role  of  being  mere  data  or  objects.  They  practically  enable,  constrain,  resist   and   accommodate   the   way   we   engage   with   the   world,   and   they   limit   our  interpretive  authority.  They  impact  the  way  we  can  say  with  greater  or  lesser  certainty  what  is  a  ‘fact’  versus  what  is  a  mere  account  or  narrative.  The  reason  an  archaeologist  can  ‘become  an  archaeologist’  and  gain  authority  in  that  role  is  through  the  performance  of   the   appropriate   behaviours   of   an   archaeologist—which   are   rooted   in   physical  practices   that   promote   familiarity   with   repetitive   and   accumulative   ontological  evidence.   And   the   reason   authority   accumulates   through   expertise   (gaining   greater  familiarity  with  a  site  or  specific  type  of  archaeological  material  category),  is  that  there  is  a  process  of  active  stabilisation  as  material  becomes  more  recognisable  and  repetitive.    It   is   easy   to   contrast   Çatalhöyük   with   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   project,   where  confusion   also   arises   over   the   role   of   nonhuman   actors   and   methods.   In   Bosnia   the  project  is  only  performing  authority  by  drawing  on  the  institution  of  science  as  a  master  discourse.  The  nonhuman  actors  upon  which  that  performance  rests—objects  like  rocks  that   they   claim   are   artefacts,   and   methods   like   radiocarbon   dating   that   are  misinterpreted—lack   the   public   scrutiny   of   ‘facts’.   The   Bosnian   Pyramids   team  mobilises   objects   and  methods   to   play   roles   in   a   theatrical   story   for   the   public;   these  things  are  simply  a  way  for  the  team  to  prove  that  they  are  ‘doing  science’.  The  lack  of  ontological   significance   in   their  material—which   breaks   down   under   further   scrutiny  and  lacks  the  requisite  familiarity,  repetition  and  stability  of  inquiry—is  the  reason  why  the   authority   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramid   project   is   intellectually   unsustainable.   Both  Çatalhöyük  and  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  project  ultimately  demonstrate  that  authority  is  an  outcome   of   complex   social   and   physical   factors,   that   nonhuman   actors   and   processes  play  a   critical   role   in   stabilizing  and  establishing   that  authority,   and   that   this   sense  of  stability  is  central  to  the  maintenance  of  authority  over  time.     6.3.3    Authority  in  Epistemic  Dependence     6.3.3.1    Defining  Epistemic  Dependence  One   of   the   major   questions   that   emerges   from   this   research   relates   to   the  concept  of  epistemic  dependence:  how  does  one  become   ‘an  authority’  or  an  expert   in  archaeological  practice?  Why  do  we  trust  some  accounts  over  others?  Why  do  we  come  to   depend   on   or   trust   certain   epistemic   authorities,   lending   them   executive   authority  over  physical  and  intellectual  space?  Fundamental  underlying  issues  about  authority  in   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     248 archaeological  practice  centre  upon  the  ideas  of  trust,  certainty,  expertise  and  epistemic  dependence.    ‘Epistemic   dependence’   is   the   idea   that   knowledge—particularly   scientific  knowledge—depends   on   indirect   evidentiary   support   for   that   knowledge.   In   many  cases,  people  believe  something  to  be  true  but  do  not  possess  evidence   for   that  belief;  instead,   they   trust   and   rely   upon   the   intellectual   authority   of   experts  who   assert   that  they  have   the  necessary  evidence   for   that  belief   (Hardwig  1985).  As  philosopher   John  Hardwig  notes,   the  amount  of   knowledge   in   the  world   is   essentially   infinite,   and  each  individual  is  finite.  Most  scientific  knowledge  is  built  upon  the  work  of  multiple  people,  experiments  and  arguments.   In  most  cases,  an   individual  researcher  or  member  of  the  public  may  not  have  the  time,  resources  or  sometimes  even  the  capability  to  replicate  or  test   the   previous   results   from   which   her   own   scientific   knowledge   relies   upon.  Philosopher  Michel  Blais  explains  further  that  “[w]e  must  trust  the  evidential  reports  of  others,  simply  because  physically  we  cannot  start  from  scratch.  Whatever  worth  science  may  have,  it  requires  this  trust;  for  it  is  by  and  large  a  cumulative  enterprise  and  no  one  individual  can  shoulder  the  evidential  load”  (Blais  1987:  369).  Our  reliance  on  epistemic  dependence   is   a   critical   part   of   our   everyday   practical   lives,   and   informs   the  way  we  think  and  approach  anything  from  driving  a  car  or  following  a  map,  to  developing  new  theories   in   scientific   research.   In   the   practice   of   archaeology,   epistemic   dependence  impacts   how   archaeologists   build   upon   their   scientific   methods   and   theories,   and   it  impacts   the   way   the   public   receives   archaeological   accounts   of   the   past   that   are  constructed  by  others.    Conceptually,   authority   in   scientific   (and   archaeological)   practice   heavily  depends   on   epistemic   dependence,   creating   two   issues   of   note.   First,   epistemic  dependence   results   in   chains   or   ranks   of   authority   and   status,  which   can   be   followed  back   and   linked   to   any   given   knowledge   proposition.   Secondly,   as   this   thesis   has  demonstrated  using  the  case  studies  of  Çatalhöyük  and  the  Bosnian  Pyramids,  the  actual  practice  of  epistemic  dependence  is  a  messy  affair  where  social  cues  operate  alongside  tacit   and   tangible   realities.   This   “mangle   of   practice”   (Pickering   1995)   directly   affects  epistemic  dependence  and   thus,   the  acceptance  and  authority  of  any  given  knowledge  proposition.  To  elaborate  on  the  first  point,  knowledge  generally  relies  on  the  abstract  leap   between   what   we   ‘know’   from   first-­‐hand   evidence   experienced   with   our   own  senses,  and  what  we  ‘know’  from  second-­‐hand  accounts  told  to  us  by  others  who  claim  to   have   first-­‐hand   evidentiary   support.   This   creates   a   unique   context   of   epistemic  authority,  and  in  many  cases,  of  executive  authority  as  well:  on  the  one  hand,  first-­‐hand  and   witnessed   evidence   for   a   given   knowledge   proposition   is   fundamentally   more   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     249 valuable   and   useful   than   second-­‐hand,   received   evidence.   Therefore,   persons   who  witness   first-­‐hand   evidence   for   certain   knowledge   propositions   usually   have   higher  status  and  authority  than  others  who  must  rely  on  second-­‐hand  evidence  to  build  upon  or  contest  that  knowledge.    For  example,  a  doctor  who  personally  conducts  a  study  on  the  affects  of  smoking  on   the  human  body,  who  personally   tests   and  observes   evidence   that   smoking   causes  cancer,  generally  has  more  authority  and  status  on  the  subject  than  a  second  doctor  who  uses  this  evidence  to  tell  a  patient  about  the  cancer  risks  in  smoking.70  Furthermore,  if  this  patient   then  advises  her   friend  about   the  new  knowledge  about   smoking   that   she  has   learned   from   her   doctor,   she   too   is   drawing   on   epistemic   dependence.   This  exemplifies   how   epistemic   dependence   can   result   in   chains   or   ranks   of   authority   and  status,  which   can  be   followed  back   and   linked   to   any   given   knowledge  proposition.   If  one  were   to   ‘rank’   the   authority   of   epistemic  dependence   in   this   scenario,   the  human  and  nonhuman  agents  involved  would  result  in  a  complex  matrix  of  what  is  considered  to  be  expert  and  lay  expertise,  higher  or  lower  epistemic  authority.    ‘Expertise’,  as  regards  epistemic  dependence,  is  a  dialectic  of  trust  and  deference  between   two  or  more  parties.  The   first  doctor   in   the   example   above  arguably  has   the  greatest  epistemic  authority  due  to  his  exposure  to  first-­‐hand  evidence.  In  other  words,  he  can  be  defined  as  an  ‘expert’  because  of  the  valuable  knowledge  he  has  accumulated,  and   in   the   way   he   translates   that   knowledge   as   authoritative   to   others.   The   second  doctor   operates   the   complex   role   of   being   both   a   lay   person   as   well   as   an   expert,  regarding  this  specific  knowledge  proposition  about  smoking  and  cancer.  He  is  not  the  most   authoritative   expert   because   he   himself   has   not   witnessed   the   evidentiary   link  between  smoking  and  cancer   first-­‐hand.  However,  he   is  a  secondary  expert,   in   that  he  presumably   has   required   the   appropriate   training   and   expertise   that   allows   him   to  recognise   and   critically   discern   what   makes   for   a   solid   medical   experiment.   This  understanding  of  epistemic  dependence  involving  the  second  doctor  creates  a  complex  relationship   between   the   knowledge   proposition   and   the   idea   of   what   constitutes  expertise  and  ‘knowing’  something,  an  inherently  complicated  and  messy  reality.  Finally,  the   third  person—the  patient—in   this   scenario  begins  as  a   lay  person.  After   receiving  the  knowledge  proposition  about  smoking  from  the  second  doctor,  the  patient  trusts  the  doctor’s  expertise  because  of  the  context  in  which  it  was  given  to  her  and,  therefore,  she   70  The  real  study  is  in:  Doll,  R.  c.  and  A.  Bradford  Hill  (1950).  "Smoking  and  Carcinoma  of  the  Lung."  British  Medical  Journal  2:  739-­‐748.  I  use  this  example  because  this  quantitative  epidemiological  research,  along  with  other  related  studies,  forcefully  and  notoriously  established  the  epistemic  authority  of  both  the  scientific  study  itself  and  the  research  finding  that  ‘smoking  causes  cancer’.   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     250 trusts  the  doctor’s  epistemic  authority  on  this  matter.  Here,  context  is  a  crucial  key  to  the  authority  of  the  knowledge  proposition,  the  ease  of  its  reception,  and  to  the  acceptance  of  epistemic  dependence  and  expert  authority.  This  will  be  discussed  further  below.  This   matter   of   context   brings   us   back   to   the   second   issue   of   epistemic  dependence   and   epistemic   authority:   in   actual   practice,   epistemic   dependence   is   a  messy  reality  that  operates  through  tacit  and  tangible  social  cues,  which  directly  affect  the   acceptance   and   authority   of   any   given   knowledge   proposition.   For   any   given  knowledge   proposition,   we   trust   and   accept   the   testimony   of   experts   based   on   their  performance   and   acceptance   of   social   cues,   which   we   draw   from   a   host   of   social  institutions—establishments,   rules,   mores,   standards,   accreditations—and   then   we  immediately   assess   the   viability   of   a   knowledge   proposition   from   those   cues.  Credentials,   institutions,   qualifications,   authoritative   logos   and   brandings,   speech   acts  and  so  forth  impact  how  we  negotiate  and  judge  testimony  from  experts.  Therefore,  the  way  knowledge  is  presented  and  performed   is   important  to  how  epistemic  dependence  and  scientific  authority  are  established.    To   refer   back   to   the   example   of   the   doctors   and   the   proposed   link   between  smoking  and   cancer,   the  patient   in   this   scenario   trusts   the   second  doctor’s   advice  not  only   because   he   is   a   doctor,   but   because   he   is   an   ‘authorised’   authority.   The   patient  regards   the   second   doctor   as   an   expert   because   she   presumes   the   doctor   has   the  relevant   training   to   recognise   valid   secondary   evidence.   This   presumption   might   be  drawn  from  the  way  he  is  behaving  or  performing  as  a  doctor  (wearing  the  appropriate  white   lab   jacket,   sitting   in  a   chair  opposite   to   the  patient   and  not  on   the  patent   table,  wearing  a  stethoscope,  referencing  the  appropriate  medical  journals,  etc.),  and  from  the  way  he  is  inhabiting  the  physical  space  of  a  doctor,  like  working  in  an  appropriate  office  with   an   appropriate   staff.   It   also   might   come   from   institutional   credentials   that  ‘authorise’   him   to   behave   like   a   doctor   (for   example,   the   patient   might   see   an  appropriate  medical  degree  from  an  institution,  which  presumably  determined  whether  he  is  competent  in  medical  affairs,  and  which  is  physically  hanging  on  his  office  wall  or  is  listed   alongside   his   name   in   a   book).   Furthermore,   the   doctor   must   also   have  authorisation   by   the   state,   with   license   to   practice   in   his   physical   space;   if   he   is  practicing   medicine   without   the   state’s   permission,   he   will   eventually   be   forcibly  stopped.    Significantly,  the  patient  is  also  constantly  testing  the  doctor’s  competence,  and  hence  his   authority,   by   judging   the  ontological  world—in  other  words,   she   judges   the  success   or   failure   of   the   doctor’s   advice   and   diagnoses.   If   the   doctor   gives   a   wrong  diagnosis—for   example,   if   he   wrongly   declares   her   cough   to   be   due   to   an   allergic   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     251 reaction   and   not   to   her   smoking—then   the   patient   may   doubt   his   authority   and  expertise  if  she  sees  no  benefit  from  his  treatment.  On  the  other  hand,  the  patient  is  also  constantly   testing   the   doctor’s   competence   on   things   that   might   be   purely   based   on  social   context—unrelated   to   the   ontological  world   at   all.   If,   in   the   scenario   above,   the  patient   thought   that   she   herself   possessed   evidence   that   contradicted   the   doctor’s  assertion   that  smoking  causes  cancer   (personal  knowledge  of  a   long-­‐lived  and  cancer-­‐free  uncle  who  smoked  his  entire  life,  for  instance),  then  she  may  disregard  the  doctor’s  expertise   or   authority   on   this   matter,   despite   its   ontological   significance.   To   further  complicate   things,   the  patient  may   trust  or  accept  her  doctor’s  advice  based  on  a   long  personal   history   or   relationship   with   him   as   a   family   doctor   or   a   family   friend—something  which  may   or  may   not   relate   to   his  medical   expertise,   credentials,   nor   the  ontological  world  at  all,  but  rather  a  social  justification  of  loyalty  or  a  personal  sense  of  trust.   Related   to   this,   the   patient   may   base   her   judgement   of   the   doctor’s   assertions  purely   on   his   social   reputation   as   a   reliable,   famous,   knowledgeable   or   authoritative  medical  practitioner.  Again,  epistemic  dependence  and  a  person’s  acceptance  of  a  given  knowledge   proposition   may   have   no   immediate   association   or   relation   to   the  evidentiary   support   at   all;   though,   I   should   stress,   there   is   always   ontological  significance   behind   knowledge   claims.   In   actual   practice,   epistemic   dependence   is   a  messy  and  hermeneutic  affair,  entirely  dependent  on  an  ongoing  negotiation  between  a  complex  network  that  includes:  individuals,  materials  and  evidence;  the  institutions  that  authorise  them;  the  practices  and  performances  of  accountability  and  expertise;  and  the  ontological  world.       6.3.3.2    Epistemic  Dependence  in  Archaeological  Consumption,  Validation  and   Fidelity       In   archaeology,   epistemic   dependence   is   doubly   important,   because   a   defining  characteristic   of   archaeological   knowledge   is   the   awareness   that   any   true   and   exact  validation  of  archaeological  data  is  rarely—if  ever—possible  (c.f.  Read  1989).  When  we  study   the   past,   we   may   deduce   and   construct   a   ‘hard’   understanding   of   material  properties   of   certain   things.   For   example,  we   can   answer   some   of   the   ‘how’   or   ‘what’  questions  about  the  past  (i.e.,  How  was  a  pot  fired?  What  temperature  was  required  to  set  the  wet  clay?  How  did  a  skeleton  appear   in  a  pit  underneath  a  house  foundation?).  But  we   can   only   inductively   reach   answers   to   ‘why’   questions   to   create   ‘soft’   holistic  narratives   about   what   happened   in   the   past   (i.e.,   Why   was   a   woman   buried   with   a  plaster  skull  under  a  house  foundation?  Who  made  that  pot?).  This  conundrum  of  having   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     252 only   partial   evidence   and   partial   understandings   is   at   odds   with   the   fact   that   our  ultimate  ‘products’  in  archaeology  are  holistic  and  stable  accounts  of  the  past.    Thus,  the  discipline  of  archaeology  as  a  knowledge-­‐producing  culture  rests  on  a  system  of  epistemic  dependence  that  heavily  relies  on  individuals  and  institutions  acting  as   intellectual   authorities,   whose   role   is   to   suggest  which   specific   artefacts,   sites   and  final   interpretations  have   ‘fidelity’   to  the  past.  The  term  ‘fidelity’  comes  from  the  Latin  world   fidelitas,   meaning   ‘faithfulness’,   and   it   references   how   accurate   a   copy   or  simulation   is   to   an   original   (OED  1989).   This   notion   of   loyalty   or   fidelity   to   historical  accuracy  is  the  ultimate  aim  of  a  re/constructed  narrative  of  the  past,  and  it  is  what  an  authoritative  account  aims  to  prove.  There  are  three  important  points  on  this  subject  to  consider  further.    First,  authoritative  accounts  in  ‘final  product’  form—such  as  textual  accounts  in  reports,  media  stories,  museum  displays  and  historic   reconstructions—are  usually   the  first   point   of   contact   for   most   people   outside   of   the   core   scientific   community   with  access  to  the  original  material.  This  point  of  contact  with  archaeology  relies  heavily  on  the  consumption  and  context  of  authority.  Like  the  example  of  the  doctor  and  the  patient  in   the  previous  section,   the   first  point  of  contact  with   ‘final  products’  usually  relies  on  the   authority   of   performance   and   the   acceptance   of   that   performance   for  meaningful  contextual   reasons.   A   patient   who  walks   into   a   doctor’s   office   initially   negotiates   the  authority   of   her   doctor   by   his   appropriate   appearance   and   performance   of   a   doctor;  then  she  negotiates  and  accepts  his  promotion  and  record  of  credentials;  and  only  later  does  she  negotiate  and  judge  a  kind  of  ontological  validation  of  her  experience  with  his  advice.  Similarly  in  archaeology,  most  members  of  the  public  and  the  broader  scientific  community,   outside   of   the   ‘core’   team  members  who   are   able   to   access  material,   rely  heavily  on   the  authority  and  epistemic  dependence  of  archaeological  performances.   In  preparing   their   displays,   texts   and   other   ‘final   product’   accounts   of   the   past,  archaeologists  operate  with  a   tacit  understanding  about   the  best  way   to  present   their  ideas  coherently  and  authoritatively.  They  stabilise  and  solidify  all  of  their  messy  social  interactions  that  led  to  their  conclusions,  and  then  ‘black  box’  their  output  in  solid,  clear  and   simple   accounts   meant   for   public   consumption.   They   follow   institutionalised  formats  for  their  target  audience—whether  for  text  meant  for  scholarly  journal  articles,  or   creative   images   for   public   museum   displays—which   use   the   appropriate   context,  language   and   presentation   that   will   maximise   the   appearance   of   their   authority   and  advertise   their   fidelity   to   the   past.   In   this   production   of   ‘products’   meant   for  ‘consumption’,  archaeology  itself  becomes  “a  mixture  of  humans  and  non-­‐humans,  texts,  and  financial  products  that  have  been  put  together  in  a  precisely  co-­‐ordinated  sequence”   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     253 (Callon  1991:  139).  In  archaeology,  the  aim  is  to  create  a  valuable,  consumable  product,  to  sell  to  the  public  and  sell  to  ourselves.  As  the  case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids  illustrates,  for   many   members   of   the   public,   this   product   can   be   seen   as   valuable   simply   if   it  positively  contributes  to  the  socio-­‐political  climate  and  economy,  and  this  is  opposed  to  how  many  members   of   the   scientific   community  may   see   a  product’s   value,  where   an  account  must  also  contribute  a  ‘faithful’  record  for  our  ontological  understanding  of  the  past.     As   Harry   Collins   and   Robert   Evans   write,   “As   with   language,   so   with   the  expertises  analogous  to  language—coming  to  ‘know  what  you  are  talking  about’  implies   successful  embedding  within  the  social  group  that  embodies  the  expertise”  (Collins  and  Evans   2007:   7).   As   this   thesis   has   argued,   ‘successful   embedding’—epistemic   and  executive   authority   of   any   given   archaeological   project,   person   or   account—is   an  accumulated   effect.   Authority   from   ‘final   product’   inscriptions   is   drawn   from   the  manipulation   of   asymmetric   power   relations   (politics)   and   from   appropriate  performances   which   legitimize   and   authorize   social   arenas   of   practice.   In   academic  arenas  like  archaeology,  authority  can  be  strategically  constructed  by  using  science  as  a  master   discourse.   As   the   case   of   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   illustrates,   by   drawing   on  institutions   and   recognised   categories   of   practice   in   archaeology,   one   can   construct   a  means   to   archaeological   authority.   Semir   Osmanagić’s   pyramid   project   is   particularly  successful  because  of  what  I  call  the  ‘outsourcing’  of  ethics  and  authority.  For  example,  Osmanagić’s   Foundation   has   employed   accredited   scientists   to   use   real   scientific  methods   on   genuine   ancient   material   to   come   up   with   genuine   prehistoric   dates   for  material  in  his  site,  like  the  radiocarbon  dating  the  team  performed  on  organic  material  yielding  a   reliable  date  of  +/-­‐35,000  BP.  However,   the   ‘final  product’   interpretation  of  “35,000   year-­‐old  manmade  pyramids”   is   a   gross   leap   in   logic,   because   the   ontological  significance  of  the  dated  organic  matter  does  not  lend  authority  to  this  interpretation.  A  second  important  consideration  in  this  thesis,  which  expands  upon  this  latter  point,   is   that   even   for   most   members   of   the   general   public   who   rely   on   context,  ontological  validation  for  epistemic  dependence  is  still  important  and  central  to  the  idea  of  what   ‘authority’   is   in   the  production  of  knowledge.  Epistemic  dependence,  and  thus  authority,  in  archaeology  is  anchored  to  a  product’s  ontological  worth.  In  the  case  of  the  Bosnian  Pyramids,   for   example,   some  members   of   the   public   (like   aspiring   politicians  and   café   owners   in   Visoko)  may   support   the   account   of   Palaeolithic   pyramids   purely  because  of  the  money  the  project  brings  to  the  economy.  However,  the  vast  majority  of  supporters  actually  think  that  the  project  has  ontological  worth,  because  they  have  been  convinced  by  clever  media  manipulation  and  performances  that  Osmanagić’s  account  of   CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     254 pyramids   is  defended  with  evidentiary   support.  They  believe  Osmanagić  and  his   team  are   ‘doing   archaeology’,   based   on   their   judgement   of   his   performance   as   an  archaeologist,   and   by   the   appearance   of   things   that   the   pyramid   team   has   unearthed  that  are  seemingly   ‘verified’   through  scientific   conferences.   If  Osmanagić  and  his   team  did  not  maintain  their  public  performance  through  one-­‐step-­‐removed  media,  or  if  their  façade  was  broken  by  closer  examination,  then  the  site  would  lose  public  authority  and  status—which   is   what   is   ultimately   happening   when   professional   archaeologists   are  looking  at  the  project  more  closely  and  opposing  its  claims.    It  is  unlikely  that  the  Bosnian  Pyramid  project’s  authority  is  sustainable,  because  as   more   people   gain   greater   understanding   of   the   context   and   actual   evidence,   the  ontological  world  that  contradicts  the  team’s  findings  will  intrude  upon  its  performance.  This   case   study   also   shows   that   authority   and   acts   of   legitimation   are   employed   and  distributed   through   the  medium  of  science,  and   they  need   to  be  actively  performed   in  order   to  acquire  and  maintain  status.  Executive  access  also  plays  a   critical   role   in   this  performance.   For   example,   with   the   Bosnian   Pyramids   site,   individuals   like   Semir  Osmanagić   sit   in  key  positions  as   ‘gatekeepers’   in   the   ‘interpretive  gap’  between  all  of  the   scientific   outsourced   practice   and   the   final   interpretations;   thus   they   affect   and  control   the   outcome   of   the   accounts   and   interpretations   that   the   team   produces.  Osmanagić   holds   ultimate   control   over   the   final   accounts   that   are   presented   in   ‘final  product’   form   on   the   project’s   websites,   reports   and   books,   and   which   intentionally  black-­‐box   all   of   the   messy   activity   that   went   into   their   production.   Archaeological  accounts  may  be  stabilised  and  authorised  through  scientific  practices,  but  people  gain  authority   through  positions  as  gatekeepers  and  their  executive  control  over  aspects  of  the  knowledge  production  process.  This   consideration   leads   to   a   third   important   point   in   this   thesis:   that   the  process  of   ‘gatekeeping’  and  access  control   is  present  and  central  to  the  way  authority  operates   in   the   professional   discipline.   As   the   case   of   Çatalhöyük   illustrates,  ‘gatekeepers’  (like  Ian  Hodder  as  site  director  and  like  the  field  excavator  in  the  case  of  the  plastered  skull  burial)  can  hold  influence  over  interpretation  through  their  executive  control   over   key   access   points   in   physical   and   intellectual   space.   In   the   case   of  Çatalhöyük,  despite  a  desire  or  intent  to  allow  multivocal  interpretive  access  to  flourish  in  a  postprocessual  theoretical  program,  specific  team  members  on  site  have  had  more  or   less  authority  and  authoritative  presence  based  on  their  personality  or   ‘charismatic  authority’   (c.f.   Weber   1978),71   as   well   as   their   relative   position   on   a   site   executive   71 Charisma is defined in the Oxford English Dictionary (1989) as: “compelling attractiveness or charm that can inspire devotion in others”. CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     255 hierarchy.   In   2009,   team   members   with   more   executive   authority   on   the   site   were  allowed  more  physical  access  to  material  and  space.  Their  authority  was  complicated  by  the  fact  that  their  epistemic  and  executive  presence  was  built  from  years  of  experience  with  the  geographical  region,  demonstrated  knowledge  of  the  Neolithic  past,  as  well  as  personal   duration   and   experience   with   the   Çatalhöyük   dig   house   space   itself.  Importantly,   in   order   to   gain   epistemic   and   executive   authority,   an   individual   had   to  have   closer   access   to   and   experience   with   material,   which   accumulated   as   a  representation   of   their   familiarity   with   the   material   and   translated   into   expertise.   A  dialectic   of   “resistance   and   accommodation”   (Pickering   1995)   ensues   in   such   a   case,  where   facts   gain   authority   and   are   socially   constructed   through   their   ontological  boundaries   and   their   social   translation  by   certain  people.   Equally,   certain  people   gain  authority   and   become   “socially   constructed   as   factual   agents”   (Van   Reybrouck   and  Jacobs   2006)   through   their   interaction   with   archaeological   material,   bounded   by   the  material   and   physical   properties   of   the   objects   and   space   that   they   interact   with.   As  noted   previously,   “Excavation   seems   not   so   much   a   process   of   salvaging   but   of   solidifying”  (Van  Reybrouck  and  Jacobs  2006:  34,  emphasis  in  original).  It  is  through  the  repetition,  familiarity  and  stabilising  of  spaces,  time  and  fluid  practices  that  authority  is  built  and  translated  by  many  different  people,  and  narrowed  by  those  who  have  more  social  power  and  positionality.  But  it  is  always  constrained  by  the  material  nature  of  its  context  and  the  ontological  world.         6.4    Dealing  with  Authority:  Suggestions  for  Further   Research    This   thesis   has   argued   for   the   circumstances   under   which   we   make   given  authoritative   interpretations,   explanations   or   predictions   in   the   production   of  archaeological  knowledge.  However,   I  conclude  by  asserting  that  this  process  still  only  “explains   why   we   make   them—but   leaves   untouched   the   question   of   our   license   for  making   them”   (Goodman   1983:   60-­‐61).   A   yet   underlying   issue   on   this   subject   is   the  question   of  what   ethically   gives   ‘us’   the   right   to   access  material   remains,  while   ‘they’  have  no  such  right?  What  gives  a  professional  the  authority  or  right  to  account  for  the  past  and  control  access  to  archaeological  materials?  This  discussion  of  territory  rights,     CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     256 ownership   and   multiplicity   has   been   a   referenced   debate   in   postmodern   theory   in  archaeology  over  the  last  twenty  years.  Yet  one  of  the  most  provocative  questions  from  this  discussion  has  yet  to  be  fully  answered:  is  it  our    professional,  ethical  obligation  to  actively   encourage   multiple   interpretations   from   within   our   own   disciplinary  boundaries?   Archaeological   sites   are   space   and   territory—both   physically   and  intellectually—and   one   individual   or   group   always   has   more   right   or   control   over  access.  When   two   or  more   things   compete   for   intellectual   or   physical   space,   there   is  almost  always  an  asymmetry  of  power.  Further  research  is  needed  to  address  some  of  the  ethical  concerns  that  emerge  this  study  on  the  nature  of  authority:  if  archaeological  interpretation  “begins  at  the  trowel’s  edge”,  then  it   is  important  to  continually  address  who   is   holding   the   trowel.   How   does   the   physical   access   of   archaeological   remains  directly   impact   intellectual   access   and   the   epistemic   authority   of   interpretations?   By  understanding   the   exact   nature   of   the   way   we   construct   authority,   what   does   that  nature  imply  about  the  ethics  and  accountability  of  the  discipline?  Another   fundamental   line   of   research   that   would   greatly   benefit   from   further  examination   is   the   exact   nature   and   role   of   the   nonhuman,   ontological   actors   in   the  production   of   archaeological   knowledge.   This   thesis   has   established   that   they   enable  and   constrain   our   archaeological   authority   and   the   validity   of   our   interpretations;  however,  due  to  constraints  of  space,  it  lacks  further  study  that  traces  the  exact  impact  of   specific   types   of   inscriptions   or   different   technologies   that   are   critical   to   scientific  output.   A   particular   type   of   technology   that   this   research   addresses   is   the   science   of  radiocarbon  dating,  which  has  had  a  very  powerful  and  important  role  in  the  history  and  development  of  knowledge  in  the  discipline.  Further  exploration  into  the  authority  and  power  of  technologies   like  radiocarbon  dating—as  ideas  embedded  in  popular  culture,  as   well   as   critical   scientific   methods   in   the   field—is   warranted.   Further   interesting  questions  have  also  emerged  during  this  research  regarding  the  authority  and  agency  of  specific   types   of   archaeological   products   and   technologies.   For   example,   how   does  authority   and   reception   of   knowledge   differ   by   the   production   and   consumption   of  different   types   of   archaeological   representation:   archaeological   images,   diagrams,  physical  reconstructions,  museum  displays?  How  might  inscriptions  like  archaeological  photographs  relate  to  the  concepts  of  building  trust  and  expertise,  or  ‘active  witnessing’  by   the   public?   How   do   our   inscription   practices   materially   create   public   and  professional   trust?   Although   some   new   research   is   beginning   to   address   some   of   the  implications   and   affectations   of   archaeological   images   and   witnessing,   further  exploration   is   needed   in   deconstructing   exactly   how   these   practices   operate   within  disciplinary  practice  (Moshenska  2009;  Perry  2009).     CHAPTER  6                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              CONCLUSION     257 Finally,   a  broader  historical   examination  of   the  nature  and   role  of   authority   in  archaeological   throughout   the   professional   history   of   the   discipline   would   greatly  benefit   the   field.   How   has   authority   in   the   discipline   of   archaeology   changed   or  developed   through   time?   Archaeology   began   as   an   amateur   activity   before   it  professionalised  and  became   ‘scientific’,   and   in   this  process  a  great  deal  of  weight  has  shifted  to  the  burden  of  validation  and  authority,  and  in  the  materiality  of  this  process  of  authorising   interpretations.   A   detailed   historiographic   study   which   specifically   traces  the   role   of   authority—and   the   impact   of   nonhuman   as  well   as   human   aspects   of   this  process—in   disciplinary   development   would   be   of   critical   interest.   By   continuing   to  develop  such  lines  of  well-­‐informed  and  ethically  aware  self-­‐study  on  authority,  we  can  contribute  to  better  practices  and  a  more  humane  world.           258 Appendix  A   Çatalhöyük  Database  Entry:  Feature  1517  (plastered  skull  burial).   Publicly  available  on  the  Çatalhöyük  Project  website: http://www.catalhoyuk.com/       259 Appendix  B   Çatalhöyük  Diary  Entry:  30/07/2005.       Publicly  available  on  the  Çatalhöyük  Project  website:  http://www.catalhoyuk.com/         260 Appendix  C   Sample of a Harris Matrix Chart.     261 Appendix  D   Article  and  comments  by  Michael  Baltar  at  ScienceInsider.     Publicly  available  online:  http://news.sciencemag.org/scienceinsider/2010/09/hodder-­‐ cleans-­‐house-­‐at-­‐famed-­‐ata.html     262   263   264 Appendix  E   Email  Interview  with  Semir  Osmanagić   Date:  21  March  2007   Q: I know you have worked with archaeologists and other experts in the past. Are you planning to consult any more this season? A: OF COURSE. THIS PROJECT IS OPEN FOR EVERYONE. BUT, ARCHAEOLOGICAL WORK DOES NOT BELONG ONLY TO ARCHAEOLOGISTS NO MORE. WE'RE GETING INVOLVED A NUMBER OF GEOLOGISTS, GEOPHYSICISTS, GEODETIC AND MINING EXPERTS, ASTRONOMERS, PALEONTOLOGISTS, ETC. Q: Have you found any artifacts or material culture yet? If you find artifacts, what do you do with them? Theoretically, if you accidentally find artifacts from a non- pyramid time period (Illyrian, Roman, Medieval, etc.), what is your plan of action? A: WE HAVEN'T FOUND ANY ARTIFACTS THAT BELONGED TO THE ORIGINAL BUILDERS. ACCORDING TO THE LAW, WE'RE OBLIGATED TO SEND ALL ARTIFACTS, NO MATTER WHAT PERIOD, TO THE LOCAL MUSEUM. Q: The people who built the pyramids must have lived somewhere; where do you believe archaeologists will find these settlements? A: AS SOON AS THIS COMING MAY WE'LL BE DOING SOME DIGGING IN VILLAGE GORNJA VRATNICA 4 KM FROM BOSNIAN PYRAMID OF THE SUN. WE MIGHT FIND SOME BURIAL SITES OVERTHERE. Q: How many people are employed by your Bosnian Pyramid Foundation? A: DURING THE SUMMER WE GO UP TO 85 FULL-TIME EMPLOYEES. IN THE WINTER WE HAVE APPROX. 35 EMPLOYEES. Q: I hear you are currently working on your PhD entitled 'The Maya Civilisation.' What is your thesis? Does it also research pyramids? What university are you researching under? A: THE THESIS HAS BEEN RESEARCHING UNDER UNIVERSITY OF SARAJEVO AND IT DEALS WITH THE MAYAN CIVILIZATION. I'VE COMPLETED THE WRITING AFTER VISITED MORE THAN 50 MAYAN RUINS IN MEXICO, EL SALVADOR, GUATEMALA, BELIZE AND HONDURAS. AND YES, EVERY MAYAN CITY USED TO HAVE PYRAMIDS.   265 Q: How do you feel the broad professional archaeological community feels about your project? A: EVERY NEW IDEA HAS OPONENTS IN THE BEGINNING. THE BIGGER THE IDEA, MORE AGRESSIVE THE OPONENTS. BUT, IT DOES NOT INFLUENCE MY GOALS AND DETERMINATION FOR AN INCH. Q: I understand that you have recently been working on a documentary, which sounds exciting. What is it about, what TV network is it with, what language will it be covered in, and how does it tie into your BiH pyramid site? A: BOSNIAN TV IS DOING A 12-EPISODE DOCUMENTARY CALLED “SEARCH FOR THE LOST CIVILIZATIONS” BASED ON MY BOOK “CIVILIZATIONS BEFORE THE OFFICIAL HISTORY BEGAN” (PUBLISHED IN SARAJEVO). WE'VE ALREADY FILMED AT THE FOLLOWING LOCATIONS: EASTER ISLAND, BOLIVIA, PERU, MEXICO, COSTA RICA, UK, FRANCE, GERMANY, MALTA, EGYPT... CURRENTLY I'M IN JORDAN. I GOT LEFT LEBANON, CROATIA, MONTENEGRO AND BOSNIA. WE WANT TO SHOW THAT BOSNIAN PYRAMIDS, STONE SPHERES AND MEGALITHIC WALLS IS NOT EXCEPTION BUT VERY COMMON ON FOUR CONTINENTS. Q: You have had a lot of media attention (I am originally from Houston and saw a broadcast there, as well as other broadcasts through the web). Do you generally contact TV organizations, do they contact you, or is it a mixture of both directions? A: IN MOST CASES, TV OUTLETS CONTACT US. OF COURSE, INITIALLY, IT ALL STARTED FROM OUR SIDE. Q: What type of media do you believe has been most influential in spreading information about your site? Internet, television, newspapers, etc? A: TV   266 Appendix  F   Email  Interview  1  with  Andrew  Lawler   Date:  24  November  2009      Q:    What  was  your  official  title  and  position  with  the  Visoko  team?    What  was  your  job  like   on  a  daily  basis  -­‐  a  'day  in  the  life'  excavating  at  the  Moon  site?    A:    My  official   title  was   initially   'Archaeological  assistant.  Within  about  6  weeks  of  me  arriving,   the   'Permanent   Archaeologist'   Rafaella   Cattaneo   (who   had   dubious  qualifications,   including   an   apparent   PhD   from   Bristol   in   'Minoic'(!)   Archaeology)  resigned  due   to   perceived   sexism,   and   I  was   promoted   to   this   position.  However,   not  wanting   to  become  heavily  entangled   in   their  project,  my  official   title  according   to  my  contract  was  'Excavation  Coordinator'.      Essentially,   my   job   involved   the   overseeing   of   5-­‐6   labourers   at   a   time,   as   well   as  excavating  myself,   recording   all   trenches,   taking   samples   of   any  organic  deposits,   and  training   a   photographer   how   to   photograph   in   a   manner   that   is   archaeologically  acceptable.   As   time   progressed,   my   main   concern   shifted   to   protecting   preserved  field/drainage  systems  apparent  in  Sonda  (trench)  28,  Sector  F,  Grid  1,  (spreading  in  a  Southeasterly   direction)   which   were   heavily   truncated   by   quarrying   and   a   wartime  trench,  but  had  small  quantities  of  burnt  stone  throughout  the  fill.  This  was  uncovered  in   late  September  2007,  as  I  recall.  The  labourers  up  on  this  site  could  understand  the  basics   of   stratigraphy,   and   excavated/stripped   at   2.5m   intervals,   so   the   sediment  profiles   could   be   photographed   and   recorded   before   carrying   on.   Other   parts   of   the  'Moon   Pyramid'   I   had   no   control   over.   One   man   (Dzeno?-­‐   owner   of   'cool   shadow')  hacked  away  haphazardly,  but  it  was  his  own  land,  so  I  let  him  do  as  he  pleased,  with  the  caveat  that  if  he  dug  without  telling  me,  I  wouldn't  attempt  to  record  it.  There  were  also  volunteers  digging  on  the  slopes  in  early  summer  2008,  but  I  was  not  informed  of  it  until  after  they  left.    On  the  'Moon'  summit,  a  typical  day  would  be:  Arrive  9.15-­‐10,  depending  on  weather/any  kit  required.  Coffee  until  10-­‐10.30.    Overview  of  work  done  after  I'd  last  visited  (I  only  went  up  there  2-­‐3  times  a  week,  as  I  was  trying  to  make  sense  of  artefacts  (real  and   fantasy)   found   in  2006  excavations  on  Visocica,  to  give  them  archive  numbers  and  as  good  an  explanation  as  possible  of  where  they  were  found  from  any  descriptions  with  them).  Jasmin  would  then  photograph  any  profiles,  and  I'd  fill  in  the  paperwork.    Then,  I'd  excavate  alongside  the  workers  until   lunch  (12.30ish).  After  lunch,  we'd  start  back  around  1.30.  The  general   idea  was   that   I'd  dig  alongside   them,  unless   they  came  across   any   dark   sediments   (generally   manganese)   or   anything   unusual,   which   I'd  record,   photograph   in   situ,   and   bag   up,   assigning   a   field   number.   At   about   3.30,   I'd  discuss  with  Amidza  (the  land  owner  and  foreman)  in  order  to  lay  out  any  new  trenches  Semir  wanted  in  a  way  so  that  they  wouldn't  affect  his  crops  or  the  excavation  method  (which   was   focused   upon   neatness,   to   impress   visitors),   then   leave   to   file   any  profile/grid  sheets  filled  in,  turn  the  field  numbers  into  catalogue  numbers,  and  put  any  samples   taken   into   storage,   while   Jasmin   put   all   photographs   on   the   computer,  separating   archaeological   ones   from   touristic/promotional   ones,   so   their   file  names  &     267 locations  would  not  be  changed.      Q:    I  know  you  started  to  implement  some  archaeological  structure  while  you  were  there,   like  inventories  and  recording.    What  kind  of  recording  did  they  do  on  site  before  and  after   you  came?    A:    None  whatsoever,  from  what  I  can  tell.  I  was  told  there  was  a  2006  report,  but  never  saw  it.  It  was  obvious  from  looking  at  the  2006  arefacts  that  someone  with  excavational  experience  had  worked  on  the  digs,  as  they  had  often  put  as  much  detail  as  possible  onto  scraps   of   paper   included   in   the   sandwich   bag   (these   varied   from   notebook   pages   to  cigarette  cartons).  I  never  found  out  who  this  person  was.      Q:    What  kinds  of  artefacts  did  you  find,  and  what  was  the  stratigraphy  like?    In  retrospect,   how  do  you  interpret  what  was  going  on  archaeologically  at  the  site?    What  periods  and   types  of  material  were  you  digging?    A:    In  my  time  there,  the  preserved  wood  in  Ravne  was  found  (later  destroyed  by  Muris  Osmanagic),   as   well   as   several   carbonised   samples   taken   from   Sonda   28,   Sector   C  (various   profiles).   Apart   from   that,   nothing   predating   the   recent   war   (ration   packs,  bullets  and  cases,  patches  of  burning)  was  found  except  the  burnt  stones  already  mentioned.  There  was  a  lot  of  material  found  in  KTK  Tunnel,  but  I  refused  to  work  in  there  without  first  seeing  a  safety  report.  One  of  the  workers  told  me  he'd  been  instructed  to  throw  away  anything  under   200   years   old.   I   managed   to   convince   him   to   keep   a   small   sample   of   material  recovered  once  a  week  (in  order  to  provide  an  approximate  stratigraphy  of  the  tunnel  infill),  but  he  quit  the  job  about  3  weeks  later,  so  all  we  had  was  a  piece  of  metal  plate  (which  later  got   lost)  and  an  industrial  ceramic  tile  (kind  of   like  kiln  lining,  but  a  finer  matrix).  If  I  were  to  hazard  a  guess  at  the  date  of  the  field  system  uncovered  in  Sonda  28,  Sector  F,  I'd  say  Iron  Age,  but  that's  more  guesswork  than  anything  else.    […]    Q:    How  many  employees  vs.  volunteers  were  there?    Were  most  of  the   volunteers  local?     A: The   number   of   labouring   employees   varied   hugely.   At   an   estimate,   I'd   say   in   July  2007,  there  were  25  at  Vratnica,  15  at  Ravne,  10  at  KTK,  6  on  the  Moon  summit,  another  10  or  12  around  the  rest  of  the  moon,  plus  Zombi's   itinerant  team  of  4-­‐8.  There  was  a  steady,  but  low,  flow  of  volunteers,  with  I'd  say  4-­‐10  at  any  given  point  throughout  the  summer.   By   May   2008,   this   had   dropped   to   an   unknown   amount   (less   than   10)   at  Vratnica,  none  bar  Dzeno(?)  on  the  Moon  side,  4  on  the  Summit  (who  quit  and  barred  Semir   from   going   up   there   a   few   days   after  my   resignation),   none   at   KTK   after  work  finished   there   in  mid-­‐Sept   2007,   and   Zombi's   team  had   joined   up  with   the   remaining  workers  in  Ravne,  to  make  a  total  of  9,  I  think,  there.  During  summer  2008  there  were  a  total   of   13   volunteers   working   at   any   point   (several   lasting   only   a   few   days).   These  were-­‐  a  young  couple  from  Slovenia,  a  Bosnian  diaspora  archaeology  student  (who  left  and  worked  in  Sarajevo  museum  for  the  remainder  of  his  stay),  a  retired  Australian  guy  who  lived  in  the  town,  a  Canadian  museum  conservationist,  the  2  unknowns  working  on  the  Moon  slopes,  and  6  students   from  KU  Leuven  (part  of   the  reason  I  ended  up  here,  although   they   came   after   I'd   resigned,   but   was   still   living   in   Visoko).   There   were   no  other   volunteers   in   2008,   except   locals   working   the   odd   day   or   2,   but   this   was  essentially  to  help  out  their  friends  who  were  employees.     268  Q:    How  much  attention  did  the  site  receive  when  you  were  there?    What  kind  of  attention?    From  the  public,  Bosnian  politicians,  international  politicians,  artists,  schools,  academics?     A: There  was  a  lot  of  attention  for  the  first  couple  of  months-­‐  local  TV  crews  &  national  newspapers  more  than  once  a  week,  and  journalists  arriving  from  abroad  roughly  once  a  week.  Most  of  the  attention  was  focused  towards  Semir  and  the  Egyptians  (whilst  they  were  there),  and  most  of  it  was  off-­‐site.  Nabil  Swelim  and  his  entourage  spent  under  3  hours   visiting   sites   altogether.   I  met   a   few  politicians   on   a  National   scale   at   the   start,  although   later   on,   this   dwindled   to   essentially   local   interest,   and   caused   a   minor  problem,  as  I  befriended  Asmir  Hodzic,  SDP  Mayoral  candidate,  slightly  to  the  vexation  of   Munib   Alibegovic,   incumbent   mayor,   and   pyramid   supporter.   This   was   quite   well  known   in   the   town,   and   I   got   the   feeling   in   the   run-­‐up   to   the  October   2008   elections  (which  began  while  I  was  still  working  for  the  Foundation),  that  this  was  frowned  upon  by  Alibegovic.      Q:    Where  do   you   think   the  project   is   now?    Is   there   still   the   same  kind   of   hype  now,   as   opposed  to  three  or  four  years  ago?    Where  do  you  think  the  project  is  headed?     A: The  Foundation  have  apparently  just  announced  a  summer  camp  for  2010.  However,  I   know   'opponents'   of   the   project   are   planning   to   launch   a   campaign   highlighting   the  lack  of  safety  reports  for  the  tunnels,  carcinogenic  molds  and  fungi  growing  in  them  in  abundance,   the   fact   that   nobody  will   actually   be   excavating   the   'Sun   Pyramid',   as   the  Foundation   lack   permits,   and   actual   volunteer   numbers   for   the   past   few   years,   and  raising  questions  about  insurance  for  volunteers.    There  is  nowhere  near  the  same  hype  now  as  in  2006.  Even  in  2007  businesses  within  Visoko  were  redirecting  their  focus  away  from  'Pyramids',  and  the  only  evidence  I  saw  in  spring  this  year  (2009)  of  the  initial  'Pyramidomania'  was  the  leftover  tat  being  sold  in  bric-­‐a-­‐brac  stores  near   to   the  market.  The   'Srcem  za  Piramide'   festival   in  April   (the  official  opening  of   'digging  season')  did  not  extend  past  3  or  4pm  (2008's  had  gone  on  until  well  after  10pm,  although  had  been  poorly  attended,  and  badly  reviewed)  and  had  no  mention   of   plans   for   the   coming   2009   season,   instead   focusing   on   cultural   events,  such   as   a   fun   run   and   rafting   gala.   In   fact,   as   far   as   I   know,   there   has   been   no  archaeologist  employed  or  consulted  by  the  Foundation  since  my  resignation  in  August  2008.     269 Appendix  G   Email  Interview  2  with  Andrew  Lawler   Date:  9  July  2010   Q: Other than your own work, what kind of professional research has happened at the pyramid sites while you were there and before you came? Have you heard of anything after you left? A: While I was there, there was a conservationist who came for a few days. She was Canadian, but married to a Bosnian, and came to volunteer for a few days whilst they were visiting family in Sarajevo. Apart from her, the Russian scientists and the Egyptians were the only researchers who ‘worked’ there that I saw. Apparently, a man undertaking core drilling also came, but I never met him. When I arrived, an archaeologist called Rafaella Cattaneo was also working there, but her qualifications and experience were dubious, to say the least. After I left, nothing has been done to my knowledge. According to friends, and what I can gather from the occasional press release I read, there’s been no archaeologist working there since I left. The person meant to be leading excavations at the moment is a Croatian guy, who, from what I know, is an art historian whose previous work has been on the history of woodblock printing. […] Q. What has been the role of the Egyptians at the site? Do you know why the Egyptians - particularly Swelim - are so supportive? A: Apart from Aly Barakat, their role was little more than that of tourists. I know that some, particularly Mona (Fouad Ali? I’m not sure, but it wasn’t Mona Haggag- I met her for the first time at the conference) was disappointed in this, as they felt they were being used as promotional tools. Swelim, on the other hand, thrived on this. He’s ex-military, and is used to entertaining, very comfortable with the media etc. I seriously doubt his credentials as a serious archaeologist though. He’s never held an academic tenure, and received one of his PhDs from a Hungarian university very shortly after his retirement from the army. I think it’s pretty odd that an Egyptian would choose to study Egyptology in Hungary after a relatively prominent military career, and wonder whether the award of this may have been politically motivated, especially considering the ‘report’ he wrote after spending under 2 hours on Visocica. The Egyptian ambassador to Bosnia is heavily involved with the Foundation (as is the Malaysian embassy), and I assume it’s his influence that got the Egyptians over. […] Q: Do you think the authority of these scientific institutions carry a lot of weight with the public? Or is the public more disinterested now? A: I honestly couldn’t say. The thing is, since the whole debacle with Oxford (twice- if you don’t know the details on this, I’ll be happy to fill you in), they seem to have been a bit more careful on the use of names of institutions. However, Osmanagic still gets away with claiming that he’s a member of the Russian Academy of Natural Sciences- alongside many Nobel   270 Laureates. In reality, it’s the Russian Academy of Sciences to which the Nobel winners belong, and he’s a member of something totally unaffiliated, and founded in the 1990s. The whole does he/doesn’t he conundrum with Osmanagic’s PhD is still unclear, and many people in Visoko see him as a charlatan. The fact that the Foundation continuously change their agenda (the conference was supposed to be biennial, if you remember), and have tried to mess the town around to suit them has lost them a lot of face with organizations who were previously more than happy to help. For example, ‘Srcem za Piramide’, the official opening celebration, always used to happen in April, with a rafting exhibition by the local club. This year, they moved it to June, and advertised that the rafting was going to take place as normal, without asking the club. However, the river is too low in June to raft safely, so they kind of pissed off the club with that blunder. I’m not sure how it all panned out, as I haven’t spoken to anyone about it since. Q: You mentioned the students from KU Leuven came to work at the site while you were there. How did they hear about the excavation, and why did they choose Visoko to excavate? Do you know of any other university groups that came to work at the site? What was their impression of the excavation? A: I think they heard about the excavation on the news or the internet. They organized it as a group themselves independently from the university, fully in the knowledge that Leuven would not give them accreditation for their digging as part of their compulsory undergraduate work. No universities have excavated at the site, as none have recognized it as a bona fide dig. Instead, individual students have gone there out of interest. Any belief or impression that this gives the Foundation’s work official recognition from a university or other institution is wrong. During my tenure, there was an archaeology student from Trieste with family friends in Visoko, the conservator mentioned above, and a Bosnian-French architecture student, who used the excavation as his compulsory internship for Lyon (possibly Lille) university. Q: The actual pyramid hypothesis is a bit fuzzy to me, so I'm hoping you can help clear things up: According to the Foundation, are the pyramids supposed to be made of artificial blocks covering a natural hill, or is the entire hill supposed to be man-made from blocks? A: This changes continuously. The Foundation’s primary stance is that it is 100% man-made, unless a supporter of theirs is proposing an alternative explanation at the time, which they then say is plausible, and use this as a means to justify ‘further research’. However, the chronologies suggested by the foundation contradict each other- they claim the ‘megaliths’ were put in place and carved prior to their burial by sediment, which forms the base of the pyramid. It was then shaped and covered with blocks, and then the tunnels were dug. It’s supposed to be a block-covered man-made hill, in other words. This is what Swelim supports. Barakat suggests it is a natural hill which is artificially shaped. Q: Do you know what period the Foundation says the pyramids are supposed to be from - Illyrian, paleolithic, etc.? How does the radiocarbon dating play into the team's hypothesis? A: Definitely pre-Illyrian. Some have tried to connect it with the Butmir culture, particularly the nearby site of Okoliste. The general claim is that they were built before the last ice age. The older the better.   271 The radiocarbon dating is just one thing that helps. Getting dates of 40k years from 2 laboratories was great for them, as they could present that without showing the caveats (primarily that the dates are on the edge of the C14 limit). When Oxford refused to give the date as ‘definitive’, they released a statement implying this was some form of conspiracy. Q: What does the team say about the people/settlements/human activity they think was happening at the site? Do they care more about the concept of pyramids, or are they genuinely interested in studying the prehistoric people who supposedly made the pyramids? A: It’s all about pyramids to Osmanagic, and also to many of the tourists that he attracts. There has been no effort at all to interpret the ‘pyramids’ in the context of the landscape, ancient river patterns etc. It’s all about patterns and perfect geometry. They have no interest in more recent cultures (for instance the medieval town, or Neolithic settlement on visocica), and workers were told to throw away anything under 200 years old that they found. However, some visitors and ‘independent researchers’ are very interested in the pyramids as monuments to lost civilizations, as opposed to being purely pyramids. The Hungarian and Bulgarian supremacists that come over present it as evidence of both their countries’ power and influence in the past, for instance. Q: What artefacts and structures did you and the team find that you think were genuine, and which do you think were more fantasy? A: Nearly everything was fantasy during my time there. Only the burnt stones from the Moon pyramid were real and older than the war. At KTK tunnel, an abundance of 19th and 20th century stuff was coming out, but most of it disappeared, and I guess since I left the rest has been disposed of. No work was carried out on Visocica while I was there, and nothing was found in Ravne or on Vratnice that was real. When I reorganized the artifact store, about 10% of what was in there was real. The rest was fossils or ‘pretty stones’. There was some Neolithic and medieval pottery, a flintlock, an iron knife (presumably medieval) some nails and glass, and 10-20 animal bones, as well as some bone fragments. Q: Previously you've mentioned carbonised material and the burnt stone you found at the site. There was also the metal mould and the stone building structure on the moon pyramid. What period would you guess this material is from? What kind of settlements/sites/material do you think this came from? A: The carbonized material was indeterminate. It was sealed in well-stratified natural deposits at several locations. It was sampled correctly, and photos were taken of it in situ, as well as measurements. Unfortunately, the Foundation has all the paperwork. As to age and whether it’s natural/man made, I can’t say. All the ‘metal moulds’ I was shown were natural rocks with odd indentations. Admittedly, one did look feasible as an artifact, but it had been so heavily cleaned, that nothing much could be said for it, except perhaps by a specialist. That is, of course, provided it is man-made in the first place. The stone structure is odd. It has been speculated (http://irna.lautre.net/Real-archaeology-in- Visoko.html) that it’s an iron age grave. However, a few things point to this not being the case. First, the soil underneath the structure is natural, and no body is in there. Second, I’ve   272 seen the nails that were found, and they’re incredibly regular, suggesting an industrialized manufacturing process. Finally, the Foundation found this with incredible ease and accuracy, suggesting that either some of it was already protruding, or it had been in use in recent memory. I’d say it was the lower few courses of a storage shed of some kind, most likely the timbered ones that are found in that area, that dated from the 18th century or later. Q: How does the New Age connection relate to the scientific activity happening at the site? Are they two separate spheres of people and activity, or are they intertwined? A: I get the feeling they’re intertwined. Ahmed Bosnic, on-off president of the Foundation earns his money selling spiritual trinkets, plus books on the paranormal and suchlike. Semir is heavily involved in New Age stuff in America, and his ghost-writer (Sharon or Karen, I think; possibly this one: http://www.sharonprince.net/) works with Astraea magazine, who do a lot of the Foundation’s promotions and interview protagonists regularly. The ‘New Agers’ seem to comprise the bulk of the tourists. They include the Bulgarian and Hungarian supremacists, who send regular tour parties, and the cult of Damanhur, as well as more independent New Agers who make their own way to the town, or come with Semir. It seems as if, as the Foundation has lost many sources of funding, they aim to appease these people as they are their last viable cash flow. To the media, Semir attempts to distance himself from these people, but in reality, they are pretty close to him, and some hold him in pretty high regard, being literally unable to speak in his presence (I saw this with my own eyes once with a group of Hungarians- the party leader turned bright red and was visibly very, very nervous when he arrived at the motel unannounced). New age science is employed a lot- I think I’ve told you the whole Harry Oldfield story before, and the Russians’ research is definitely undertaken without regard for archaeological principles, and the science they claim to apply can’t be interpreted by anyone except themselves. Q: Do you think the project is sustainable - in an intellectual sense, as well as a practical sense? Do you think the project will be around for years to come? Do you think the project can continue to adapt their hypotheses and practices to meet public demand/interest? Or do you think the project is unsustainable in the long run? A: I have mixed feelings on this- there’s the whole 2012 hypothesis to take into account, and to what extent Semir, funders and tourists actually believe in this. I don’t think the project is financially sustainable- one look at the staff turnover and continual relocation of administrative and archaeological premises tells you this. The fact they have limited archaeological equipment shows they do not have a serious approach to excavations, and promotional literature is always vastly over- or under-ordered, which suggests that people aren’t employed for the right reasons. I think the Foundation is hoping that the recession is the reason for its downturn in financial income, or possibly hoping that other people will believe this is the reason for it. For this reason, I can see them holding out by hook or by crook until 2012, then after that, who knows. 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