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Friday, January 23, 2015

Adrift on the sea of linguistic ambiguity

Last year I posted an entry about a then-new painting I'd finished and some accompanying meditations on entropy.

A friend pointed me toward a call for artworks for an online zine with the theme: Sailors, Sirens and Sea Monsters. I did not hesitate to submit my extremely aquatic painting. Sailors? Check! Sirens? Well, a mermaid anyway. Check! Sea Monsters? Check!

After some months I received the zine link and was startled to realize that when some other folks hear that theme, instead of visions of marine critters, a whole world of homoeroticism is conjured. Somehow email taglines from the zine's editor - like, "Hey, Sailor!" - had not proposed this possibility to me before.

I can't say I particularly mind, because a lot of the work is appealing to me in technique, but it did make me feel kind of childlike and naive that when I hear "sea monster" I think of a mythological creature, rather than a euphemistic male appendage.

Ultimately I'm happy to be included in a collection that is not so overly curated or conceptually predetermined as to exclude either fantastical creatures or blow jobs. Check it out.

Thursday, January 15, 2015

My Confession by Samuel E. Chamberlain

[Samuel Chamberlain's painting depicting a scene near Linares, Mexico.] 

That Samuel Chamberlain’s My Confession inspired the novel Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, is the least interesting thing about this strange autobiography. I mention it early, so I don’t have to bring it up again.

Chamberlain hand-wrote and illustrated the tale of his experiences between about 1844, when he was an unruly 16-year-old leaving his family home in Boston, to 1849 and his defection from the Glanton gang, a band of mercenary scalp hunters who roved the borderlands of the Southwest in the wake of the Mexican-American War. In between these bookend events, he bummed around Illinois and New Orleans, eventually joined the First United States Dragoons and fought in a number of battles and skirmishes of the Mexican-American War, philandering with as many ladies as possible all along the way. He peppers his autobiographical account with healthy doses of myth and hearsay and even includes one heck of a good ghost story.

Chamberlain apparently wrote his Confession (subtitled The Recollections of a Rogue) sometime after about 1850 when he had returned to Massachusetts, but before the onset of the Civil War, in which he would again fight and earn the rank of brevet brigadier general. He eventually would serve as a warden of state prisons in Massachusetts and Connecticut where, I’ve read, he was a conscientious and sympathetic advocate for inmates, particularly veterans. He died at age 78 in Worcester, Massachusetts in 1908.

I am not familiar enough with 19th-century literary tropes to assert this with more specificity, but it seems fairly obvious that Chamberlain penned his account concertedly in the mode of adventure tales of his day. Clearly he sees himself as a rather likable anti-hero (a rogue, indeed), who had many adventures, many loves, faced many foes and lived to tell the tales. He was frequently in the guardhouse for some transgression or other during the war. He was a hothead (not to mention a teenager) and could never resist getting into a fight if the opportunity presented itself. He narrates most episodes in his tale with a cheeky bravado and often a tone of humor as if he’s winking at his reader.

For all his swagger, Sam comes across as a fairly sensitive individual. The more upsetting events receive a kind of matter-of-fact gravity: rapes and mutilations of local women; the murder of a Mexican priest by a drunken U.S. soldier; what he calls the “massacre of the cave”, where Arkansas volunteer soldiers slew men, women and children in a cave near Saltillo. As Sam says: “The direct cause of the massacre was the barbarous murder of a young man belonging to the Arkansas Regiment. But this murder was undoubtedly committed in retaliation for the outrages committed on the women of the Agua Nueva ranch by the volunteers on Christmas Day.” (88)

Chamberlain was not unresponsive to the terrible human cost of war on both sides. His untrained but expressive, altogether fascinating paintings also demonstrate a good amount of emotional receptivity.

And yet the narrative overall tends toward this buoyant, devil-may-care tone. I attribute it some to Chamberlain’s youth; he was 16-21 during the events of the narrative and in certain harrowing situations acknowledged himself as “nothing but a boy”. (294) But he was no longer a boy when he wrote the account. And so I tend to attribute the tone – which seems weirder and weirder as the tale progresses and the events become distinctly less heroic and more upsetting – to the conventions of the genre Chamberlain imagined himself to be writing within.

The narrative takes a concerted swerve toward the desperate and brutal when Sam’s lover, Carmeleita, is kidnapped by a villain known as El Tuerto1; a man she was coerced into marrying before she gladly ran off with Sam, and one with whom Sam had previously had a knife fight. Chamberlain attempts to track them down, but then hears of her terrible fate: “El Tuerto had carried Carmeleita to a lone ranch where she was outraged by Canales’ whole gang of demons and then cut to pieces!” (216) 2

Pretty much from this moment on in the text, bravado starts to sound forced and hollow as Sam’s circumstances worsen and worsen. The war ends, and he joins a wagon train to California as a ranger but, likely deep in a depression from Carmeleita’s savage end, he acts belligerent and unsoldierly enough that he is eventually strung up by his thumbs. Mercifully one night a mysterious lone rider, who has been following the train, cuts him down; a fellow known as Crying Tom Hitchcock, a truly intriguing character who speaks a mishmash of languages, mimics an array of animal calls and, as his nickname implies, frequently cries copious and unexplained tears.

And so Sam deserts the army and follows Tom, who turns out to be a recruiter for John Glanton. Glanton’s rather terrifying group of desperados were officially employed by the Mexican government to kill “hostile” Apaches3, but in practice they killed (and scalped) pretty much anybody they could get something from. Chamberlain had the good sense to be wary of Glanton’s unscrupulous, often drunken decision-making. And he was appropriately distrustful of Glanton’s sociopathic second-in-command, Judge Holden, who, Chamberlain says, he “hated…at first sight”. (272)

Nevertheless he tagged along with this highly suspect crew for, even he seemed to feel, longer than was good for him. You get the impression he didn’t know what else to do with himself and that, before witnessing some of their depravity firsthand, he found Glanton’s ruthless reputation somewhat romantic.

It is possible Chamberlain was called away from the task of writing his narrative by the Civil War. Given that he lived a relatively long life and never picked the task back up, I could also easily be persuaded that he abandoned the project out of disaffection. As the events become more dire and less heroic, the adventurous tone of the narrative attenuates and grows brittle.

Writing this narrative was an act of memory for Chamberlain. Remembering war exploits is one thing; war is violent and horrifying but it is also societally-sanctioned and there is a long history of literature valorizing appalling deeds, and the people who committed them, when done in the name of war. However much I find lionizing depictions of war (along with war itself) juvenile at best, immoral at worst, the practice is not without many literary precedents.

But a different game altogether is recalling the mutilation of a lover, personal sorrow and humiliation, and a stint with mercenaries notorious for their sadism and wanton cruelty. Perhaps it’s my own reading and a modern psychological sensibility, but I felt like I could detect the disparity between Sam’s adopted authorial voice and how he really felt about these latter events. I imagine him getting to the point in his story when Carmeleita is murdered and then realizing the “fun” part of his tale is over. But he has to keep writing because this is the task he’s set himself and of course everybody wants to hear about his exploits with the infamous Glanton gang. And so he continues. But it just gets worse and worse. Until finally he realizes his story is not a glorious adventure at all, he doesn’t particularly want to relive it anymore, and so he simply stops. The final pages of his Confession end with a definite whimper as Sam flees the Yuma’s massacre of Glanton’s boys, drags himself alone through the desert and nearly dies of thirst.

All in all, this is an absorbing primary source that really cries out for a fully annotated version; one that, to the extent it’s possible, corroborates or refutes some of Sam’s depictions, separates his fact from his fiction, and fleshes out much of the historical context he glances over. I found Sam, as a figure, both sympathetic and repellent, which definitely kept me reading. This source deserves to be much better known outside of enthusiasts of military history. And Sam’s paintings alone are worth picking up this book; for his renderings of battle, sure, but also simply for the northeast Mexican landscape and architecture, a milieu he handles visually with fine detail and one he seems to have admired.

1. Who was indeed one-eyed. 
2. For information about the military leader, Antonio Canales Rosillo, this article provides a good overview. 
3. “Hostile” in this context vis-à-vis the Mexican government, with whom the Apaches had been waging war since about the 1820s. The governments of several north Mexican states offered bounties for Apache warriors, which eventually meant payment for any scalps that could plausibly be passed off as Apache.

For more more reviews, visit Goodreads.

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Look at the birdie!

By personality, proclivity, attitude and constitution, I was not made to live in or particularly like New England. Finding myself in Massachusetts for a temporary, but nevertheless extended time, I have eagerly sought out and cultivated a mild affection for its aspects that do appeal to me: autumnal deciduous leaves, clam chowder, pre-20th-century architecture, naval history and, as it turns out, Puritan cemeteries.

This last item is funny to me because of the special scorn with which I regard this set of New England's earliest permanent white folks; a scorn I reserve for very few groups of people: e.g., the Victorians, Christian missionaries and others whose universalist arrogance and collective self-confidence verges on the maniacal.1 Like the Victorians and Christian missionaries, the early American Puritans ended up doing a few things that were incidentally cool.2 

Despite their visually ascetic and iconoclastic history in England, when the Puritans arrived in North America they soon began burying their dead with gravestones full of images; often disturbing and surreal images. To wit (photo by Nick Paskert):

I plan a future essay that will get into the history of gravestones like these and Puritan attitudes toward death that helped create them. But for right now I wanted to share a small series of paintings these headstones inspired.

I begin with the domestic deathshead (Caput funeris domesticum), which makes a lovely pet. They are quiet, clever and sometimes affectionate, but keep a keen eye open if you let them out of their cage. They are skilled escape artists:

Here is the feral deathshead (Caput funeris ferum), derived from domestic deathsheads but whose ancestors escaped captivity. They now make their homes in urban parks and find their meals among the human refuse of cities. They may be distinguished from domestic deathsheads by their more flamboyant coloring and shy behavior:

And here is a rare glimpse of feral deathshead chicks still in the nest. Deathsheads are devoted parents and care for their young for many months until the hatchlings are ready to take wing:

New England is home to thousands of feral and deathsheads. Whether in rural Rhode Island or downtown Boston, stay alert for a glimpse of these fascinating creatures.
1. For all I know some of my own ancestors may have been New England Puritans. Some may have been Victorians. And I've personally met Christian missionaries who seemed polite and friendly. This makes absolutely no difference to my finding their governing worldviews repellent. I'm sure they would say the same about me. While I'm on the topic, I find that the American federal government's foreign policy, a system in which I and all fellow citizens are deeply implicated, shares the criteria I've laid out (universalist arrogance and collective self-confidence verging on the maniacal). So upon further consideration, perhaps I reserve this special scorn precisely for groups, systems and people which are somehow close to me, benefactors of my own privilege, which I feel justified in criticizing but helpless to affect, and which I nevertheless can feel a weird vague affection for because I am not on the receiving end of their worst affronts. Certainly the scorn comes also from recognizing interesting qualities and potentialities in the midst of such offensively exclusionary worldviews. It's also important to recognize none of these "groups" I've identified or their "worldviews" are as cohesive or monolithic as my casual usage them out to be. But discarding categories altogether makes it virtually impossible to say anything about anything.

2. I think, for instance, of the whole Victorian medievalist bent which spawned Gothic Revival architecture, a slew of awesome horror fiction and pre-Raphaelite art; or the fact that Christian missionaries have sometimes (not unproblematically) brought medical aid and educational opportunities that populations actually wanted, along with the religion they might not have.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Rio Grande Idyll

I spent my early childhood in Canutillo, Texas, a town of a few thousand people at the edge of El Paso and along the Rio Grande.
This capture from Google Maps shows Canutillo in the upper left quadrant. You can make out the river and all the state and national borders in the region.

For all its imperfections, I have missed this area mildly but persistently, since I moved away to Montana at age 11. I left Montana after college and knocked around in a couple of disparate places. Living in New Orleans for a little over a decade helped ease the longing I felt for the southwest. Louisiana shares the qualities of, if not the kinds of, heat (lots of it), food (good), pace (humane) and people (relaxed). But it also has humidity, lush foliage and visible age; things of which I am very fond.

Moving to New England a couple of years ago – a place I am poorly-equipped to like - reignited my nostalgia. My dad, who grew up in south New Mexico very near Canutillo, passed away last year and my mental and emotional preoccupation with the area grew into a proper longing. Since leaving, I have intermittently visited west Texas and southern New Mexico, and it is always a welcome sojourn, but experience of place is so tied to circumstance that, by now, the place I long for, in certain unreproducible particulars, exists exclusively in my mind. In that way, I have come to understand this longing, which is impossible to satiate, as a kind of grief.

Painting, being fantastic therapy, seemed a natural way to indulge this highly specific yearning and begin to address, if never fill, the hole left by my father, but also by my removal from latitudes whose physical and figurative climates I find much more amenable to the life I care to lead.

Considering what, and how to paint it, I began thinking of the river that characterizes the place of my early youth. As the first river I ever knew, the Rio Grande remains somewhat of a paradigm for me. It tempers, but is also subject to, the severity of the desert surrounding. It absolutely determined the landscape and cultural atmosphere I first knew, which sounds obvious but I think is not.

The Mississippi, trafficked with trade, runs through New Orleans and clearly and singularly shapes that city despite its physical removal from most citizens. I.e., the working docks and warehouses largely cut the Mississippi off from the populace, but its related industries - including tourism - supply a lot of area jobs, draw people from all over the world and continue to be one of the main reasons, as a port city, New Orleans exists at all. On the other hand, the Charles where it runs through Cambridge/Boston, while very accessible, is fundamentally recreational and, therefore, not intimately tied to the area's industries. While not irrelevant it is much more incidental to the current economic life of the city.

The Rio Grande runs from the San Juan Mountains in Colorado to the Gulf of Mexico, almost 2,000 miles. It is not a shipping river, but along most of it lay farmland which it irrigates. And even in south New Mexico - west of the Pecos, where it runs through the Chihuahuan Desert and sometimes appears dry as an arroyo - the waters of the Rio Grande help foment agriculture.

Below the "big river" at a particularly low moment a/k/a drought near Canutillo, taken on one of my last visits.

The photo above, courtesy of a democratic Wikipedia user, was taken near Van Horn, Texas some 2 hours east of El Paso, and provides a good image of the Chihuahuan Desert itself and its exemplar plants: creosote, mesquite, yucca, prickly pear. There are usually not this many clouds in a desert sky.

My dad grew up on a farm in just this area; one that was impossibly coaxed from the surrounding desert by irrigation. Pondering this at a distance for the first time, I was struck by how oasis-like and relatively unusual my first experiences of landscape really were. I began to wonder how far back went irrigation farming smack dab in the middle of a desert.

Fortunately for me, in 1998 the USDA, Forest Service, and the Rocky Mountain Research Station, in conjunction with a gentleman and scholar named Frank Wozniak, published Irrigation in the Rio Grande Valley, New Mexico: A Study and Annotated Bibliography of the Development of Irrigation Systems. Although this study focuses more on central and northern New Mexico, with a title that sexy you know it’s full of juicy details. Those fleshed out with healthy doses of Google and I learned the following.

Pre-Columbian Mogollon people in the region had used many forms of water conservation, although they used water diversion less frequently. When a Conquistador-douche extraordinaire, Juan de Oñate, forded the Rio Grande near present-day Juárez-El Paso in 1598, the Suma people (descendants of the Mogollon) were living as hunter-gatherers. It was really the arrival of Spanish colonialists – and the economic hardships they inflicted on local populations - that marked the beginning of irrigation as a regular practice along the Rio Grande in west Texas and New Mexico.

Below, the ludicrously large and controversial statue of Oñate, commissioned by the City of El Paso, which now stands at its airport, because nothing welcomes guests to your fair city like the goliath lionization of a murdering bastard. For a measured take on this controversy, don't listen to me. Instead read this.
Spanish colonist-marauders like Oñate initially relied on the food stores of local people to sustain them; an exploitatively greedy practice known as encomienda, which directly precipitated an event so heinous that King Phillip II of Spain banished Oñate from New Mexico. To abbreviate this shameful story:

In 1599, some of Oñate’s boys met with the people of Acoma Pueblo and demanded food stores the Indians – living in a desert as they did - could scarcely spare. (The Pueblo today, picture courtesy of the Acoma Sky City website.)

When denied, the Spanish started hassling some Acoma women which, unsurprisingly, was neither welcome nor appreciated by the Pueblo. In the ensuing skirmish 11 of Oñate’s men were killed, including his nephew. Oñate’s response was to haul a cannon onto the mesa where the settlement stood and open fire. The buildings were demolished, about 800 men, women and children from the Pueblo were killed, about 500 prisoners taken and – because what’s mass murder without a little wanton atrocity - Oñate ordered one foot from every man over 25 years old amputated. Apologists like to observe that “only” 24 men actually had limbs hacked off. Most of the surviving males between 12 and 25 years old were enslaved.

And all of this, essentially, because of the relative scarcity of food in a desert...augmented of course by the entitled rapaciousness of Spain’s early colonial policy and the unchecked retributive spirit of one magnificent asshole. (For a better account of the Acoma massacre, see here.)

The onerousness on local people of encomienda, along with religious persecution and Spanish unwillingness or inability to protect Puebloans from Apache incursions, also led to the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. Following the uprising, the Spanish actually abandoned New Mexico for 12 years before reconquering the area.

After said “Reconquista”, Spain altered its colonial philosophy from flat-out plundering resources to establishing colonial communities. Encomienda was replaced by mercedes, a form of community land grant that encouraged more self-sufficient Spanish settlers to move to the region…although they still periodically relied upon native food stores. And locals, by then native and imported, had become accustomed to using irrigation as the only viable means of producing enough food to support themselves and their dick overlords. The agricultural practice completely subsumed previous native practices with regard to agricultural land and water management. And irrigation has occurred in this area ever since.

Water management in the Juárez-El Paso region remains a fraught topic, not only because drought conditions are not uncommon and water is generally scarce, but because of the liminal nature of the entire area. It is Spanish- and English-speaking, influenced culturally and politically by Mexico and the United States. It is home to the area’s largest cities and its agricultural districts, which means it constitutes an urban/rural divide culturally, but also that it physically blends the flora and fauna of the desert with that of a wetter region. The state governments of both Texas and New Mexico have a huge stake in how and how much of the water is used and by whom, whether from aquifers or the river. Unsurprisingly, water continues to preoccupy a place that has very little of it.

As a kid, the profound difference between the desert away from, and alongside the river was so obvious as to seem un-noteworthy. I completely naturalized the juxtapositions of the relative lushness of the river valley with the sere of the desert. I was always enamored with the river valley, but through contrasts I also developed a deep affection for the surrounding desert and the plants and animals who managed to live there.

In a purely anecdotal sense, fewer folks seem to like the desert than to fear, misunderstand or, at best, feel vaguely unsettled by it. I assume this is because of the desert's extremity, it's lack of water. And yet, particularly in Massachusetts, I have met plenty of folks who are de facto annoyed by rain. Whether this is because they take it for granted, or because they like having things to be annoyed about remains obscure to me. My experience of New England so far makes either seem plausible.

I equally and utterly disidentify with the ubiquitous truism that dry heat is preferable to humid heat. Very vivid still to me are cloudless arid 110ºF+ days where the intensity of the sun can warp plastic (I lost more than one cassette tape this way), leave the metal parts of seatbelts so hot they raise welts, and render wavering mirages at the end of every long stretch of road. Even after years in wet climates (and this is one way New England appeals to me), the utter luxuriousness of abundant water, in the rivers and the oceans and falling from the sky, does not cease to thrill me.

It thrills me precisely because I do love, and have a healthy respect for, the desert. And this love is in fact what gave me a corresponding sensitivity to growing things and to the utter fecund magic of water. The contrast between life in the desert city of El Paso and life in the adjacent agricultural valley - which, not incidentally, is also desert in every tiny spot where water is not actively pumped with much regularity - really underlined these tendencies and affections.

So I knew I had to paint the area in a way that captured the desert and the valley, the dry and the wet. I think I ended up doing it some justice. I focused on a specific location I knew well from childhood (more on that below) but tried to convey the feeling of the whole valley. I feel like I got the colors right.
Looking at it now, I'm realizing I should have thrown in a tractor driving down the road, a cotton picker in a field, or some other piece of farm machinery somewhere. It also occurs to me that most of my memories from my life in Canutillo are actually memories of this place I've painted, which is not Canutillo at all...though it is close.

Canutillo lies a few miles west of El Paso, a few miles north of Ciudad Juárez, and right along the Rio Grande reasonably close to where Oñate must have forded it. Irrigation ditches stretch west away from the river and into what locals simply call “the valley”. Dozens of small towns and unincorporated areas occupy this region, some in Texas, some in New Mexico.

In my memory of driving home from El Paso, where we’d inevitably go on some errand or other, my favorite approach to Canutillo was via N. Mesa Street to Doniphan Road (as opposed to via the highway or from up over the mountain). Slowly you would move from strip malls, residential tracts and tarmac with landscaping of desert plants, sand and rock, and into the threshold space of Canutillo, still arid, but with increasing foliage and decreasing building density, a church, schools, some restaurants, several dive bars, but also a feed store and, at least during my childhood, a couple of farm equipment supply and repair shops. Today I think there's an art gallery and a tanning salon (because that's necessary in the desert).

I lived in a house two lots away from the river on Farm Road 259, also known as La Union Avenue according to Google, but we just called it Farm Road. Our house used to belong to the foreman of a farmer-owned co-op gin. By the time my memory kicks in, around 1980, the vacant building that housed the gin was cleared away, but my brother – 3 years older than I - remembers it standing. Dad bought the house cheap when the gin closed because he’d known the foreman for years. My grandfather had been part of the co-op and Dad, from the time he was little, would ride along helping bring their cotton in to be ginned. We had no sidewalks in Canutillo and used to burn our garbage in a metal drum at the side of our house. Our neighbors had a yard full of chickens. I add these details to demonstrate how semi-rural Canutillo was at that time.
The above photo, from a Border Interfaith Internship online report concerning an El Paso-Canutillo water project, was taken along Farm Road facing east (toward El Paso) over the Rio Grande. It shows the Franklin Mountains in the distance and illustrates its small-towniness. Our house was about a hundred feet behind, and to the left of the photographer. This is what it looks like today:

Continuing along Farm Road away from the river, you soon (a) leave Texas and enter New Mexico, and (b) enter the farming valley proper. In general, the valley of my memory was an economically diverse area, with small amounts of extreme wealth and poverty (but not that small) and lots of in-betweens.

Progressing into the valley, homes stand here and there, usually set back from the road and slightly obscured by some trees or, if it's rich folks - which it seems increasingly to be - a wall. Some houses are decaying and old, some palatially large and mcmansion-y, the majority somewhere in the middle in terms of both age and size. They are clustered together or spread apart by hundreds of yards of fields, orchards or patches of desert, depending upon the area. The fields and orchards contain mostly cotton, chiles, pistachios and pecans, and are bounded regularly by irrigation ditches of various widths; the narrowest ones lined with concrete, the widest with mud banks, all of them controlled by valves and ducts.

The lushest, most magical place I knew as a child was my grandparents’ property, Dad’s boyhood home, out in the valley on Gardner Road.

According to Google Maps the address is in Anthony, New Mexico but I grew up thinking it was in Santa Teresa. My extended family all refer to it as “the farm”. My grandparents owned, originally, almost 60 acres. By the time I came along, most of it had been sold off and about 6 acres, and the irrigation ditches, remained. The ditches only carried water during certain times and I primarily remember the narrower ones empty or mostly empty, an irresistible play space for children. I also remember eating crawdads my brother and cousin caught out of the largest ditch that ran along the western edge of the property.

According to the story I heard, the farm had been a plant nursery once upon a time. At some point some indeterminate somebody just planted the potted things where they stood. To my adult mind that seems far-fetched, but my kid mind accepted it with perfect ease. The trees on my grandparents' property did seem to grow in homogeneous groups; a copse of aspens here, a line of mulberries there. There was a pomegranate tree as I recall, many pecans, a giant juniper bush, a hundred other trees and shrubs I can’t name, and thickets of ground-creeping ivy-ish something in which more than one snake had been spotted. My grandma had many grandchildren, including myself, and great-grandchildren who were frequently about the place, and we uniformly described this massively outsize privacy hedge as “the forest”.

The farm and the forest were surrounded by fields, most growing cotton, but some growing chile. The smell of New Mexican green chile being harvested is second in olfactory perfection only to New Mexican green chile being roasted. There is nothing in this beautiful world that smells so good as a roasting New Mexican green chile. I say this intending no hyperbole whatsoever.

After selling off most of their acreage, or perhaps right before doing so, my grandpa started a business raising and selling trichogramma, tiny predatory wasps that eat the eggs of moths whose larvae will destroy certain kinds of crops, including cotton.

He raised the tricho in an outbuilding on the property, which really was just another small house, known as "the bug house", a family operation that put out sheets and sheets of pin-sized eggs glued to black cards.

My age-appropriate job at around 7 years old was to tear the cards apart along the supplied perforation and to gently bend (not fold!) the little egg-laden slips, inserting them into plastic vials so they could be tossed into a cotton field (another age-appropriate job for my brother, older cousins and boys hired from the area) when the wasps started hatching. I neglected to include the bug house in my rendering because I lacked the space. It would have stood at the far left of the painting, right where one arm of the ocotillo reaches into the picture plain. But if you look carefully at the right bottom corner, you'll see boys trucking through a field depositing the vials; hot and exhausting work it was. My brother always rocked a wicked farmer's tan during bug season and usually many scratches from wading through those plants. My "job" was way easier.

I remember that Grandma had a tiny television she kept in a cabinet. The only show I ever recall her watching on this apparatus was Lawrence Welk, so television comprised zero percent of her grandchildren’s entertainment at the farm. But this was no problem because in addition to the ditches, the forest and bug house, there was the main house itself.

It was a blocky rambly pale pink stuccoed thing. A real estate website claims it was built in 1900, which I can believe. It contained a small number of unreasonably large rooms; only two bedrooms, for instance, but each held two beds with plenty of room to spare. The single living room sprawled. It contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along a part of one wall, three picture windows and, at one point in my childhood, two upright pianos, four couches, half a dozen arm chairs and countless end tables.

I think most of the furniture and knick-knacks in the house were antiques from Grandpa’s aunt and uncle, who were the first folks in our family to own the place. All the living room chairs and couches were dainty, with wooden legs and medallion backs and things. But at the same time the floor to that giant, overly furnished room was concrete covered by a thin, very old and slightly ragged carpet. Paint peeled here and there. I think the basement flooded periodically. The roof leaked.

It was fancy (especially compared to our house in Canutillo), but slightly shabby in a loved way. It was also highly idiosyncratic as a space, having been built onto in successive agglomerative waves, so that you found strange things like windows, entirely interior, that opened between rooms. Time spent in this somewhat worn, weird and wonderful house possibly prefigured my deep preference for secondhand things.

The house itself from the south side, the forest behind, courtesy of a cousin.

Painting is a form of meditation. It requires non-verbal focus for long periods and you know you're doing it right when you feel like you've been working for 30 minutes and it's been 2 hours. While creating this painting I had loads of time to turn over my memories in my head, to think back to the whole south New Mexico-west Texas area and my time there - the city, the valley, everything. The farm in Santa Teresa (or Anthony?) unquestionably comprises the soft chewy center of my nostalgia, despite my very fond memories of our little house in Canutillo.

I found I had no pictures of the thing, just very vivid recollections. So I polled my relatives on Facebook. Not only were the old photographs forthcoming (as seen above), but enthusiasm for my project was evident, from family spanning generations and representing many different relationships with respect to the farm. But all of us knew this place, continue to love this place; even now when it is no longer in the family, has not been for years and years, and when, so I've heard, the "new" owners have let it fall to shambles. I bet they don't call it "the farm" either. Probably, before very long, someone will just tear down the whole thing and start over. It might become a mcmansion. They might uproot the forest for all I know and build a big wall to keep the poor people out, as rich people are wont to do.

But the valley is still hot and dry and verdant. Century plants still grow across the street from cotton plants. It still has economic and political problems, cultural tensions, great food. And the fields are still there and the orchards and the ditches, with desert all around a great big rio running through it.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Proto-Colonialism in Crusader Letters

Collected in this volume1 are 82 letters dating from the years 1097 to 1306. They all pertain to the European experience in the Levant during the Crusades. Included are somewhat personal letters between individuals2, more official letters between ecclesiastics and monarchs3, encyclicals written by one person or a group of people and sent to another group4, and even a couple of famous forgeries.5 All letters are presented in English translation, some translations being older and pre-existing, the remainder executed for this book by Barber and Bate.

Almost any brand of medieval history buff or scholar can find something of interest here. These letters contain detailed depictions of battles and military strategies. They offer insight into reformist impulses of the 13th-century Catholic Church and proselytization. As travel literature, the letters contribute to the body of growing documentary evidence available in translation of pre-colonial travel by Europeans, their strategies for negotiating difference in pluralist societies, their ethnographic interests, and nascent colonial and nationalist tendencies. The letter writers almost uniformly provide rich incidental details regarding daily medieval European and Levantine life, as well as periodic insights into contemporary political and religious tensions among the period’s powerful.

Medieval primary sources, even in translation, are often thought of as impersonal and highly formalized, riddled with biblical quotations and stodgy epistolary conventions. While I can’t strictly argue against this summation of the form, I take issue with the literate-worldview bias it betrays.

The Middle Ages encompass a liminal period of literacy in the Western world where reading and especially writing belonged almost exclusively to a small minority of socially and economically elite individuals. And even that minority of individuals would have lived heavily oral lives, relying on their memories to an extent most of us moderns would find astounding.

For a person in this type of milieu to undertake creation of a written document was necessarily for that person to engage in a formal and self-conscious representation of themselves and their thought. Today, the written word has largely outstripped the spoken word in terms of how people rely on it and perceive it as the originary form of language. For us, the written word can represent immediacy, intimacy and authority as much, and frequently more, than the spoken word does. For medieval people, even literate medieval people, the spoken word came inevitably first and the written word was always a special, but slightly untrustworthy, ossification of the living spoken word. Moreover, there was nothing immediate about it.

Simply imagine the physical challenges and demands of writing in a heavily stylized script, in an era with no electric lighting, using a quill and ink on vellum (that you may or may not have had to prepare yourself), in a language that you were not born to; even in the Middle Ages, when Latin was spoken as a lingua franca, it was nobody’s first language. There was nothing casual or immediate about medieval writing.
The conventions of authorial voice, audience address, content to include or exclude, were all largely determined by the arduousness of the task and by the special, simultaneously dubious and rarefied, epistemological place occupied by writing.

Keeping the reasons for their stilted forms in mind as one reads a medieval primary source can make the going a little more enjoyable. And letters, as opposed to any sort of scholarly or theological work, are even more accessible than many medieval pieces of writing.

In this particular collection, in many letters one begins to see the transformation of those ponderous formalities into something more intimate. Possibly I’m imagining this, but I don’t think so. The distance of these letter writers from their homelands, both temporally and spatially; the newness of this project for Europeans (overseas settlement and the attendant conflicts); the terror and trauma of war6, famine and natural disasters7; these things all appear to have influenced the tone of the letters, rendering them more emotionally intelligible to a modern reader than a lot of medieval sources.

In many of the letters one begins to sense a subjectivity closer to the author himself, as opposed to the chronicle-like, somewhat aloof and omniscient voice so many medieval authors instinctively adopted.

Another less delightful, but equally important characteristic of these crusade-era documents is the constant underlying tension between the violence and triumphalism of the crusader project on the one hand, and the pacific and inclusive imperatives of Christianity on the other; both of which the medieval Catholic Church took very seriously, at least in theory. Particularly in letters by clerics this tension is evident and deeply related to that other great pet medieval anxiety: the relationship (or dynamic or hierarchy, if you will) between the spiritual and the physical.

All crusaders were considered pilgrims with primarily spiritual goals: to rack up divine credit by visiting pilgrimage sites and holy places and, of course, by helping to “win back” the lands where God had chosen to become incarnate and was sacrificed for the good of humankind.8

The concrete reality on the ground, however, was profoundly physical and violent. It involved lots of fighting and killing, often in terrifying ways, of men, women and children on both “sides” of the conflict.9 People starved and were displaced. Some crusaders came as pilgrims and - given that the Silk Road ran directly into the Levant - ended up as wealthy traders, much more interested in the commerce of goods than of the soul. We must not forget that this crusader venture, while discussed in a religious tone, was primarily economic for a great number of participants, including kings, bishops, dukes, knights and Italian merchants.

As in colonial “frontiers” in later centuries, the European invasion of the Levant appears to have made life more difficult and precarious for everyone, including the invaders. Subsequently, these letters contain a fair amount of prevaricating and a lot of justification about what was going down. If the Crusaders won a battle or conquered a city, God had rewarded their piety and punished their enemies. If they lost, God had punished them for lack of faith, for impiety or avariciousness.10

As a collection these letters are as disturbing as they are readable. Perhaps the chief theme that resounds for me most today, is the sticky, interwoven, seemingly contradictory way religious and secular interests assert themselves and the fact that medieval authors did not separate the two interests as distinct or contradictory.

Our own age is one of apparently increasing religious feeling, particularly in reaction to the pretensions of secularism and the presumption that it is a rational “next step” on some sort of imaginary ladder of mental progression. Perhaps the medieval outlook on worldly and spiritual interests, its seamless blending of the two, and its unwillingness to see them as separate quantities, might prove instructive for us; especially since the cultural and religious conflicts at the heart of the Crusades show no signs of abating in our modern “secular” age.

1. All references are from Letters from the East: Crusaders, Pilgrims and Settlers in the 12th-13th Centuries, transls. Malcolm Barber and Keith Bate (Surrey: Ashgate Publishing Ltd., 2010).
2. E.g., Stephen, Count of Blois, to his wife, Adela (June, 1097), pp. 15-17.
3. E.g., Conrad III, King of Germany, to Wibald, Abbot of Stavelot and Corvey (end of February, 1148), pp. 45-46.
4. E.g., Daibert, Patriarch of Jerusalem, to all the prelates, princes and Catholics in the German lands (April, 1100), pp. 37-38.
5. E.g., Prester John to Manuel Comnenus, Byzantine Emperor (c. 1165), pp. 62-68.
6. E.g., Warmund of Picquigny, Patriarch of Jerusalem, and Gerard Prior of the Holy Sepulchre, to Diego Gelmírez, Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela (c.1120): “Every day we are invaded, every day slaughtered or captured. We are decapitated and our bodies thrown to the birds and the beasts. We are sold like sheep. What more can we say?” (43); Amalric of Nesle, Patriarch of Jerusalem, to Louis VII, King of France (between 1161 and 64): “We find ourselves surrounded by a perverse, evil nation of tyrannical infidels who attack us almost daily.” (51); Geoffrey, Fulcher, Preceptor of the Temple, to Louis VII, King of France (September, 1164): “[T]here is virtually nothing good happening to us…” (58).
7. E.g., Gerbert of Boyx to Amadeus, Archbishop of Besançon (c.1213): “[A]n earthquake of previously unheard of intensity had occurred the day before the Vigil of John the Baptist in the land of Isauria [Southern Anatolia]. It was so big that many towns and castles collapsed, while two cities and an abbey situated in front of the city of Philadelphia disappeared into the ground with all their inhabitants…” (98); Geoffrey of Donjon, Master of the Hospital, to William of Villiers, Prior of the Hospital in England (1201): “Already countless numbers of them [“Bablyonians”, by which Geoffrey means Egyptians and Syrians] have been driven by the harsh necessity of famine to occupy our land like swarms of locusts in order to sustain their bodies. Some labour on Church land, some feed on woodland grasses like animals, while others have been found dead in the woods, being eaten by worms and birds.” (95-96)
8. E.g., Amalric of Nesle, Patriarch of Jerusalem, to the prelates, princes and churches of the West (1165 or 1166): “Come to the sacrosanct places, consecrated by the bodily presence of our Saviour. If you wish to benefit from the redemption that was earned there by the most precious blood of Jesus Christ, hurry to liberate them...[W]e link the hardships of the route with penitence, obedience and remission of all their [pilgrims’] sins as well as eternal life.” (69).
9. I put “sides” in quotes because there were more than two interests at stake in the Levant during this time period. While, practically speaking, medieval Europeans seemed to grasp this, rhetorically speaking they were notoriously good at adhering to over-simplistic binaries of “us and them”.
10. For attribution of outcomes to divine judgment see, e.g., Eraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, to all the secular leaders of the West (September, 1187): “Alas, alas, Lord God, because of our sins You have done this to us, and in Your anger Your eye has shown no pity, since You have allowed the loss of the sacrosanct life-giving Cross to the Saracens, as well as the deaths of the king of Jerusalem, three bishops and all those fighting with them.” (79); The Genoese consuls to Pope Urban III (late September, 1187): “From…the account of a grief-stricken fellow citizen who has returned from the regions over the sea, we have learned of the recent judgement of God in those lands, as if provoked by our sins.” (82). For descriptions of said greed and dissolution see, e.g., Richard, Earl of Cornwall and Count of Poitou, to Baldwin of Reviers, Earl of Devon, the abbot of Beaulieu, and Robert, clerk (July, 1241): “For a long time now in the Holy Land discord has replaced peace, schism unity, hate love…For the abundance of wealth creates such an appetite for conflict that they ignore the punishment of the Father who presides over the see of Peter, intent as they are on increasing their reputation in the world.” (137); James of Vitry, Bishop of Acre, to the Parisian masters and to Ligarde of St. Trond and the convent of Aywières (1216 or 1217): “I found the city of Acre like a monstrous dragon with nine heads engaged in mutual conflict.” (101).

Friday, April 4, 2014

Out-Creating Destruction, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Entropy

Here is the last painting I finished, which I am calling "Sinus Olei Britannici" (transl: Gulf of British Petroleum). 

It and this post pertain to an idea that has been much on my mind of late: artistic creation as an attempt to out-create destruction. Perhaps because I was listening to War and Peace as I painted, I started thinking big meta-thoughts about what I originally conceived of as a painting with no outside signifieds. (If that's a thing.) At inception, it wasn't intended to point to anything beyond itself. It was an excuse to paint sea critters. And yet I ended up believing, to the extent a painting is about something, this one just might be about creation itself, and the wacky persistence of life in the face of certain death.

The first image I concocted and drew was the two-headed sea monster. I populated his underwater world with a variety of completely factual aquatic critters. Soon, I was envisioning some time, far in the future, when certain life forms have changed dramatically from what we now know...possibly with the aid of some man-made catastrophe. 

Then, unsurprisingly, I thought about the Fukushima Daiichi disaster and the British Petroleum oil spill off the coast of Louisiana. If you look closely you can pick out the BP sunburst logo on an oversized cork at the bottom right of the painting. High technology.
I then decided that this bizarre future undersea-scape would be most complete with a set of sailors gazing into the depths...and so naturally I imagined a technologically retrograde, post-apocalyptic future and threw in a Viking ship.
I included a 19th-century, Vernesque underwater diver in the margin for good measure.
The implication of my historical mixing sounds pretty mundane: we are the far future's deep past. But the temporal prison that life on our planet occupies makes this mundanity feel profound as it is lived. To imagine the detritus of our existence lurking, completely unseen, in the nooks and crannies of some future civilization's world gives me goosebumps, the good kind. I like picturing that scenario better than one where the future civilization examines our detritus and tries to "know" something about us. And that gets me thinking about the detritus itself and its relationship to us. 

Every day, for - so far as we can tell - as long as homo sapiens have existed, we have been committed makers of things. 

Now, life in general is the superlative maker. Life makes itself. Hooray! Among life that we know, there are a variety of critters who make other things; famously termite-poking sticks, but also arenas and structures to do with mating rituals, and then of course nests, beds, dens and homes of various kinds.  But, quite obviously, no other critter makes as many things, as often as people critters do.

I loathe the human-exceptionalism-wagontrain of entitlement upon which many philosophies have placed humankind, so I am not arguing that this makes us especially grand. With the unintended buffoonery innate to our species, much of our creation ends up assisting destruction. Precisely such disasters as Fukushima and Deep Horizon illustrate the dark flip side of our impulse to create, a dark side where we create at all costs, at any cost; and, germane to nuclear and oil extracting technologies, where we create via destruction of other life, of our planet and of ourselves.

But that is the dark side. On the more buoyant, ingenuous side we have quotidian creation, from sexual reproduction to gardening to weird little paintings of two-headed sea creatures.

I ask myself why I paint. I earn very little money from it. It occupies a lot of time. Sometimes it makes my hand hurt. Yet I intend to paint until I cannot. And, amazingly, this impulse is utterly normal, completely comprehensible to the vast majority of folks. Creation using one's own hands to attempt to physically realize something that exists only in the mind, is its own reward. It supplies a soul-contentment, a sense of accomplishment, a moment of wonder that you made something. But like all wonderful things, these feelings are fleeting, mostly leaving you with the impulse to do it all over again. And again. And again.

The most tragicomic aspect of this impulse to create - aside from its pregnant, inextractable possibility of ending up destructive - is this Sisyphean nature. The act of creation expresses a striving that never quite achieves satisfaction. It sates primarily while it occurs but not long after. There is something in the act itself, and only incidentally in the product, that satisfies the creator's weird compulsion to make things. "Make" is more operative than "things" in that construction.
I call it "weird" because I cannot explain the human desire and habit of making things, even when I find it in myself. But actually it is rather primordial and obvious; linked with the rhythms of life and death, not just of we fragile biological organisms, but of the whole grand shebang.

Considering the rhythms of the universe itself, its life and death as it were, and how this bears on human creativity, I begin to think about entropy.

Bear with me.

The second law of thermodynamics, to the extent it talks about more than the attainable efficiencies of heat engines, pertains to entropy as a function of state describing the state of equilibrium of a thermodynamic system.


My humanities background encourages me here to offer some illustrative metaphors, definitions and paraphrases that will probably make the eyes of the science-minded roll. But I think they're used to that, living as they do in a nation full of people who know more about Kim Kardashian's ass than about the laws of thermodynamics.

The word "thermodynamics" derives from Greek words meaning heat and power. It refers to a branch of physical science that studies the relationships between heat, energy and work. The four laws of thermodynamics contain some of the most basic postulates concerning the behavior of matter and energy in given systems and under given circumstances. They are fundamental to many areas of science and also have been applied rather metaphorically in less scientifically-delineated situations, which I readily admit is my mode of engaging good ol' Law #2 and entropy. [Panel from Ryan North's hilarious Dinosaur Comics at right.]

Heat engines and their maximum efficiency do not specifically turn my crank. Entropy is another matter. Although, to be clear, entropy is not matter. Entropy is a quantity; that is, a characteristic that can be measured or counted, that there can be more or less of, that can be quantified. And its definition in thermodynamics differs from, but is related to, its definition in statistical mechanics. Insofar as I understand these differences, I believe they have to do with the ability to describe entropy at a micro- versus a macroscopic level. I do not think this difference bears overly on my thoroughly unscientific purposes so I intend to ignore it.

So! Entropy describes systems and is a function of state, which means it describes a system at a specific moment (i.e., in a specific state) without regard to what occurrences, developments or causalities preceded that moment. In this way, it reminds me of Ferdinand de Saussure's structural linguistics. Language as a system can be studied historically over time (diachronically) or at a given moment without concern for historical antecedents or differences (synchronically). Entropy is a synchronic quantity.

There is an equation that can determine entropy. In its simplest form it looks like this: ΔS = Q/T where Q is heat and T is something I do not understand. This use of entropy has something to do with a work-heat-energy-blah-blah differential-something-something called the Carnot Cycle, which again, bears so much on the operations of a heat engine it inhibits my ability to either (a) decipher it clearly or (b) care.

What I do think is cool, is that all of this math and technical language ("differential-something-something" and "work-heat-energy-blah-blah", I'm looking at you) describes something that, when removed from heat engines and extrapolated into other systems, we each experience daily and expect intuitively from the universe.


Phillip K. Dick talked about it using his concept of kipple.

In over-simple and likely flawed terms, entropy is the amount of energy lost (i.e., made unproductive) in a system. To explain my use of "unproductive", think of a Newton's cradle.

You lift one ball, let it hit the next one and watch as the energy of that initial impact moves back and forth through the balls, until the momentum runs down. The fact that it runs down - that perpetual motion machines cannot exist - owes to the loss of energy through friction and ball elasticity. Energy becomes unproductive when it is lost, redirected or dissipated in some way. It stops being able to accomplish its "purpose"* in the system under scrutiny.

In the above example, energy is rendered observable by the motion of the balls. In most examples one finds of entropy, unsurprisingly given its thermodynamic roots, temperature is the observable marker of the energy at work versus the energy being lost: e.g., an ice cube melting or a hot pan cooling.

Each of us has observed entropy so often that we mostly do not think concertedly about it as an experience, but rather naturalize it into one of the ways things just are: anything not actively heated or cooled becomes room temperature, buildings with no upkeep eventually crumble. This is just the way the universe works. And it is. It is also entropy.

In metaphorical terms, entropy is the tendency of disorder to follow order.

I have read several science writers display annoyance over the association of entropy with disorder. I appreciate the frustration attendant on non-professionals misunderstanding or negligently co-opting specific vocabulary and using it inaccurately. However, I also think metaphorical relationships constitute their own truths. If someone is mistaking entropy-as-disorder for the scientific thermodynamic use of entropy, that's a problem.

If someone, say me, is using a highly specific and technical term self-consciously in a loose and/or metaphorical way to discuss a small part of what it is like to live on our planet, then I think the science bloggers and protesting professors can chill out. Words are capable of containing more than one meaning. Sometimes "lay" people even understand this about language. It's really true.

As far as I can tell, in the development of scientific understandings of entropy, there exist historical reasons why it was ever mentioned in the same breath as disorder. These reasons have to do with statistical mechanics, possible molecular movement and the likelihood of molecular movement. But to be clear about my own interpretive take on this point: as I grasp it, entropy represents a system achieving equilibrium through energy loss (or conversion).

Disorder indeed sounds like the opposite of achieving equilibrium...except when you consider that the human idea of placing things "in order" implies that everywhere all the time, unless we actively work against it, our universe is disordered. I toy here with the suggestion that, perhaps, humans perceive equilibrium as it is achieved naturally in our universe as disorder. Conversely, we tend to see wild imbalances, especially in nature, as orderly (I'm thinking, for instance, about farming or urbanization). New studies of ecology and the dramatic climate changes observable all around us (whatever you attribute those changes to), may be starting to change this attitude. Still, ideas of a "natural order" notwithstanding, we humans continue to maintain a strong association between ordered things and man-made things, just as we have traditionally relegated the natural world to a wild, untamed (disordered?) place.

Viewed in this way, the vast majority of human activity on the planet has so far attempted to thwart a basic law of science. We try to memorialize ourselves with huge buildings, we create monocultures, build dams, pave things. And then we work vigilantly and persistently to maintain them despite the imbalances they introduce. We fight entropy constantly. Because our "order" looks a lot like nature's lack of equilibrium. I am not observing this to make a larger comment about our dysfunctional relationship with Earth...although I believe that's a valid observation. I would really like to begin considering the philosophical and creative implications of metaphorically seeing entropic equilibrium as disorder.

Fighting entropy is not the most elegant, efficient activity we could engage in. But after all of these millennia, most human societies do indeed build structures, assertively manage land, use non-renewable fuels for a variety of purposes, and concretely live in ways that cannot possibly be maintained in perpetuity; moreover, these behaviors leave few to zero traces over any geologically-significant time span.

Deep time and its habit of eradicating evidence of our existence tends to unsettle humankind. Small groups of folks periodically have developed philosophies that do not shudder at the reality of our collective utter impermanence (some atheists, Jains, scientists and certain pastoral nomads leap to mind).

I myself am not overly troubled in an existential sense by the tendency of things to fall apart. The eventual non-existence of myself, of the house or town I live in, of the city or civilization I live in, of humanity itself, does not seem particularly upsetting when I think about the civilizations, creatures and ecosystems that have already begun, flourished and died on our planet. Why would I enjoy imagining myself apart from all of that?

On a personal emotional level, however, we all have to deal with the ramifications of entropy and no amount of cultivated intellectual distance can keep us from feeling its effects. From the persistent, baffling accumulation of dust bunnies to the breakdown of cells, all of life is on the road to death and our very universe is winding down to eventual heat death. Moreover, reality - in the form of our fragile bodies, for instance - seems to point this out to us at every opportunity, like a twirpy kid repeating words you wish she'd forget.

Little wonder then that humans are uniformly eager to engage in small or large ways with the futile enterprise of out-creating this omnipresent destruction. I, for one, will certainly continue with my tiny attempts. It would sure be something, however, if we could target our grander creative efforts in ways that do not fight equilibrium so dramatically, but take it into account, respect its power. We might even hitch us a free, if temporary, ride on the energy of that ebb tide.

* I use "purpose" not to imply that naturally-occurring systems possess teleology, but because this word choice carries semantic content related to end results and work productivity.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Bog People! Hangin' out...

In a recent post, I waxed long-winded about Iron Age Europe. When I began that essay, I had actually intended a shorter, sweeter, art-oriented post...and then got carried away. Well, try try again.

Not too long ago I read P.V. Glob's The Bog People, a decades old, highly accessible treatment of the naturally mummified bodies that folks have been pulling out of peat bogs in northern Europe for hundreds of years. Most of the bodies were placed there during the Iron Age and many of them appear to have been killed as part of a ritual sacrifice.

Tollund Man [below], a 4th-century B.C. ritual burial found in Denmark, has become the poster child for Iron Age bog people...perhaps because his face is still in one piece and it makes him easier to look at. That is not true of all of the bog bodies.
If you look closely, you can see the braided cord around his neck by which he was most likely hung. That cord motif is repeated in designs found on metal objects that have also been pulled out of the bogs.

One of the most astounding and famous of these objects is the Gundestrup Cauldron, also found in Denmark but dating to the 1st century B.C. or later. In several places on the cauldron [images left and below], you can see armlets or bracelets, necklaces and head bands that all, according to Glob, echo cords like the one that killed Tollund Man, which have been found around the neck of more than one bog burial. He tied the images on the cauldron to gods and goddesses and believed that the sacrifices had to do with a ritual tied to spring and regeneration after the hardships of winter.
As you can begin to see from these pictures, the cauldron is also decorated with animals and tiny people. Even Glob didn't know exactly what was going on here. But he assumed that these designs depict aspects of rituals and beliefs pertaining to both the bog sacrifices and the pagan religion in whose service they occurred. Interestingly, from my perspective, the origin of the cauldron is shadowy. Between its design elements and the silver out of which it is made, scholars give it alternately to Thracians or Gauls. So how did something made in what is today either France or Bulgaria end up in a bog in Denmark? And, moreover, why does it appear to express images related to a ritual carried out in Scandinavia and the British Isles during, but also centuries before, its creation?

Well, that has to do with my earlier post about the Iron Age as well as with my general interest in this topic. Namely, pre-Roman Europe was not the chaotic heathenish place the Romans (and thence modern Westerners) thought. Trade networks spanned the continent and cultures co-mingled in artistically and religiously productive ways. And the fact of Roman conquest did not automatically or completely destroy, replace or erase these native European cultures and their relationships.

One may wonder how I can claim pre-Roman Europe wasn't heathenish if human sacrifice was going on. Now that we understand the movement of the planets and the changing of the seasons, our worldviews do not generally support something like human sacrifice, which is probably a good thing. But to condemn ritual human sacrifice as simply barbaric when it occurs within the context of a religion and society who validates the usefulness of the practice, I think is to impose anachronisms of thought and behavior on people who came before us.

I suppose I should also offer that I am not in that camp of people who believes human life is inherently more sacred than any other kind of life or that the preservation of life should always be the final consideration that trumps all others. And so the very fact of a human life being extinguished can, at the safe distance of thousands of years, contain morally different values depending on the context.

With that said, imagine the weight of such an act, the incredible symbolic potency of giving one's life for the perpetuation of one's people. And, according to Glob, the bog people who appear to be sacrifices and not victims of violent murder or some accident were in good health, of relatively high status, and had been fed specific foods before meeting their end. In fact those are among the very characteristics of the the burials that point toward human sacrifice as opposed to murder or accident.

In any event, thinking about this form of human sacrifice*, I grew rather mesmerized by the power and terrible beauty of this act. I began wondering how the sacrifice would come to terms with his or her impending death. Did Tollund Man feel as though he himself were committing an act in offering his life, or as though an act were being worked upon him by his community...or by the gods? Was he frightened or resigned? How would the living think about or honor the dead, year after year?

As I do with so many existential questions, I decided to answer myself with a painting.

I depict Tollund Man, already quite mummified, and curled fetus-like in a patch of boggy ground while a young girl weaves a garland of spring blossoms for him. I populated the scene with flowers I saw in bloom during my first spring here in Massachusetts, because I would rather paint plants I have seen firsthand and I've never been to Denmark. I apparently feel less a stickler with regard to architecture, because I sure had no compunction about putting a longhouse in the scene. I included Gundestrup Cauldron details in the frame. The result is weirder than I intended, but I usually count that a fortuitous occurrence.

And if you don't get the Allen Toussaint reference in my post's title - which I could not help nonsensically thinking about the entire time I was reading Glob's book - then listen to this. Because you need to:

*The cultures who have performed human sacrifice did so in a variety of ways. Some have used it to cull undesirable members from their midst. Some sacrificed conquered peoples and low status individuals who, I would imagine, did not feel particularly grateful for the function they were about to perform. I do not intend to romanticize human sacrifice, but to speak very specifically about the form it appears to have taken in Iron Age northern Europe. Human sacrifice will always carry an inherent horror with it, but I think it does not have to be thought of as uniformly cruel or brutish.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

The Non-Celtic, Non-Germanic Empire That Didn't Define Europe or Fall Tragically

If you are the kind of person who would think about such a thing, perhaps you have noticed that history is often presented with gaping wide chronological and geographical holes in between "significant" historical events. Take American history for example.

If I remember my own elementary education accurately, I was taught appallingly little about pre-Colombian America but was told that Columbus landed in the Caribbean in 1492. Some hundred years pass and all of the sudden we are in Massachusetts, with the English pilgrims founding Plymouth. Another hundred fifty years pass and all of those British colonists have become American, are living as far south as Georgia, and want independence from the repressive British crown. And it's a revolution! I was taught something about Spanish colonization in the American southwest, but I lived in El Paso during elementary school. I don't feel confident extrapolating that fact out into the rest of the United States. However, tangentially, I am of the opinion that all Americans could do with more stories about the rapacious and comically ill-informed Spaniards whose cruelty and buffoonery did so much to shape our country. [Francisco Vázquez de Coronado above: Seeker After Mythical Cities a/k/a Explorer, Governor of Nueva Galicia, Asshole.]

I believe American K-12 curriculum may be expanding into some of the traditionally missing spaces along with scholastic interest in them, but gaps persist.

And history of all sorts is purveyed this way, at least in the West (I can't speak to other educational systems or historiographies). Creating a narrative - which humans tend to do when writing history - requires picking an arbitrary beginning and end, and picking various discrete points of significance along the way in order to string them together to tell the story you want to tell. I am very persuaded by Hayden White's argument that narrative history gets told according to one of four emplotments: romance, tragedy, comedy or satire. White himself acknowledges that there are other plots but asserts that these are the four archetypal plots that contain all the others. He's much better read than I, so I defer to his judgment on this point.

With regard to the themes of historical gaps and emplotments, the topic on my mind today is Iron Age Europe.

The European Iron Age is complicated to speak about for a number of reasons; most of which do not differentiate it in any way from the problematic nature of most periodizations. First, like most periodizations, it is based on highly specific consideration of select evidence; in this case, the dominant metal used by a given culture in making weaponry and other tools. Is what a group of people used to make their weapons the most important thing to know about them? Does the fact of widespread iron use point to other developments or conditions? The answer to both of these is yes and no. What materials and technologies people worked with is important. It can reference and influence other aspects of their culture. Is it the most important thing to know about a group? I'm not sure there is such a thing. But it is certainly characteristic as well as archaeologically identifiable. You get my meaning. To name a whole period and the cultures in it after a material they used is a reflection of the importance of the material on the culture and of the kinds of data the scholars who came up with the period work with.

Also like most periodizations, the Iron Age is a chronologically rough and relative category. Technology spread at varying speeds and got to different regions in Europe at different times. When modern-day Bulgaria was in the Iron Age, for instance, Denmark was still in the Bronze Age.  Use of iron spread across Europe from east to west and south to north, in general.  This age on that continent can, with picky caveats that don't overly concern me here, be said to encompass 1000 B.C. through 400 A.D. As a whole, over all continents in which the Iron Age is said to have occurred and using the most expansive estimates, it lasted from 1200 B.C. to 1000 A.D. Yowza. [A more conservative timeline is represented below.]

Another thing that complicates discussions of the Iron Age and characterizes it alone, particularly in Europe, is that it encompasses the prehistoric/historic boundary. That is, some Europeans in some places began writing and recording history during this long expanse of time. This adds special complexity to the issue in my mind, because as far as I can tell scholars consider the Iron Age to have ended in a transalpine European region whenever that region was either (a) conquered by Rome, or (b) converted to Christianity; two historic events frequently tied to a rise in literacy and writing wherever they occurred.

Now the first question this age-ending causality begs for me is: What determined the end of the Iron Age in cisalpine Europe (namely, Italy and Greece)? In the case of Greece, perhaps (a) and (b) still hold, but in the case of Italy (i.e., Rome)? I imagine this answer is out there somewhere, but it has evaded me.*

Another question relates to the fact that while sometimes (a) and (b) were concomitant, often they were not. Rome invaded parts of Gaul as early the 2nd century B.C., and it was ultimately conquered by Rome during the Battle of Alesia in 52 B.C. [Excavation of Roman Alesia pictured below.] But all the foregoing occurred when Rome itself still practiced a pagan religion. Presumably Gaul was not officially christianized until Rome was, in 380 A.D. So when did Gaul emerge from the Iron Age? In the 2nd century B.C., in 52 B.C. or in 380 A.D.? I have my guess - 2nd century B.C. - running with the whichever-came-first assumption. In the case of Scandinavia, I have read some assertions that the Iron Age lasted there throughout the Viking period (c.800-1100 A.D.)...hundreds of years after the disappearance of the West Roman Empire, which obviously was not conquering anybody at that point, but that period was when Scandinavia began to be christianized.

So what explicitly do Roman conquest and Christian proselytism have to do with the prehistoric-to-historic transition in Europe? Aside from the obvious answer that Rome and Christianity were both vectors for the spread of one specific language and its alphabet, I don't really know. It's still an itchy question for me. The term Iron Age refers to an aspect of material technology characteristic of a certain time and place. The conquest of parts of Europe by Rome and the conversion of those places to Christianity certainly involved some change in or new influence on the extant material cultures, but did it signify some other technological shift? Possibly the shift from orality to writing?

Historians do not assert the Iron Age in Europe ended with the introduction of writing to a given place; they tie it in explicit terms to Rome and Christianity. And I'm not necessarily asserting this either. But I am intrigued by the way three certain ideas hang together according to our modern urban biases against non-urban non-literate cultures and how those biases influence our conceptual breakdown of time periods, what we study in those time periods and how we study it. The three ideas: (1) Rome as "civilizing" force, where civilization essentially means centralization, urbanization and stone architecture; (2) Christianity as unifying force, where solid record keeping and strict administrative and behavioral enforcement significantly (if never wholly) unified the continent; and (3) writing as the technology that allowed for the administration and power-perpetuation of both forces.

Of course, it's to be remembered that Germanic people of northern Europe had runic writing before they were ever christianized or conquered by Rome...and Romans themselves developed writing from other Europeans: Greeks via Etruscans. So perhaps only the ur-civilized Latin alphabet could somehow wrench a place from an archaeological age and into an historic one? Or perhaps my hangup on writing and the end of the Iron Age is a red herring.

The resolution to this largely semantic problem I'm picking at is probably a function of disciplinary tendencies in archaeology on the one hand and history on the other. Because the Iron Age was so long and is a periodization based on archaeological evidence rather than written evidence, historians, whose meat is documentary leavings, have focused on other things. Due to the lack of chronological utility of the Iron Age periodization, they have found other ways to talk about the period. The two modes just don't jibe super well. In fact, I'd argue historians have obscured the continuities in one long archaeological period by fixating on the differences between shorter historical periods. Additionally, while a group of people's ability to make iron or not make iron is pretty specific and archaeologically provable, historic periodizations notoriously rely on a lot more manipulation of viewpoint and subjective weighing of value. Which is not to say that archaeology relies on none of this. But history depends even more so on picking your discrete points of evidence and demanding they make a story: on emplotment. Archaeology seems a little more comfortable with letting some unexplained tidbits hang out there, unwoven into the overarching story. But maybe this is a misperception.

Since, "Iron Age" has little use to historians who nevertheless study whole stretches of the Iron Age, what historical time periods do they prefer to use? In the dominant periodization of historic Iron Age Europe, as has already been referenced, the only game in town is Rome.** If you begin generally to talk about Europe after say about 200 B.C. as "Roman Europe", everything before becomes "pre-Roman". And those pre-Romans weren't writing too many documents. So traditionally historians have studied Greek and then Roman writing about the pre-Roman folks of Europe.

Within this paradigm, other vocabulary that has traditionally been used to describe them (e.g., "Celtic") becomes meaningful primarily in its contrast to Roman Europe. The Celts were just holdouts to an as-yet incomplete Romanization of Europe. And even a term that can be applied to whole stretches of Roman history - like "pagan" - becomes most strongly linked with pre-Roman (and later pre-Christian) Europe. This is largely because of Rome's subsequent and extremely strong association with Christianity. But it is still an anachronistic, retroactive association based on events that, for much of the Europe that was conquered by Rome between 200 B.C. and 400 A.D., had not yet occurred; namely the conversion of Constantine to Christianity and that religion's subsequent "official" adoption by the Roman Empire in 380 A.D.

And just to really belabor my point about the nonlinear, mind-tangling strangeness of comparing a historical time period with an archaeological one, consider the gladius: an iron sword made by Romans after 218 B.C. modeled on a weapon made by Celtoiberians (a/k/a Iron Age Europeans of Spain). [At left, the gladius wielded by a nerd after my own heart.] So were Romans still considered Iron Age in 218 B.C.? I don't know, but they made this sword and other iron weapons and tools well into the imperial period when they definitely were not considered Iron Age. So how did Rome become the harbinger of the end of the Iron Age using iron weapons modeled on Iron Age weapons?


Suffice to say this periodization stuff is almost arbitrary and, from certain angles, makes zero sense. That's the nature of periodization of any kind. It renders one technology, ruler or event the identifiable earmark of a whole period of time only by obscuring other technologies, rulers or events...or by valuing them differently.

And there's tthe thing that really bothers me about the Latin-centric vision of the late Iron Age in Europe: in it, Rome conceptually dominates the whole European story from 800 B.C. to 400 A.D. and not just the period of its ascendance and collapse from c.200 B.C. to 400 A.D. In fact, Rome literally dominated a hunk of Europe for only a few hundred years. While before, during, and after Roman dominance, there were other histories playing out, other cultures at work that Rome (and Christianity for that matter) affected but did little to actually erase or dislodge. For in its earlier years before it looked northward, when Rome was more concerned with Turkey and Phoenicia, the Celts and other people of Europe were busy doing other things and not just waiting to be the stage for the glorious rise and tragic fall of Rome.

And that is how the historic European Iron Age, when talked about in terms of the Roman period, is often emplotted: as tragedy which, in turn, has frequently given pop culture (and sometimes academic culture) license to render whole chunks of it into those pregnant chronological and geographical gaps I referenced above.

Hayden White has the following to say about tragic emplotment in history:
In Tragedy, there are no festive occasions, except false or illusory ones...[T]he fall of the protagonist and the shaking of the world he inhabits which occurs at the end of the Tragic play are not regarded as totally threatening to those who survive the agonic test. There has been a gain in consciousness for the spectators of the contest. And this gain is thought to consist in the epiphany of the law governing human existence which the protagonist's exertions against the world have brought to pass.
The reconciliations that occur at the end of Tragedy are much more somber; they are more in the nature of resignations of men to the conditions under which they must labor in the world. These conditions, in turn, are asserted to be inalterable and eternal, and the implication is that man cannot change them but must work within them. They set the limits on what may be aspired  to and what may be legitimately aimed at in the quest for security and sanity in the world.
White, Metahistory (Johns Hopkins University Press: Baltimore, 1973) p.9.

In sum, rather than treating Iron Age Europe as one long period which saw an amount of continuity and shared culture across many centuries, the pre-Roman/Roman version of things makes Rome, not Europe, the protagonist whose existence and subsequent decline ("fall" in emplotment terms) is both tragic and the most important event to be observed about this long stretch of history. Therefore, the moral of Rome's decline is also the most important moral to derive from this story.

In fact, where Rome (symbolizing civilization and order) appears to be the protagonist, pre- and post-Roman Europe (symbolizing chaos) is the clear antagonist. The "tragedy" of Rome's decline has been explored by generations of scholars; they usually come up with some soupy recipe of the same ingredient-answers to explain it: a pound of Catholic Church ascendance, a soupçon of disease and resource collapse, Germanic invasions for spice, a dash of imperial overreach.*** From which we can observe that in this particular tragedy the "conditions under which [men] must labor" involve man's own ego (hubris), the limits of biology and the environment (ecology), and the destructive bent of irrational powers unrestrained by some form of rational, centralized and secular state (religion).

I hope the ramifications of this emplotment are obvious. We've all been hearing this simplified version of things for years, even now when scholars very rarely subscribe to it. But to be explicit:

Our protagonist, Rome, brought literacy, advanced technology, and all things civilized to Iron Age Europe, which was in the middle of being ungodly, unruly and primitive at the time. The decline (or fall) of Roman civilization resulted in the "Dark Ages", when pagan superstition again ruled, flavored by Christian superstition. Technology, commerce and literacy declined along with strong secular centralization and, basically, Europe went to Hell in a hand basket until THANK GOD (or Petrarch?) people began studying Roman and Greek thought again and dragged themselves into the Renaissance 1,000 years later! Hallelujah! The angels would sing, except we got rid of that ornate non-scientific bullshit with the Middle Ages. [Francesco Petrarca, right, thinks humanism and his laurel crown are a-ok in this 15th-century depiction.]

I've written before about how the "Dark Ages" is a seriously baggage-laden misnomer for the Early Middle Ages. Depicting Rome as the only culturally significant thing to happen to Europe during the entire Iron Age is another pretty obnoxious misrepresentation. And I do, incidentally, believe they are related offenses that stem from the west's Renaissance-worship of the last 500 years which in turn, springs from Rome-worship. Or possibly the Rome-worship springs from the Renaissance-worship...worth considering. No disrespect to the Renaissance intended (especially the northern Renaissance, though a little disrespect to Rome fully intended), but decades of scholarship have demonstrated that while there was a resurgence of interest in classical arts and letters during the 14th century and it did change a lot about the way people were doing things, it does not follow that all previous centuries contributed nothing to this future, were in fact diametrically opposed to it and, while we're at it, smelled bad and had yucky teeth.

Ok, they might have smelled bad and had yucky teeth, but maybe not quite as bad as you imagine! It's also worth considering that nobody would have been studying anything scientifically in the 14th-century if a whole handful of 11th-13th century theologians had not started to cope meaningfully with pre-Christian and pagan authors. In other words, the Renaissance happened because of the Middle Ages, not despite it.

But I digress. My point here is that western culture has lionized all things Roman (and more broadly, classical) for centuries now. Moreover, it has equated those Roman "things", like centralization, literacy and stone architecture, with civilization and with some nebulous refinement or worthwhile-ness. Incidentally, it was Romans in Iron Age Europe and the Catholic Church in the Middle Ages who cranked out those documents upon which these biases were originally based. They have skewed the way we today popularly look at anything not considered classical in European history. This includes the Middle Ages and this sure includes the Iron Age. Far from being an object lesson in the tragedy of civilization's limits, the Iron Age in Europe (and the very early Middle Ages for that matter) represent fecund, far-reaching, vivid, surprisingly enduring material cultures with which Roman culture merely became enmeshed, or over which it was overlaid. Not that those Mediterranean guys and gals did not change some shit in Europe, but we should not overestimate the depth of their reach nor the flimsiness of non-Roman European cultures.

Before, during and after Rome's political and military dominance in Europe a number of cultures thrived north of the Alps, contemporaneous and successive to each other. They created intricate and advanced art [some La Tène examples at left and below]; followed a variety of ancestor- and earth-based religions later subsumed but not destroyed by Christianity; and maintained extensive lively trade connections with each other, with Rome, and some evidence implies with parts of Asia. They changed, grew and developed, and while their interaction with Rome (whether it occurred by trade, conquest, or both) ended some aspects of native material culture, changed certain values, introduced certain other technologies, and definitely began influencing language, Rome became only one more culture that went into the general European mix. It was not the scraper that made the rest of Europe some palimpsest onto which only Latin and Christian history was then written.

The Hallstatt (8th century B.C.) and subsequent La Tène (5th century B.C.) cultures represent extensive shared material culture that did not necessarily rely on a single shared language.**** It is hard to talk linguistics about a society who did not write, but especially the La Tène folks (who most know as Celts) lived all over Europe from Spain in the west to Romania in the east, and from France in the south to Poland in the north. It's a reasonable assumption that, if they did belong to one linguistic group, they did not all speak the same language. While Celtic culture on the continent became submerged during the Roman period, it persisted "ghostlike", and would reemerge periodically especially in the arts. Notably, Celtic motifs and artistic styles remained in use for many centuries on the British Isles, helping that region develop its own highly identifiable medieval style. [A carpet page from the famous 8th-century Lindisfarne Gospels below. I fancy the persistence and further development of intricate curvilinear designs is fairly clear.]

In north Germany and Denmark beginning in the 6th century, the Jastorf culture became dominant.  There is also evidence that at its geographical edges, it had some interaction with Hallstatt and even, in a few instances, La Tène culture.

There were many additional distinct peoples in early Iron Age Europe, defined today by specific archaeological sites. All of these groups were subject to the same migration and climate pressures that moved people around Europe at that time and helped destabilize Rome as it continued to expand. They all had some interaction with their non-Roman contemporaries. One of the largest of these groups were the Germanic tribes who occupied northern Scandinavia during the Bronze Age and moved south during the Iron Age. The Roman author Tacitus ostensibly wrote about the Germanic tribes in his Germania (c. 98 A.D.), but it is a late source in terms of Iron Age peoples, it was written by a highly biased outsider, and scholars now believe it probably describes some Celtic as well as Germanic peoples. And so, as with the other Iron Age transalpine European cultures, archaeological source material is the most reliable.

A compelling source of archaeological material for Iron Age Germanic peoples, particularly in northern Europe and the British Isles, comes from the peat bogs of that region. For centuries people have been pulling well preserved bodies, metal objects, cloth and wood out of the bogs. The sundry reasons for the burials remain mysterious, but seem to include anything from pure accident to pagan ritual. [The so-called Grauballe Man, below, a terrifying Iron Age corpse found in a peat bog in Jutland.]

P.V. Glob, in particular, wrote an immensely engaging book on this topic in 1965 called The Bog People, in which he argued that many of these burials represented ritual human sacrifices of a religion that endured for centuries. For any academic work of this age, it is unsurprising that some scholars have taken issue in the intervening years with several of Glob's interpretations. Nevertheless, his argument for a coherent pagan religion that spanned Iron Age northern Europe - and probably involved some Germanic and Celtic components, especially on the Isles - remains intact.

For me, the continuity of religion seems a lot like the continuity of language. Even though Latin took over Europe with Rome's conquest, it did so differently in each region, augmenting existing languages and leaving us with a diversity of European languages. The same must be true for Iron Age pagan religion and Christianity. Very fortunately for humankind, all of our most authoritarian and repressive forces throughout history - from the Catholic Church to colonialism - exert themselves imperfectly, with unequal pressure and outcome, and are only intermittently systematic. There is always room for idiosyncrasy on the individual and group level.

Human sacrifice itself did not persist for centuries in Scandinavia following its conversion to Christianity, which was in any event late. But I do wonder if Christ's self-sacrifice were not uniquely legible to a culture that once practiced human sacrifice; and whether the culture remained free enough, church standardization notwithstanding, to interpret that self-sacrifice according to values and thoughts it had already developed as well as in accordance with approved dogma.

When considering this topic I often think of Jean-Claude Schmitt's work, The Holy Greyhound. In it Schmitt chronicles the activities of the 13th-century inquisitor Stephen of Bourbon, who roamed France looking for heresies to stamp out. He happened upon one region whose people worshiped at a shrine to a saint of whom Stephen had never heard: St. Guinefort. Upon investigation, Stephen discovered that Guinefort was understood by the people who prayed at his shrine to be a dog who had once saved a child from a snake and been killed for his trouble. [Above, the astonishing painting by artist Chris Musina depicting Guinefort's death and beatification. Please go here and look at some of Musina's other unique and arresting work.]

Parents would bring their sick children to Guinefort's shrine and pray to him for healing. In some cases, a mother would expose her ill child as a changeling, hoping the "true" healthy child would be returned. Not exactly standard Catholic belief or practice. Stephen's realization of this heresy horrified him, the good inquisitor he was, and he ordered the shrine destroyed. However, Schmitt found evidence as late as the 1930s that some form of practice related to the former shrine of St. Guinefort remained in the region.

Two things about Schmitt's story really amuse me: (1) the old-ladyish shock and disapproval of Stephen of Bourbon, and (2) the utter inability of literate, standardized practice to destroy the oral and folk beliefs of people.

Literate cultures, including the medieval Catholic Church, Rome and our own, think very much of themselves. But while writing is superb for record keeping, it has been historically embattled by lived, everyday culture in terms of preserving practice and belief. The record keepers, standardizers and centralizers will always make inroads into oral and idiosyncratic cultural spaces. They have a certain concrete longevity on their side. Moreover, they will certainly get to write their versions of things first. But their ability to annul remains incomplete and often plain ineffectual where more fluid processes of orality convey cultural belief and practice.

This was true of Jewish and Muslim conversos in Spain and of west Africans brought to the Americas in bondage. The explicit attempt by standardizing powers to erase a group's identity and implant a new, power-approved one seems only from a shallow vantage point to succeed. Groups of people linked by blood, geography or religion tend to tell the same or similar stories generation after generation, cook the same foods - or different foods in the same way - as they were taught, and so forth. Obviously change occurs over time for a variety of reasons, which it is history's project to study. But to ignore the persistence of practiced - as opposed to described - culture is to create a gap or a tragedy, where we should instead try to see a presence or a triumph.

Scholars long ago figured out what a vibrant and persistent set of cultures occupied pre-Roman Europe and the extent to which they were conversant with each other and eventually influenced early medieval culture. But alas, scholars only ever write about their findings. I am only writing. We need to start telling these stories. Please someone make a bog people movie! So we can decenter Rome from quite such a large chunk of European history and put it back in its place as an important codifier, augmenter, and disseminator, but not as the sole progenitor of European culture. Maybe then we can also revisit our assumptions about what makes a culture "high" or civilized and, in doing so, offer ourselves new ways of evaluating our own civilization, its writing and attempts at standardizing, the gaps we are busy trying to create, the presences we are trying to ignore.

*I am also intensely curious about the ways the Iberian peninsula converges or diverges with the rest of Europe in this matter. That's a rabbit hole I don't have the proper time or inclination for here, but it's worth wondering about.

**Obviously Greek history is both European and Iron Age. However, Greek influence enters transalpine Europe primarily via the Romans. Greek culture was much more focused on lands south and east of itself, as indeed Rome was initially.

***Increasingly scholars have been looking at the continuities between Roman Europe and post-Roman Europe, but until that story is common and we begin redefining the period and decentering Rome, I will keep hollering about this.

****It is important to note that for every Iron Age European group that can be mentioned, there is a Bronze Age culture that predates it.