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In Defense of Section 106 of the National Historic Preservation Act

Jeffrey H. Altschul is the co-president of the Coalition for Archaeological Synthesis.

Section 106 of the National Historic Preservation Act is under attack. It’s not the first time. The rationale for these attacks has remained the same for the last 50 years: Section 106 compliance is slow, expensive, and unpredictable; it hinders economic growth and kills jobs. All of this comes easy to its detractors; none of it is true.

Section 106 requires federal agencies to assess the effects of their actions that involve lands they administer, permits they provide, and licenses they grant on historic, archaeological, and cultural properties listed in or eligible to be listed in the National Register of Historic Places, and, to the extent possible, minimize harmful effects to these significant places. The rules governing Section 106 have been in place since 1974. The path toward compliance is well-worn and easy to follow. So why the attacks?

Who Cares?

Before we get into the nitty-gritty of the fight over Section 106, let’s start with three broader questions: Do Americans care about preserving their history? Do Americans want historic places protected and preserved? Do Americans want taxpayer money spent on historic preservation? The best answers to these questions come from polls taken over the last 25 years (Ipsos 20182023Ramos and Duganne 2000; Shannon 2014). Consistently, between 80 percent and 90 percent of respondents state that archaeological sites and historic buildings are important to them. In the latest poll (Ipsos 2023), 64 percent responded that archaeological site preservation should be a priority of the federal government, with 77 percent replying that there should be laws to protect archaeological sites and only 5 percent desiring no laws. Most respondents want federal funding for the protection of sites to increase and 80 percent want more land associated with archaeological sites to be set aside and preserved.

It’s one thing to answer a poll, it’s another to act on those beliefs. “So, what do Americans do on their vacations and how do they spend their money?” For many, the answer is visiting archaeological and historic sites. For example, since it opened in 1908, Mesa Verde National Park has hosted about 37 million visitors, with an average of more than 500,000 annually for the last 60 years. Gettysburg National Military Park was established in 1934 and has been visited by more than 136 million visitors, with an average attendance for the last 65 years cresting more than 1 million annually.

Perhaps surprising to some, one of the most visited National Historic Parks (NHP) is the San Antonio Missions, which since 1983 has preserved four of the five Spanish Missions near San Antonio (the fifth, the Alamo, is the best known and most visited but is not part of the park and not included in the visitation numbers). The San Antonio Missions NHP has been visited by more than 42 million people, easily exceeding an average of 1 million visitors a year since its inception.

But it’s not just the most famous parks that receive visitors. In my home state of Arizona, there are 19 national parks (NP), monuments, historic sites, and memorials administered by the National Park Service (NPS) (Table 1). Of these, 11 are national monuments, historic sites, or memorials (collectively, termed “NM” below) focused around archaeological or historic sites. In 2024, more than 1.6 million people visited these 11 NMs (NPS 2025), spending about $167 million and accounting for about 1,650 jobs (Flyr and Koontz 2024). In all, the archaeological and historical NMs account for about 20 percent of all NPS visitation in Arizona and more than 10 percent of the money spent and jobs created at NPS units in the state.

One of the parks in Arizona is the Grand Canyon, which by itself accounts for more than half of all visits, money, and jobs to Arizona NPS units. If we exclude the Grand Canyon National Park, then archaeological and historical NMs are responsible for about 45 percent of all visitations, money, and jobs at NPs and NMs in Arizona. Some may scoff at the size of the numbers, but it’s important to remember that many archaeological and historic NMs are in rural parts of the state, where the dollars generated and the jobs created at these units are extremely important to local businesses and communities. Also, some of the archaeological and historical NMs are hard to get to (for example, you need to hike a 3-mile loop to get in and out of Fort Bowie).

No matter how difficult, Americans keep coming. With their money and their time, Americans overwhelmingly declare that they enjoy visiting and learning about the past at archaeological and historical sites. They come alone, with their families, their friends, their schools, and their churches. They are awed by what Americans have done and are inspired to dream about things they might do.

Back to Section 106

Section 106 seeks to balance the interests of project proponents and land developers with protecting the historic fabric of this country. Those who contend that Section 106 is an impediment to development tend to be those with an economic interest. They provide anecdotal evidence of particular projects in which Section 106 compliance was maddeningly slow and outrageously expensive. They never, however, analyze Section 106 actions in a systematic and comprehensive manner, since such an evaluation shows a very different story.

Table 2 is derived from a report on the cumulative impact of the Historic Preservation Fund for the period 2001-2021, commissioned by the National Conference of State Historic Preservation Officers (PlaceEconomics 2023:22). It shows that for the first two decades of the 21st century, the State Historic Preservation Office (SHPO) in 59 jurisdictions made about 4.3 million decisions

related to Section 106 undertakings. Nearly 80 percent of these decisions were findings that either no historic properties were found in the project area or that those that did exist were not sufficiently significant to warrant any action. In short, about 3.4 million projects brought before SHPOs were dealt with quickly and cheaply, with the project proponent or

developer free to proceed in less than 30 days (often in less than a week). In addition, many federal agencies, in partnership with SHPOs and other consulting parties, have made agreements that exclude a vast number of small-scale projects from Section 106 reviews, which have minimal potential to adversely affect the National Register listed or eligible properties. These Section 106 agreements are effective tools that streamline and expedite a wide range of development projects.

About 900,000 projects were found to include a significant property and/or have an adverse effect on such a property. Most of these were altered, redesigned, or withdrawn so that the historic property or properties were not harmed and the proponent was free to proceed or move on to another project without having spent lots of money or wasted considerable time. Of the millions of Section 106 undertakings, less than 0.5% resulted in an agreement document among the SHPO, federal agency, affected Native American tribes, project proponent, local jurisdictions and communities, and other interested public groups on how to resolve the project’s harmful effects on significant historic properties. In 21 years, less than 20,000 agreement documents were signed in the 59 SHPO jurisdictions, or less than 20 per year in the entire country. What do these 20 projects have in common? They contained properties of historical and cultural value to our nation, local communities, Native American tribes, and descendants. The Section 106 agreement documents protected the values embedded in those places while allowing development to proceed.

Safeguard or Obstruction

There are two views of Section 106. Many in the development community view it as a regulation that inhibits economic progress. They argue that the Section 106 process is used by opponents to stymie or kill projects, particularly large and controversial ones. In contrast, local and descendant communities maintain that Section 106 provides them with one of the few means by which they have any say in development decisions. Even with Section 106, however, these groups maintain that the playing field is unequal, with development holding the stronger hand.

Each view has some truth to it, and each overstates the harm that regulations cause them. I have been involved with more than 1,000 Section 106 projects in the last 50 years. The vast majority were uncontested and noncontroversial. The results documented the past, protected significant places, and expedited economic development. There were also a handful of controversial projects, in which passions became inflamed, the proponents and opponents talked past each other, and the agreement reached was in name only, with both sides feeling that they had been shorted.

Critics of Section 106 point to these controversial projects as evidence that the regulation doesn’t work, that it neither protects significant places nor allows the country to build needed infrastructure or improve property. Yet this view is wrong on the facts and mistaken in where it places the blame. Section 106 is a procedural law that does not establish a required outcome. The federal agency with jurisdiction over a project has the final decision, which in almost every case is to allow the project to proceed.

As a country, we want economic development that betters our lives and strengthens our communities. Development that offers a brighter future must be grounded in our shared past. Killing Section 106 would do nothing to further our aspiration to balance economic development with historic preservation. It would not even speed up development. Instead, it would ensure that historic preservationists, who otherwise welcome the opportunity to work with developers, would become entrenched opponents. Heritage strikes at the heart of a community’s ethos, so few land battles stir more passion. Section 106 negotiations can be intense, irate, and irreconcilable, but they take place within a structure designed to make sure everyone is heard and all viewpoints considered. With it, even the most controversial projects move forward. Without it, battle lines form at development sites with no one emerging unscathed.

Let me be clear, development projects proceed not in spite of but because of Section 106. Without the Section 106 regulations, local and descendant communities would have no voice to ensure that development is in keeping with their values and their past. Their only recourse would be to sue. Litigation would be everything critics say about Section 106 and then some—excruciatingly slow, extremely expensive, and unpredictable.

We Can Still Do Big Things

In 1999, Statistical Research, Inc. (SRI), the cultural resource management consulting firm my wife and I founded, was awarded a five-year contract to provide historic preservation services on the U.S. Air Force portion of the Barry M. Goldwater Range (BMGR). Located in the region of Southwest Arizona known as the Papaguería, the main military mission of the BMGR is to train fighter pilots. At the time when we were awarded the contract, the commanding officer took me aside and quietly, but firmly, said, “You’re free to do all the research and studies you want as long as the fighters continue to fly. The day that archaeology stops one flight will be your last day on the BMGR.”

Today, SRI continues to provide CRM services on the BMGR. In more than 25 years, not a plane has been grounded; not a flight has been aborted; not a mission has been altered because of archaeology. Hundreds of thousands of acres have been inventoried, thousands of archaeological sites have been recorded, hundreds of test excavations have been conducted, and several large-scale excavations have been completed. Native Americans from multiple tribes have joined archaeologists and the U.S. Air Force personnel on scores of site tours. Tribes have inventoried the BMGR for traditional properties and sacred sites, and with almost no exception, these areas have been avoided by military training. More than a bookshelf of technical reports have been written and thousands of artifacts cleaned, analyzed, and stored. Articles, books, and lectures for professional and non-professional audiences have been written or presented.

There are those on the right and the left who argue that we can’t do big things in this country. That Section 106 is choking off growth. But thousands of fighter pilots, many of whom went off to war to defend this country, were trained without interruption, while below, archaeologists and Native Americans worked together to document thousands of years of human occupation of the Papaguería.

There are those who will grant that the process works but still argue that the archaeology and history of places like the Papaguería are not critical to the history of the United States. The BMGR lies in one of the hottest, driest deserts in the United States. Who in their right mind would live here? And, really, who cares?

One hot summer day, in exasperation, I asked these very same questions. Accompanying me in the field that day was Joe Joaquin, an elder of the Tohono O’odham Nation as well as a Marine veteran of Korea and Vietnam. Joe looked around and then, with a wry grin, looked at me, “Who wouldn’t want to live here?” And then more seriously he went on, “These mountains hold our stories, the valleys [are] our ancestral sites, as O’odham people, we are put on this earth to take care of them, and without them we lose who we are. You have the skills and knowledge to find these places, which we don’t have. What you do is important.”

Joe has long since passed away, though his words still reverberate in me. Training fighter pilots is paramount to the defense of this country. But we can do that and still honor an obligation to the first people of the land. The path to doing so is clear. It’s called Section 106.

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This article was produced by Human Bridges.

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References

– Flyr, M., and Koontz, L. (2024). “2023 National Park Visitor Spending Effects: Economic Contributions to Local Communities, States, and the Nation.” Science Report NPS/SR-2024/174. National Park Service, Fort Collins, Colorado.

– Ipsos (2018). “American Perceptions of Archaeology.” Report commissioned by the Society for American Archaeology.

– Ipsos (2023). “American Perception of Archaeology.” Report commissioned by the Society for American Archaeology.

– National Park Service (NPS) (2025). NPS Stats (National Park Service Visitor Use Statistics).

– PlaceEconomics (2023). “The Cumulative Impact of the Historic Preservation Fund.” Report commissioned by the National Conference of State Historic Preservation Officers.

– Ramos, Maria, and Duganne, David (2000). “Exploring Public Perceptions and Attitudes about Archaeology.” Report prepared by Harris Interactive for a coalition of professional societies and federal agencies.

– Shannon, Sandra (2014). “A Survey of the Public: Preferences for Old and New Buildings, Attitudes about Historic Preservation, and Preservation-Related Engagement.” MA thesis, School of Architecture, University of Southern California, Los Angeles.

Cover Image, Top Left: adrimarie, Pixabay

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Archaeology Can Now Tell Us How People Have Muffled and Challenged Economic Inequality Across History

Gary M. Feinman is an archaeologist and the MacArthur curator of anthropology at the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago.

Without archaeology, there is no way to truly examine economic inequality, its causes, and its consequences over very long time spans on a global scale. Until recently, most grand narratives that purported to tell the story of human inequality over time tended to focus either on European history of the last five to six centuries or snapshots of recent societies, derived following colonial encounters with people around the world. These were then pyramided into proposed stepped sequences of change that were presumed to mimic unilinear temporal processes. Whereas the former was not global, the latter was not even historical.

Well into the 20th century, European history and its colonial global impact empirically underpinned our conceptual lenses on inequality. For this reason, it is hardly surprising that to the present, our grand narratives on the topic tend to see increasing wealth disparities as inevitable. Inequality is seen as a byproduct of population and economic growth, only potentially reversible through the spread of a supposedly nascent rationality birthed at the outset of the modern era, with the rise of the West and the program of governance and education it offered. Alas, over the last decades, as inequality spirals, nowhere more than at the heart of the West in the United States and the United Kingdom, the long-entrenched grand narratives now seem naive and out-of-date.

Fortunately, over the last half-century, archaeologists have gone to work looking beyond ancient temples and tombs and, instead, have been mapping sites and excavating houses. By broadening their vantage beyond kings and courts, archaeologists in many regions of the world have and continue to gather data on diverse segments of past societies; farmers as well as rulers. The systematic cumulation of these data, with a focus on houses, lies at the core of the GINI project, a broad collaborative effort led by Timothy A. Kohler (Washington State University), Amy Bogaard (Oxford University), and Scott Ortman (University of Colorado), which has measured and coded more than 50,000 houses from more than 1,000 archaeological sites.

During the past and present, disparities in housing have been one of the best measures of wealth differences. And with this unprecedented sample, it is now feasible to trace economic inequality across much of the globe over time. Now, for the first time, we can see that neither farming nor population growth nor urban aggregation are simple determinants of inequality. Nor can we point to a uniform, unilinear sequence that accounts for patterns of change across every continent. Nevertheless, when we look across humanity’s past, there are broader tendencies, patterns, and even lessons to absorb and learn.

One clear trend is that through time, across the broad sweep of human history, the potential for inequality has grown due to advances in technology (domesticated crops and animals, enhanced communication, and advances in transport) and the increasing size of human aggregations and nations. These factors are important as they contribute to the growing extent of economic inequality. Yet alone, they are not determinative.

The deeply held story that sedentary settlement, along with farming, prompted the advent of private property, which generated intra-community inequality that was then a basis for the emergence of top-down, autocratic governance simply does not fit most, if any, global regions. It often took millennia after reliance on farming for degrees of economic inequality to tick significantly upward, and only in specific places.

For the regions we examined as part of this research project, the potential for inequality was not uniformly realized or consistently reached. In fact, in general, within global areas, the variances or ranges in the degree of inequality expanded through time. Over and over, and in different ways, people have devised institutions, modes of governance, and leveling mechanisms to muffle that expansive potential for rises in inequality.

Regarding the realized degrees of inequality, population size and the hierarchical complexity of governing institutions do matter in line with long-held narratives. But how those governing institutions were organized, how democratic or autocratic they were, is also a relevant factor—and one not considered in the past when Athens and the Roman Republic were wrongly presumed to be the only political democracies before the modern era. Across human history, people at certain times and places have made choices that quell ever present agentic selfishness and leverage the unmatched human abilities to cooperate and collaborate with large numbers of non-kin.

And yet, past and present, democratic or collective institutions are hard to maintain and sustain. Human cooperation tends to be situational and contingent. Institutions that are organized democratically require constant nurturing and participation. When that is disrupted, participatory, inclusive institutions break down, which is why we see temporal cycles and spatial variation in the degree of inequality across time and geographic space.

Our global sample, along with other recent studies, also holds clues as to why the institutions of governance shift along the axis of concentrated (or personalized) power and more democratic formations with checks and balances. What we see is that when our governing institutions are financed by monopolized resources that are not drawn from the labor and fields of the local population, but rather through external resources, power in governance will likely become concentrated in the hands of a few.

Herd animals, access to metals, and the control of long-distance exchange routes all seem to have a relationship to greater potential for inequality. Whether today or in the deep past, when political power is wielded autocratically, the checks and leveling mechanisms that dampen inequality will tend to break down, and, over time, disparities in wealth will move closer toward their maximal potentials. In this way, the past is a mirror for what we now see.

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This article was produced by Human Bridges, a project of the Independent Media Institute.

Cover Image, Top Left: Neolithic mudbrick houses at Mehrgarh, Indus River basin, Pakistan (photograph by Catherine Jarrige © Mission Archéologique de l’Indus). From Amy Bogarde, et al., The Global Dynamics of Inequality (GINI) project: analysing archaeological housing data, Cambridge University Press, 18 December 2023,

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The Inanimate Speakers Society of Rome

Professor Frank J. Korn has retired from his teaching position on the Classical Studies faculty at Seton Hall University.  He is a Fulbright Scholar at the American Academy in Rome and the author of nine books on various aspects of the Eternal City.  He is listed in Marquis Who’s Who as “a notable classical educator and writer.”  Recipient of the Princeton Prize for Distinguished Teaching, he resides with his wife Camille in Scotch Plains, N.J.  The couple’s three sons –  Frank, Ronald, and John and their families live nearby.  His latest book    Below Rome, the Story of the Catacombs    which he co-authored with his wife, is available on Amazon or from the publisher, St. Johann Press, Haworth, N.J.

 

Difficile est saturam

      Non scribere….”

                                …..Juvenal

The sardonic muckraker Juvenal claimed that in ancient Rome    with all its foibles, hypocrisy, elitism, and political corruption    one would be hard put to restrain from satirizing it all.  The Romans early on grew fond of that form of expression    and its practitioners    and boasted of their lampooning skills.  Quintilian, a master of the art, wrote:

Satura quidem tota nostra est.”

(Satire is indeed all ours.)

The poets Martial and Horace excelled at it too.  This literary genre of the Eternal City enjoyed a roaring revival a millennium later.  There were no political cartoonists in Renaissance Rome to torment people in high places.  But there did exist at the time a group of statue parlanti, talking statues with a flair for satire and a penchant for ridiculing the local authorities, civil, papal, and otherwise, not to mention the aristocracy, the egotistical, the smug.

Here is how it all began.  In the winter of 1501, a badly mutilated ancient Greek sculpture was unearthed during some work near Piazza Navona in Rome.  Numerous art scholars judged it to be the remnant of a group-carving from as far back as the third century B.C. depicting Menelaus supporting the slain Patroclus (from Homer’s Iliad’). An affluent churchman, Cardinal Oliverio Carafa, at once purchased the pitiful marble torso with the battered face and had it placed as an adornment for the north facade of his nearby residence, the Palazzo Braschi.  It has stood there ever since.

Each April 25th, the feast day of Saint Mark, the prelate would attach to the statue sayings in honor of the Evangelist.  Throughout the rest of the year, Carafa would encourage neighborhood students to affix to the pedestal their innocent poems and epigrams.  (In 1510 a certain Giacomo Mazzochi published a collection of the best.)

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The battered ancient statue set before the Palazzo Braschi. Peter Heeling, Wikimedia Commons

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It was soon after this, however, that the verses turned malevolent.  Written and posted anonymously and clandestinely in the dark of night, the irreverent commentaries targeted the rampant venalities, corruption, and nepotism of church and civic leaders and other pezzi grossi (big shots).

The prevailing wisdom suspected an impish hunchbacked, mischievous tailor by the name of Pasquino.  (His shop just across the street was known to be a gathering place for the city’s wits and punsters.)

Whenever the morning’s light brought forth a new satirical pronouncement    in impeccable Latin, no less –  word would spread throughout town and become the quote of the day.  This was all to the delight of the general populace and to the consternation of the ruling class.  No event, institution, or personage was exempt from the caustic pen of Pasquino.  Not even the pope was safe from the tailor’s slings and arrows.  For Pasquino was, you see, also the official tailor in the Vatican and thus privy to all the gossip in the 108-acre enclave.

One day, for example, when it became clear that Pope Julius II (1503-1513) was devoting more time and energy to military affairs than to Church matters, the statue of Menelaus    by this time affectionately called “Pasquino”    issued a pun on the mandate of Christ to the first pope:

TU ES PETRUS…ET TIBI DABO CLAVES

REGNI CAELORUM

(Thou art Peter…and I shall give unto you

The Keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.)

The tailor put it this way:

“Destiny erred, Julius, in giving you claves (keys).

It should have given you clavas (clubs).”

When Pope Paul III (1534) gave a generous honoraria to the Sistine Choir and then tried to silence the chatty statue, “Pasquino” railed:

“Ut canerent  data multa sunt.

Ut taceam quantum mihi, Paule, dabis?

(They were given much so they might sing.

How much will you give me, Paul, to be quiet?)

Around this time, another ancient statue, this one large and in mint condition, was dug up in ruins near the Forum.  Found in a reclining position over what was once apparently a fountain, it was thought to represent a river god, and was placed on the bustling street in front of the old Mamertine Prison.  The neighborhood wags baptized him “Marforio”.  The shabby “Pasquino” started to dialogue with the elegant deity.  One day when another sixteenth century pope imposed numerous new taxes, some on the most basic resources,  “Marforio,” preferring to communicate in Italian, posed this question:

“Perche metti ad asciugare la camicia di notte e

Non di giorno alla luce del sole?”

(Why do you hang out your laundry at night instead of the day when the sun shines?)

To which the annoyed Pasquino, a few blocks away in a district then called Campus Martius, replied:

“Perche di giorno, con l’aria che tira finerebbero

Per farmi la tassa del sole!”

(Because by day, with the political winds such as

They are, I would end up paying a Sun tax.)

And so it went, on almost a daily basis.  Appreciative Romans would dash from “Marforio” over to “Pasquino” to see what his witty pal’s retort would be.  (By the way, “Marforio” has, for the last two centuries, resided in the courtyard of the Capitoline Museum.)

Pope Adrian VI, himself often a target of the pasquinades, grew so irritated by these exchanges that he ordered the original garrulous statue to be hammered to bits and tossed into the Tiber.  Fortunately cooler heads prevailed.  The poet Torquato Tasso convinced the pontiff that the statue’s fragmented corpse would re-emerge into “a thousand creaking lampooning frogs.” In short, Tasso implied, the age-old Roman love for satire would find a way.

The Talking Statue club grew in time to a membership of six old timers.  First came “Madama Lucrezia,” the top half of a colossus of a Roman matron, though many classical scholars think it to be of the Egyptian goddess Isis or perhaps of a priestess of that cult.  Madama has been loitering just off Piazza Venezia for centuries now. The buxom madama, the least loquacious of the club, apparently had a low pain threshold for folks who liked to show off their “vast” knowledge.  She simply could not bear the company of pseudo intellectuals, so one day at the break of dawn she delivered this Latin broadside at the whole lot of them:

“Qui stultis videri eruditi volunt,

Stulti eruditi videntur.”

(Those who wish to be seen as erudites

by fools, are seen as fools by erudites.)

In her early career a curious custom developed.  Roman men, when passing in front of Lucrezia often, in deference to her, either  gave a tip of the cap or blew a kiss.

Next came “Il Facchino” the water carrier, featuring a jaunty, tipsy old chap carrying a barrel of water from which he pours an endless stream into the basin of a wall fountain on Via Lata near the corner of Via del Corso.

“Pasquino” had this to say about his new comrade:

Ama il suo liquore di Bacco ma

Offre ai passanti solo acqua.”

(He loves the tasty beverage of Bacchus

But offers to passersby only water.)

”Il Facchino” which literally means “the porter” was the term also used for out of work fellows who scooped up water from the Tiber in kegs and delivered them to people’s homes.  This new cottage-industry came about when almost all the ancient aqueducts had by now ceased to function, necessitating the average Romans to get their water from the river.

This was exhausting work.  One sad sultry summer day, Signor Abbondio Rizio, a well known and beloved acquaiolo (as they were also called) died on the job.

The following morning “Il Facchino” epitomized the poor guy’s lot in life with this brief obituary:

“Portava quanto peso volle, visse quanto pote, ma un giorno nel portare un barile in spalla, mori.”

(He used to carry as heavy a load as he pleased,

        he made a living as much as he could, but one day

While hefting a large barrel on his shoulder, he passed away.)

Then there’s “Il Babuino,” near the Spanish Steps.  He’s called the Baboon because of his homely face and his unkemptness.  He too is part of a wall fountain and in the opinion of some archaeologists an effigy of Silenus, the half goat, half man comrade of the Greek god of wine, Dionysius.

And lastly the statue with the least seniority, “Abate Luigi” (Abbot Louis) the toga-clad statue often vandalized by decapitation. (He has undergone several head transplants through the years).  In the nineteenth century Luigi took up residence in the tranquil churchyard of Sant Andrea della Valle. (He got his name, incidentally, because of his resemblance to the abbot of the monastery attached to the church.)   He has this to say on his pedestal: 

“Fui della Roma Antica un cittadino

Ora Abate Luigi ognuno mi chiama

Conquistai con Marforio e Pasquino

Nelle satire urbani Eterna Fama

Ebbi offese, disgrazia, e sepoltura

Ma qui vita novella e alfin sicurezza.”

(I was a citizen of Ancient Rome

Now everyone calls me Abbot Louis.

I won with Marforio and Pasquino

eternal fame with urbane satires

I’ve been insulted, disgraced, and buried

but here I have a new life and at last safety.)

So it was out over the rooftops of Rome that these stone rascals    Il Congresso Degli Arguti, “The Congress of Wits,” as they liked to call themselves  – carried on their daily gabbing with one another.  They enjoyed puns, especially of their target’s name.  When Cardinal Giovanni Carafa became Pope Paul IV in 1555 “Pasquino” said:

“Accidenti!  Che vino forte in questa carafa.”

(Wow, what robust wine in this carafe.)

(Marforio’s rebuttal?)

Ti sbagli!  E aceto.

(You’re mistaken!  It’s vinegar.)

……….

Later that century, Pasquino the tailor went to his reward but “Pasquino” the statue rambled on through the ages, right up to the modern era.  For there were many amateur satirists in the city eager to perpetuate the infernal jabbering.  The Romans referred to these anonymous authors as the pasquinisti.

Pope Urban VIII (1623-44), of the noble and wealthy Barberini clan, launched an ambitious program of monumentalizing Papal Rome, plundering the ruins of Imperial Rome for marble and bronze.  By this time the epigrams had shifted back to Latin, thus causing this outcry from “Pasquino:”

“Quod non fecerunt Barbari, fecerunt Barberini”

(What the Barbarians failed to do, the Barberini did)

The other arguti also inveighed against the looting from the wreckage of Old Rome.  So then, not even threats of surveillance, of imprisonment, of execution by drowning could put the brakes on the little secret inanimate society of wits.

Later popes loved the city’s Egyptian obelisks and spent great sums moving them around town and crowning each with the Cross, symbol of Christianity’s triumph.  With the quality of life at the time not the greatest for the middle and lower classes, the society could not restrain themselves:

“Noi abbiamo basta di obelischi e fontane!

Pane e che vorremmo, pane, pane, pane!”

        (Enough already with obelisks and fountains!

Bread is what we would like, bread, bread, bread)

In 1655 Pope Innocent X had as his care-giver in his final illness a sister-in-law, Olimpia Maldachini.  Her well-known craving for more wealth impelled her to rob two little boxes of cash, intended for the poor, tucked under the pontiff’s bed.  News got out.  Some punster got to Pasquino and posted a devilish play on her name with this Latin-gem:

“Olim pia, sed nunc impia”

(Once pious, she is now impious.)

From 1798 to 1808, Napoleon’s occupation of Rome was part of his ambitious scheme to annex the Papal States and expand his empire.  Marforio could not contain his contempt when the little emperor confiscated many precious works of art:

“Tutti i francesi sono ladri!”

(All the French are robbers!)

Pasquino, in an exquisitely clever play on the real culprit’s surname answered his pal:

“Non tutti, ma buona parte”

(Not all, but a good part… of them)

The acerbic statues were still clucking late into that same century.  Hawthorne wrote in his diary while sojourning in Italy in 1859:

“Thence we passed by the pathetic battered torso of

Pasquino…on our way to the bridge of the Angels.”

And on through the twentieth century the marble commentators remained iconoclastically active.  When Il Duce in 1929 ordered the demolition of blocks of historic Medieval buildings in the section of Rome still called Il Borgo to make way for his fancy new boulevard, the Via della Conciliazione which leads from the Tiber to the Vatican, the Romans, who tend to cherish their past, were outraged.  An anonymous pasquinista had “Pasquino” speak for the people with this placard around his neck:

“Quod non fecerunt Barberini, fecit Mussolini.”

(What the Barberinis didn’t do, Mussolini did.)

When Hitler visited Rome as the guest of Mussolini in May 1938, the proud host had much of the city festooned with buntings and other gaudy decorations.  This did not sit well with the local gentry either.

So they took to the ancient rough prototype of today’s platforms of social media, by having Pasquinoand company air their grievances for them with cardboard signs saying:

Roma de travertino

Vestita da cartone

Saluta l’imbianchino

Suo prossimo padrone

(Rome of travertine

All decked out in papier mache

Greets the house-painter,

Her next landlord.)

The six Arguti are still dwelling at their usual sites in Rome, and still occasionally offering commentary on the city’s political and social goings-on.  For there are still plenty of pasquinisti hanging around only too eager to give voice to Pasquino, Marforio, Lucrezia, the Baboon, the Facchino, and even the monastic Luigi.

The reputation of this mischievous squad eventually spread throughout Italy and even across Europe.  One Swiss clergyman by the name of Jean Pierre de Crousaz (1663-1750) who had been to Rome and had seen and “heard” the ancient gossipers told his countrymen upon his return:

“These satirists of true genius who are warmed by a genuine indignation of vice, and whose censures are conducted with candor and truth, merit the appreciation of every friend to virtue.  They are a sort of supplement to the legislative authorities, assisting the unavoidable defects of all legal and social institutions for the regulation of manners and striking terror, even where the divine prohibitions themselves are held in “contempt.”

By the second century of their existence and local celebrity, the half-dozen stone gadflies now found themselves being cited and quoted all over the continent.  The little tailor’s legacy had a long reach.  The original Pasquino bequeathed to and taught his legions of fans the word pasquinade, that succinct amusingly polemical way of versing, with the high and the mighty as targets, which generations of Romans, and tourists who were lucky enough to have visited Rome Eternal, passed on to posterity.  The stinging, biting satirical form had become an international pastime, until it was gradually obsolesced by the invention and popularity of the political cartoon, and especially by today’s social media outlets like Twitter and Facebook, et al.

Yes, the six mischievous marble codgers of Rome have all been on pension for quite some time now.  Yet, if truth be told, every once in a blue moon they will come out of retirement for a day or two to offer their take on the latest whiff of misbehavior emanating from Parliament, the Vatican, or the Campidoglio (City Hall).

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Time Traveling in Philadelphia

Ana Adeler is a free-lance writer and contributor to Popular Archaeology Magazine on travel and museums.

Some places don’t need grand introductions.

They simply exist, quietly waiting for you to notice them. They don’t shout. They don’t beg. They just stand there, steadfast, like an old friend waiting at a café table, knowing you’ll eventually find your way back. The Penn Museum is one of those places.

The building itself is a contradiction—imposing, yet welcoming. Its northern Italian Renaissance-style facade is kissed by time, softened by ivy, and bathed in a Philadelphia sun that seems to hold the weight of centuries. The entrance gates, curiously Asian in design, feel like a passage to another world. And maybe that’s exactly what they are.

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Image courtesy Penn Museum

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Step inside, and suddenly the modern world dissolves. The air shifts. It’s quieter here, as though history has muted the usual chaos of life. The walls, high and arched, have been listening for over a century—absorbing the footfalls of professors, the murmurs of schoolchildren, the sharp intakes of breath from travelers who realize they have stumbled into something seemingly sacred.

And oh, the things these walls have seen….

Like a royal greeting, a colossal granite sphinx of Ramses II meets me. It looms, its stone lips curved into a knowing half-smile, as if humored by the transient nature of human worries. It has outlived empires, dynasties, entire languages. It watches, patient and eternal, as visitors lean in to decipher the hieroglyphs engraved artfully and with almost unbelievable precision into its hard granite surface. Their hands unconsciously mirror the reverence of those who chiseled them into stone thousands of years ago.

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Above and below, views of the sphinx of Ramses II.

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Turn a corner, and Mesopotamia rises from the dust. Fragile clay tablets rest behind glass, each tiny wedge of cuneiform script a part of human utterance from a world that no longer exists. They record grain sales, love letters, prayers, debts—proof that people, no matter the century, are forever preoccupied with hunger, devotion, and money.

In the Buddhist gallery, thangka paintings unfold like silk secrets, their colors impossibly vivid, the brushstrokes delicate as a breath. In another room, Chinese musical instruments stand silent, waiting for a hand to pluck them back into song.

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The Harrison Rotunda at the Penn Museum, with the author at center for scale. It showcases the Chinese antiquities.

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Steps away, there is the restoration lab—a place that feels part science fiction, part quiet cathedral. A glass barrier separates the living from the long-gone, but here, death is not the end. Behind the glass, a conservator bends over an Egyptian mummy, his movements precise, reverent. He is not trying to revive it, nor improve it, nor give it new life. His job is to ensure it remains exactly as it was, to hold time still, as if by sheer will. Once a day, he opens the door to visitors, answers questions with the calm patience of someone who has spent years listening to the echoes of the past.

Then, I step into Rome.

Not the Rome of Vespa scooters and café terraces, but the Rome of emperors, gladiators, and merchants haggling in the shadow of the Colosseum. The Roman World Gallery hums with the energy of a civilization that refused to be forgotten. Bronze helmets, dulled by time but still fierce, sit next to delicate glassware that somehow survived the centuries. There are coins, each bearing the face of a ruler who once controlled the known world—now just names in history books. The smooth marble of a sculpted bust still holds the ghost of its subject’s ambition, the chiseled jawline of a senator or general who believed, for a time, that power was eternal.

But nothing is.

The next gallery is proof of that.

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Above and below: Views in the Roman Gallery.

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The Etruscan Gallery is quieter, heavier, as though history itself holds its breath here. The Etruscans—brilliant, mysterious, and swallowed by the rising tide of Rome. They left behind no great empire, no grand myths carved into marble. What remains is more intimate: ceramic vessels adorned with intricate scenes of feasts and battles, jewelry so delicate I almost hesitate to believe it once graced the neck of a woman long turned to dust. Their tombs, filled with painted visions of the afterlife, tell us they were not afraid of death. They embraced it as part of the journey.

Here, you stand in front of an ancient sarcophagus. The figures carved on its lid—a man and woman, reclining as if at a banquet—seem almost at ease. Their expressions are not of fear but of understanding, a quiet knowing that the end is not really an end at all, just another passage.

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Above and below: Views in the Etruscan Gallery

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Outside, the garden hums with life. The fountain sings its quiet song, leaves rustle in the breeze, and the sculptures stand, frozen yet expressive, as if they too are considering the weight of history. Here, time is fluid—ancient and modern, static and moving, all at once.

And so, I walk away, my mind richer, my soul slightly heavier. Not because the museum is a place of burdens, but because it has given me something profound: the realization that history is not distant. It breathes in stone and script, in pigment and melody. It breathes in me.

 

And now, wherever I go, I will carry a small piece of it with me.

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Editor’s Note: For more information about the Penn Museum and how to visit, see the museum’s website.

Lustrous Surfaces: Easy on the Eyes, Easy on the Nervous System

Irina Matuzava is a contributor to the Human Bridges project.

Our ancestors’ ability to recognize water sources was crucial to their survival. As a result, the attraction to lustrous materials is deeply rooted in our evolutionary history and is evident among prehistoric artifacts, ancient civilizations, and modern consumer culture.

During the Pliocene Epoch, early hominins likely traveled between semi-permanent rain pools, restricting their movement to warmer and wetter regions. During the Late Pleistocene, humid forests declined and grassland-savanna habitats expanded.1 Thus, the ability to detect water sources became extremely important. In the dry savanna conditions of East Africa, early humans relied on small lakes and rain pools to survive seasonal droughts, and many fossil hominid remains have been found near ancient lakeshores, supporting the idea that access to water played a key role in early human migration. The savanna hypothesis suggests that the expansion of African grasslands led directly to the divergence of hominins from apes and the emergence of the genus Homo.2

Natural selection likely chose individuals who could recognize water and wet surfaces, and, according to evolutionary anthropologist Dean Falk’s radiator theory, the success of finding drinking water daily to prevent dehydration and conserve energy played a substantial role in shaping hominin evolution.3

Water still significantly impacts our neurological system, influencing physiological and psychological well-being. Psychology professor Richard Coss and his former student, Craig Keller, conducted a pair of studies published in the Journal of Environmental Psychology in 2022 showing that “gazing at bodies of water can help lower your heart rate, blood pressure, and increase feelings of relaxation.”4

The first of Coss and Keller’s studies showed that viewing a swimming pool lowers heart rate and blood pressure versus looking at a street sign and a tree in a parking lot.

The second study measured heart rate and blood pressure when viewing six sites with different amounts of visible water. Viewing water compared to the adjacent ground produced effects consistent with a relaxation response or a decrease in heart rate and blood pressure. Moreover, the studies found that looking at wider portions of water produced higher states of relaxation than narrow portions of water, suggesting that abundant amounts of water have a greater potential to limit dehydration. Clear water also produced a higher state of relaxation than murky water, which may be linked to the health of the water, as clear water is less likely to contain harmful bacteria and produce an unfavorable future state, such as illness.5

Meanwhile, a 2010 study by Richard Coss investigated the connection between glossy surfaces and their association with water or wetness. Coss designed an experiment using four different papers with varying surface finishes: matte watercolor paper, glossy silk-screen paper, gritty sandpaper, and sparkly glitter paper designed to be reminiscent of an ocean surface. The study’s participants were asked to examine the surfaces using a questionnaire to assess their wet and dry connotations as well as their overall attitude toward each paper type.

The results demonstrated that glossy surfaces appear significantly wetter than sparkling surfaces, and both the glossy and sparkling surfaces were perceived as wetter than the matte and sandy finishes. The participants’ assessment of the sparkling surface, having been rated lower on the wetness scale than the glossy silk-screen surface, suggests that sparkle does not consistently indicate the presence of moisture.6

This discrepancy may stem from the historical uncertainty of sparkling surfaces as an indicator of water since sparkly surfaces can be found in both pools of water and dry materials, such as quartz crystals and other rocky formations. Sparkly surfaces, while being visually stimulating, do not reliably indicate wetness unless they are accompanied by a glossy visual texture. The study’s findings reinforce the point that glossy surfaces convey strong optical information about moisture.

Some researchers have previously assumed that children’s aesthetic preferences were highly influenced by media consumption created by adults, along with innate and learned preferences. However, other research has found that many of these preferences, especially regarding human and animal faces, may develop in early infancy.7 Researchers Katrien Meert, Mario Pandelaere, and Vanessa M. Patrick conducted a series of experiments—published in the Journal of Consumer Psychology in 2014—to expand upon this innate quality of having certain aesthetic preferences and establish that there is an inherent preference for glossy surfaces among humans.

Their first experiment demonstrated the preference for glossiness among both adults and children. Leaflets were given to participants, half printed on glossy paper and the other half on matte or non-glossy paper. The participants were asked to arrange the leaflets according to their preference, and the results showed a statistically significant preference for glossy leaflets over non-glossy ones. The latter half of the first experiment investigated the preference for glossiness in young children, using pictures of Santa Claus, half of which were glossy and the other half non-glossy. The children also significantly preferred glossy pictures over non-glossy pictures.

The second experiment tested whether the preference for glossiness was related to the content of the images presented on glossy paper. A random combination of four landscapes was provided to the participants, half printed on glossy paper and the other half on non-glossy paper. This was done to evaluate either the image’s content, the type of paper, or both. The type of paper influenced the responses of all respondents, and glossy images obtained a higher “liking” score. When the type of paper changed, all participants changed their preferences to the image on glossy paper, regardless of the participants’ previous choices and the depicted landscapes.8 The two experiments show that liking glossiness manifests before exposure to contemporary cultural stereotypes.

The longstanding affinity for gloss and luster is showcased well by the Aurignacian culture, which is marked by a greater diversification within toolmaking and artistic innovation. This culture spread from the Atlantic Coast to the Iranian Plateau and Western Eurasia and spanned from 43,000 to 30,000 years ago, during which Homo sapiens produced objects of artistic representation.

Luster is a common shared quality of the raw materials chosen by the Aurignacian to make personal ornaments.9 Such materials included ivory, soapstone, talc, chlorite, mother of pearl, amber, and even polished tooth enamel from adult human teeth. Ivory is lustrous when manipulated through polishing and was often found during this period, especially in the form of basket-shaped beads. Soapstone had no technological purpose and was not found anywhere before the Aurignacian culture, yet it was sourced from the faraway Pyrenees Mountains, presumably for its surface and visual appeal. Talc and chlorite have a soapy texture when polished, mother of pearl is shiny and iridescent, and the Aurignacian produced some of the oldest known amber pendants.

According to Randall White, early humans manipulated materials to create objects for visual pleasure, a phenomenon exemplified by the members of the Aurignacian culture who actively sought out and crafted objects with a lustrous sheen. Another example comes from the Blombos Cave in South Africa, which dates from 82,000 to 75,000 years ago. People here produced evidence regarding the preference for glossy textures even before the Aurignacian culture. An analysis of 28 bone tools from the cave identified three carefully polished points. The high polish gives a distinctive appearance to these artifacts, but the high shine has no apparent function and was likely done to give the points “added value.”10

In southwest France, excavations across multiple archaeological sites have uncovered polished, spherical gravels dating to the Upper Gravettian and Solutrean periods. These gravels have garnered interest because of their lustrous appearance and, in some instances, deliberate placement. The 2023 journal article “Multiproxy Analysis of Upper Paleolithic Lustrous Gravels Supports Their Anthropogenic Use” studied key sites such as Fourneau du Diable, Casserole, Pech de la Boissière, Laugerie Haute, and the Landry site, which was excavated in 2011.

Detailed analysis of these gravels confirms that their polished surfaces were intentional modifications. Experimental replication of the polishing process was done by tumbling gravels with animal skins or leather, ocher, and fat. In contrast, abrasion against silt from the Landy site did not produce the same results and ruled out environmental causes of weathering. Furthermore, the uniform amount or degree of shine on each archaeological gravel supported the hypothesis that they were deliberately selected, manipulated, and curated over time.

The high concentration of lustrous gravels in areas associated with domestic activities suggests that their placement was purposeful and meaningful within prehistoric communities. The deliberate selection and modification of these gravels indicate that during the Upper Paleolithic, humans actively pursued and valued lustrous surfaces. These findings align with the broader evidence of prehistoric humans’ appreciation of shiny surfaces.11

Throughout history, many ancient civilizations flourished on riverbanks and in river valleys, such as the Sumerians and the Indus Valley Civilization—reliable access to fresh water supported agriculture, trade, and large population growth. The evolutionary preference for both water and glossy surfaces remains evident in modern human behavior, as many modern cities are situated near water, and the pursuit of shine persists.

People are consistently drawn to landscapes featuring water in both reality and paintings. Children prefer paintings depicting water as a central element even at a young age, according to a study published in the Journal of Environmental Psychology in 1983.12 Real estate trends also reflect this bias, as homes with aquatic views, whether lakes, rivers, or oceans, are significantly more desirable and often valued at higher prices. A pair of studies published in 2010 investigating preferences in both natural and built environments showcased a strong preference for places incorporating aquatic features and a stronger willingness to book a hotel room with water views.13 Individuals also tend to associate water with positive memories, linking it to childhood experiences such as swimming and playing near streams.14

Author Wallace J. Nichols explores water as a “therapeutic landscape” in his book, Blue Mind, which analyzes studies that suggest being near water can have powerful effects on the human psyche.15 The book provides evidence that water generates a meditative state more powerful than hypnosis techniques and makes us healthier, happier, and more creative.

The association between glossiness and luxury is prevalent in modern marketing strategies. Research by Rui (Juliet) Zhu and Joan Meyers-Levy explores how display surfaces influence the perceptions of products from the consumers’ perspective. They demonstrated that the material beneath a product can alter how trendy, natural, or modern it appears. These results suggest that the glossiness of a store display, when comparing shiny glass versus wood, has a positive impact on the products displayed on it and increases the connotation of modernity.16

Water and our gravitation toward its associated textures have shaped our aesthetic preferences and many aspects of our material culture. The connection between survival, comfort, and glossy surfaces can be further leveraged in various design and mental health applications beyond aesthetics.

Understanding the evolutionary basis of the preference for symmetry, gloss, and luster can allow designers and mental health professionals to create environments that align with our deeply rooted preferences. As neuroscience continues to emerge in the design landscape, designers can use scientific advancements to create better designs that consider their impact and potential benefits on human emotions and psychology.

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This article was produced by Human Bridges.

Cover Image, Top Left: artellliii72, Pixabay

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1 Smail, Irene E.; Rector, Amy L.; Robinson, Joshua R.; et al. (2025). “Pliocene Climatic Change and the Origins of Homo at Ledi-Geraru, Ethiopia.” Annals of Human Biology. Vol. 52, No. 1.
2 Bobe, René, and Behrensmeyer, Anna K. (2004). “The Expansion of Grassland Ecosystems in Africa in Relation to Mammalian Evolution and the Origin of the Genus Homo.” Palaeogeography, Palaeoclimatology, Palaeoecology. Vol. 207, Issues 3-4, pp. 399-420.
3 Falk, Dean. (1990). “Brain Evolution in Homo: The ‘Radiator’ Theory.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences. Vol. 13, No. 2, pp. 333-344.
4 Coss, Richard Gerrit, and Keller, Craig. (2022). “Transient Decreases in Blood Pressure and Heart Rate With Increased Subjective Level of Relaxation While Viewing Water Compared With Adjacent Ground.” Journal of Environmental Psychology. Vol. 81, Issue 3.
5 Orians, Gordon H., and Heerwagen, Judith H. (1992). “Evolved Responses to Landscapes.” In Barkow, Jerome H.; Cosmides, Leda; and Tooby, John ( eds.), The Adapted Mind: Evolutionary Psychology and the Generation of Culture, pp. 555-579. Oxford University Press.
6 Coss, Richard G. (1990). “All that Glistens: Water Connotations in Surface Finishes.” Ecological Psychology. Vol. 2, No. 4, pp. 367-380.
7 Langlois, Judith H.; Roggman, Lori A.; and Rieser-Danner, Loretta (1990). “Infants’ Differential Social Responses to Attractive and Unattractive Faces.” Developmental Psychology. Vol. 26, No. 1, pp. 153-159.
8 Meert, Katrien, Pandelaere, Mario, and Patrick, Vanessa M. (2014). “Taking a Shine to It: How the Preference for Glossy Stems From an Innate Need for Water.” Journal of Consumer Psychology. Vol. 24, No. 2, pp. 195-206.
9 White, Randall. (2007). “Systems of Personal Ornamentation in the Early Upper Palaeolithic: Methodological Challenges and New Observations.” Rethinking the Human Revolution: New Behavioural and Biological Perspectives on the Origin and Dispersal of Modern Humans, pp. 287-302. McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research.
10 d’Errico, Francesco., and Henshilwood, Christopher S. (2007). “Additional Evidence for Bone Technology in the Southern African Middle Stone Age.” Journal of Human Evolution. Vol. 52, No. 2, pp. 142-163.
11 Geis, Lila; d’Errico, Francesco; Jordan, Fiona M.; et al. (2023). “Multiproxy Analysis of Upper Palaeolithic Lustrous Gravels Supports Their Anthropogenic Use.” PLOS One.
12 Zube, Ervin H.; Pitt, David G.; and Evans, Gary W. (1983). “A Lifespan Developmental Study of Landscape Assessment.” Journal of Environmental Psychology. Vol. 3, No. 2, pp. 115-128.
13 White, Mathew; Smith, Amanda; Humphryes, Kelly; et al. (2010). “Blue Space: The Importance of Water for Preference, Affect, and Restorativeness Ratings of Natural and Built Scenes.” Journal of Environmental Psychology. Vol. 30, Issue 4, pp. 482-493.
14 Waite, Sue. (2007). “‘Memories Are Made of This’: Some Reflections on Outdoor Learning and Recall.” Education. Vol. 35, No. 4, pp. 333-347.
15 Nichols, Wallace J. (2014). Blue Mind: The Surprising Science That Shows How Being Near, In, On, or Under Water Can Make You Happier, Healthier, More Connected, and Better at What You Do. Little, Brown.
16 Zhu, Rui (Juliet), and Meyers-Levy, Joan. (2009). “The Influence of Self-View on Context Effects: How Display Fixtures Can Affect Product Evaluations.” Journal of Marketing Research. Vol. 46, No. 1, pp. 37-45.

What Was It Like for Our Sapiens Ancestors to Meet and Mix With Cousin Species?

Deborah Barsky is a writing fellow for the Human Bridges, a researcher at the Catalan Institute of Human Paleoecology and Social Evolution, and an associate professor at the Rovira i Virgili University in Tarragona, Spain, with the Open University of Catalonia (UOC). She is the author of Human Prehistory: Exploring the Past to Understand the Future (Cambridge University Press, 2022).

Until now, at least 14 different species have been assigned to the genus Homo since it emerged in Ethiopia some 2.8 million years ago revealing branching evolutionary stories of survival, intermixing, and extinctions. Archaeology is increasingly allowing us to glimpse into one of those epochs, from 50,000 to 35,000 years ago—the period of transition between the Middle and the Upper Paleolithic eras when modern humans emerged as the last representative of our genus on the planet.

In 2017, new finds from the Jebel Irhoud site in Morocco were published, indicating that our species—H. sapiens—appeared on the scene as early as 300,000 years ago. Spreading into Eurasia l00,000 years later, these early anatomically modern humans rubbed shoulders with Neandertals and Denisovans, and may also have had encounters with five other distinct hominin populations that have only very recently been identified, including H. floresiensis, H. luzonensis, H. longi, and H. juluensis in Asia and Nesher Ramla Homo in the Levant.

Given what we know from historical events that chronicle human population exchanges through time, many archeologists question whether the “disappearances” of these other human lineages might have had anything to do with their coming into contact with modern humans.

Taking an example of human interactions that took place more than half a millennium ago helps us to understand how these interactions can deeply impact the human condition on multiple levels, many of which would be incomprehensible in the prehistoric archeological record without written documents.

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The people of Western Europe living in hierarchized social configurations had reached a stage of technological readiness that led them to innovate ways to sustain life over extended periods of seafaring. As a result, they came into contact with the great civilizations established in the precolonial Americas over hundreds of generations. Before this encounter, the millions of people who lived in the Americas were oblivious to the existence of Europeans who would build powerful empires on the ruins of their treasured territorial and cultural heritage.

The consequences of the ensuing exchanges were both cataclysmic and transformative. Notwithstanding their immeasurable human impact, this contact altered the course of animal demography and deeply affected the global distribution of countless species of plants and trees that the colonizing populations freely displaced and exploited to enrich their own countries. Against the backdrop of this extraordinary scenario was the unprecedented spread of bacterial, viral, and fungal assemblages that indelibly modified evolutionary systems established over millennia—decimating an estimated 90 percent of Indigenous populations in their wake soon after the consolidation of colonization.

While it is difficult for us to conceive the magnitude of global turbulence generated after this event, we know that it led to a new world order that used human slavery to build systems of unidirectional wealth distribution whose ramifications still resound today.

Written records provide information about this period of global turmoil that help us to build our understanding of complex events that occurred in the past. Thirty thousand years from now, how will the multilevel repercussions of this period of human history be reflected in the archeological record?

Unlike the chaotic shifts that rocked the world at the cusp of the European Renaissance, archeologists studying the remote past cannot rely on written accounts of how ancient population interactions played out. In retrospect, it should be pointed out that the decimation of the Indigenous peoples of the Americas involved exchanges among a single human species, whereas the transition from the Middle to the Upper Paleolithic involved human forms with distinct or even mosaic genetic, anatomic and sociocultural traits, with only one species remaining by around 35,000 years ago.

In conformity with the doctrines of their time, Europeans justified their actions by evoking cultural and racial differences that they believed made them superior to the populations they subjugated, while uneven levels of technological hegemony allowed them to consolidate domination.

Scientific results emanating from ancient genomics are shedding light on these paleo-interactions and painting a new picture of how humanity evolved, migrated, adapted, and reproduced during this key period of prehistory. Each individual’s genetic code is transcribed in the sequence of the base pairs composing the double-stranded helix of the DNA molecule carrying biological information passed on by reproduction. Discrete sections of a DNA strand are composed of the genes that define phenotypic (observable) and genotypic (hidden) traits defining a population. Throughout the world today, the human genetic code differs between individuals by only around 0.1 percent.

Under the right conditions, genetic data retrieved from ancient human fossils can be a powerful tool to study similarities and differences separating human lineages and is complementary to classical paleontological methods like Linnaean taxonomy and morphometric determination. Recent reconstructions of the genomic histories of fossil H. sapiens, Neandertals, and the Denisovans confirm not only that interspecific breeding took place but also that it produced fertile offspring, suggesting biological mixing played a role in the outcome of the modern human condition.

Having successfully occupied a huge territorial range stretching from the Levant to Western Europe and northward into Siberia for thousands of generations, our cousin species H. neanderthalensis is at the center of the enigma. The paleo-genetic data obtained from Neandertal fossils indicates a complex scenario with physical encounters taking place with modern humans between 65,000 and 47,000 years ago. Meanwhile, a Neandertal genetic inheritance of between 1 and 4 percent has been documented in present-day non-African populations, and gene flow from early modern humans to some Neandertals also took place as early as 100,000 years ago.

Analyzing genetic records from early modern humans living in Siberia and Central Europe 45,000-35,000 years ago revealed comparatively higher and relatively recent admixtures of Neandertal DNA, with these individuals believed to have contributed little to the gene pool of later European populations. In some cases, fossil human remains and their genomic signatures have even been found to display a mosaic of archaic and derived features, leading some paleoanthropologists to consider the possibility that Neandertals did not “disappear,” but rather, they were assimilated into a modern human clade developing in Eurasia at the time.

This raises the possibility of an ancestral population of anatomically modern humans that migrated out of Africa and subsequently underwent speciation as they spread into the ecologically diverse regions of Eurasia, where they evolved locally into diverse groups that occasionally interbred with one another, producing fertile offspring. From the Darwinian viewpoint, the decrease in Neandertal DNA genetic sequences shows that they were not selected in the natural evolutionary process that gave way to modern humans.

To explore this puzzling scenario, some archeologists turn to the cultural record left behind by these ancient human groups. Specific methods applied to study human-made artifacts are used to link them to predefined stages of techno-social evolution traditionally equated with distinct cultural complexes. Since the early 20th century, prehistorians have ascribed these cultural entities to different types of humans. But the apparent inter-specific mixing evidenced by the genetic data and the emergence of H. sapiens far earlier than previously thought have contributed to changing this traditional human-culture equation.

Once conveyed as brutish and primitive, Neandertals were alleged to have been incapable of matching the relatively “advanced” esthetic and technological capacities of their modern human counterparts. But this premise has also changed with new data demonstrating that Neandertals lived in socially advanced groups, that they appear to have practiced some form of art and body ornamentation, and that they intentionally buried their dead, suggesting powerful symbolic and even ritual practices.

So what do the artifacts tell us about the transitional period that saw the replacement of H. neanderthalensis by H. sapiensA number of archeological sites preserve a record of this transitional phase, with Middle Paleolithic layers yielding the so-called Mousterian artifacts made from prepared stone cores attributed to Neandertals, overlain by strata containing Upper Paleolithic stone blades or bladelets attributed to H. sapiens. The blade industries attributed to modern humans are also associated with finely crafted bone, ivory, and antler artifacts, shell beads, ochre, and diverse forms of figurative art.

Using detailed technological and typological criteria, archeologists further subdivide these cultural complexes, refining the cultural groupings to reconstruct a chrono-cultural framework reflecting human population turnover in time and space. Because only one species of Homo lived during the Upper Paleolithic (after around 35,000 years ago), changes observed in the tool kits are thought to reflect different traditions, rather than different hominins. These shifts are attributed to multiple factors, including cultural transmission through inter-populational contact. However, since multiple species of Homo were present during the Middle Paleolithic, cultural change is often thought to signal the disappearance of one lineage and its replacement by another.

This begs the question: Do we observe a gradual or an abrupt transition from one phase to the next?

If modern humans and Neandertals were interbreeding, then we might assume that they could also have exchanged cultural and technological know-how. This means that we might anticipate finding some blending of cultural evidence, just as we might expect to find hominin fossils with intermediate anatomical traits.

Still, in most cases, the different cultural complexes defined for the Upper Paleolithic—generally beginning with the Early or Proto-Aurignacian cultures—appear sequentially above the Middle Paleolithic deposits, without intermixing of technological, typological, or stylistic features. Paradoxically, what we now know to have been a long period of contact between Neandertals and modern humans is not clearly reflected in the cultural materials found in the archeological record.

But there are some intriguing exceptions. In Western and Central Europe, the Near East, and Siberia, where these intra-specific exchanges are being validated by paleo-genomics and comparative anatomy in several archeological sites, the “intermediary” cultural scenarios are also becoming clearer. In some cases, transitional assemblages with elements inherited from the Middle Paleolithic combine with tools conveying innovative features commonly attributed to the Upper Paleolithic.

For now, there is little consensus about which hominin was responsible for making these “transitional” took kits in the timeframe that witnessed the disappearance or assimilation of the Neandertals and resulted in the ultimate domination of H. sapiens. Further research is needed to clarify humanity’s complex evolutionary history that—in the 3 million years since the emergence of Homo—has only been condensed into a single representative species since around 35,000 years ago.

When we compare this prehistoric chronicle to a transformative historical event for which we have a rich body of written information, we can see how huge revolutions can take place swiftly, almost imperceptibly, on the geological time scale. As archeologists discover more about the transitions in time that led us to where we are today, the subtleties of the complex biocultural mixing nascent to the contemporary globalization of our species are being revealed.

Cover Image, Top Left: ArtSpark, Pixabay

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This article was produced by Human Bridges.

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How Mesopotamia’s Urban and Industrial Revolution Started Politics as We Know It Today

Michael Hudson is an American economist, a professor of economics at the University of Missouri–Kansas City, and a researcher at the Levy Economics Institute at Bard College. He is a former Wall Street analyst, political consultant, commentator, and journalist. You can read more of Hudson’s economic history on the Observatory.

Archaeologist and scholar Giorgio Buccellati’s book At the Origins of Politics describes how Mesopotamia’s urban revolution in the late fourth millennium BC shaped a new mentality. The segmentation and specialization of industrial production required written recordkeeping, standardization of weights and measures, and surveying and allocation of land planning. This inherent logic of handicraft production and its related organization of trade and market exchange, especially with the palace and temple institutions, led to new forms of social interaction, with the state and its laws and religion consolidating the new managerial hierarchies.

I met Buccellati in 1994 at the first of what would become a decade-long series of Harvard-based colloquia to compile an economic history of the Bronze Age Near Eastern origins of money and interest, land tenure, and its public obligations. Since these innovations were shaped largely by relations with the temples and palaces, our group started by focusing on just what it meant to be public or private.

It was fairly clear what “privatization” meant, but calling the palace or temples “public” was problematic. Royal price schedules for grain, silver, and other key commodities applied only to transactions with these large institutions, which were corporately distinct from the rest of the economy where prices were free to vary. Hammurabi’s laws focused on the relations between the palatial sector and the family-based economy on the land, which followed its own common law tradition for wergild-like personal offenses and other legal problems not involving the palace. How far beyond the palace did the state extend?

Buccellati’s paper focused on a broader philosophical idea of “public” as referring to the overall system of social and economic organization: “The dichotomy between public and private is coterminous with the origin of the city.”1 As he points out in At the Origins of Politics: “The increased size of the settlements created a critical mass, whereby face-to-face association no longer was possible among each member of the social group.” The relationship was political. “On the etymological level, the terms ‘urbanism’ and ‘politics’ are equivalent, given that they both derive from the word for ‘city’ in Latin and Greek respectively.” His term “state-city” emphasizes the overall political and administrative context.

He views industrialization as the economic dimension of the urban revolution that occurred in the late fourth millennium BC. The scale and social complexity of mining (or trading for metal) and metallurgy, beer-making, and weaving involved increasingly impersonal relationships as industrial organizations created products beyond the ability of individuals to make by themselves. The evolution was from direct personal contact to being part of a long, specialized chain.

Describing this takeoff as the first Axial Age, Buccellati explains how economic and social relations had been transformed over the 50,000-year evolution from small Paleolithic groups to urban industrial production, trade, and property relations. The technology and administration of production transformed the character of labor and what Buccellati calls para-perceptual thought. The moral principles of mutual aid, group solidarity, protection of the needy, and basic rights to means of self-support were retained from pre-urban practice but were administered on the state level.

“The state was never able to eliminate or even ignore the people… political ideology became a way for the leadership to justify itself in front of the base,” bolstered by religious attitudes to popularize an “Ideology of Control… the ideology of command, of leadership not necessarily based on coercive means.” Even in the face of “ever-increasing gaps in prestige and economic ability,” the rhetoric of kingship promoted “a sense of solidarity that transcends the limit of reciprocal face-to-face recognition.”

For the king, the aim was to make “submission not just tolerable but actually desirable.” That enabled Mesopotamian rule to be personal and indeed dynastic. “The king was not just the most powerful private individual; he embodied a distinct organism.” Kings were described as serving heaven, as reflected in Hammurapi’s stele depicting him presenting his laws to the god of justice, Shamash (or in some interpretations, receiving them from Shamash).

“The private model was thus superimposed from scratch on the public one,” merging the state and religion as every new king pointed to his ancestors as if this meant continuity of the law. The principle of kings being hereditary was accepted “without ever being formulated in theoretical terms.”

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From Living in a State of Nature to a Stratified Managerial Order

Buccellati describes production as evolving from interpersonal and small scale to institutional and large scale. He describes how Paleolithic hunters and gatherers met their needs by using what they found in nature. They napped flints to make spear points and cutting tools, and wove plant fibers to make clothing, baskets, and other artifacts, but these materials were as they found them. And personal wealth took the form of shells or other objects found in nature. However, the increasing complexity of industrial organization transformed the character of producers in that they ceased to have face-to-face relations with the users of the objects they made. Products evolved increasingly beyond objects found in nature, and also beyond the ability of single individuals to make them as they required chains of transformation via metallurgy and manufacturing.

Although Buccellati does not focus on land tenure, money, and credit in this volume, his analytic schema of the transition from “nature” to man-made institutional structures suggests how land and credit relations evolved along similar lines, from informal and spontaneous to formal and standardized. If there was an archaic relationship with the land, it was for an Indigenous tribe to claim territory as belonging to itself for hunting and gathering and for ceremonial or religious functions.

Most exchange was domestic, taking the form of reciprocal gifts, often of the same food types simply as a means of binding groups together in the spirit of mutual aid. But artifacts were traded among Indigenous communities already in the Ice Age, from one tribal group to another, sometimes passed along over long distances.

Gathering places for such exchange existed already in the Ice Age, often at river crossings or natural meeting points. These would have been seasonal sites, with chieftains responsible for keeping the lunisolar calendar to time when to travel to such spots. If anything, such gathering places were the opposite of the later city that Buccellati describes. The idea was to prevent any one group from dominating others or restricting territorial control. The result was akin to the amphictyonic centers of classical antiquity, neutral zones set aside from political cities and rivalries, with careful equality of participants as a condition for amicable relations.

Deities often were trees, woods, or natural rock formations such as those that survived in Germanic religion into the first millennium of our era, and Japan’s Shinto religion. Lunar and solar deities were part of an astronomical cosmology reflecting the rhythms of nature. By the Bronze Age, gods took on the role of patrons of social authority and justice as urbanization transformed the natural environment.

Technology enabled the production of new shapes and “artifacts that have no analogy in nature.” Mud bricks became standardized to build walls. “Stone is no longer seen as an adaptation of pre-existing forms” but was shaped to produce new building structures. Fire played an important role in controlling the environment, not only to cook food but also to bake mud bricks and harden ceramics, and to refine metal from ores and make alloys such as bronze to produce tools, weapons, and other implements. The potter’s wheel and spindles for weaving were developed, and a managerial class came into being as manufacturing such products required increasingly complex organization, from producers and traders to armies.

The Neolithic agricultural revolution saw the standardization of land, allotted to community members in lots sufficient to support their families, with proportional obligations attached—obliging their holders to serve in the army and provide seasonal corvée labor on communal building projects.

These obligations were what defined land tenure rights. That created a strict relationship with the emerging urban centers that transformed “the village as it existed in prehistory… in the sense of autonomous villages that found an end in themselves. … Agricultural or manufactured production did not have as its end point the village, but rather and especially the urban markets.” Rural villages became part of the city, and local conflicts were settled by traveling urban judges.

Monetization of Exchange Between the Rural and Urban Centers

Money evolved as part of the valuation dimension of exchange. Anthropologists studying surviving Indigenous communities have found that artifacts typically are valued for their rarity or lineage of ownership. In archaic times such objects were often buried with their wearers, having become part of their personal identity. In time, they took a proto-monetary signification of esteem. But it was in southern Mesopotamia that money became formalized as a measure of valuation, simultaneously for domestic agrarian and industrial exchange—mainly for grain and wool—and for foreign trade. In both cases, the palace and temples played a key role. A standardized measure of value was needed for the economy’s own industrial and institutional functioning, not merely for personal decoration and status.

Foreign trade was necessary to obtain raw materials not found in the region’s river-deposited soil. Copper and tin were the key metals that were needed, the alloy of which gave its name to the Bronze Age (3500-1200 BC), but silver was adopted as the main measure of value for palace transactions and those of entrepreneurs, presumably because of its role in religious symbolism. Silver and other commodities were obtained by a mercantile class of entrepreneurs, whose major customers were the palace and temples, which also supplied most of the textiles being exported.

The largest categories of debts and fiscal obligations were inter-sectoral, owed by citizens on the land and mercantile entrepreneurs to the palace sector and its temples. The seasonal character of agriculture made credit necessary to bridge the gap between planting and harvesting, to be paid on the threshing floor when the crop was in. Grain served as the main domestic agrarian measure of value and the medium for paying agrarian debts.

The palace and temples integrated their economic accounts by setting the silver mina and shekel that denominated the value of commodities obtained in foreign trade (and consignments of what was exchanged for them) as equal to corresponding measures of grain, while dividing the relevant measures into 60ths to facilitate the allocation of food and raw materials based on the 30-day administrative month used by the large institutions.

The resulting monetary system of account-keeping for credit and fiscal collection was part of a broader economic context in which standardized weights and measures were used to quantify and calculate the various magnitudes of the inputs required by the large institutions for producing commodities in their workshops, along with the amounts of the charges, fees, and rents payable to the institutions and fiscal collectors.

The surplus grain rent paid to the large institutions supported dependent labor in the weaving and handicraft workshops. Commodities no longer were made by individual craftpersons known to the users, but by many, whose identities were institutional and hence collective and impersonal as far as the buyers or users were concerned. The workforce consisted largely of war widows and orphans, and also slaves captured from the mountains surrounding Mesopotamia. (A typical word for slave was “mountain girl.”)

The textiles woven by this labor were consigned to merchants to act as intermediaries between the large institutions or the growing class of private estate holders and foreign purchasers. Interest charges (usually equal to the original loan value for consignments of five years) served as a means for consigners and backers to obtain their share of the gain that merchants were expected to make on their trade.

Bucellati shows how the urban revolution’s “evolutionary process in motion” to transform society and with it “the very nature of human existence.” The development of writing, for instance, had a deep effect in transforming thought processes, much as the creation of languages had served to “externalize thought.” It enabled the communication of ideas to others without having to rely on memory.

Originally used by the eighth millennium BC to oversee and quantify trade and exchange transactions, it came to be used for accounting and credit, and increasingly to preserve, arrange and order thoughts, public announcements, treaties, poetry, and laws. The written word became a new medium for thought. Buccellati describes this “reification of thought” as part of the “removal from nature.” That was part of the evolving uniformity that spread from the production of commodities to shape the overall social order.

Debt Strains Lead Rulers to Protect Their Economies From Polarizing

Industry and entrepreneurial foreign trade concentrated control and wealth in the hands of managers and “big men.” Their economic gains caused a wealthy class to emerge, initially within the large institutions, with credit being used to pry labor away from palace control. Creditor claims on indebted cultivators accumulated, largely at the institutional level of landholders, merchant-creditors, and also ale-women, whose customers ran up tabs for their beer, to be settled at “payday” on the threshing floor when crops were harvested.

It was inevitable that strains would develop as a result of the rising role of credit and debt relations, especially in times of flooding or crop failure. As rent and other payment arrears and interest charges mounted up, private lending (often by royal or temple officials acting on their own account) became the major initial way to obtain the labor of debtors, by requiring them to work off their debts. That prevented cultivators from performing the stipulated corvée and military service that they owed in exchange for their land tenure rights.

The result was a threefold conflict: first, creditors against debtors; second, creditors against the palace over the appropriation of labor via debt bondage; and third, the assertion of creditor power against traditional communal moral ideas of equity and mutual aid. Archaic communities traditionally sought to minimize economic inequality, perceiving much personal wealth as being achieved by exploiting others, above all by indebting them. By the third millennium, indebted cultivators faced the threat of being disenfranchised, losing their personal freedom and self-support land through foreclosure.

As Buccellati observed in our 1994 colloquium royal protection of homesteaders, canceling the overgrowth of personal debt resulted “more from a concern for the public domain than as a phenomenon of privatization.” Rulers from the third millennium BC onward protected palace claims on the labor of their citizens from being disrupted by debt strains of the type to which subsequent Western civilization has succumbed. Sumerian rulers made sure that these strains would not be permanent because that would have been at the expense of the palace’s own requirements for corvée and military service from agrarian debtors.

Buccellati pertinently notes that three main considerations shaped Near Eastern public laws: “the concept of rules, the sense of justice, [and] the decisive moments in resolving conflict.” Hammurapi’s “code” was simply a collection of judgments, but his andurarum proclamations were enforced by the courts to cancel personal debts (but not mercantile debts), liberate bondservants (but not slaves), and redistribute self-support land (but not townhouses) that had been forfeited to creditors or sold under economic duress. These Clean Slates were the most basic royal administrative acts of Mesopotamian rulers from Sumerian times onward. They were the moral pillar of the state.

The Mesopotamian State Solved the Debt Problem That Western Civilization Has Not

Buccellati sees the transformation of production, economic control, and ways of perceiving and thinking about one’s place in society as progressing toward a geopolitical peak with the Assyrian Empire. What enabled and made this sustained achievement so successful were royal laws to regularly restore economic balance on a system-wide level. Clean Slate proclamations prevented a creditor oligarchy from emerging to rival palace claims on the labor and crop surpluses of citizens on the land. In this respect, the distinction between financial and industrial gain-seeking—and the socially destructive character of usury and creditor self-interest—was recognized already in the third millennium BC in the Hymn to Shamash, the Akkadian god of justice (lines 103-106):

What happens to the loan shark who invests his resources at the (highest) interest rate?

He will lose his purse just as he tries to get the most out of it.

But he who invests in the long term will convert one measure of silver into three.

He pleases Shamash and will enrich his life.2

Buccellati rightly states that “We are the heirs of Mesopotamian perception and political experience.” Modern civilization, however, has retrogressed from the Bronze Age Mesopotamian achievement of avoiding deepening financial and economic imbalance. He notes that modern society defines property as being alienable, but in the West securing property rights always has entailed the “right” to forfeit it to creditors or sell under duress—irreversibly. That has been the case ever since Near Eastern commercial and credit practices were brought to the Aegean and Mediterranean lands in the first millennium BC.

The West has adopted the basic economic practices invented in the fourth and third millennia BC, but not the economically protective measures that rulers took to annul the buildup of creditor claims to reverse the increase in debt bondage and loss of land by debtors. That decontextualization is what in my view makes the West “Western.”

Bronze Age Near Eastern practice was so different from the Western worldview that most modern historians resist recognizing and appreciating the relevance of the region’s takeoff in the fourth and third millennia BC. Indeed, today’s anti-state economic ideology denies that money and industrial enterprise could have been innovated by what Buccellati calls the state, that is, the palatial authority.

This ideology obscures a great question posed for the West: How is it that Near Eastern “divine kingship” achieved what Western democracy has failed to do: check the emergence of a creditor rent-seeking oligarchy, which in classical antiquity would strip the Greek, Italian, and other populations of their means of self-support that had formed the basis of economic liberty for the first 3,000 years of the Mesopotamian takeoff that this book so comprehensively describes.

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1. Buccellati, Giorgio, “The Role of Socio-Political Factors in the Emergence of ‘Public’ and ‘Private’ Domains in Early Mesopotamia,” in Hudson, Michael and Levine, Baruch (eds.), Privatization in the Ancient Near East and Classical Antiquity (Cambridge, Mass: Peabody Museum [Harvard], 1996):131.

2. In Giorgio Buccellati, “When on High the Heavens…”: Mesopotamian Religion and Spirituality with Reference to the Biblical World (London, 2024):194, citing Reiner, Erica, Your Thwarts in Pieces, Your Mooring Rope Cut: Poetry from Babylonia and Assyria (Ann Arbor, 1985): 68-84, and W.G. Lambert, W.G., Babylonian Wisdom Literature (Oxford, 1960): 122-138.

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This text is adapted from Michael Hudson’s foreword to At the Origins of Politics by Giorgio Buccellati, and this excerpt was produced by Human Bridges.

Cover Image, Top Left: Markuk and Mesopotamia. MythologyArt, Pixabay

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Are we still primitive? How ancient survival instincts shape modern power struggles

Taylor & Francis Group—The evolutionary roots of human dominance and aggression remain central to social and political behavior, and without conscious intervention these primal survival drives will continue to fuel inequality and division.

These are the arguments of a medical professor who, as global conflicts rise and democracies face growing challenges, says understanding how dominance and tribal instincts fuel division is more critical than ever.

In A New Approach to Human Social Evolution, Professor Jorge A. Colombo MD, PhD explores neuroscience, anthropology, and behavioral science to provide a new perspective on human social evolution.*

He argues that fundamental behavioral drives – such as dominance, survival instincts, and competition – are hardwired into our species and continue to shape global politics, economic inequality, and social structures today. Without a conscious effort to counteract these instincts, we risk perpetuating the cycles of power struggles, inequality, and environmental destruction that define much of human history.

“In an era marked by rising authoritarianism, economic inequality, environmental crises, and nationalism, understanding how ancient survival mechanisms continue to shape human behavior is crucial,” he explains. “With increasing polarization in politics, conflicts over resources, and the struggle for social justice, I contend that only through education and universal values can humanity transcend these instincts to foster a more sustainable and equitable society.”

Professor Colombo, who is a former Full Professor at the University of South Florida (USA) and Principal Investigator at the National Research Council (CONICET, Argentina), explains how current human behaviour evolved based on an ancient heritage of animal drives which has been progressively built and placed into practice— grounded on survival, social gain, and profit— and is compressed to our basic neural systems and basic survival behavioral construction.

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When humans shifted from prey to universal predator, it affected the organization of the human brain, he argues. However, the human species also had to contend with the notion of mortality, and so in our core neural circuits (mainly in the basal brain) survive our basal drives (reproductive, territorial, survival, feeding), basic responses (fight, flight), and the thresholds for their behavioural expression.

Over time, he explains, thanks to the brain’s plasticity, it has added a neurobiological scaffolding on top of our animal drives, allowing for the emergence of traits such as creativeness, cognitive expansion, artistic expression, progressive toolmaking, and rich verbal communication.

Nevertheless, he argues, these traits did not deactivate or suppress those ancient drives and only succeeded in diverting (camouflaging) their expression or repressing them temporarily.

He argues that humans are bound to their ancestral demands imprinted as a set of basic drives (territorialism, reproduction, survival, secure feeding sources, dominance, and cumulative behaviour), which exist in friction with our cultural drives.

“Ancient animal survival drives persist in humans, masked under various behavioural paradigms. Fight and flight remain basic behavioural principles. Even subdued under religious or mystic beliefs, aggressive and defensive behaviours emerge to defend or fight for even the most sophisticated peaceful beliefs, and events throughout humankind’s history support this evidence,” he explains.

He points to examples of dominance in politics (military oppression, propaganda, or financial repression), religion (punishing gods, esoteric menaces), and education (forms of punishment and thought process conditioning).

However, dominance exerted through political, economic, social class, or military power adds privileged structures to social construction, Colombo argues.

As a dominant species with evolved cultural and technological strategies, it has resulted in the over-exploitation of natural resources, the development of arms of massive destruction, strategies to foster massive consumerism, and political means to manipulate public opinion, which also, in turn, create poverty, deprivation, marginalization, and oppression.

He argues that without education and the promotion of universal values involving individual opportunities to evolve and protect the environment, more communities will become undernourished, impoverished, and without access to primary healthcare or adequate education for the continuous changes in the modern world.

He points to AI as an example of a growing, uneven educational gap that would reinforce socioeconomic disparity and social inequality. He argues that people should proactively create policies to work towards a viable, multicultural, equitable humanity and an ecologically sustainable planet.

“The aggressiveness, cruelties, social inequities, and unrelenting individual and socioeconomic class ambitions are the best evidence that humans must first recognize and assume their fundamental nature to change their ancestral drive,” he suggests. “Profound cultural changes are only possible and enduring if humans come to grips with their actual primary condition.”

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Article Source: Taylor & Francis Group news release

Image, Top Left: Hansuan_Fabrigas, Pixabay

How We Distribute Power Will Influence Our Future

Professor of anthropology (emerita) at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Carole Crumley is a founding scientist of the research strategy termed historical ecology. Her key concept of heterarchy is now applied to studies of societal and environmental change. She is the director of the Integrated History and Future of People on Earth (IHOPE) initiative, a global network of researchers based at Sweden’s Uppsala University that unites the biophysical and social sciences and community voices to build a livable future.

Power in human societies is often viewed as hierarchical, meaning that it’s tiered and ranked. This view doesn’t fully capture the complexity of how power is managed in different cultures. Some societies are not strictly hierarchical but heterarchical, where power is distributed among various groups or individuals who work together without a clear ranking. There is ample evidence for the existence of heterarchy for a variety of forms of social and political power, including in the archaeological record.1

Historically, the idea that more complex societies are superior to simpler ones has justified racism, colonialism, and domination. However, research conducted since the end of the 20th century increasingly shows that all human societies are fluid and interconnected, with power often shared among different groups.

Understanding these power dynamics helps us see how societies change over time. For example, when an elite group loses control of trade, new power structures may emerge, such as guilds or associations. These changes affect the entire society and can lead to more distributed power and democratic institutions.

The combined study of heterarchy and hierarchy allows us to trace how societies adapt and respond to challenges. It shows that power can shift and evolve into new forms of social organizations that help societies survive and thrive, even if they may face new tensions or conflicts later.

A Closer Look At Authority Structures

Heterarchies are self-organizing systems in which elements engage and affect one another. In the context of social systems, the relative power of groups can change based on the situation, which often depends on the degree of communication and collaboration among entities with different sources of power. When power is consolidated in a society by merging distinct entities (for example, religious, political, or economic) into a single, tightly controlled system (hyper-hierarchy or hypercoherence), there is less flexibility in dealing with surprise.2

The term polity is preferred to include the gamut of political organizations. Keep in mind that no polities are entirely hierarchical or heterarchical but instead are diverse and have changing packages of governance. For example, some organizations (armies, police, and firefighters) are necessarily quite hierarchical to clarify chains of command but can serve a polity in which all citizens have free access to health care.

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Hierarchical Polities

Administrators in strong hierarchies (authoritarian states, oligarchies, and hyper-hierarchies) have several advantages. Due to a clear decision-making chain, they respond well to fast-developing crises (such as a military attack or insurrection). Because the rules and responsibilities are familiar, political interactions among decision-makers are fewer and more formalized, and political maintenance of the system is low. Administrative hierarchies are equipped with powerful security forces that can successfully defend the state perimeter and suppress internal dissent.

Polities that are strongly hierarchical are at a disadvantage, however, because data-gathering techniques, tied to the pyramidal decision-making framework, slow or stop the arrival of important information (especially subversive activity) at the apex of the pyramid. This necessitates the formalization and elaboration of internal security forces. Decisions are not necessarily popular; dissatisfaction is high and there must be considerable investment in coercion or propaganda. This also leads to high security costs. An example of this can be seen in most military dictatorships. In Chile under Augusto Pinochet, for example, the regime held onto power through the systematic suppression of opposition parties and the persecution of dissidents.

Heterarchical Polities

Administrators in polities with a strong heterarchical organization receive good quality information from many sources within and outside the decision-making lattice. In general, decisions are fair and reflect popular consensus. Decision-makers hear of a variety of solutions to problems. Because heterarchies are more likely to value the contributions of disparate segments of the community (ethnic groups and women, for example), their society is better integrated and the workforce is proud and energized.

Heterarchical polities are at a disadvantage because consensus is slow to achieve. Decision-makers must engage with constituents, requiring considerable time, energy, and constant maintenance. The cacophonous voices and choices a decision-maker hears complicate the search for workable solutions. The greater the groups’ involvement and trust in the system, the greater the possibility of consensus, but the response time is slower, and long-range planning is more difficult.

Trade-offs

Heterarchies value spontaneity, flexibility, and a definition of state power that involves balancing diverse elements. Individuals gain status through merit (rather than through inheritance or loyalty). State power should be used to improve citizens’ safety and well-being. Hierarchies, by contrast, value rule-based authority, rigid class lines linked to ascribed as well as achieved status and rank, a control definition of state power, and once achieved, the status quo. State democracies exhibit characteristics of both, which explains in part why they are more stable than authoritarian states.

Key Issues for Future Research

In all societies, the power of various individuals and factions fluctuates relative to changing circumstances. Today, as resources worldwide are being depleted and environmental conditions deteriorate, new ways to stabilize societies and reduce conflict must be found. One of the most important conditions for reducing conflict is to ensure inclusive and equitable conditions for everyone, particularly as regards food and water security, personal and group safety, and a satisfying quality of life.

In human societies, heterarchy is a corrective to power theories that conflate hierarchy with (civil) order, thereby creating a conundrum: will you submit and be safe or resist at your peril? To reenvision an equitable future for humankind, there must be a means to conceptualize and evaluate shifts between exclusive and inclusive power relations in diverse spatial and temporal scales and contexts. There must also be a way to assess the implications of each type of relationship in terms of how beneficial it is to society and how suitable it is for the future.

Created in the process of building nation-states around the globe, analytic tools that measure efficiency illuminate only hierarchical political, economic, and social forms and ignore the stabilizing power of heterarchical forms; in this way, hyper-hierarchical and other inherently unstable forms of wealth distribution and political power accumulate. The controlling model of hierarchy-as-order, ubiquitous and all but invisible, exacerbates growing tensions.

Bioarchaeology as a Window to Political Relationships

Public policies, systems of exchange, subsistence strategies, and social roles structure how people obtain resources and how they experience the result of toil and violence. Bioarchaeology (the scientific study of biological remains from archaeological sites) and genomics have become invaluable to the study of early political relationships.

It is now possible to reconstruct many aspects of an individual’s life by extracting DNA and evaluating trauma in human remains. In addition to much more reliable identification of sex and age at death, we can now know the region where a person was born, if they traveled widely or emigrated to another region, and we can find clues to what they ate, the kind of work they did, and how they were treated. Together these pieces of information can form a picture of life as lived, marking stressful and tranquil periods that the person and/or the group survived.

These new tools produce reliable determinations of historic risk and vulnerability across various scales, from the individual level to large populations. While community-wide governance in smaller-sized groups is no surprise, this was also seen in cooperative states, regions, and urban agglomerations (Callejón de Huaylas/Requay, central Thailand, Mimbres, Tiawanaku, and Marroquíes) and even empires (Xianbei and Genghis Khan’s Mongols) that were collaboratively organized.3

Future Thinking

This is important information for the human future: the old paradigm that asserted competition and conflict to be the primary motors of civilization can now be reconsidered. In the course of human history, societies engaged in cooperative activities that advanced their well-being, and they also fell into conflict or under the rule of tyrants. If we begin with the premise that the tension between competition and cooperation exists in all human societies, it then behooves us to explore the ways rules and norms permit or deny each other, and how both interact with history and changing conditions to forge institutions.4

The political climates of the past demonstrate that human accomplishment is not on a rising staircase culminating in the state; instead, we find a long history of diverse experiments and their results, to which we now have access. In the contemporary world, we face an important question: How can the equity and effectiveness of coalitions, federations, leagues, unions, and communities in societies of all sizes help us construct and strengthen societies of the future?

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1 Angelbeck, Bill and Grier, Colin. (2012). “Anarchism and the Archaeology of Anarchic Societies.” Current Anthropology 53(5): 547-587.

Chapman, Robert. (2003). Archaeologies of Complexity. London, Routledge.

Ehrenreich, Robert M.; Crumley, C.L.; and Levy, Janet E. (eds.) (1995). “Heterarchy and the Analysis of Complex Societies.” Archaeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association no. 6. Washington, D.C.: American Anthropological Association.

Kohring, Sheila, Wynne-Jones, Stephanie (2007). Socialising Complexity: Approaches to Power and Interaction in the Archaeological Record. Oxford: Oxbow Books.

Souvatzi, Stella G. (2008). A Social Archaeology of Households in Neolithic Greece: An Anthropological Approach. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

2 Piketty, Thomas. (2014). Capital in the Twenty-First Century. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press.

3 Becker, Sara K. and Juengst, Sara L. (eds.) (2020). “Cooperative Bodies: Bioarchaeologists Address Nonranked Societies.” Vital Topics Forum, American Anthropologist 122 (4).

Thurston, T.L., and Fernández-Götz, Manuel (eds.) (2021). Power from Below in Premodern Societies: The Dynamics of Political Complexity in the Archaeological Record. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

4 Chapman, Robert (2003). Archaeologies of Complexity. London: Routledge

Cover Image, Top Left: MetsikGarden, Pixabay

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This article was produced by Human Bridges.

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A Hunter’s Hypothesis: Ancient Mammoth-Bone Circles Were Smokehouses

It was a remarkable discovery. In March of 2020, the journal Antiquity published a research paper detailing the analysis by a team from the University of Exeter, University of Cambridge, Kostenki State Museum Preserve, University of Colorado Boulder and the University of Southampton, of what has been referred to as a mammoth-bone circle located at the village of Kostenki, 500 km south of Moscow in the Russian Plains. Dated to 20,000 BP, it is now considered the oldest known circular structure of mostly mammoth bones like this built by humans in present-day Ukraine and the west Russian Plain. So far, 70 such structures have been discovered in the region. While most of the bones at the Kostenki site consisted of a total of 51 mammoth lower jaws and 64 mammoth skulls used to construct the 30ft by 30ft wall structure, with other mammoth bones scattered within its interior, site investigators also found bones of reindeer, horse, bear, wolf, red fox and arctic fox. They also recovered more than 300 stone and flint chips—debris created from knapping stone nodules into sharp tools that could be used for tasks like butchering animals and scraping hides. 

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The Kostenki mammoth-bone circle remains as can be seen within the museum. Владислав Тищенко, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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Mammoth bones at Kostenki (detail). evatutin, CC BY-SA 3.0, Wikimedia Commons

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Why were these structures built?

Archaeologists have advanced several possible explanations, ranging from habitation to places used for community activity and ritual/religious practices. None of them offer a slam-dunk interpretation of their purpose.

Enter here John Gleissner, a retired attorney, writer, history buff, and deer/meat hunter for 40 years, who undertook an extensive study of the available evidence for mammoth hunting by prehistoric humans. His conclusory hypothesis:

The mammoth-bone circles were actually smokehouses.

Hunting experience and meat processing of wild game allowed me to see the practical aspects missed by a large number of archaeologists,” says Gleissner. “Many archaeologists failed to recognize the practical aspects of meat science, carcass transportation, and the accumulation of so much bone and so many tusks in these isolated locations”. Gleissner continues, “The hunters only had two basic options to bring the raw meat directly to a form for immediate consumption or, at their discretion, stored for future consumption. One of those options was dried, tough, stringy fully dried meat strips, and the other was to smoke larger pieces and retain some moisture.”

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According to his suggestion, which he calls the Smokehouse Hypothesis, the Paleolithic hunters killed mammoths in the beds of the rivers, floated the carcasses down to a location near their settlements located on promontories above the rivers, butchered the mammoths, and then took the meat to smokehouses they constructed on promontories above the rivers to smoke, cure and store. Each mammoth could produce two to three metric tons of raw meat, which had to be processed at one time.

“River transport of the carcasses is the only way that many skulls, tusks, bones, and meat could be brought to a single location,” Gleissner maintains.

Moreover, if Gleissner’s hypothesis can be supported through further study, the Paleolithic hunters may have used what could be one of the earliest forms of cold-smoking—the food preservation technique that involves exposing food to smoke at a low temperature without cooking it. 

Archaeologist Dr. Ran Barkai of Tel Aviv University encouraged and supported, with literature, Mr. Gleissner’s research. “Archaeologists found many artifacts consistent with smokehouses in the smokehouse floors,” continued Gleissner, “and we are indebted to them for all their research.”

“Smokehouses included mammoth-bone circles, large oval smokehouses, and long smokehouses,” he added. “The most telling clues are nine (9) hearths arranged in a line around a structure matching that arrangement, with the line along a precise NW/SE axis. Back in Dolni-Vestonice (an Upper Paleolithic archaeological site near the village of Dolní Věstonice in the South Moravian Region of the Czech Republic), [for example] some of the floors of the smokehouses had 80 to 100 cm of ash forming the floors”.

Gleissner emphasizes the importance of terrain, hunting site advantages, and that all the mammoth-bone circle settlements were directly above navigable rivers. In a more detailed research manuscript, he details the bulk work efficient “production line” from first observing mammoths to consumption of smoked meat. He has submitted the manuscript to a number of  peer-reviewed academic journals. He anticipates publication this year.

Meanwhile, new discoveries and research will likely continue to produce new questions and answers revolving around the mysterious mammoth-bone circles of Ice Age hunters marking the landscape of present-day eastern Europe and Russia. One unanswered question is: where did the hunters spend the winters? Gleissner doubts they spent it on the tops of ridges and hills exposed to the winds of the Russian Plain.

Cover Image, Top Left: Mammoth, AI-generated. JuliusH, Pixabay  https://pixabay.com/users/juliush-3921568/

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How Archaeologists Can Solve the Earth’s ‘Wicked Problems’

John Schofield is a professor of archaeology at the University of York, United Kingdom, and the author of the new book Wicked Problems for Archaeologists: Heritage as Transformative Practice (Oxford University Press, 2024).

We used to have “balloon” debates in school: The hot-air balloon is losing height and, to avoid disaster, people must be jettisoned. To avoid this fate, everybody must justify why they should remain on board and their classmates then vote them “on” or “off.”

In reality, the result was determined entirely by one’s popularity. But perhaps this is always the case. In seeking to avoid funding cuts, for example, museums or cultural services are often considered easy targets, since archaeologists and heritage professionals are far less useful than doctors, engineers, or mathematicians. Beyond archaeology itself, cultural heritage has few friends, one might argue.

But I present the argument that far from being the irrelevant or outdated subject some politicians, career advisers, and university leaders might consider it to be, archaeology is essential to the future of humanity and planetary health. This is for three main reasons. First, archaeologists have the capacity to think about and to understand humanity of the past, and to project that insight into the future. Second, archaeologists are uniquely placed to comprehend the many and complex ways in which humans, over time, have related to their environment and environmental and other processes, such as the changing climate, migration, or pandemics. And third, archaeology provides opportunities for everyone to benefit, whether in terms of physical (by undertaking surveys or excavations) or mental health (through social interaction or artifact handling, to address loneliness or anxiety, for example).

York Archaeology’s Archaeology on Prescription project is one example of this: The program enables adults facing various conditions to gain a detailed understanding of life in a specific area of York, and in the process to improve their health and well-being, on top of volunteerism’s generally positive health effects, as demonstrated by a 2024 article.

In my new book, Wicked Problems for Archaeologists, I examine a few creative ways that we can use archaeology to help directly address some of the global challenges that threaten both human and planetary health. The book’s main argument is that as archaeologists we need to stop thinking only about the past and also think about the future. We also need to engage more with policymakers to help them address their challenges and opportunities.

Wicked Problems

Wicked problems emerged from research in the late 1960s to devise ways of using outcomes from the United States’ NASA-funded space program to help resolve urban problems such as crime and poverty. The definition of wicked problems as those that are “complex, intractable, open-ended, and unpredictable” captures both the scale of these problems and the difficulties they entail. We also now have “super-wicked problems” that introduce the additional dimension of time (or the lack of time to be precise). Super-wicked problems are in addition to the original 10 characteristics of wicked problems, defined by Horst W.J. Rittel and Melvin M. Webber:

  1. Time is running out;
  2. There is no central authority, or only a weak authority, to manage the problem; and
  3. The same actors causing the problem are required to help solve it.

Both climate change and environmental pollution are examples of super-wicked problems in which archaeologists have recently become involved, including my own work in the Galápagos and the wider South Pacific region. Social injustice, crime, and conflict are widely used as examples of wicked problems.

Small Wins

I suggest that the only realistic way to achieve success with wicked and super-wicked problems, and ultimately to make a difference, is by adopting a small-wins framework. These small wins (also referred to as small gains or nudges) align well with what universities in the UK refer to as impact, which, for the purposes of the UK’s Research Excellence Framework is defined as, “an effect on, change or benefit to the economy, society, culture, public policy or services, health, the environment or quality of life, beyond academia.” Small wins have been defined by theorist Karl Weick as, “a series of concrete, complete outcomes of moderate importance [that] builds a pattern that attracts allies and deters opponents.” The strategy of small wins incorporates sound psychology and is sensitive to the pragmatics of policymaking. Examples of small wins include the plastic pollution work in the Galápagos and neighboring coastal South America, and the Archaeology on Prescription project, referred to previously.

But even with small wins, we need to be careful. Wicked problems are deeply entangled with one another, meaning that any solution to one problem may exacerbate other problems elsewhere. Climate change and social injustice are a well-known example of this entanglement.

Promoting Success

Once small wins have been achieved, as archaeologists, we need to tell influential people about the outcomes so that our museums and galleries, local services, and archaeology departments are not threatened with closure by people who fail to understand the significance (or the potential) of the work we do.

For this conversation to happen, we need spokespeople who are good at communicating and have access to data and projects that deserve to be talked about. Archaeology needs influencers, or policy entrepreneurs as they are sometimes referred to. As archaeologists, we have not always been very good at this. It is probably why climate scientists on the IPCC don’t take much notice of us.

Preparing Archaeologists for a Wicked Future

We also need to think about how we manage people, resources, and priorities within our profession and how we prepare students for wicked futures. Management leadership scholar Keith Grint has explained how, across disciplines, academics need to be collaborative and passionate leaders inspiring an even more collaborative and passionate next generation. These, he thinks, are essential qualities for creating structures conducive to successfully addressing wicked problems.

We should also be looking to create (and teach our students to prepare for) some entirely new business models that provide the foundations for success: for example, new board structures that provide opportunities for younger people. Often advisory boards and boards of trustees are composed of older people with more experience. Younger idealists are often not welcome because they lack real-world experience. But for a world of wicked problems, we need to be much more creative. The old ways have not worked, so we need to try some new ones.

The Council for British Archaeology’s Youth Advisory Board is an excellent example of what can be done easily and immediately. And as archaeologists, we must continue to teach students how to find, research, interpret, and conserve the places and the materials from which we create an understanding of the past and its relevance in the present. These skills are fundamental to archaeology. But we need to go further.

To ensure that the relevance of archaeology is widely felt, students also need to learn how to communicate with non-specialists. To engage with wicked problems they must also learn about global challenges, and activism, and think more about the future. We need to produce what Paul Handstedt calls “wicked students.”

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This article was produced by Human Bridges.

Cover Image, Top Left: NickyPe, Pixabay

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Archaeology as a Key Tool in Sustainable Land Planning: A Case in Point

Luca Mario Nejrotti, PhD, graduated in Medieval Archaeology at the University of Turin, with a thesis on the archaeology of architecture in fortified structures. He then pursued a PhD at Aix-en-Provence, focusing on medieval hydraulic installations. Throughout his career, he has collaborated with universities and heritage agencies, but he has always preferred independent practice, which has allowed him to explore and deepen his knowledge of different historical periods and contexts.

His interest in archaeological methods led him naturally to studying and teaching in the area between southern Tuscany, Umbria, and Lazio, where the historical landscape features complex connections and relationships, and where one can “breathe” archaeology.

He has been an archaeologist (in pectore) since childhood, and what he has always loved about the profession is the investigative and exploratory aspect, but also the role archaeologists can play as mediators between the historical landscape, past communities, and present ones.

Since 2012, with the Association “Cultura e Territorio,” over which he presides and for which he serves as scientific director, he has run the B.I.S.A., “la Biagiola” International School of Archaeology in Sorano (GR). The school focuses on Landscape Archaeology and the excavation of the multi-layered site of “la Biagiola,” in collaboration with the Ministry of Culture. The school operates year-round, with sessions in February, May, July-August, and October.

 

Editor’s Note: In this op-ed piece, archaeologist and activist Luca Nejrotti spells out the important considerations that must be made when undertaking renewable energy initiatives in a sustainable way, especially when multiple environmental, cultural, community and archaeological factors are at play. He uses a real-time, real-life example of wind farms and electricity generation and distribution in a critically vulnerable area in Italy as an example.

Sorano, Italy:  Italy, a country proverbially rich in archaeological and natural heritage, has recently been the stage for a heated debate between those advocating for an unreserved shift to renewable energy and those calling for a more region-sensitive approach. In a nation that has enshrined its landscape as a key element in its Constitution, this is an intense debate that sees unlikely foes and curious bedfellows.

The “Cultura e Territorio” Association, a group of archaeologists, believes that the archaeologist’s perspective can offer a valuable contribution. As such, the association has taken a stand, particularly against a project in an area we know very well: the construction of 8 industrial wind turbines on the Sorano mountain, in southern Tuscany, at the border of Lazio and Umbria. This project will be managed and executed by “Energia Sorano”, by Fred Olsen Renewables Italy S.r.l., a subsidiary of a much larger company based in Norway, known for building massive offshore installations. Interestingly, like many newly established companies formed to pursue this type of project in Italy, it is undercapitalized relative to the budgets typically required for such large-scale projects, with only 100,000 euros in share capital. They likely plan to recapitalize as needed over time; however, this precarious setup doesn’t inspire confidence in the timely coverage of construction, routine and extraordinary maintenance, and decommissioning costs.

It’s important to note that this project is still in the planning phase. This means that if the concerns of local and broader communities are heeded, the project may not proceed. However, if it does, construction could begin as early as the end of 2025. The push for ecological transition in Europe, especially post-COVID, has been rapid and backed by substantial funding. But many opportunists have seized this momentum to speculate, and now hundreds of projects have emerged in Italy, before the country even had the opportunity to establish comprehensive, sector-specific regulations.

As it stands, local governments are tasked with identifying areas suitable for renewable energy installations. Meanwhile, the Ministry of Environment and Energy Security is overwhelmed by a flood of proposals with designs to slip through before updated regulations are in place. Many of these proposals exploit older regulations intended for smaller, less intrusive projects, opening the door to large, disruptive installations.

In the case of Sorano (with just eight turbines), the project’s documentation technically meets legal requirements. However, a deeper examination reveals glaring flaws. The reports on local regulations, fauna, flora, geology, archaeology, and public health are superficial, rely on outdated data, overlook key regulations that protect areas like ours, and selectively omit critical information (such as the failure to mention a castle that lies within the construction zone). In cases where data is clearly missing, the proposal simply promises to conduct necessary assessments (e.g., soil stability tests) only after construction begins.

If these oversights go unchallenged, there is a real risk that the project will be approved in Rome, where reviewers may lack local knowledge and resources to carry out comprehensive checks. This could result in the approval of an unfeasible project, which, once construction starts, could stall, leaving behind a devastated landscape with no clear path to restoration.

One key concern is the scale of the proposed wind farm, which, although consisting of a small number of turbines, must be considered in the context of the over fifty other renewable energy projects planned for the area spanning Tuscany, Lazio, and Umbria. This region, home to the same unique landscape, culture, and natural beauty, suffers from being sparsely populated, economically disadvantaged, and politically underrepresented. If all these projects, many proposed by the same companies, were approved, they could irrevocably alter the landscape and ecosystem.

The local community in Sorano and the surrounding communities of Lazio and Maremma have already voiced strong opposition to the project, and our association, which has worked for years to protect and promote the cultural heritage of this region, has officially raised concerns. The very nature of the land makes the site proposed for the wind turbines highly unsuitable. These massive turbines, each 200 meters tall with rotor diameters of 160 meters, would require foundations of reinforced concrete with a diameter of 24.5 meters and a depth of 3.4 meters. The entire construction area is located in a rare karst landscape, a unique geological formation created by seismic activity in the Pleistocene. The land here is already prone to landslides, which are actively monitored, making it an inherently unstable site for such large-scale development. The stresses imposed by a major construction project, involving new roads, excavation, and the installation of oversized turbines, could cause significant environmental damage and be utterly dangerous for the houses all around.

Further compounding the issue, the site is located near the Monte Penna Nature Reserve, home to many vulnerable bat species and birds of prey such as the red kite, buzzard, peregrine falcon, and owl. These species rely on the area for nesting and migratory routes. While eight turbines may seem modest, when combined with the hundreds of others planned for the region, they would form an unnatural barrier to critical ecological corridors, which are vital for wildlife migrations along the Fiora, Paglia, and Tiber river valleys (which are now officially protected by regional laws).

The archaeological significance of the area only adds to the complexity of the situation. The construction site would require the movement of heavy machinery, widening of existing tracks, and the creation of new roads, all of which could damage important archaeological sites. The Roccaccia of Montevitozzo, a medieval fortress dating back to at least the 12th century, stands at the heart of this area. The castle was a strategic stronghold contested in the Middle Ages by the Aldobrandeschi, Siena, and Orvieto, and offers one of the most breathtaking panoramic views of the region. It even appears in a Papal Bull from 1188, alongside references to its village and church, both of which remain to be discovered.

Nearby, evidence of prehistoric occupation, including a hillfort at Monte Penna and a cinnabar mine at Cornacchino, where tools dating back to the Neolithic have been found, further highlights the region’s rich archaeological history. All of this could be jeopardized by the proposed wind farm.

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Above and below: the Roccaccia of Montevitozzo, a medieval fortress dating back to at least the 12th century. Image courtesy Luca Nejrotti

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The “la Biagiola” archaeological site, located within the Sorano/Sovana area. Image courtesy Luca Nejrotti.

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Why has this area been targeted for such large-scale energy projects? The reasons are logistical, not environmental. Border zones in Italy typically face fewer restrictions, making them attractive. Furthermore, this region is located along the route of the yet-to-be-built Hyper Grid, a high-voltage cable network that will transport renewable energy from Sardinia to northern Italy and central Europe. Its Central Link, which will pass through our area, will significantly reduce energy transport costs. However, the energy generated will not be used locally. Rather, following an outdated development model, it will be distributed over long distances, benefiting distant areas with no direct benefit to the local community.

None of these energy projects include compensation for the disruption caused to local populations, let alone financial restitution for the use of the land, once a standard practice. Today, in the name of the public good and the energy crisis, land is expropriated at below-market rates, (only for the areas set to be built, even though the whole land will no longer be usable).

The long-term damage, however, goes beyond economic loss. It risks undermining the sustainable development models that have been painstakingly established in this region, models focused on sustainable tourism, agriculture, pastoralism, collective well-being, solidarity, and respect for the environment. Transforming this area into a major energy hub would nullify these efforts and disregard the local community’s values and needs.

Finally, these regions are already producing more renewable energy than is required by European targets, further raising the question: why destroy this unique landscape and heritage for a project that offers no return to those who call it home?

The history of these places and landscapes reflects a delicate balance between humans, the environment, and resources, a balance that has been shaped over millennia through great sacrifices. From an archaeologist’s perspective, we must seek development models that preserve this fragile equilibrium, learning from the past while addressing the potential and challenges of the future.

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Digging Up the Roots of Human Culture

Deborah Barsky is a writing fellow for the Human Bridges, a researcher at the Catalan Institute of Human Paleoecology and Social Evolution, and an associate professor at the Rovira i Virgili University in Tarragona, Spain, with the Open University of Catalonia (UOC). She is the author of Human Prehistory: Exploring the Past to Understand the Future (Cambridge University Press, 2022).

Culture is central to defining humanity. Throughout history, many definitions have been proposed to describe what we mean when we talk about culture, leading to considerable confusion.

The word “culture” was once reserved to designate the customs and behaviors of particular groups of people in specific regions and timeframes. In recent years, however, definitions concerning what is and what is not culture have widened considerably, to the point where “culture” is now used to describe the behaviors of numerous life forms. For example, it has become common to refer to culture when describing the social structures of sperm whales and other animals, including insects.

But while animal culture denotes behaviors that are learned and socially transmitted, human cultural practices go further, transforming these behaviors into coded systems that are reproduced within specific group settings. This explains the emergence of tradition—a key element of culture that seems exclusive to humans. Traditions provide abstract mechanisms through which humans symbolically assimilate the concept of identity over time.

This deeply symbolic derivation is only observed in humans. Human societies imbue culture with a network of meanings that can be shared and understood symbolically by individuals belonging to a particular social structure (family, tribe, community, and nation). The further we go back in time, the more difficult it becomes to reestablish the abstract (contingent) connections that once linked these symbols to their meanings.

Over time, human culture has not only included the concrete manifestations of extrasomatic survival strategies but also encompassed abstract notions that are barely perceptible in archaeological records.

The emergence of stone tools more than 3 million years ago marks the birth of culture in the human lineage. When the first Homo habilis remains were discovered at Olduvai Gorge, Tanzania, in the early 1960s, its name, which means handyman, was based on the idea that this hominin was the first toolmaker. This justified its placement at the root of the human family tree: the first species of the genus Homo.

However, this anthropocentric denomination proved to be short-lived. As early as the 1970s, the probability that other genuses, like Australopithecines and Paranthropus, were also making tools, came to light in some archeological records. This likelihood continues to be supported by new data, including discoveries of sites yielding stone tools that predate the emergence of H. habilis.

Because they were systematically made using techniques that had to be learned and shared communally, these activities meet the standard definition of culture used by cultural anthropologists. Furthermore, the repetitive technologies employed to make stone tools are defined as traditions, adding further weight toward culture. From this stage forward, for a period spanning almost the entire evolutionary trajectory of our genus (some 2.8 million years), stone toolkits provide virtually the only material evidence that catalogs successive phases of human cultural evolution leading to the present.

Ancient stone tools are essential for tracking cultures and their interactions. In studying them, we can see how culture evolves on uneven pathways on a cumulative trajectory. As human societies grew and sharpened their technological capacity, their cultural repertoire expanded, a process characterized not only by the empirical remains of their material culture but also by increasingly elaborate symbolic behaviors that—we logically infer—mirror the emergence of human consciousness.

The complex interplay of inter- and intra-human population exchanges and the capacity for learning, along with curiosity and inventiveness, have combined through time to create our species’ current state. Despite the fragmentary nature of archeological records, studying ancient stone toolkits brings to light precious information allowing us to recognize culture in the deep past. Lithic specialists, for example, identify and describe the specific stylistic traits and chains of production in the toolkits, permitting scientific inferences that contribute to the knowledge about our cognitive evolution.

Archaeologists combine “cultural” data with fossil genomics to track and compare hominin lineages and reconstruct the 2.8 million-year-old story of our genus. They are seeing a braided account of populations distinguished by their cultural manifestations and divided into groups with divergent species across continents. Today, however, with only one species of Homo remaining on the planet (H. sapiens), the supposed intra-human differences no longer have any biological foundation and have been laid bare for what they are: purely symbolic cultural constructions.

Parallels are drawn to compare human expressions of culture and analogous behaviors in other life forms. This is demonstrated in primate studies and has often been recognized in the pioneering work of Jane Goodall in Gombe National Park, Tanzania, during the 1960s, when she observed wild chimpanzees (Pan troglodytes) modifying branches and using them as tools to probe for termites in termite mounds. Some believe these observations could serve as a template for early hominin toolmaking behavior, a hypothesis supported by the close genetic proximity of chimpanzees to humans and their apparent physical similarities. Primate toolmaking capacity continues to be explored in the wild and in captivity, yielding probing results.

Interestingly, other animals, such as crows, practice surprisingly similar behaviors, also modifying leaves to probe into crevices to retrieve insects, and even inventing compound tools. These “crow tools” are uncannily similar to those made by chimpanzees; the manufacturing processes, aims, and outcomes are also comparable.

Undoubtedly, there is a considerable gap separating the degree to which humans have developed material and immaterial cultures and the behaviors we observe in other animals. Through time, only humans have developed toolmaking into a fundamental adaptive strategy resulting in the techno-dependent species we have become. More importantly, only humans imbue their manufactured objects and behaviors with symbolically relevant identitarian meaning.

Language is a central pillar in any discussion about human culture and its origins; its emergence has been linked to the evolution of stone tool technologies. As early Homo reaped the benefits of their toolmaking capacity, they also increased their ability to compete with other animals for resources and these advantages gave them more free time to develop innovative ways to expand their benefits. Through time, successive hominin ancestors invented new and increasingly complex toolkits, requiring individuals to spend more time learning to make them. This process eventually came to depend on vocal communication strategies.

Paleoanthropologists have demonstrated that the cerebral and anatomical configurations necessary for spoken language could have resulted from changes in craniofacial features occurring over millions of years, as early hominins adapted to upright stature and bipedal locomotion. As hominins came to rely on specific kinds of stone tools, the conditions that made language physically possible also led to its selection and development as an advantageous adaptive culture-sharing strategy.

When we think about what is unique about human culture, we often consider technology as central to characterizing civilizations. Technologies have evolved over time to synchronize culture in a way that assimilates individuals into discrete (but potentially huge) collaborative social units; in doing so, it plays a vital role in the mental construction of both personal and shared identities.

Sharing culture and technological know-how creates a common sense of time. Museums, historical sites, and fictional history present the past through symbols of progress or failure and thus serve to chart a shared timeline. Although archaeological records correspond to a series of sequential stages—advancing our species through a process of “progress”—there is no inherent hierarchy to these developments, either at the biological or the cultural levels.

For those educated within a cultural framework that explains prehistory as a linear and codependent set of chronological milestones—whose successive stages are understood by conjured logical systems of cause and effect—this outlook is going to take time to be accepted. It takes an intellectual leap to reject such hierarchical constructions of prehistory and to perceive the past as a system of nonsynchronous events closely tied to the shifting ecological and biological phenomena.

This endeavor, however, allows people to recognize and use the lessons offered by the past. Notably, the fact that complexity of modern human culture results from baseline learning processes bolstered through time by biosocial adaptations.

The long-term processes involved in human techno-selection have been compared to Darwinian natural selection: like biological evolution, technosocial innovations can emerge and persist, or remain latent in the human repertory. When specific conditions arise, they can be selected and, if successful, be developed into defining aspects of the human condition.

At each stage of evolution, latent technological capacities exist within the structure of cultural variability; in different regions or time frames, they are selected, used, and refined, leading human groups to choose divergent evolutionary pathways. Refining these skills can even trigger technological revolutions; when the changes lead to positive results, they can set off wider cultural transformations in the populations that use them.

Culture evolves along diachronic trends. Distinct evolutionary stages occur (or not) in different areas of the world, sometimes in very divergent chronological frameworks. Humans have learned to adapt to rapid cumulative technological change by developing complex social behaviors as an adaptive response that favors the survival of our species. This process may have started gradually, but with the accumulation of breakthroughs, it continues in leaps and bounds into the present day.

Triggering a social response that could evolve in parallel to technological progress resulted in the emergence and sharpening of cultural traditions and identities, spring-boarding our genus toward exponential increases in social complexity. The archaeological records and our own intuitive cerebral processes preserve the memory of our acquired anatomical and cultural developments. They are two sides of the same coin that evolved throughout human prehistory and beyond.

Like other primates, humans are social animals, and as individuals, we need to learn, imitate, and emulate “acceptable” behaviors within specific contexts. Culture represents the set of norms transmitted from generation to generation and dictates how individuals must behave to maintain social balance. Humanity shares and exchanges culture, but over time, we have also learned to exploit the constructed sets of cultural norms that define the social unit we belong to and justify the exclusion of people living in less favorable situations. Humanity uses culture to invent differences between people with identical biological makeup, needs, and desires.

We have an increasingly useful 7-million-year-old global data set to better understand ourselves and how to survive and improve our well-being. With time, it will be increasingly recognized that using this information as a reference and planning tool is advantageous for practically every endeavor.

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This article was produced by Human Bridges.

Cover Image, Top Left: Stone Age Culture. Franz26, Pixabay

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The Hunter-Gatherer Guide to Keeping Society Equal

Brenna R. Hassett, PhD, is a biological anthropologist and archaeologist at the University of Central Lancashire and a scientific associate at the Natural History Museum, London. In addition to researching the effects of changing human lifestyles on the human skeleton and teeth in the past, she writes for a more general audience about evolution and archaeology, including the Times (UK) top 10 science book of 2016 Built on Bones: 15,000 Years of Urban Life and Death, and her most recent book, Growing Up Human: The Evolution of Childhood. She is also a co-founder of TrowelBlazers, an activist archive celebrating the achievements of women in the “digging” sciences.

There is a great deal of attention in modern societies to inequality and the social problems it causes. Often inequality is considered to be the unavoidable consequence of how society operates in many cultures, with large population numbers and competition for resources requiring a hierarchy of successful and less-successful individuals. While our globalized world may seem dominated by this kind of society, there remain groups around the world who even today live very differently, despite continual and sometimes inescapable pressure. Anthropologists, whose science is the study of humans, have been fascinated by the diversity of ways our species have found to exist, and never more so than when confronted with cultures whose ethos and way of being are radically different from the urban societies that dominate our world: where words are weapons that actually win; where showing off your skills will get you mocked, and where every aspect of life is carefully organized so that no one person should ever have any more power than anyone else.

How do some people come to live in a group that has no one at the top, telling the rest what to do? Anthropologists call societies that do not have ranks egalitarian, which means that everyone in them is equal to everyone else. This is a form of social organization that is almost exclusively seen in groups of people who are not settled in one place, tied to one type of food or resource. Rather, they spend quite a lot of their time in small groups, moving around as suits their needs. These kinds of groups have been called hunter-gatherers, but a more accurate name might be foragers: they make their living by walking through their world and exploiting what comes to hand. More than a century of research into the groups who follow their food through the landscape, and do not tie themselves to one location or one crop, has built up a picture of societies that choose to organize themselves very differently from nation-states and kingdoms, and, most importantly, actively refuse to allow any sort of rank among themselves.

For a long time, there was an assumption that egalitarian societies were egalitarian simply because they were… simple. Living in small groups and moving constantly, they just couldn’t build up mountains of wealth to wield power over other people. And with very small numbers of people in a group—say no more than a few dozen—anthropologists theorized that it couldn’t be that complicated to run a society, so you wouldn’t need a chief or a king making big decisions. As archaeology has revealed the shape of our distant human past, it is clear that before about 15,000 years ago, every human on earth lived the same mobile lifestyle. Living with only what you can carry and constantly on the move would seem very taxing to the armchair academic of the previous century. The rather impolite implication then is that modern human societies who chose to live in these mobile, egalitarian societies, were simply the last vestiges of a primitive form of human social organization—people who hadn’t ‘evolved’ civilization.

It is actually quite remarkable that this idea that an equal society was an easy thing to maintain hung around for so long. One of the problems may have been that the groups who lived these mobile lifestyles were often in the process of being colonized and controlled when anthropologists arrived to study them, and so were in the middle of considerable social upheaval. But another problem may simply have been a failure of imagination. There was considerable shock when anthropologists like James Woodburn began to conduct fieldwork by actually learning the language of the group they were studying and going to observe and ask questions of the people themselves about how life worked in a small foraging group. His work with the Hadza people of what is now Tanzania set in motion a train of research that pointed out that life in a small group is anything but simple. Tempers flare, relationships break down, and when you depend on your group for survival, any social unrest could have fatal consequences.

Groups from around the world who maintain an egalitarian ethos have shown that rather than being too simple to ‘invent’ rank, they are instead too complex to allow one person or group of people to simply take charge. Keeping everyone in a group on equal footing requires a huge amount of effort, and has to be constantly maintained. The Ju/’hoansi people of southern Africa reckon it is particularly important to ‘cool young men’s hearts’; to stop them being prideful and boastful if they display some special skill, everyone agrees it’s very important to bring them back down to earth. A hunter is never allowed to distribute his own meat; instead, the distribution is done in public, with everyone watching. Among the Ju/’hoansi, the proper etiquette is to gently mock a successful hunter—for instance telling them the giraffe that they have killed and will be feeding several camps for days was actually a bit scrawny, perhaps.

Mockery seems to be one of the most critical tools in the political inventory for groups that actively try to achieve equality. Jerome Lewis, an anthropologist who lived with the Mbendjele of Northern Congo for several years, tells how poor behavior is subtly (or not so subtly) corrected by women who act out whatever foolish or misguided thing someone has done. The improvisational theater always has an appreciative audience, and all of the group will laugh resoundingly at the person who has done something wrong. What might seem a recipe for social disaster in a group that must get along in order to survive is anything but; the mockery only ends when the person who is being made fun of eventually gives up and laughs along with the rest of the group.

We can now see that in those groups that refuse to have ranks among themselves, there are many ways that equality can be actively maintained, but they are almost entirely social. Many groups have a policy similar to that of the Ju/’hoansi when it comes to sharing meat or indeed, anything else that is in the camp—that it would be the height of rudeness not to. Those who transgress against the rules of society may have to face their whole society laughing at them. Even when and where groups choose to move is determined partly by social concerns. If you live in a small group, it is very important to stay connected to friends and family who live somewhere else, in case, for instance, you decide you just can’t stand who you are living with at the moment. It seems that the last human societies on earth to live the mobile lifestyles that our species maintained for hundreds of thousands of years do so largely as equals—but equals who must be very careful to stay that way.

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Cover Image, Top Left: Hadza hunter-gatherers. kiwiexplorer, CC BY-SA 2.0

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Cities Made Differently: Try Imagining Another Urban Existence

David Graeber was an anthropologist and activist and is a bestselling author.

Nika Dubrovsky is an artist, writer, and founder of the David Graeber Institute and the Museum of Care.

In thousands of ways, we are taught to accept the world we live in as the only possible one, but thousands of other ways of organizing homes, cities, schools, societies, economies, and cosmologies have existed and could exist.

We started a project called Made Differently: designed to play with the possibility and to overcome the suspicion—instilled in us every day—that life is limited, miserable, and boring.

Our first focus is Cities Made Differently, exploring different ways of living together. Read and imagine four different kinds of cities taken from our book which are listed below, and continue your exploration, downloadable at a4kids.org, for drawing and dreaming.

City of Greed

What if you had to live in a city whose citizens must pay not only for housing and health care but also for the air they breathe?

The dystopian novel The Air Merchant takes place in a secret underground factory city. Mr. Bailey, the factory owner, condenses air from the atmosphere and sells it to his fellow citizens for a profit. Eventually, the Earth’s atmosphere thins, creating a catastrophic shortage of breathable air. With the price of air increasing, fewer and fewer humans can afford to keep breathing.

When people can’t pay for the air they breathe, the police throw them out of the city. Everyone lives in constant fear of suffocating, thinking only of how to earn enough money to spare their loved ones and themselves that terrible fate. The food company Nestlé is often criticized for its irresponsible use of water in India, Pakistan, and other developing countries. Captured in the documentary film We Feed the World (2005), former Nestlé chairman Peter Brabeck-Letmathe said:

“It’s a question of whether we should privatize the normal water supply for the population. And there are two different opinions on the matter… NGOs, who bang on about declaring water a public right… That’s an extreme solution. The other view says that water is a foodstuff like any other, and like any other foodstuff, it should have a market value. Personally, I believe it’s better to give a foodstuff a value so that we’re all aware it has its price…”

City as a Family

Imagine a city without any strangers, where everything is shared, and everyone looks after each other. There are no shops, no money, and no danger at all.

We think of the family as a group that practices “basic communism”: from each according to his ability to each according to his needs. Any family is thought to be protected by bonds of kinship from the cruel laws of the outside world. Unlike businesses, rarely will a family throw out a sick child or an elderly parent because they are no longer “revenue-generating assets.”

According to Roman law, which still underlies the value system of Western societies, a family was all those people living within the household of a paterfamilias or father whose authority over them was recognized as absolute. Under the protection of her father, a woman might be spared abuse from her husband, but their children, slaves, and other dependents were his to do with as he wanted.

According to early Roman law, a father was fully within his rights to whip, torture, or sell them. A father could even execute his children, provided that he found them to have committed capital crimes. With his slaves, he didn’t even need that excuse.

The patriarchal family is also the model for authoritarianism. In ancient Rome, the patriarch had the right to treat his household members as property rather than as equal human beings.

The Enlightenment philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau believed that humankind originally lived in small bands of hunter-gatherers composed of close friends and relatives until big cities and agriculture emerged, and with them wars, greed, and exploitation.

However, archaeology shows us numerous examples of how people in different times and across different parts of the Earth lived in large metropolitan areas while managing their collective affairs on a fairly egalitarian basis. At the same time, there have always been small communities where status inequality prevailed and a privileged minority at the top benefited by exploiting the rest.

We know from our personal experience that in almost every family there are elements of both authoritarianism and baseline communism. This contradiction never fully goes away but different cultures handle it differently.

A City оf Runners

The people who live in this city believe that real life is all about constant competition.

The people in a city of runners find it fascinating or even necessary to keep track of who among them is more important, who is richer, smarter, more beautiful, or more worthy. There are many ideas about how the city came to have habits like this.

One of the city’s revered philosophers, Thomas Hobbes, believed that the natural state of human beings is to seek violent domination over their neighbors, and that society without the authority of the sovereign would quickly turn into a battle of all against all. Constant competition between people is thus seen as an enjoyable game as compared to real war, which is always lurking around the corner.

Naturally, in cities like this, there must be some who are poor, ugly, and unhappy. Just as in some children’s games, there are winners and losers.

People living in the city of runners foster an admiration for winning in their kids, and an ambition to surpass their peers in all areas. Children in the city of runners have no interest in learning together, sharing, or mutual aid. Helping someone pass an exam is considered “cheating” and is strictly punished. All their lives, adults are engaged in constant competition over beauty, skill, and wealth.

Runners believe that people who live differently from them and who refuse to play their games simply choose to be losers. During the 1968 student unrest in Western countries, some disaffected young people abandoned the big cities for the “sleepy” provinces where they created autonomous settlements, many of which still exist today.

Underground City

Living in an underground city could be safe and convenient. Without weather, there’s no risk of storms. And no trees mean no forest fires.

Underground cities have been around practically forever. The city of Derinkuyu in the Turkish province of Cappadocia, for example, was built between 2000 and 1000 BCE. The landscape of volcanic tuff—a unique soft stone—could be hollowed out without requiring complex tools, making room to house 20,000 people. The underground city boasted a stable, corrals, churches, schools, canteens, bakeries, barns, wine cellars, and workshops. The intricate system of tunnels connecting it all together meant that intruders would not know their way around and quickly get lost.

Tunnels are found underneath many cities. Rome is famous for its catacombs, and at one time subterranean burial chambers were commonplace. These days, tunnels tend to be for underground trains called subways. In Beijing, the residents became so fearful of nuclear war that they built an entire bunker city, with 30 kilometers of tunnels connecting underground houses, schools, hospitals, shops, libraries, theaters, and factories. There’s even an underground roller skating rink!

Mexico City has not gone as far as to build an entire city underground, but architect Esteban Suarez is planning an underground apartment building. And what a building it will be! Piercing the center of the Mexican capital with its tip will be a 65-story pyramid—no wonder they call it the earthscraper. The glass-enclosed area above the surface will be for recreation and outdoor concerts.

Underground, the building will be heated and powered with geothermal energy, making the pyramid energy self-sufficient. It’s not easy building downward into the earth, but building underground won’t disrupt the historical landscape of the city. And it evades the city’s building codes restricting the height of structures to eight floors.

Mirny, a town in the Russian far north, has its eye on an abandoned diamond mine as the site for an underground city. There are no more diamonds to be found, but its abandonment threatens neighboring villages with cave-ins and landslides. Moscow architect Nikolai Lyutomsky has proposed a solution: building a strong concrete skeleton inside the quarry to strengthen its walls while covering its top with a transparent dome, resulting in an underground eco-city fit for 10,000 people.

Located in the Yakutia Republic, the town has a harsh arctic climate with temperatures reaching as low as -60 degrees Celsius in the winter. But underground, the temperature never falls below zero. The quarry would thus be good for both people and plants. Its architects have allocated most of the city’s inner space to vertical farms. Farms for food production, technical laboratories, factories, and research centers are located underground and, aboveground, there will be play centers and schools. Moving between the underground and the surface is quick and easy.

Going underground to avoid possible misfortunes—might seem like a good idea, but there’s a catch: if you don’t like the rules of your community it’s tough to get out. How important is it to be able to easily leave one community, whose rules no longer suit you, and join a different one?

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This excerpt is adapted from Nika Dubrovsky and David Graeber’s Cities Made Differently (MIT Press, 2024, all rights reserved) and is distributed in partnership with Human Bridges.

Source: MIT Press

Cover Image, Top Left: City Window. Barbaracascao, Pixabay

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Behind the Spectacle

Christopher Wood earned his B.A. in Classics from San Francisco State and his Masters in Anthropology with emphasis in Archaeology from U.C. Santa Barbara. He has worked as an archaeologist at Pompeii and participated in a number of underwater excavations in the Yucatan Basin.  His specializations include funerary archeology of Early Roman and Pre-Roman Italy, especially the use of material culture and epigraphy in constructing identity.  His past research has included landscape archaeology and the use of public space for spectacle, XRF technology, Etruscan archaeometallurgy, and the impact of Roman religion of the Provinces.

He has traveled widely, having attended the Université de Paris, and more recently the American Academy in Rome on a Bernard Goldman scholarship. Chris is currently a Gallery Teacher at the Getty Villa. He speaks five languages (English, French, Italian, and some Spanish and German), and writes in five ancient languages (Ancient Greek, Latin, Middle Egyptian, Luvian and Hittitie).

“I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword.”–Gladiator’s Oath (Petronius, Satyricon 117).

 

For many of us, the gladiatorial games of ancient Rome represent both a fascinating and puzzling world of contradictions.  Those who take up the sword, gladiators, are cursed as infames; like prostitutes, actors, criminals, they are viewed as non-citizens, and yet they rise to the level of ancient ‘rock-star’, praised and cheered by thousands in the arena.  Spanning nearly 6oo years (from the third century B.C. into the fifth century A.D.), and three continents, gladiator contests were brutal and often bloody spectacles.  Extremely popular in their day, they played a significant role in the public life and identity of its citizens.  While our modern perception of these ancient spectacles, however, often calls to mind massive amphitheaters teeming with thousands of screaming fans, gladiatorial combat had humble beginnings.  Like chariot racing and animal hunts, gladiatorial contests began as more quasi-religious, intimate displays of munera, or duty to the ancestors.  More than simply a spectacle, the games were institutionalized forms of human sacrifice that served to ease the passing of the deceased, as well as help cure the surrounding community of evil spirits of the dead.  Though marginalized in Roman society, the blood of gladiators often served an important role in cult rituals, as well as providing cures for the disease.

Origins

Historically, scholars have remained divided about the specific nature and origins of gladiatorial games. Some claim that they had their beginnings in ancient Etruria, based on both historical and art historical evidence.  The historian Nicolaus of Damascus, writing in the age of Augustus, claimed that the Romans had inherited the games from the Etruscans.  Additionally, frescoes from Etruria highlight gladiatorial-like combat.  The famous 6th-5th century wall painting from the Tomb of the Augurs in Tarquinia highlights a pair of wrestlers accompanied by the figure of a priest, seen holding his telltale lituus, a sign of his office, suggesting a religious context to the ritual.  At their feet appears a series of libation bowls possibly used for harvesting blood.  Next to them we find the masked figure of the phersu, holding the leash of a dog that is attacking a man dressed in a loincloth.  The victim’s wrists are bound, and his head is covered with a sack.  The scene has several interpretations: it is either thought to represent a precursor for the venationes, (or “animal games,” an athletic event) or a sacrifice again meant to appease the ancestors as part of an Etruscan funeral rite (Welch, 2007: 15).  As Alison Futrell notes, “men fought to the death at the funeral of a much-beloved leader, whose spirit benefitted from the spilling of blood” (Futrell, 2006: 6). Other themes of blood sacrifice appear in mythological contexts, such as those depicted in François Tomb at Vulci, with Achilles sacrificing Trojan prisoners (Jannot, 2005:16) in order to appease the spirit of his beloved Patroclus.

Similar arguments for an Osco-Samnite origin have been made based again on strong textual and archaeological evidence (Ville 1969: 116).  Livy relates “the Campanians on account of their arrogance and their hatred of the Samnites armed their gladiators, who performed during banquets, in the fashion [of the captured men] and addressed them as ‘Samnites’” (Ab Urbe Condita, 9.40.17). A 4th century B.C. tomb fresco from Paestum shows men equipped with shields and spears, sporting loin cloths and helmets squaring off.  Streaks of blood seem to suggest a real-time duel.  Other tombs in Paestum, such as Tomb X from the Laghetto Necropolis, carry scenes of chariot races along with hand-to-hand combat between armed warriors.  In either case, the original function of gladiatorial contests seems to be rooted in ritual blood sacrifice to a fallen war hero, whether realized (actual death), or idealized (having one gladiator surrender to another). 

The Games Come to Rome

The first gladiatorial games, according to Livy, were performed in Rome in 264 B.C. to honor the funerary celebrations for Iunius Brutus.   Two gladiators were paired to the death in the Forum Boarium, the old cattle market.  Here, it is important to note that Livy uses the Latin word munus, the first historical instance of a duty to the dead. While we can only conjecture as to the nature of ancient combat as a form of ritual violence meant to appease the dead in Etruscan and Osco-Samnite cultures, here we have a definite Latin word used to describe the ritual. The Roman writer Ausonius reports that three pairs were selected of the Thracian type, while Servius adds that some had been captured in battle, prisoners of war.  In 216 B.C., the sons of Marcus Aemelius Lepidus, consul in 232 B.C., effectively raised the bar by hosting twenty-two pairs of gladiators for seven days in the Forum (Livy, Ab Urbe 23.30.15). The funeral of Publius Licinius saw that number increase nearly five fold with 120 gladiators (Livy, Ab Urbe 39.42.2) in 183 B.C.  In 174 B.C., 74 gladiators fought for four days in honor of Titus Flaminius (Livy, Ab Urbe 41.28.11).  Within the short span of a hundred years, as the need for Roman elites to compete for familial gloria increased, so did the exposure and popularity of the games

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The remains of the great Colosseum in Rome. jdegheest, Pixabay

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Roman Views of Ritual Sacrifice

For the most part, the Romans found the idea of human sacrifice abhorrent, a ritual practiced only by barbarians and frequently by their enemies.  Quintus Curtius records the Carthaginians engaging in child sacrifice, treating it as more sacrilege than sacred (Historiae Alexandri Magni 4.3). Likewise, Cicero mentions that the altars of the Gauls are defiled with human sacrifice (Pro M. Fonteio 32). However, while the Romans explicitly condemned it, history has shown that they often resorted to it, but only in times of great public stress or turmoil.  The Vestal priestess Oppia was buried alive for breaking her vow of chastity according to Livy (Ab Urbe 2.42), but only after an outbreak of war.  During the Punic Wars, after the humiliating defeat at Cannae, the Romans sacrificed two pairs of men and women, from Gaul and Greece, burying them alive under the Forum Boarium (Ab Urbe 22.57).  Even as late as imperial Rome, though officially banned in 97 B.C., Pliny records that human sacrifice had been carried out in the Forum Boarium by the Quindecimviri, with no imminent disaster at hand.  He, however, stresses the status of the sacrificed men as belonging to groups that were hostile to Rome (Nat. Hist. 28.3). 

Such inconsistencies did not escape the notice of ancient historians.  Plutarch questioned the nature of Roman sacrificial rituals, whether they were meant to appease the spirits of the dead (manes) or the gods.  While appearing as though a double standard, it should be stressed that Roman ritual sacrifice depended on a number of important factors: the ritual, the current socio-economic conditions, and the social rank of the victims.  At first, we may observe that the Romans carried out such sacrifices during times of great stress, or when the community was plagued by bad omens.  In the case of the priestess Oppia, by breaking her vows, she had committed a social taboo, which was punishable in its own right.  The outbreak of war with Veii must have confirmed the transgression, thus her sacrifice was needed in order to restore balance, and for the community to be healed. The sacrifice of the Greeks and Gauls, traditional enemies of Rome, seems particularly apropos.  Most likely slaves or prisoners of war, they were sacrificed in order to appease the spirits of the dead, and heal the community from the taint of death and bad omens.  What is crucial to understanding the justification of human sacrifice is that most victims were non-Romans, and they were buried alive on unholy ground rather than experiencing proper Roman burials.

Gladiator Blood

Gladiators, like our example above, were also outsiders, often prisoners of war, slaves, or criminals stripped of their Roman citizenship.  They were essentially non-Romans, and as such they became subject to human sacrifice; yet they held a special status, because they were marked for death and met it head on.  Though some scholars might argue that gladiatorial games were not seen as a form of ritual sacrifice to the Romans (e.g, Vittese 2008: 87; Wiedemann, 1992: 23), I would contend that there is ample evidence to suggest that gladiators fulfilled the role of pharmakos, the traditional scapegoat sacrificed in order to help cure an outbreak of bad omens, or sickness within a city. The physician Aulus Cornelius Celsus, for example, in discussing comitialis, or epilepsy, claims that the blood from a freshly slain gladiator can cure the condition: “Some have freed themselves from such a disease by drinking the hot blood from the cut throat of a gladiator” (de Med. 3.23.7).  The practice is also recorded by Pliny the Elder, who adds that though an impious act which one would not even do with animal blood, those who drink the warm blood of the gladiator felt as though they were drawing forth the life of the dying man himself  (28.2).  More than simply blood lust or a case of Roman vampirism, the act of drinking the blood has both a physical and spiritual advantage.  Spiritually, for those thinking it was an attack from vengeful spirits, the blood would help propitiate them.  Physically, the warmth of the blood, as both Pliny and Celsus observe, would have restored the balance of ‘warm’ to ‘cold blood’ built up in the patient’s body.  The Greek physician Hipprocrates noted that epilepsy was not brought on by the divine, but was caused by the body itself, specifically cold phlegm forming in or on the heart, thereby chilling the blood, causing it to sit still, and making it hard to breathe (On Sacred Diseases, 3).  He suggests that the cure lies in striking a balance between hot and cold.  Although he does not openly suggest it, a drink of ‘warm’ gladiator blood would thus serve both religious and medical needs.

The religious quality of gladiator blood, aside from propitiating the dead, and curing the sick, could also serve as a sacrifice to the gods.  The late Christian apologist Tertullian claims that the blood of gladiators, specifically the bestiarii, was collected and dispersed over the god Jupiter during religious games (Apologeticum IX.5).  Though we typically exercise caution in interpreting late Christian writers who chronicled pagan traditions, there are widespread accounts – including  Lactantius and Minucius Felix—to suggest that human blood was often offered as part of a cult sacrifice to Jupiter in Italy. 

Archaeological Evidence

There is also direct archaeological evidence to support the argument for treating gladiator games as blood sacrifices.  The inscription from the gravestone Urbicus, a type of gladiator known as a secutor, reads rather heroically; it states that everyone he conquered in the arena died, but also that he has gone to join the Manes that love him (CIL 5.5933).  A marble relief recently recovered from Lucus Feroniae and now on display at the Villa Julia highlights a scene of gladiators engaged in hand-to-hand combat, accompanied by a musician with a horn.  Such scenes are reminiscent of Roman sacrificial scenes, like the famous altar relief from the temple of Vespasian in Pompeii, or the relief of Marcus Aurelius as Pontifex Maximus making a sacrifice in front of the Temple of Jupiter.   In both, a bull is being led to the altar, accompanied by musicians whose job it was to drown out the cries of the victims.  Coincidentally, we also find in both the depiction of the popae, mallet or axe-wielding attendants whose role was to stun the animal if it should struggle after having its throat cut, as this was considered an ill omen.  Interestingly, the Roman biographer Suetonius, after describing his slaying of a gladiator, likens the Emperor Caligula to a popa. Gladiator games had their own version of the popa, Dis Pater, described as dispatching freshly slain combatants with a decisive blow, perhaps related to the Etruscan demon Charun who ferried souls to the underworld, and later conflated with Pluto the guardian of the spirits of the underworld.  A fragment from the Ephesus Archaeological Museum in Selçuk, Turkey shows two gladiators, one wielding a hammer possibly enacting the traditional role of Dis Pater.  Recent work carried out by Fabian Kanz and Karl Grossschmidt at a cemetery in Turkey revealed that the injuries of at least ten individuals revealed peri-mortem fracturing that could easily have been linked to the blow delivered by a Dis Pater (2006).

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Conclusions

In conclusion, based on historical evidence and material culture, it seems likely that the gladiatorial contests of ancient Rome were seen as more than simply entertainment, and that its champions, despite their low social status, were more than mere criminals or slaves.  The very act of marching into the arena with a foreknowledge of death was one of bravery, but it came with the consolation that one’s sacrifice would heal the community of blood pollution associated with death, and help the restless spirits of the deceased find peace.  The spilling of gladiator blood served a myriad of socio-religious functions, including fighting off ill fortune and resolving wars.  In this sense, these gladiators fulfilled the role of pharmakos, or scapegoat, curing whatever ailed the community, and by extension gladiator blood had the power to cure individual illness as well. The nature of spilt gladiator blood, while quieting evil spirits, could also be seen as a physical remedy for epilepsy, providing that much needed warm breath of life Hippocrates noted was needed to combat fluxion, or cooling of the heart, lungs, and blood.

During the Early Republic, sacrifices of prisoners of war or other law-breakers were made to appease bad omens.  Many were buried alive and not given a proper Roman burial.  Similarly, though some gladiators were commemorated with stele, these are fairly uncommon.  Most gladiators were buried in mass graves, sometimes in plots set apart from the rest of the population, and usually excluded from the proper funerary custom of cremation.  There are also curious similarities between Roman animal sacrifice and gladiator games, including reliefs showing the use of music and the hammer bearer who delivers the death-blow. According to Pliny, Vergil, and Ovid, the offering of bull calves seems to correspond to the Roman practice of offering ritual blood to appease the Manes, or spirits of the underworld. Bulls were also frequently offered as sacrifices to the gods Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, suggesting perhaps a connection between the use of gladiator blood and the cult practices of Jupiter.  The sacrifice of bulls also figures prominently in later imperial cults, suggesting a possible link between the emperors, games, ritual sacrifice, and divinity.  

There are certainly other aspects of gladiators and ritual worthy of further study, including gladiator cults and hero worship, their role as objects of desire for both men and women, and insemination by gladiators as a cure for infertility.  For now it is important for us to simply recognize gladiators and the games as more than just “bread and circuses for the masses,” for they also played a continual and important role in Roman ritual practice.  As sacrifices to the spirits and the gods, they recalled a glorious past that honored the ancestors and assured the social equilibrium of the city in the face of impending chaos.  In a religious context, while the use of gladiator blood in the cult of Jupiter may seem at first inappropriate, it is easy to see the trajectory from animal to ‘human’ sacrifice as a conflation of sacrificial rites honoring the Manes to that of Jupiter, both requiring a young bull, the sign of power and virility.  Finally, regarding the medicinal use of freshly drawn gladiator blood and its restorative powers, it served the dual purpose of cleansing the body of evil spirits, to those who subscribed to those beliefs, as well as provided a source of ‘warmth’ to combat the ‘cold’ Hippocrates attributed as the cause of epilepsy.   

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Bibliography

Modern Sources

Beard, M., North, J. & Price, S. 1998.  Religions of Rome: Vol. 1. Cambridge Press.

Fabian K., Grossschmidt, K.  2006. “Head injuries of Roman gladiators”.  Forensic Science International, Vol. 160, 2–3:13.

Futtrell, A.  2001.  Blood in the Arena: The Spectacle of Roman Power: Univ. Texas Press, Austin: 189.

Jannot, J.R. 2005. Religion In Ancient Etruria. Trans. Jane Whitehead. Univ. of Wisconsin Press, Madison: 16.

Kyle, D.  1998. Spectacles of Death in Ancient Rome. Routledge: 58.

Palmer, R.  1997. Rome and Carthage at Peace.  Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart: 127-128.

Reid, J.S.  1912.  “Human Sacrifices at Rome and Other Notes on Roman Religion.” Journal of

Roman Studies: 34-52.

Ville, G.  1969. “La guerre et le Munus.” J.P. Brisson (ed.), Problèmes de la guerre à Rome: 186.

Vittese, T. 2008.  “War in the Amphitheatre”.  Hirundo: McGill Journal of Classical

Studies.Vol.6. 87-96.

Welch, K. 1991. “Roman Amphitheaters Revived.” Journal of Roman Studies 4: 272-281.

Welch, K. 2007. The Roman Amphitheatre: From Its Origins to the Colosseum. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press: 71-100.

 

Ancient Sources

Aulus Cornelius Celsus. 1915. De Medicina. Ed. Marx, F. Teubner, Leipzig.

Livy. 1929. Ab Urbe Condita: Volume III: Books XXI-XXV.  Ed. Conway, R. & Walters, C. Oxford University Press, Oxford. 

Pliny the Elder. 1906. Naturalis Historia.  Ed. Mayhoff, K. Teubner, Leipzig.

Tertullian.  1931. Tertullian: Apology and De Spectaculis. Minucius Felix: Octavius. Trans. Glover, T. Rendall, G.  Loeb Classical Library.

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Cover Image, Top Left: ArsAdAstra, Pixabay

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Why Is Prehistory Inspiring So Many Artists?

Yann Perreau is a writer, educator, contemporary art curator, and writing fellow for the Human Bridges project of the Independent Media Institute. He has published several books on art, climateanonymity, and more. His articles have appeared in many publications, including Libération, Art Press, and East of Borneo. He has served as a cultural attaché for both the French Embassy in London and the French Consulate in Los Angeles. He holds an MPhil in art history from Paris’s EHESS.

Prehistory is a modern idea. The word was “coined” only in the 1830s. Before the 19th century, we didn’t know much about dinosaurs or cavemen, and fossils remained a scientific curiosity. When French naturalist Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon published his notorious Histoire naturelle (1749–1788), suggesting that nature had a history and proposing the first reproduction theory, the faculty of theology at the Sorbonne University in France condemned it and threatened him with repercussions. He eventually had to publish a retraction.

Similarly, when Charles Darwin (1809–1882) published his On the Origin of Species (1859), his compatriots in the United Kingdom and Europe still believed that God made man “in his own image,” as stated in the Bible (Genesis 1:27). Anyone claiming that all animals came from the same origin, and apes were somehow our distant cousins, was considered a fool or a heretic.

Then the first caves were excavated revealing extensive and intricate artwork on their walls. In 1879, archeologist Marcelino Sanz de Sautuola explored a new cave in Altamira, northern Spain, and brought his young daughter, Maria, with him. She spotted vivid depictions of bison and masterfully painted scenes on the cave’s ceiling. These cave paintings were initially dismissed as forgeries, as scholars of the time, with the positivist mindset, could not imagine that people from the Paleolithic were sophisticated enough to produce such complex artworks. By the early 20th century, however, as archaeologists uncovered more ancient skeletons, bones, fossils, and early human art in caves and other sites, their discoveries started to raise curiosity beyond the scientific community. Writers, intellectuals, and the public were captivated by these glimpses into our distant past.

Artists were intrigued, sometimes amazed by the mind-blowing quality of parietal art, indecipherable, complex abstract shapes and objects, and what was perceived as scenes depicting animals and humans in rituals or sacrifices. The drawings, paintings, and etchings that endlessly decorated the walls, ceilings, and floors of caves in subtle colors were often mesmerizing. Picasso was particularly inspired by various prehistoric elements, as the 2023 exhibition No Past in Art: How Prehistory Inspired Picasso’s Work at the Musée de l’Homme in Paris showed. Gauguin, Cézanne, and later the symbolists and primitivists, also dedicated various paintings and sculptures to what they perceived as representations of our origins, rituals, and myths.

Prehistory has never stopped inspiring artists since then, captivating the most important modern art figures like Jean Arp, Giorgio de Chirico, Max Ernst, Alberto Giacometti, Paul Klee, Joan Miró; Joseph Beuys, Louise Bourgeois, Jean Dubuffet, Marguerite Duras, Barbara Hepworth, Yves Klein, and Robert Smithson. It continues to be an inspiration among our contemporaries, including Dove Allouche, Miquel Barceló, Tacita Dean, Marguerite Humeau, Pierre Huyghe, and Giuseppe Penone, to name just a few, whose works were showcased during the 2019 exhibition, Préhistoire, une énigme moderne (Prehistory, a Modern Enigma).

This landmark exhibition, which took place at the Pompidou Center in Paris, inspired me and initiated my interest in prehistory. It is not the first museum show dedicated to the topic: fossils, artifacts, and artworks discovered in caves, as well as tools, ornaments, and sculptures made from natural rocks, have been exhibited in major art institutions since the end of the 19th century.

Most of these exhibitions have already created fruitful dialogues between the past and present and parietal art and its representation by contemporary artists. When it opened its Gallery of Comparative Anatomy and Paleontology in 1898, the National Museum of Natural History in Paris commissioned the sculptor Emmanuel Frémiet and the painter Fernand Cormon to create a vast decorative program. Prehistoric Rock Pictures in Europe and Africa at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA, New York, 1937) showed monumental surveys of cave paintings with a selection of contemporary works by Miró, Klee, and Ernst, among others, in echo. “That an institution devoted to the most recent in the art should concern itself with the most ancient may seem something of a paradox,” MoMA’s founding director Alfred H. Barr Jr. wrote in his preface to the exhibition catalogue. “Yet, for Barr, this past had already influenced modern art, and could potentially offer museum visitors a prehistoric pedigree for it,” states the MoMA website. Another major exhibition, 40,000 Years of Modern Art, organized by Herbert Read and Roland Penrose at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London in 1948, mixed prehistory and non-Western art with surrealist, expressionist, and abstract works.

But there is a major problem, particularly, concerning the so-called “primitive art,”—a highly contested term now. The clichés and stereotypes that this notion implies were also abundant in the early “scientific” literature dedicated to our ancestors. The first paleontologists were poisoned by plain racist prejudices, explains paleo artist and author Mark P. Witton in his 2020 blog. George Cuvier (1769–1832), the father of vertebrate paleontology whose famous taxonomy incorporated both fossils and living species, “viewed whites as the pinnacle of creation, but Blacks as ugly, barbaric persons of monkey-like appearance,” writes Witton. “His work on dividing humans into ‘scientifically validated’ races was instrumental in later attempts at biological justifications of racism.”

In the United States, the influential president of the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH) Henry Fairfield Osborn (1857–1935) was a supporter of Hitler. He exploited his research to promote racist and eugenicist ideas, points out Witton. Osborn commissioned one of the earliest depictions of prehistoric life, Charles Knight’s mural “Neanderthal Flintworkers” (1924), hung in AMNH’s Hall of the Age of Man. Many of Osborn’s contemporaries, including Margaret Mead, were troubled by the racist character of the imagery. The faces and looks of the Neanderthal men and women depicted in this iconic—though controversial and scientifically incorrect work—were inspired by features of non-white peoples, instead of being deduced from their bones.

A Eurocentric mindset has continued to characterize the collective representation of prehistory until recently, sometimes reducing it to a more subtle form of “primitive art.” In 1984, MoMA dedicated a survey exhibition to “Primitivism” in 20th Century Art. MoMA bragged about being the first institution to “juxtapose modern and tribal objects in the light of informed art history.” But the exhibition omitted dates of the Indigenous works and explanations of their functions, as art historian Thomas McEvilly remarked in his Artforum review of the show. He criticized Primitivism in 20th Century Art as expressing “Western egotism still as unbridled as in the centuries of colonialism and souvenirism.” Since then, the museum has made its mea culpa, addressing the controversy on its website.

The Pompidou exhibition’s three curators, Cécile Debray, Rémi Labrusse, and Maria Stavrinaki, write on the museum website that Primitivism in the 20th Century Art did not include prehistory “which, in fact, is fundamentally different from it. For the modern Western world, the ‘primitive’ is generally rooted in specific cultures, usually described as exotic; the question of temporality is secondary to its geographical and cultural otherness. Prehistory, on the other hand, is seen above all as an indefinitely stretched time span, and thus largely indecipherable (whether in terms of nature or the first human cultures).” Labrusse dedicated a book to this paradoxical situation. “Prehistory is precisely what is pre, meaning out of history,” he told me in an interview in October 2024. It “radically overturned our dream of mastering linear time, as 19th-century historicism chose to formulate it.” Here lies the paradox that attracts so many artists to prehistory, according to Labrusse: “Because it is largely indecipherable (whether in terms of nature or the first human cultures), it remains fascinating.”

From Prehistory, a Modern Enigma, I remember the scenography. Tall walls, obscure corridors, grandiose frescos, and a prehistoric cave reconstituted at the center of it. In this spectacular setting, amid fossils, Cro-Magnon skulls, tools, and Paleolithic carvings, there were more than 300 works of art by modern and contemporary artists. Plus elements of popular culture: surveys of archaeological excavations, advertisements, and extracts from books (The Quest for Fire, a hugely popular Belgian 1911 fantasy novel) and cult films such as The Lost World (1925), King Kong (1933), or 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). This undertone in the exhibitions shows what the curators of the Pompidou exhibition describe as the “invention of the concept of prehistory.” How artists and society have succumbed to the appeal of origins in the modern era, “yielding to a fantasized vision of what came before history.”

The exhibition opened with Odilon Redon and Paul Cézanne, at the turn of the 20th century. Cézanne was an amateur student of geology and paleontology. He visited prehistoric caves and painted the rocks on the Mediterranean coast with his close friend Antoine-Fortuné Marion (1846–1900), who later became a noted geologist and paleontologist. The show also exposed the Venus of Lespugue, the famous prehistoric ivory statuette, dated around 23,000 years ago, which inspired Picasso and Giacometti (both owned plaster casts of it). She stands there, in an exhibition room at the Musée de l’Homme, surrounded by bronzes from Matisse, Miró, and other modern artists who were equally fascinated by her and other statues from that time.

Préhistoire, une énigme moderne” brilliantly demonstrated how prehistory inspired modernity, an artistic movement that was, paradoxically, about the future. Photos of the 1889 Paris World’s Fair show how the Eiffel Tower and various cutting-edge technologies were exhibited alongside Neanderthal skeletons. A Max Ernst painting of “petrified forests, glacialized landscapes, and sedimented earth,” created after World War I, raised questions about whether these were depictions “from after humanity, or before it?” as modernism developed toward “a prehistoric vision of time before humankind,” according to a 2019 New York Times article.

This feeling got stronger with the tragedies of World War II when many intellectuals and artists turned their back on the notion of progress, digging in reverse into the beginning of life, extinct species, the first hominids, the lost cultures of the Paleolithic era, and the Neolithic revolution to grapple with the possibility of extinction, of earth without humankind. “Nourished by archaeological discoveries, but far from simply reflecting on them,… prehistory…[functioning] as a powerful machine for stirring up time,” write the curators. “This time machine constantly shapes the mental boundaries of modernity and provides concrete models for all sorts of experiments.”

The exhibition also explores the mysteries of shaped rocks and tools, an intimate relationship to animals, ecological issues, and apocalyptic wonder in chronological and thematic parcourse. These themes are part of the collective representation, the idea of what prehistory is and how the inspired artists, whose works were exhibited, felt from Louise Bourgeois, Joseph Beuys, Lucio Fontana, Max Penck, Robert Morris, Robert Smithson in the 1980s, the Chapman brothers, Pierre Huyghe, Tacita Dean, Marguerite Humeau, Dove Allouche, Jennifer Allora and Guillermo Calzadilla, Jean-Pascal Flavien, and Bertrand Lavier in the last few years. “Prehistory is not an object given to artists to interpret; it is created by them” states Labrusse.

“I think artists are either Paleolithic or Neolithic. I am decidedly the latter said minimalist artist Carl Andre, according to the previously mentioned NYT article. His Stone Field Sculpture in Hartford, Connecticut, could have belonged to the Neolithic times. Painters and sculptors sometimes like to experiment with the artistic canons and the tradition of “getting back to our roots,” to the “early man,” as a 2024 exhibition at the Hole Gallery shows. “Based around an out-of-print anthology devoted to prehistoric collections unearthed by archaeological expeditions in Algeria, French artist Camille Henrot’s… [Prehistoric Collections] treats this ethnographic material as motifs of a contemporary grotesque,” states the Perimeter Books’s website.

Meanwhile, Mark Dion’s immersive, uncanny installation at La Brea Tar Pits and Museum in September 2024, Excavations, displayed new work alongside “early museum murals, dioramas, and maquettes of Ice Age mammals in a playful… presentation,” the museum website states.

Labrusse recalls feeling “powerless” when he started applying his scientific skills and methods to prehistoric art (he is a professor of art history at École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales). “History requires context, facts, and elements to narrate it. These things are almost nonexistent when one looks back so far behind in time,” he explains. Many social scientists who study prehistoric history testify to a similar challenge. There is little evidence from prehistoric times and huge gaps of time for which the evidence is completely missing. “Prehistorians have the scientific honesty to recognize an irreducible ignorance, an impossibility of bringing out meaning,” notes Labrusse. “It is impossible to give a social, political, or aesthetic meaning to these societies.” During a podcast interview in 2019, he explained feeling first “like falling into a hole, caught up in an abyss of darkness. Then, as in Alice in Wonderland, you start to see through the looking glass.”

For him, the turning point came while exploring a prehistoric cave, a “very intimate, life-changing experience,” he says during the interview with me. Discovering parietal scenes in the cave of Roucadour, Labrusse felt “as if they were contemporary. There is no context there, and things seem to float outside of any attributable meaning, so their appropriation is immediate, easy.” I learned this way to “let go of the burden of history,” which “dissolved like a soap bubble.” He recalls being tempted to touch these walls, reproducing these same gestures that the first men did back then. “Science now tells us that Homos sapiens has been the same for 100,000 years, even 300,000 years. Individuals have the same capacities, even possibly the same feelings as us today.”

The limits of science, when confronted with prehistory, are also an opportunity that artists have often seized to contribute to the field in their own way. It gives them a chance to tell this story differently. Aware of this, contemporary prehistorians sometimes invite painters or sculptors to work with them to create interdisciplinary meaning, an epistemology articulating a subjective point of view (art) with an objective approach (science).

The French government invited artists Ernest Pignon-Ernest, Giuseppe Penone, and Miquel Barceló, among others, to bring “Other Perspectives” to the Chauvet-Pont d’Arc cave. To understand how a howl decorating the cave had been originally drawn, Barceló recreated first the same wet surface that was used by his predecessor as a canvas 35,5000 years ago. He then drew a few lines like a graffiti artist in less than 10 seconds. His audacious and instinctive gesture was brilliant: the resulting drawing looked remarkably similar to the original one. “Only an artist can do this with his subjective impulsivity,” comments Labrusse. “A historian would not have dared to do it, keeping a rigorous mindset in his attempt to reproduce the drawing and, ultimately, failing to do so.”

In another style, the notorious Adrie and Alfons Kennis, twin brothers who are “paleo artists,” are creating lifelike figures of early man that are touring museums and galleries around the world. Their hominids are fascinating and are another example of what art and science can do when working hand in hand.

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This article was produced by Human Bridges.

Cover Image, Top Left: Cave painting detail replica from Altamira Cave in Spain. Jose-Manuel Benito, Locutus Borg, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

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The Gates of Rome

Professor Frank J. Korn has retired from his teaching position on the Classical Studies faculty at Seton Hall University.  He is a Fulbright Scholar at the American Academy in Rome and the author of nine books on various aspects of the Eternal City.  He is listed in Marquis Who’s Who as “a notable classical educator and writer.”  Recipient of the Princeton Prize for Distinguished Teaching, he resides with his wife Camille in Scotch Plains, N.J.  The couple’s three sons –  Frank, Ronald, and John and their families live nearby.  His latest book    Below Rome, the Story of the Catacombs    which he co-authored with his wife, is available on Amazon or from the publisher, St. Johann Press, Haworth, N.J.

“All our efforts will be for naught unless we Punic soldiers burst through the gates of Rome and I, Hannibal, plant my standard in the heart of the City.”

…..Juvenal (Satire 10)

“The Gates of Rome!”  In that poetic phrase there is more history and drama and lore than is to be found in a library of novels and social studies textbooks.  And    wondrous to say    the gates still stand, in defiance of the ravages of time and the elements.

They constitute yet one more facet that renders Rome the gem of all the great cities on earth.  For Rome alone requires entrance through one of the openings in its ancient walls.  One does not hear of “The Gates of Paris,” or “The Gates of Madrid,” or of London, or Tokyo, or Vienna, or Boston.

Baked by the sun of more than 600,000 days, Rome’s gates are especially suggestive in the light of the moon.  It is at this hour, when the nightingales are in song, that there come trooping out of the darkness, hosts of memories, ghosts of Imperial Rome:  conquering, plume-helmeted legions bearing their spoils of war; foreign merchants vending exotic wares; the apostle Peter    foot weary from having walked up the Appian Road all the way from the Naples area; the barbaric hordes of the Middle Ages, Napoleon and his vaunted armies, General Kappler at the head of his goose stepping Nazis, General Mark Clark at the front of a convoy of his liberating Fifth Army following their bloody victory at nearby Anzio.  All passed through … “The Gates of Rome.”

Through these vast portals have walked    or ridden    the likes of Dante, Goethe, Keats, Shelly, Byron, Hawthorne, and Twain; of Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Giotto, Raffaele, Monet, Manet, and Picasso; of Liszt and Tchaikovsky, of Mastroianni and Loren; of Taylor and Burton.  Browning used to say:  “Sooner or later, everyone comes ‘round to Rome.”  And anyone who “comes ‘round to Rome” must, perforce, use its gates, which to the ancient Romans were often rendezvous points:  “Let’s meet at the Appian Gate.”

“Nos ad Portam Appiam occurramus”

But before going on about the gates, we must pause here to talk about the lofty, thick walls which they pierced.

The walls of Rome rank high among archaeologists’ favorite antiquities there, transporting the viewer back through time and space to the late empire and beyond.  With a little imagination, one can see the defenders of the city hurling fire and missiles down from the heights and through the slots; envision the storming of the gates, and the battering rams; observe the barbaric hordes spilling through and scaling over the fortifications to lay waste to the aged capital.

When he founded Rome in 753 B.C., Romulus’ first public work was to enclose his domain with protective walls built at right angles to form a perfect square around the primitive village on the Palatine Hill and create what was known as Roma Quadrata i.e. “Square Rome.”  The Eternal City has ever since been walled in    next by the Servian Walls; finally by the Aurelian Walls.

Romulus’ Quadrata was consecrated to the gods in solicitation of their divine blessing and protection.  (Walled-in villages were already commonplace throughout Italy, the Etruscans having imported the practice a century earlier.)  One night, Remus, drunk with resentment over his brother’s selection as monarch, defiled the consecrated walls, thereby committing sacrilege and meeting death at the hands of his twin.

The historian Tacitus has this to say:  “The walls were erected according to Etruscan rites, marked out by a furrow created with a plough, drawn by a cow and a bull, leaving places necessary for three gates.”  From the writer Varro we even learn the names of two of these portals.  On the east was the Porta Mugonia, so named for the “mooing” of the cattle which were led out to pasture through it.  On the west was the Porta Romulana, named for the founder-king.

From Virgil’s Aeneid, Book VIII, we come upon the name of the third gate:

Vix ea dicta, dehinc, progressus monstrat et aram et Carmentalem Romani nomine portam quam memorant, nymphae priscum Carmentis honorem.

“Then (Evander) having spoken, resumed walking (with Aeneas).  They came upon an altar and the Carmenta Gate named in honor of the nymph who prophesied the great fortune of the Romans.”

Remains of Romulus’ immured hamlet, though scanty, are well worthy of a visit to the Palatine,  For here truly is the cradle of Western Civilization.  Along the vast foundation of Tiberius’ Palace can be seen fragments of those primitive walls’ tufa  boulders.

In the reign of the sixth king Servius Tullius (578-535 B.C.), who governed well, the Servian Walls rose in protection of what had become by now the Urbs Septimontium (city of the Seven Hills:  The Palatine, Aventine, Capitoline, Esquiline, Quirinal, Viminal, and Caelian.)

Built of immense blocks of volcanic tufa, these fortifications were improved and enlarged on orders of the Senate in the fourth century B.C. They were 35 feet in height, 12 feet thick, and nearly 7 miles long, enclosing an area of more than six hundred acres, and made more formidable by a deep ditch on the outside, and a dirt rampart on the city side.

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Remains of the Servian Wall in front of Termini Station, Rome, Italy. Roundtheworld at wts wikivoyage, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

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The Servian Wall encircled the seven hills of Rome. http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Renata3, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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There were fourteen gates, two of which survive fragmentarily: the Porta Esquilina, and the Porta Capena which opened on to the Appian Way.  Stretches of the wall still stand guard in various sections of Rome.  One sizable portion remains extending out of  the twentieth century railroad terminal, near the Baths of Diocletian.  On Viale Aventino we pass through two more great portions where a bronze plaque gives an informative account of the walls’ story.  The historians Livy, Strabo, and Dionysisus all mention the Servian Walls.

Many times restored and strengthened, the Servian Walls were abandoned in the Imperial age and therefore many stretches were demolished or utilized for other public works and ultimately replaced by the still wonderfully preserved red-brick Aurelian Walls, which lend such sublime distinction to the city we visit in our time.

With the Pax Romana by then but a memory, the Emperor Aurelian, from A.D. 271 to 275 employed tens of thousands of military troops in the task of walling-in the Imperial Capital in the vain hope of walling-out Rome’s growing list of powerful enemy nations and barbarian tribes.

Anything of consequential size that stood in their path was incorporated right into the ramparts, such as the Pyramid of Gaius Cestius.  This monument dates from the first century B.C. and the inscription tells us it was erected in less than a year as a sepulcher for the ashes of Cestius, a high public official who on a junket to Egypt had been so duly impressed with the  tombs of the pharaohs.  For the statistics devotee we offer the following numbers:  The walls ambled around the hills for thirteen or so miles, enclosing approximately 3,500 acres.  Soaring to a height of slightly over fifty feet, they had 383 towers, 7,020 battlements, 2,000 windows, more than 5,000 loopholes, and more than a hundred rooms serving as guards’ quarters and latrines.

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The Aurelian walls between Porta San Sebastiano and Porta Ardeatina (Viale Ardeatina). Lalupa, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

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Map showing the Aurelian Wall (in red). Joris at Dutch Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 4.0 Wikimedia Commons

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From several elevated vantage points about a mile or so out on the old Appian Way    especially from the summit of the driveway leading to the Catacomb of San Callisto    the walls and one of the massive gates come into view, bringing to the romantic mind “the many-towered Camelot.”

There were eighteen main gates and several smaller openings.  Fourteen of the major portals pierce the ramparts at the points where the great consular highways depart from the city.  Each such gate was usually called for the road which it launched, e.g. the Porta Appia for the Via Appia, the Porta Ostiense for the Via Ostiense, and so on.  The Porta Nomentana, the Porta Latina, the Porta Praenestina, the Porta Tiburtina and numerous others were thus given their names.

At one point the wall is referred to as the Muro Torto (Twisted Wall) near the Piazzale Flaminio.  Peculiarly irregular and looking about to fall, it nevertheless slouches on with no help from restoration efforts. An old legend has it that St. Peter himself is pledged to watch over and save this particular stretch.

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And where there are walls there are bound to be gates.  What follows is an anecdotal litany of some of the best known Aurelian portals:

Porta Flaminia, so called because it opened onto the consular road by the same name, i.e. the Via Flaminia, which is one of the most ancient routes of the famous Roman highway system.  Dating to 220 B.C. and over 200 miles long, Via Flaminia went from the capital up and over the daunting Apennines to Ariminium (Rimini) high up on the Adriatic (near Venice).  In 452 the intrepid Pope Leo I went out from this exit to intercept and turn back    by the sheer power of his words    the dreaded Attila and his rampaging Huns.  Today the gate goes by the name of Porta del Popolo.  It was reworked by Bernini, on commission of Pope Alexander VII, into a baroque masterpiece for the arrival of Queen Christina of Sweden in 1655.  The inscription bids her majesty a happy entrance to the Eternal City.

After Constantine granted them the freedom to practice their faith, the Christians bestowed saints’ names on several of the openings.

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Porta del Popolo in Rome, Italy. Krzysztof Golik , CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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From the Aurelian Gate (now Porta San Pancrazio), one can still head northwest along the Via Aurelia.  Built in the twilight of the Roman Republic, the road follows the Tyrrhenian coast through the port cities of Civitavecchia and Pisa, thence along the Ligurian coast all the way into Provincia Romana (Provence) in Gaul (France).

At the opposite end of Rome is the Porta San Sebastiano (nee Porta Appia) from which the Regina Viarum – the Appian Way – commences its journey south to Capua.  Opened in 312 B.C. the road was named for the censor who proposed it, Appius Claudius.  The well paved highway met with such popularity that it was later extended southeast to the port of Brundisium (Brindisi) in the heel of the Italian boot.  This twin-turreted gate is the best preserved and most suggestive in the Aurelian circuit.

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Porta San Sebastiano. Ardeatino, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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After the Saint Sebastian gate, perhaps the next finest entrance is the Gate of Saint Paul (originally Porta Ostiense because from here departs the old heavily trafficked road to Ostia).  This gate also features twin lofty round towers and is totally intact as well.  Abutting it and rising 120 feet into the air is the Pyramid of Cestius.  While Paul did not see the gate named for him, since the Aurelian Walls were still two centuries into the future, the apostle undoubtedly cast his eyes on Cestius’ elaborate final resting place as he was being led out of the city to his martyrdom along the Via Ostiense one dark day in A.D. 67.

This is the gate that devout pilgrims have been taking, across the ages, to visit the venerable Basilica San Paolo Fuori le Mura (St. Paul’s Outside the Walls) about two miles down the road.  Members of the Commission of Sacred Archeology, under the auspices of the Vatican, maintain that Paul’s remains lie in the crypt below the main altar.  It was here at the Porta San Paolo, on 10 September 1943, that the Italian army troops aided by great numbers of civilians, partisans of the Resistenza, waged a fierce battle to block the Germans from entering the city, but in vain.  Hitler’s forces prevailed and penetrated the walls, occupying and terrifying Rome until the Allied liberation on June 2, 1944.

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Porta San Paolo. Dietmar Rabich, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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The Aurelian Walls added a rather simple opening as recently as 1574, the Gate of St. John, just a stone’s throw from the Basilica di San Giovanni, opening onto the Via Appia Nuova (the New Appian Way) which leads to the summer retreat of the popes in the tranquil town of Castel Gandolfo.  The gate is rather plain.  The inscription over the arch gives a brief biography of the gate:

GREGORIUS XIII PONT MAX

PUBLICAE VTILITATI ET

URBIS ORNAMENTO VIAM

CAPANAM CONSTRAVIT PORTAM

EXSTRUXIT MDLXXIIII PONT.III

“Gregory XIII Pontiff built this gate for the convenience of the public and as an ornament for the city, as well as the Country Road in 1574, the third year of his pontificate.”

The two side arches were opened in the early 1900’s to facilitate the flow of ever increasing traffic to and from the Castelli Romani (the dozen or so ancient hilltowns so popular with the Romans for weekend excursions).

Then there’s yet another gate favored by the pilgrims, the Porta San Lorenzo that takes them to the fourth century Basilica of Saint Laurence Outside the Walls, along the consular highway to Tibur (today’s Tivoli), the Via Tiburtina, the same name by which the gate was originally known.  The great church was severely damaged accidentally by a stray Allied bomb on July 19,1943 when the Italian Army was still on the side of the Germans.  The bomb was intended for the central rail yards nearby to cripple the enemy supply lines.

After the war, funds poured in from all over the world, especially from the U.S., to help with the massive restoration efforts.  The magnet here for pilgrimages is the grave of the Deacon Laurence, martyred in the savage persecution under Emperor Valerian (253-259).

In A.D. 52 the Emperor Claudius had erected a majestic monumental arch to allow the aqueduct bearing his name to span two busy thoroughfares:  Via Prenestina and Via Labicana.  The arch was still standing in A.D. 271 but in the path that Emperor Aurelian had planned for his walls.  So, as he did with the Pyramid of Cestius, he incorporated it into the fabric of his fortifications.  The arch now served as an attractive gate which was given the name Porta Esquilina.  In the late fourth century, the Romans took to calling it Porta Maggiore because of its proximity to the then recently built basilica named Santa Maria Maggiore, perched on the summit of the Esquiline.

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Porta Maggiore. Livioandronico2013, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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Perhaps it’s worth noting at this point that the old Roman highways were customarily named for the officials who sponsored them, e.g. Via Appia for Appius Claudius; or for the towns that they led to.  For example, the Via Ardeatina led to, and still leads to, the town of Ardea; the Via Nomentana to Nomentum; the Via Praenestina to Praeneste (now Palestrina) and, of course, the Via Ostiense to Ostia.

At the foot of the Caelian Hill we come upon the Porta Latina, a single arched gate accessing the Via Latina which runs through the various cities of old Latium (in our time, the region of Lazio).  Just inside the portal are two noteworthy ecclesiastical structures: the small octagonal chapel of San Giovanni in Oleo, marking the spot where Domitian (81-96) had John the Evangelist boiled in oil.  The second is the charming fourth century Romanesque church with the lilting name of San Giovanni alla Porta Latina, St. John at the Latin Gate.

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Porta Latina in Rome, Italy. Gustavo La Pizza, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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The Porta Salaria, marked the starting point of Via Salaria, the old “salt road”, heading east 150 miles, all the way to the Adriatic coast where there were myriad salt-producing sites, causing heavy traffic to and from.  This gateway had quite a checkered existence.  On August 24 in the year 410, Alaric and his marauding Visigoths stormed through Porta Salaria on their way to plunder Rome.  Left in rubble, it was later completely restored and strengthened.  Many historians believe that this incursion signaled the beginning of the fall of the Roman Empire.

On September 20 in 1870, the gate suffered heavy bombardment by troops of Il Risorgimento, the Italian Revolution which brought an end to the Papal States.  The gifted architect Virgiliio Vespignani was called upon to design a new entrance.  This replacement survived barely a half-century when it was purposely torn down to allow a smoother flow of modern traffic out of and into the city.

Another one of the original gates, the Porta Ardeatina, from which the Ardeatine Road diverged, was walled up and a new, up-to-date replacement installed a few hundred meters further along the wall, but given the name of the original.  The new Ardeatine Gate features four high and wide and graceful archways, providing easy access to the twentieth century speedway, Via Cristoforo Colombo that connects old Rome to the Mussolini era suburb of EUR.

The Aurelian Walls eventually were extended on the opposite bank of the river to defend the Trans Tiberim district (Trastevere).  There was a gate just a few hundred yards beyond called the Porta Portuensis which opened onto the road by the same name, for it led to Trajan’s port at Fiumicino.  The gate later underwent a name change in Italian to Porta Portese and is these days known for the large and lively Sunday flea market just outside of it.

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Porta Portese. Gustavo La Pizza, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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For avid wall and gate watchers there is also the Muro Gianicolense (the Janiculum Wall) of Pope Urban VIII, dating from 1642, up on the hill named for Janus, god of beginnings and endings.  This was the site of Garibaldi’s fierce confrontation in 1849 with Marshal Quindinot’s French forces who were helping Pope Pius IX to hold on to Rome, but they were unsuccessful.

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Lastly, let us tell of a most remarkable situation in Rome.  Within this walled-in city lies a walled-in country … the Vatican. (Though merely 108 acres in size, Il Vaticano surely qualifies as a country – with its own borders, its own army, the Swiss Guards, its own population – about 1,000 – its own flag and anthem, its own postal system, its diplomatic relations with more than a hundred other nations including the United States, and its own head of state, the Pope, who is sufficiently regarded as such as to be from time to time invited to address the U.N. General Assembly.)  In the ninth century this lilliputian city-state was girded with a mighty, clay-colored wall by order of Pope Leo IV, hence its name the Muro Leonina.  There were originally five entrances but only two survived into the twentieth century:  the Porta della Campana and the Porta Sant Anna, through which cardinals, bishops, and priests daily come and go, along with the permanent residents.  In February of the Jubilee Year A.D. 2000, Pope John Paul II dedicated a new gate on the Viale Vaticano to accommodate the ever increasing multitudes of visitors to the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel. In November of 2023 another gate was installed to afford more convenient access to the famous archeological site of the ancient Necropolis along the Via Triumphalis.

Ah, the gates of Rome.  They    more than any of the myriad other monuments of Rome Eternal – have seen it all; from the Caesars to the Fascists, from the Vestal Virgins to the Popes, from the gladiators to the pilgrims, from the Model T to the Lamborghini.  From a solitary small vineyard keeper driving his horse and wagon in from the campagna to sell his wines, to mighty armies rumbling through in trucks, jeeps, and tanks.  From two lovers on a motor scooter to multitudes of tourists sardined into glass buses.

The Kingdom, the Republic, the Empire …  all are gone.  The Emperor Aurelian crossed the River Styx seventeen hundred years ago.  But his walls and  ..  their gates  … still survive. 

As Browning noted:  “Sooner or later everyone comes ‘round to Rome.” 

He might well have added:  “and through her gates!”

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Cover Image, Top Left: The Aurelian Walls at Porta Asinaria, Rome. MrPanyGoff, CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons

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Socrates: A Few Words

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Marranca (RM): Let me start with a cup that was found. A while back, I recall a news story about a cup found that has some connection to Socrates. Was it his – what’s the story on this?

Paul Cartledge (PC): To my knowledge no such inscribed cup has been found, but there is one, made of course of fired and painted clay, not precious metal, which possibly brings us within one degree of separation. A contemporary of Socrates called Simon had a cobbler’s workshop in the Agora: a cup inscribed with that name incised in the genitive case (meaning ‘belonging to Simon’) has been found in the SW corner. Later sources tell us that a Simon conversed with Socrates and may even have written philosophical dialogues, but whether he’s the same Simon is unfortunately not certain. It’s a shame too that neither of our two main contemporary sources on Socrates, Plato and Xenophon, found occasion to mention the philosophical Simon.                                                                                                                                                                   

RM: Before we delve into some of the influences on Socrates, can you mention what Socrates would be up to on any given day?

PC: Socrates is found mooching in the center of Athens, often in the Agora area, looking for a suitable conversationalist and conversation topic to engage in dialectics with, asking ‘Socratic’ questions (unanswerable definitively) and using the ‘Socratic’ Q&A method. Socrates – or at any rate Plato’s ‘Socrates’ – apparently was primarily interested in two things: epistemology (theory of knowledge) and moral philosophy, how to live the best life (Plato may actually have coined the word ‘philosophia’).

 

RM: Who were the most important earlier philosophers and teachers who influenced Socrates?

PC: Socrates seems to us to have fallen from the sky, as it were, to emerge as a philosopher fully-fledged in mature adult years, but that’s due to the nature of our evidence as well as to the fact that in his youth Athens didn’t have a regular first- or second-level educational curriculum. There was a Greek tradition of intellectual enquiry going back at least as far as Thales of Miletus,who flourished around 600 BCE. These ‘Presocratics’ are sometimes called ‘natural philosophers’, since what they were chiefly interested in was non-human nature (phusis), what the universe was made of, etc. Some of them, for example Xenophanes of Colophon and Democritus of Abdera, anticipated Socrates’s interest in human morality, but it seems that it was indeed Socrates whose thinking was transformative in changing the focus of intellectual debate from heaven to earth, as it were.                                                                      

Two other potential influences are worth mentioning: tragic drama and the philosophy of Parmenides of Elea. But probably the most important feature of Socrates’s day and of democratic Athens as the ‘City Hall of Wisdom’ (Plato) was that there emerged a group, not large but noisy, of itinerant intellectuals prepared to sell their brand of wisdom and knowledge to anyone willing or able to pay, and who found Athens a congenial place to expound and sell their wares. To Plato, however, what they were selling was neither wisdom nor knowledge but merely purveyors of fake news, and it was he who forever after gave the Greek word sophistēs, literally a ‘wise’ person or intellectual, its bad name – hence our ‘sophistical’, ‘sophistry’. In the dialogues, Plato spends a lot of time and effort trying to distinguish his Socrates, who accepted no pay, from the ‘sophists’, but the popular view of Socrates, as represented caricaturally in Aristophanes’s Clouds, was that he was every bit as much of a ‘sophist’ – and dangerous ‘free thinker’ – as they.

 

RM: In Plato’s Symposium, Socrates said he learned about love from Diotima. What did he learn? 

PC: That all depends what’s meant by ‘love’! The ancient Greeks had some five words that could be translated by that one English word. They more than ‘had a word for it’! The specific kind that’s under discussion and dispute in the Platonic dialogue known as ‘The Symposium’ is erōs: erotic love, sexual passion, to be blunt about it. Diotima may or may not have been a real person. As presented by Plato, she’s a wise woman, possibly a priestess, from Arcadia in southern Greek Peloponnese, not a region noted for its intellectuals. There are scholars today who even think she may be a literary surrogate for a real ancient Greek woman, Aspasia from Miletus in what’s today Aegean Turkey. If so, she’s a surrogate for the woman with whom Pericles lived for about a quarter of a century. [see further next Answer.]  But of course, it’s not who Diotima really was – another of the dialogists was the comic playwright Aristophanes who’s credited with spinning a myth of origin that accounts for why there are what we call heterosexuals and homosexuals – but what Diotima and the others are given to say that counts.

 

RM: And would Socrates have enjoyed wine and food and a comfortable lounge chair during these symposia?

PC: Two things go to the heart of the dialogue, which takes its name from its setting: a dinner/drinking party in a private house held to celebrate the victory of another playwright, tragic poet Agathon, during which the diner/drinkers would not slouch in lounge chairs but recline on couches, two to a couch. First thing, what IS erōs? Really, essentially, existentially, Aporia… Second: what good is it, what’s it good for? We happen to know that Plato himself never married – unlike Socrates, who married twice and possibly bigamously.

We also happen to know that in his last dialogue, The Laws, written in extreme old age, he, as it were, came out vigorously, almost viciously against homosexual erōs on the grounds that it was unnatural, i.e. could not lead to the production of offspring. But in The Symposium, Socrates was far more tolerant, far less gender-critical (as some of us now say): erōs was fine, on condition that it was not an end in itself, but a means towards the realization of finer things on the higher plane of the spiritual soul (psychē). For example, and here one suspects not a little autobiography, erōs was an especially potent and beneficial force pedagogically speaking – conducing as it did to two minds (he has in mind an adult and an adolescent male) being in intellectual harmony.

 

RM: You mentioned Aspasia, the partner of Athens’ incredible first citizen, Pericles. How might Aspasia have influenced Socrates?

PC: There’s a question! Plato was born very soon after the death of Pericles in 429, so he could have ‘known’ of the great man only by repute. Aspasia was still alive when Plato was very young, but again he would have had to rely on hearsay or written report to glean anything much for sure about her and Pericles’s relationship and private life. One thing he would have discovered at once was how outrageously unconventional it had been. Pericles, a wealthy aristocrat, did the ‘normal’ and conventional thing and married an upper-class Athenian woman – so upper-class we don’t know her name. With her he had two sons.

That would have been roughly between 465 and 455, but at around the latter date he divorced his wife – again that wasn’t uncommon among the social elite. But what followed was. Instead of remarrying, he remained single … until he somehow met and fell for Aspasia, a citizen of another (allied) Greek city. For a man of his class and station it would not have been uncommon for him to have both a wife AND a concubine, a bit on the side, as it were. But Pericles was an either/or man: for him, either a wife or a concubine. After some time of enjoying (?) his single status, Pericles made Aspasia his concubine, a sort of ‘common law’ wife, and lived with her for the remaining 25 or so years of his life. One irony of their partnership was that after 451 he would have been expressly forbidden by law to take a non-Athenian woman as his lawfully wedded wife – by a law that he himself had promoted! So, the son they had together – unimaginatively named ‘Pericles’ – was by definition illegitimate in law.

 

RM: Aspasia was amazing and quite famous – so much so that men wrote about her. Can you delve?

PC: The evidence for Aspasia is almost all scurrilously negative: for Pericles to be so besotted with her, she must have had special sexual powers, etc. But one piece of evidence stands out from that crowd, and it’s Plato’s dialogue the Menexenus. According to this, Aspasia was so smart she was able to give Socrates lessons in rhetoric, showing him how to compose a Funeral Oration. In the real Athens, even Athenian citizen women were second-class citizens, in that – apart from priestesshoods – they were denied any public political offices or functions in the democracy. In Athenian reality it was her partner Pericles who was chosen at least twice to deliver the public Funeral Oration over Athenian war-dead. I therefore think this is yet another way in which Plato, who vehemently disliked and disapproved of the Athenian democracy, was trying to expose that regime’s faulty, even immoral bases. This subtle variation on the ‘woman-behind-the-throne’ motif, whatever else it was, was fundamentally anti-democratic.

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About Paul Cartledge

Paul Cartledge is a British historian and scholar. From 2008 to 2014 he was the A. G. Leventis Professor of Greek Culture at the University of Cambridge, and previously held a personal chair in Greek History at Cambridge. (Text CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikipedia Commons)

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Image Top Left: Socrates at work. Maklay62, Pixabay

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The Surprising Ways Inventions and Ideas Spread in Ancient Prehistory

Brenna R. Hassett, PhD, is a biological anthropologist and archaeologist at the University of Central Lancashire and a scientific associate at the Natural History Museum, London. In addition to researching the effects of changing human lifestyles on the human skeleton and teeth in the past, she writes for a more general audience about evolution and archaeology, including the Times (UK) top 10 science book of 2016 Built on Bones: 15,000 Years of Urban Life and Death, and her most recent book, Growing Up Human: The Evolution of Childhood. She is also a co-founder of TrowelBlazers, an activist archive celebrating the achievements of women in the “digging” sciences.

The human capacity for invention is unparalleled. We have developed technologies that have allowed us to survive and thrive far beyond the ecological niches that constrained our ancestors. While our innovation has allowed us to break loose from the constraints of our home continent, Africa, and even our home planet, the actual way in which our species adopts new technologies remains a subject of huge debate among those scientists who study the past. Does one hominid ancestor start to shuffle upright, and the rest follow? Does the first human to loop a piece of string through a shell bead inspire the rest of the species to create the world’s first jewelry? Or do different animals take up the same new adaptation at different times, because it solves a problem that appears in many places?

We know that in some of our closest living relatives, the primates, new technical skills are passed on through direct learning. Macaques, in particular, are responsible for innovative behaviors that have been transmitted through their societies by individuals who have seen and observed them and then adopted them as their own. This is true of behaviors as varied as “hot tubbing” by the macaques of Japan’s northern Hokkaido island and the habit of dipping sweet potatoes in the sea to “salt” them developed by macaques on Koshima island further south.

Many of the technological innovations that have had the greatest impact on our species were first seen about 10,000 to 15,000 years ago in a region that archaeologists refer to as the “Fertile Crescent.” The region encompasses a swathe of land crossing the countries between the easternmost Mediterranean Sea and the Sinai, Arab, and Syrian deserts and up into the Zagros Mountains of what is now Iran. It is a region of famous firsts in terms of radical changes to our species lifestyle: settling down, cultivating plants, and taming the animals we eat are all first attested in this strip of relatively abundant land.

It was along the shores of the Sea of Galilee where we have the first evidence of the wild ancestors of today’s wheat being exploited more than 20,000 years ago, at the site of Ohalo II, reconstructed from the microscopic remains of shattered seeds still clinging to a grinding stone after millennia. From 15,000 years ago, in a corridor stretching up and down the eastern Mediterranean we call the Levant, there comes the first signs of a new way of life for humans; one that involves staying in the same groups and homes all year round, rather than following food around the landscape as we had done for the 300,000 years prior. Those seeds from Ohalo II have grown into entirely new shapes by the time they are uncovered in these new inventions, called villages, and by around 9,000 years ago this new human-friendly type of wheat was well on its way to becoming our first domesticate (domesticate that wasn’t a dog—those we have had for probably 30,000 years). Meanwhile, over the last 10,000 years or so, goats, sheep, pigs, and eventually cattle were all brought into these new human habitations, and bred into the shapes that suit us rather than them: better to eat or easier to manage.

What is even more remarkable about these radical changes in a species that had been living as foragers for hundreds of thousands of years was how fast these new innovations “spread.” Archaeologists in the 20th century dedicated huge amounts of time to tracking the movements of new technologies through the evidence of ancient houses, pots, and bones to work out how people from the Near East had “invaded” Europe with their culture of domestication, and even when the idea of a mass invasion was put to rest, some still claimed that people themselves carried the new ideas of domesticated life. The way we saw human inventions was as hot-tubbing macaques at a larger scale: one clever inventor and her friends and family following behind.

This has large implications for human knowledge. Did it take people literally passing on new skills to spread farming, domestic animals, and year-round lifestyles to all corners of the globe? Is this the only way our species learns something this life-changing?

We are not, as it turns out, macaques. Good scientific evidence has given us dates for a farming and animal revolution in China that happened just a thousand or so years later, but for a totally different crop: rice. The invention of cultivated plants occurred independently, as did other similar innovations like domesticating animals. In fact, around the world, there was an endless series of radical revolutions, some earlier, some later, but all bringing plant and animal life under human management: from the potato and the alpaca in South America to pearl millet and cattle in West Africa.

This phenomenon is called “independent invention,” and it is our strongest evidence yet that every innovation our species has made has been a response to a place and time; that some technologies travel far and wide but, where they don’t, we are perfectly capable of inventing them again.

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This article was produced by Human Bridges.

Cover Image, Top Left: Wheat, Bru-nO, Pixabay

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