pleased to announce a new blog series entitled Editions, a monthly journal of unreleased tracks by artists and composers who explore the use of environmental field recordings as creative source material and means of capturing a sonic moment. Through listening to these recordings we have the opportunity to become aware of the various dialects that can exist in the language of field recording compositions.

It looks as though it will become a promising archive of interesting sound, meshed with good visuals...really an interesting way of thinking and experiencing the connection between sound and place.

www.soundwalk.com/blog/category/editions

The Autopsies Project explores how objects die. Just as the twentieth century was transformed by the advent of new forms of media - the typewriter, gramophone, and film, for example - the arrival of the twenty-first century has brought the phasing out of many public and private objects that only recently seemed essential to "modern life." The project brings together a team of postgraduate students and full-time lecturers, from several humanities and social science disciplines to reflect on the ends of objects, raising questions of modernity, obsolescence, memory, collecting and recording.

Further information on this new research project, seminars, lectures, as well as the regular 'Autopsies' blog can be found here: http://www.autopsiesgroup.com

"Autopsies: The Afterlife of Dead Objects" forms part of the UCL Film Studies Space research project, "Cinematic Memory, Consumer Culture, and Everyday Life."

The UCL Film Studies Space is a winner of the UCL Research Challenges 2009. http://www.ucl.ac.uk/research-challenges/FilmStudies

Thursday, November 19, 2009
6:00 pm – 8:00 pm
Bard Graduate Center, 38 West 86th Street, New York
(RSVP required)

For info

What can an inventory tell us? How can we use an artifact of the legal system to tease out relationships between people and their relationship to things? How does such a document translate into an exhibition? Bernard Herman, a leading scholar of American material culture, will draw on his vast knowledge of both things and people in a conversation with cultural historian Catherine Whalen and exhibition co-curator Deborah L. Krohn. The conversation will be followed by an exhibition viewing and reception. Bernard L. Herman is Edward F. and Elizabeth Goodman Rosenberg Professor of Art History, University of Delaware. Deborah L. Krohn is associate professor and coordinator for history and theory of museums at the Bard Graduate Center as well as co-curator of the Dutch New York exhibition. Catherine Whalen is assistant professor at the Bard Graduate Center.

Material Culture and Technology in Everyday Life: Ethnographic Approaches. 2009, edited by Phillip Vannini, New York: Peter Lang Publishers. 256pp. ISBN 978-1-4331-0301-8.

One way to write a review of this book is to treat it as a material object suitable for ethnographic study within the social field of Material Culture and Technology Studies in Everyday Life – where, for our convenience, ‘everyday life’ here encompasses the daily practices, social constructions, actor networks, epistemologies, semiotics and narratives of those whose profession is the academic study of material culture and technology.

The tautological and even solipsistic implications of such an approach are not resisted by the volume itself. If anything it invites this approach, and its compliance provides the ethnographic reviewer with a place to start. This might be the following question: What is it about this object that so comprehensively situates (a signature term in the book) it in the ethnographic field of academic material culture and technology studies?

This comprehensive question can be broken down into four parts: What is the contribution’s escutcheon – how does it proclaim its identity and allegiance? Behind the escutcheon, what is its discourse model – how does its obvious organisation reveal its hegemonic aspect? And within that discourse model, what are the emergent qualities or entelechy implied by the book’s semiotic consistency, its concordance of terminologies – its dialect, if you like? And finally, what signs of power, ideology and management are visible within that concordance?

Such an approach is interesting not because it has satirical potential (though some of the book’s jargon lapses do invite that) but because it provides a way in to the issue of reflexivity in academic publication, and not just in the disciplines associated with sociology. The likelihood that a compilation like this might be effecting positive feedback to its own causes (or intentions) deserves the kind of critical attention empirical ethnography – surely an inherently sceptical practice – is well suited to provide.

The escutcheon
The collection is published by Peter Lang Publishing Group, specialists in the production and distribution of academic texts, from published PhD theses to substantial scholarly works, some of which are by individual writers, others (as here) edited as compilations of chapters by various hands. The publisher is not a commercial one in the conventional trade sense, in that by and large its economy is one where books circulate within their professional user communities of interest – communities the books represent (in several senses) as social constructs of those communities whose relationships the books also perform as agents.

The publisher’s brand values are represented on-line by images of antique art paper with deckle edges and an early twentieth century typewriter keyboard. Immediately behind these symbols of historical scholarly depth the user will find a suite of practical on-line forms with which to submit book proposals. The implication of the forms, which runs somewhat counter to the publisher’s antiqued brand identity, is that the Peter Lang Group does not commission and develop books; rather, it assesses proposals and subsequently processes manuscripts. Book production takes place in or close to the manuscript’s country of origin, which will often (as here) be where its editor is located. Sales and distribution take place on-line and appear to involve a significant print-on-demand option, which implies first print runs tailored to known markets, for example a book’s measurable community of interest, its use as a class text, and its library and archive subscriptions.

Often, the task of academic publishers such as Peter Lang or Brill Academic Publishers is to put into circulation texts whose contributions to scholarly discussion (in the case of book-length compilations of chapters) may have begun as conference papers. In this, the volume’s nearest relative is the peer-reviewed scholarly journal, including or even especially the user-pays e-journal; or even more modest compilations of un-refereed poster papers; rather than university press book titles competing for prestige (and prestigious authors) in wider markets. The publisher’s imprint, then, provides an early general marker of the ethnographic meaning and entelechy (another signature term) of compilations such as this.

The concordance
Theorists who might be cited in an ethnography of the object (or, indeed, technic) Material Culture and Technology in Everyday Life will be found in the book itself on a stretch between neo-Hegelians identifying effects of objectification, Durkheimian sociologists focused on social facts and the totemising of objects, and Bourdieusian analysts of social distinction and taste; and a second loosely-coupled group whose performance implies varying kinds and degrees of critique of the broad confederation of materialists. Chief among these are the proponents of what has become the intellectual entrepôt Actor Network Theory (ANT) whose main albeit sometimes unwilling administrator is the sociologist Bruno Latour. Also in the second group are social scientists who look at the politics of choice within the frameworks of SCOT (The Social Construction of Technology), in particular Latour again (but also Pinch included in this volume) and others; and a third component whose focus is narrative and the ways in which objects ‘make meaning’ or contribute to interactions through which meanings are made, including what is commonly known as ‘self-knowledge’. Though his shadow falls lightly on many parts of this book, it is in the context of narrative and meaning-making that Roland Barthes appears most cogently, and Woodward’s chapter in this compilation is grounded lucidly in the consequences of Barthesian semiotics. Other éminences grises include pragmatists and instrumentalists loosely associated with the Chicago Group, especially (in this volume) the symbolic interactionist George Herbert Mead in the early part of the twentieth century.

Signs of power, ideology and management
The volume’s citation span is wide but coherent and, in some respects, culturally managed; and includes all the above and many more contemporary extrapolators, whom the book therefore constitutes as its networked society (and, in publisher’s terms, its target market). One of the key cultural narratives enacted by the collection is, therefore, the networked nature of this society. Another way in which the collection is both narrated and enacts a cultural narrative, has to do with its clear theoretical agenda. This agenda – or thesis – involves urging the study of material culture in the direction of empirical ethnography, ethnography in the direction of objectification, and materialist approaches in the direction of the kinds of symbolic interactivity that have come to coalesce around ANT. Implied within this urging is an issue of agency: who is doing the polemic (and faintly ideological) urging, and why?

Staying with the issue of power and management, but moving in closer under the canopy of our overarching question (‘How does this book matter?’, or, ‘What is it about this object that so comprehensively situates it in the ethnographic field of academic material culture and technology studies?’) we find a further cascade of sub-questions. These include the standard SCOT question about the book’s politics: What choices does it enact and offer? Or, in ANT terms: how does it translate the agenda (or thesis, or urging) that has been generated within the network it performs?

Some hints are available in the collections’s overall plan and organisation. Its title already announces ethnographic approaches to the established disciplinary field of Material Culture studies. The implied question in this sub-title (‘What ethnographic approaches?’) is moved into view by Halton’s excellent, succinct Preface in which he unpacks an ethnographic encounter with a Chicago high-rise apartment dweller with a collection of over 300 flowering houseplants. Next, the volume’s editor, Vannini, lays out in his Introduction what is in effect a literature review which, we will find, describes the book’s tool-kit at the same time as it declares its polemic:

If bringing together the tradition of material culture studies and technology studies is a key concern of this book, so is achieving that goal through methodological and epistemological means that expose the meaningfulness and polysemy of materiality, and the potential of technological relations for shaping culture (and being shaped by it). For us [my emphasis] what that means is ethnography ... (p. 3)

The collection then proceeds to advance our cause in three sections: the first (‘Ways of Knowing the Material World’) consists of five chapters summarising theoretical approaches to the topic, most of which have been foreshadowed in Vannini’s Introduction; the second (‘Ethnographic Strategies of Representing the Material World’) has six chapters which describe ethnographic methodologies derived or devolved from field work informed by the kinds of theory adumbrated in the first section and, again, summarised in Vannini’s introductory literature review; and the third and final section (‘Ethnographic Studies’) consists of four examples of ethnographic field work in which the thesis, agenda, or polemic of Vannini’s Introduction and literature review, theoretical approaches of Part 1, and ethnographic methodologies of Part 2, are deployed in – converge and conclude at – actual ethnographic fieldwork case studies in material culture and technology in everyday life. This, then, in its overall structure, is a very carefully designed and managed – orchestrated – object. For the ethnographic reviewer, its design therefore raises interesting questions about agency and power regarding the ways the entity has been coached in its performance.

Within each section the chapters are discrete but also discursively linked in several ways. Vannini, for example, reiterates the polemic drive of his Introduction in his Chapter 5 by concluding that interactionist approaches to material technoculture have ‘the obvious potential of changing ethnography as a strategy of data collection, analysis, and representation’ (p. 83). Another kind of internal linkage is provided by internal citations or finger-post citations (‘See Vannini Chapter 5’). Chapters are, for the most part, organised in standard formats with propositions or theses, summaries of methodological and theoretical frameworks, thematic sub-headings, conclusions or summaries, notes, and (most importantly) substantial lists of references. In this, the volume resembles a practical handbook for students; indeed, it often reads like a compilation of the dutiful results of such a handbook.

Within the framework of the book’s overall structure and its managed advance from theory to praxis, an underlying discursive momentum is sustained through the repetitions of key or signature terminologies (the concordance), as well as citations and references that frequently refer back to the Introduction’s literature review. There are thematic links – for example considerations of what we mean by ‘creativity’ in both Merrill’s ethnography of home music recordists and Tilley’s of home gardeners. However, the most persistent iterative device returns the ethnographic reviewer to considerations of how this object has been coached (or carved, perhaps) in its performance – and, of course, to what end. There are frequent signs of editorial interpolation throughout, of which the most conspicuous are the internal, finger-post citations mentioned above; of these the majority are to the editor’s own chapters or publications.

In summary, on the strength of obvious as well as internal evidence, an ethnographic review of this volume must note its highly reflexive nature; and the marked extent to which its reflexivity provides positive feedback to its managing principal or editor, and his principles or editorial authority.

Chapters
Now to some matters of judgement that have no place in a review as ethnography. One of the opportunities afforded by the study of material culture in everyday life is its recovery from a focus on institutions, for example the institution of professional music recording, as noted by Merrill; and a consequent opportunity to look at the effects of interaction between professional and everyday practices. This is, indeed, a rich ethnographic field, from which this collection draws much of its interest. However there is also a downside, which is the risk of remaining trapped in the banality of the everyday; or of failing to accomplish what Barthes did, to (so to speak) make something of banality. Some of the contributors don’t cross this bar; these are often the most dutiful in their adherence to the approved forms of the chapters, to the most ubiquitous terminologies, references, and citations; and – conspicuously – these writers are also those who have engaged with the least ethnographically comprehensive research situations or scenarios.

Kien’s chapter on ANT is a thorough if compacted account of this somewhat heterogeneous tool-kit. It provides a number of steering devices, and at times resembles what film production managers would call a ‘bible’ – but it does so without losing its capacity for internal critical scrutiny. It also gets the term and concept of entelechy into circulation (it subsequently encounters Vannini’s distinction between determinism and consequentiality). Pinch’s chapter on SCOT is also significant to the book’s overall momentum, and provides some degree of critical tension with ANT, especially in respect of the possibility of ‘symmetry between humans and nonhumans’. (p.51) Kien also warns against the potential for triviality in ANT-style analysis, not unjustified as it turns out.

Woodward’s chapter on narrative begins with what may be the volume’s most succinct and coherent paragraphs, and one of its most lucid opening statements: ‘... material things are one part of culture and they do cultural work. Being good to think with, objects are cultural categories materialised’ (p.59). So much for any overcooked distinction between actions and ideas. Further along, in the collection’s second section on sampling methodologies, Woodward’s pragmatism is rewarded in Richardson & Third’s chapter on cultural phenomenology (despite what looks like some editorial carelessness in mis-locating an opening statement some three pages into the text). Introducing Merleau-Ponty’s useful concept of ‘corporeal schema’, the authors suggest that, ‘movement, mobility, motility and gesture are fundamental to our somatic involvement with the world, and integral to visual perception’ (p.146). It is fruitful to think about narrative in the context of such statements, as indeed in relation to ‘a regime of visibility that entails not just seeing with the eyes but with the whole body’ (p. 153).

I enjoyed Tilley’s contribution ‘What Gardens Mean’ in the ethnographic studies section not so much for its sensible conclusions about private gardens, but because he broke step with the volume’s prevailing style guide and wrote engagingly, without jargon, and with warmth and appreciation for his interviewees. ‘A gardener dwells ... inside the garden that he or she has created ... Thus in a metaphoric sense the gardener is inside himself or herself, in a garden body, underneath a garden skin’ (p.178). In addition, Tilley worked from a substantial interview sample of sixty-five, and paid that collective the respect of reproducing verbatim some of their own thoughts and statements about their gardens. One important effect of his approach – and, one might add, its slightly unfashionable humanism – was to open the window of his research to a wider world than the reflexively academic one by which this book is largely confined. Without wanting to ignite a pointless argument about alleged distinctions between ‘pure’ and ‘applied’ research, I have the sense that Tilley’s research matters and might make a difference in the world through that window: that it might inform town-planning policy, guide social development and therapeutic practices, enhance empathetic understandings of identity formation, and even the political economics of domestic ecologies.

The same can be said of Laviolette’s chapter ’the Death of the Clinic’, which could also be paraphrased as ‘taking the clinic home’. This has involved very substantial, professional and carefully designed research, in marked contrast to the slapdash and amateurish models used by some others in this volume. Looking back at Foucault for a place to launch a discussion of the clinic, and to Heidegger for some epistemological stretch, Laviolette’s piece builds a much broader and better informed philosophical platform than most of the others in this book. Informed also by a thorough knowledge of the volume’s concordance, he writes without jargon, and, to the relief of this reader, with humour. Like Tilley’s, Laviolette’s chapter clearly matters – it breaks the reflexive academic cycle of internalised positive feedback. ‘From this empirical study [of Telecare], I would appeal for the provision of a comprehensive overview of the use of interactive assistive technologies to support the intimate act of domestic medical care’ (p. 223). Such a statement has gone to work in the world first, and been reproduced in this book second. That makes it a refreshing and even salutary encounter here.

Conclusion
Almost conspicuous by its absence is a perfunctory Index. I, for one, have to wonder why more editorial attention wasn’t paid to such useful work. The Index is, almost blatantly and certainly reflexively, a concordance of the book’s iconic and therefore ideological terms. More attention, too, could have gone to the sourcing and incorporation of texts that did justice to de Certeau’s challenge to make something of the everyday; and a bit less attention to coaching the book in the performance of the editor’s emergent career.

That said, Vannini’s own Introduction and two chapters contribute substantially to the book, and while we may tire of his fingerprints we can’t deny the firmness of their grip. I am puzzled – but also intrigued and encouraged – by two issues in Vannini’s Chapter 5, his exploration of culture and technoculture as interaction. In downplaying ‘the importance of cognitive cultural dimensions such as values, beliefs, codes and ideas’ while emphasising ‘the materiality of the world of interaction’ (p.73), Vannini gets to the heart of the book’s thesis. But he also opens up the possibility of a dichotomous distinction between actions and ideas and, by implication, the kind of modernist distinction between mind and body the book is elsewhere at pains to refute. This would seem to be a fertile discussion opportunity which the book may open up subsequently. A second opportunity, also located in a paradox, arises from Vannini’s discussion of diffused agency, not only a dynamic and useful concept in its own right but also central to the book’s overall drive and focus. Warning against the danger of reintroducing elements of determinism or even animism to the discussion of materiality and agency, he suggests that ‘the true characteristic of materiality is not its essence, but instead its consequentiality, thus its agency.’ (p. 78) One would have to wonder, here, about the possibility of slippage between ‘determinism’ and ‘consequentiality’ – a critical discussion that took Vannini’s emphatic distinction as its starting point might prove fruitful.

The Nervous Magic Lantern is a variation on a proto-cinematic machine, dating from the Renaissance or earlier, called the magic lantern, a device for projecting images. By the mid-17th century, it was popular enough that the diarist Samuel Pepys bought one “to make strange things on a wall.” Mr. Jacobs, a leading figure in American avant-garde cinema, has been making strange things shudder and writhe on screens for more than half a century. The germ for the Nervous Magic Lantern dates back to his earlier device, the Nervous System, a machine with two 16-millimeter projectors and a rotating shutter, on which he showed identical strips of film and with which he created optical effects, including an illusion of depth.

These manipulations were a continuation of a long preoccupation with cinema’s material properties as well as its effect on our heads and bodies. Born in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, in 1933, Mr. Jacobs watched movies like “Greed” at the Museum of Modern Art with a high school pass, studied painting with Hans Hoffman and bought a camera with the idea of doing “combat cinematography in the streets of New York.” With Jack Smith, a film and performance artist, he did just that, shooting Smith frolicking in shorts like “Little Stabs at Happiness” (1958-60). Mr. Jacobs once described another of these films, “Blonde Cobra” (1959-63), edited from footage shot by Bob Fleischner, as a “look in on an exploding life, on a man of imagination suffering prefashionable Lower East Side deprivation and consumed with American 1950s, ’40s, ’30s disgust.”

A major purpose of the BGC-AMNH Research Fellowship in Museum Anthropology is to promote mutual scholarly interest and interaction among fellows, BGC faculty and students, and AMNH staff members. Candidates for Research Fellow are judged primarily on their research abilities and experience, and on the merits and scope of the proposed research.

Candidates with a research interest in the History of Collecting for Anthropology Museums are especially encouraged to apply for 20010/12 fellowship. The successful candidate will have the opportunity to develop a research program drawing from the Asian Ethnographic Collections at the AMNH. We wish to encourage scholarly investigation of how objects move from the sacred and particular to the market, and of the collecting process and the role of collectors, whether scholars, missionaries or dealers.

Application Procedures: Interested researchers should send a statement of research accomplishments and intentions, curriculum vitae including list of publications, and three letters of recommendation to Research Fellowship Competition, Bard Graduate Center, 18 W.86th Street, New York NY 10024, USA. Research Fellowship applications must be postmarked by 15 December 2009. Applications are not accepted by fax or e-mail.

http://www.bgc.bard.edu/research/fellowship-museum-anthropology.html

Living room decoration in the home of a Filipino family, whose grown up daughter left to work in Israel

In recent years, consumption and possessions have been recognised as important themes in migration studies. The short history of migration between the Philippines and Israel has indeed produced a rich material culture of its own, with fascinating stories yet to be told. Since Israel started to recruit Filipina care workers in large numbers in 1995, numerous objects have travelled back and forth, while many were created along the way. Within this process, these objects have changed their meanings and transformed their functions. In both countries, they now mark the homes of those who travelled, as well as the homes of their loved ones, employers, and neighbours. In Manila and Tel Aviv, the respective cultural centres, they have entered the public space, sometimes visible only for those, who themselves have travelled.
Rather than providing a complete account or thorough investigation, this essay highlights some stories and material objects of migration from the Philippines to Israel and back, as well as the social space between them.

Altars
Given the fact that most airlines provide only about twenty to thirty kilogramm of baggage allowance on flights between Manila and Tel Aviv, there’s not much one can carry either way. However, Filipinos travelling in between Tel Aviv and Manila typically have their suitcases filled not with objects destined for their own use, but with commodities to be sold, things to be consumed with relatives or friends at the place they travel to, as well as gifts to deliver. Lots of gifts. Even if they have never been to Israel before, they are likely to have former neighbours, classmates, or relatives who left ahead of them and who will now wait for their arrival, as well as for the arrival of the Filipino food, much cheaper sandals or whitening creams they ordered to be brought along from the Philippines.

This is why one has to really set priorities in choosing what to take to Israel from among one’s own objects. So what, apart from some clothes (many of them gifts, too…) and pictures of loved ones in the Philippines could be more important than objects, which will protect and bless you on this journey to a far away land?

Catholic Altar in the shared flat of Filipinos in Tel Aviv, Israel

Being predominantly Catholic, most Filipina migrants on their way to work as carers in Israel carry along little devotional objects, that is prayer books, icons, or figures from the shrines they visited before leaving. Most importantly perhaps items from the shrine of Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage in Antipolo, which for so long has protected the colonial galleon trade between the Philippines and Mexico and nowadays blesses the many Filipinos, who visit it before setting off for work abroad. Sometimes also brought along is an icon of Saint Lorenzo Ruiz, the first and only Filipino Catholic Saint, who until recently was rather unheard of in Israel’s few Catholic Churches, but now even has fiestas being celebrated in his honour. These objects are put onto altars, which Catholic Filipino newcomers to Israel set up as soon as they manage to have a place of their own - typically a bed space in a shared flat with other Filipino care workers to be used on their one day off work. As they stay on, these altars increasingly bear witness to their devotees’ religious journeys and spiritual endeavours, not only in the Philippines, but in Israel as well.

Back in the Philippines, house altars too are being transformed in the process of migration: they come to include Virgin Mary icons from Nazareth, bottled water from the Jordan River, as well as rosaries, crosses, figures and candles from the ‘Holy Land’.

A large Santo Niño figure and devotional objects from Israel set up on the home altar of a Catholic migrant to Israel in the Philippines

Balikbayan boxes
Perhaps the most prototypical object of Filipino migration is the balikbayan box. Created in the early 1970s by the Philippine dictator Marcos, the term balikbayan (Filipino, literally ‘homecomers’) was intended to strengthen ties between the Philippines and its diaspora by stimulating the economic support and financial investment of overseas Filipinos in their economically weak ‘motherland’. Filipino migrants all over the world were (and still are) encouraged to send gift boxes free of duty up to a value of $1,000 to the Philippines. In Israel, balikbayan boxes can be found in practically every shared (weekend) apartment of Filipinos, often half packed, since things may be collected over long periods of time.

Gina’s balikbayan box seen on the picture, contains packages of salt, sugar, pasta, corned beef, Israeli instant coffee and tea, as well as six video cassettes, four on ‘The Holy Land of the Bible’ and two on the life of Mother Teresa. As in other balikbayan boxes, a great deal of space is taken up by hand-me-down clothing Gina received from her employer’s extended family. In her case these include baby clothes, even though there are no small children in her family in the Philippines. In addition, she sends a TV set to her father, bought second hand for US$65 in Tel Aviv.

Gina’s balikbayan box, Tel Aviv, Israel

The foodstuffs frequently sent from Israel in other boxes comprise food that, in the Philippines, is commonly associated with the Middle East, like dates or ‘Arab’ sweets, as well as food that migrants have become used to in Israel, but which are uncommon in the Philippines, for example mixed pickles. As in Gina’s case, balikbayan boxes contain objects that migrants are expected to send (the corned beef; even though these might be more expensive in Israel than in the Philippines), gifts in the more classical sense, and things that help family members have a picture of life in Israel. And, of course, there are the many ‘Holy Land’ souvenirs: seven-armed chandeliers, ‘Holy Land’ calendars, place-sets, rosaries, Christian DVDs and video tapes…

Each balikbayan box allows deep insights into and understandings of the varying degrees of social status, prosperity, misery, insecurities and tastes of both the senders and the recipients. Some migrants explained that the content of their boxes provided substantial support for their families, who were otherwise unable to buy clothes or ‘extravagant’ food like dates or sweets. One Filipina interviewee, Marian, whose extended family lived in a Manilan slum-like neighbourhood in nearly complete dependency on money remittances sent by family members from overseas, jokingly remarked that, due to her balikbayan boxes, which she filled with her affluent employers’ second-hand clothes, ‘they still can’t afford a warm meal three times a day, but at least they wear Prada and Gucci’.

Origami paper swan in an Israeli living room in Kibbutz Ein Gedi, Israel

Origami Paper Swans
If there is one single object, which in Israel signifies the immigration of Filpina women for the care of the elderly, it is an origami paper swan. Origami paper swans have conquered Israel in all sizes, shapes and colours: They adorn book shelves in the living rooms of children of elderly cared for by Filipina migrants, as well as desks of Ministry of Interiour officials, who decide about Filipinos’ permits of residence and employment; they are used to collect the tip on counters of Tel Aviv’s many bars and coffee houses, and, displayed in shop-windows, signal that Filipino customers are welcome. Crafted out of the pages of old magazines, the swans are fabricated by Filipina care workers during their often tedious working hours with the elderly in private homes.

It is important to note that in the Philippines, I have never seen an origami paper swan. In Israel, they were introduced by those Filipinas, who worked in Taiwan and Korea before coming to the ‘Holy Land,’ Filipino friends told me. They learned to do origami in these countries and introduced it here in Israel, they said. Initially given away as small gift in appreciation for favours, Israeli residents, citizens and migrants alike, have deeply fallen in love with these paper birds. Accordingly, more and more carers have learnt to craft them, and nowadays, on Sundays, Filipinos’ only day off work, in front of the Tel Aviv central bus station, you can even buy them.

Paper swans and other objects for sale in front of the Tel Aviv central bus station]

Origami paper swan beside the Philippines National flag in a jewellery shop in the Old City of Jerusalem, Israel

Things Israeli in the Philippines
As a country where about ten percent of the population live and work abroad and practically every family is affected by migration, objects that are an outcome of migration are highly visible in the Philippines: houses built from overseas remittances, cars acquired through contract work abroad or motor bikes and buses financed by those, who left. The houses of migrants to Israel may have the star of David on their gates or sport large open kitchens, as they have become fashionable in the new building in Israel, where the Filipina carer worked. Buses financed by these migrants may bear names like ‘The Holy Land’, ‘Jerusalem’, ‘Manila Tel Aviv’ or even, seen once in Baguio, ‘Kibbuts Shiller’, named after a communal settlement in central Israel, which employs several Filipina carers.

A washing machine imported from Israel, used as a commode in the home of a return migrant in the Philippines

Then, there are the many small, less spectacular objects of migration in returnees’ homes. There are home appliances one has become used to working with in the Israeli households one was employed in. There are the many ‘Holy Land’ posters and pictures of celebrations and gatherings with co-Filipina workers in diaspora. There are washing machines imported from Israel, for example, which have not even been unpacked, because the local water and electricity supply turned out to be insufficient for their use. In the house of Romelyn, located in a picturesque valley in the Philippines Mountain Province, I spotted bed sheets from the Israeli Tel HaShomer hospital turned into curtains. While the Hebrew inscription ‘Medical Centre Tel HaShomer’ in between ornamental flowers was unreadable for Romelyn as well as for most of her visitors, the bed sheets were revealed to serve as both souvenir and trophy.

Romelyn in her home in the Philippines Mountain Province two years after her return from Israel]

Curious about their story, I asked Romelyn about it. After almost five years in Israel, she told me, the elderly woman she had been employed to take care of, was referred to the Tel HaShomer hospital near Tel Aviv. Romelyn accompanied her and stayed beside her bed during what turned out to be her employers’ last two weeks. Out of feelings of responsibiliy and compassion, Romelyn continued to be with her, washed her, fed her, sleeping on a chair beside her bed, in spite of the rudeness of the Israeli nurses, who repeatedly told her to leave. After her employer died, and Romelyn was forced to return to the Philippines within days due to the expiration of her work permit and in spite of her own grief, the bed sheets her employer had rested on were the last thing within Romelyn’s reach to remain of her. But, so she tells me with a smirk upon my visit two years after she returned from Israel, she too took them to revenge the nurses’ nastiness.

The objects in returnees’ homes therefore tell stories not only of the success, but of the nostalgia, the happiness and suffering, and very typically the ambivalences and paradoxes of migration.

see the AHRC Footsteps Project,
http://www.keele.ac.uk/research/lpj/SOCPOR/AHRC/index.htm

A typical Indian-wedding envelope given to the bride and groom by the
guests, carrying a certain sum of money as a token of their happiness and blessings for the newly weds

Indian society has in the past decade witnessed a proliferation of matrimonial websites each of which have 10 to 12 million users registered with them. These websites seemed to be an interesting topic of research as it could help investigate whether the Internet has led to a transformation of marriage practices and processes in India displaying a move from the traditional patterns to more individualistic ones (or the new and ‘modern’ ones). Keeping in mind its pertinence to the ‘changing’ and ‘transforming’ nature of the Indian society this research topic formed my thesis for the MPhil programme completed in June 2009.

The focus of this study was both on the offline and the online. In the offline context the opinions and practices of the registered users and their family were examined to understand the extent of the traditional hold in their marriage preferences and the consequent impact on the consumption of the matrimonial websites, and in the online context, the ways in which matrimonial websites feed into and become embedded in the cultural practices of Indian society was investigated.

As one enters the home page of these websites, the users are presented with various options that qualify the ‘search’ of their prospective spouses. The primary search option is of religion followed by region (or language). Once a specific religion is chosen then the option of castes and sub-castes within that religion is also provided to the users. Other attributes such as specific physical, educational and professional qualification are also a few criterion in the search however it is the religious, caste and/or region attributes that form the primary requirements in the search of profiles. While ‘searching’ for profiles and making one’s own profile, the websites do provide the options of ‘any religion’ and ‘caste no bar’ however, these are not used very often and this clearly reflects that the registered users are satisfied with the hierarchicisation of the attributes wherein the religious and caste qualifications take the primary spot in search for prospective spouses.

One of the other most important traditional norms associated with Indian marriage is the role of the family in the selection of a spouse. This role, contrary to many assumptions, is very much prevalent even in the internet matrimonial matchmaking and becomes evident as along with the space for display of information on the ‘self’, ample space is provided by the website for information on the family of the user. Thus, the profile carries information not only about the attributes of the registered user’s (religious, physical and others) but also provides an in depth description of his/her family such as number of siblings, their occupation, parents’ occupation and most importantly their ideal choice of a spouse for their son/daughter/brother/sister.

It is assumed that the internet facilitates a tilt towards ‘love’ marriages since more private communication through e-mailing, and chatting can lead to spouse-selection on the grounds of compatibility, the ‘connection’, intimacy and so on. While this assumption holds true it is important to understand that the screening process involved in the short-listing of profiles is governed by the more traditional norms of Indian marriage that give importance to the religious, caste-based and regional backgrounds of the prospective spouses and the opinion, wants and wishes of the family in the entire process of selection and decision-making. The research suggests that the presumption that the Internet can alter the traditional framework of the Indian marriage system is erroneous and in fact the research empirically concludes that many of the traditional aspects are strongly prevalent and even accentuated by the Internet.

"From society to society people know how to use their bodies,"
Marcel Mauss (2006:78)

Hima is a traditional system of management and conservation of natural resources practiced by tribes in the Arabian Peninsula since more than 1400 years.

The term hima literally means in Arabic a protected place or protected area. For rural communities living in the Arab world, the term holds connotations that appeal to their collective memory and hence when evoked, the term is not only readily recognized as familiar but also valued and triggers an air of acceptance and ease among communities living anywhere in the Arabian Peninsula or Arab Middle East.

Drawing on the actor-network theoretical framework, particularly the work of Bruno Latour and Marcel Mauss as well as fieldwork in six hima sites in southern Saudi Arabia, this dissertation demonstrated that the processes involving embodied knowledge resulted in a particularly female gendered anthropomorphosis in line with the nature-woman allegory (MacCormack and Strathern 1980). Himas transformed into a family member, a powerful actor in a kin-dominant society. It played part in social relations, in a network binding people and this landscape tightly by notions of place, identity, emotions, ethnicity and religion.

Their protection is equated to the protection from violation (sexual) reserved to women in these conservative rural Arab societies. This is why their violation is insulting to one's honour.

Ali Duwayli'i from hima Humayd illustrates this passionately: "The value of the hima to me is the same as the value of my sister or my daughter, it is my honour, I won't let anyone violate it, I will protect it like I would protect my daughter or my sister".

Culturally there are parallels to this linguistically in terms referring to conservation institutions and prohibitions rooted in Islamic legislation. The word haram means wife and at the same time a sanctified inviolable zone such as haram Makkah and haram Madina. In the same vein, harām or moharram means prohibited and harim zones are greenbelts and easements - whatever is near developed land and pertains to its well-being, such as its pathways and watercourse, its rubbish dump, its square etc." (Llewellyn 2003:20) considered in Islamic law as other forms of protected public areas - and the word harim is at the same time the plural of horma, which means a woman that is prohibited to anyone else other than her man (husband).

These similarity and double meaning further the unconscious cultural links between himas and women, the gendered anthropomorphosis and the deeply felt insult of the violation of himas, which seems to have been expressed in language and has now become seemingly trivial. The act of entering one's protected own, his hima is almost equivalent to a non-accepted sexual penetration perpetrated on a sister, a daughter or wife.

Beyond mirroring the tribe and its social structure and objectifying identity, honour and pride, himas played an active part in forming social relations through discipline, laws, alliances, religion, punitive sanctions, relations with other tribes and alliances. As the main body of material culture for the tribes of Arabia, in a cycle of reciprocal maintenance, the himas maintained the tribe and the tribe maintained the himas throughout centuries.

Himas are like Latour's Berlin key at the same time strong and fragile (Latour in Graves-Brown 2000). The discovery of oil and the sudden modernization in recent history resulted in their substitution by another material culture. This situation along with cultural colonialism and political forces acted on this social network and disintegrated kin ties, in which himas are an important link.

Disconnectedness between inhabitants of the region and their natural environment ensued and the creation of Latour's much criticized "mind-in-a-vat" (Latour 1999) situation in the praxis of nature conservation followed.

This indigenous knowledge, along with the himas themselves are now reduced to a form of intangible cultural heritage running the serious threat of disappearance, a threat driven by the change in technological practices and political forces.

However, this dissertation questioned the possible disappearance of this system based on observations in the field that support the argument that not only would the anthropomorphosis and the emotional bonds forged between himas and their long term custodians prevent their disappearance but also based on Alfred Gell's theory himas are works of art, the distributed consciousness of the ancestors, the embodied knowledge of which, enchant a wide community of scientists and nature conservation professionals (Gell 1998). To both these groups and even to the anti-tribal structures in Saudi Arabia, himas will remain as they hold value and are powerful actors by being there, if only at the centre of a live debate.

However, threatening or not, himas are part of the chain of associations. Ignoring hem will not change this and neither will destroying them because they can exist as a concept in the immaterial realm. Ignoring them would be as dangerous as ignoring any other part of the chain: the government, religion, conservationists, modernity etc.

Latour taught us that none of the parties in the debate are right to negate or destroy the other links of the network. The only way is to accept the new elements, such as modernity that were introduced to the chain and which propelled it to another dimension. The only way is to accept that we live in a hybrid world and to work towards the connections because in the long run, the destruction of one link will lead to the annihilation of the entire network.

Apadurai, A. 1986. The Social Life of Things, Commodities in Cultural Perspective. Cambridge: Univ. Press. Pp. 3 – 14.

Al-Rasheed, M. 2002. A History of Saudi Arabia. Cambridge: Univ. Press. Pp:1 – 105.

Child, G. and Grainger, J. 1990. A System Plan for Protected Areas. The National Commission for Wildlife Conservation and Development and the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN). Riyadh. Saudi Arabia: Al-Sareef Printing. Pp. 41-65.

Gell, A. 1998. Art and Agency, An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Univ. Press.

Gell, A. 2006. The Art of Anthropology, Essays and Diagrams. Oxford: Berg. Pp. 1 – 26.

Hourani, A. 1991. A History of the Arab Peoples. Washington: Estate of Albert Hourani/Faber and Faber Limited. Library of Congress. Pp: 7 – 21.

Kilani, H. Serhal, A. and Llewellyn, O. 2007. Al-Hima, A Way of Life. IUCN West Asia and the Society for the Protection of Nature in Lebanon. Amman Jordan: Lemon Marketing and Publishing. Pp. 1-20.

Latour, B. 1999. Pandora's Hope. Cambridge MA: Harvard Univ. Press. Pp. 1-23.

Latour, B. 2000. "The Berlin Key or How to Do Worlds with Things." In Matter, Materiality and Modern Culture, (ed). by P.M. Graves-Brown. London: Routledge. Pp. 10-21.

Llewellyn, O. 2003. "The Basis for a Discipline of Islamic Environmental Law." In Islam and Ecology: A Bestowed Trust, (ed) by R. C. Foltz et al. Cambridge, Mass: Centre for the Study of World Religions, Harvard Divinity School: Harvard Univ. Press, Pp. 1-52.

MacCormack, C and Stathern, M. 1980. Nature, Culture and Gender. Cambridge: Univ. Press. Pp. 1 – 24.

Mauss, M. 2006. Techniques, Technology and Civilisation. Oxford: Berghahn Books/Durkheim Press. Pp. 1 – 48.

Mauss, M.2003. Sociologie et Anthropologie. Quadrige. Pp. ix - xxx

Miller, M. 2008. "The Uses of Value." Geoforum. 39 (3). Pp. 1122 – 32.

Ministry of Endowments and Islamic Affairs. 1990. Islamic Jurisprudence Encyclopaedia. Section 18. Kuwait: Al-Salanel Press. Pp. 116-121.

Nelson, R. 2003 "Environmental Colonialism: Saving Africa from Africans." Independent Review. 8 (1): 1-17.

Salem, A.2002. History of the Arabian Peninsula Before Islam. (Arabic) Alexandria: The Institution of University Youth. . Pp. 359 - 400.

Vassiliev, A. 2000. The History of Saudi Arabia. London: Saqi Books. Pp. 11-450.

The Green Lines Institute is organizing the 2nd International Conference on Heritage and Sustainable Development' which will be held at the City of Evora, Portugal, from 22 to 26 June 2010.

We would like to inform all authors interested in joining the event that
Submission of Abstracts is now open until 30 November 2009.

Papers addressing the following topics are welcome:

Heritage and Governance for Development /
Heritage and Education Policies / Heritage and Culture /
Heritage and Economics / Heritage and Environment /
and Heritage and Society.

For further detailed information, please visit the conference Website

For further information on the Scientific Committee

Whilst assisting at a SWLLN workshop this summer I was intrigued by a problematic feature of the heritage site hosting the event. Tyntesfield House, a National Trust property, is currently undergoing extensive conservation, necessitating the erection of a second roof over the entire structure. Until recently standard Trust policy was to close such a property to the public until conservation had been completed. At Tyntesfield it was decided to not only keep the house open as far as practicable, but also to build a observation tower out of scaffolding up to the top of the Victorian roof, allowing visitors to view the work being undertaken. The observation tower had been completed and opened to the public before the second roof covered adjacent parts of the old building. Therefore whilst visitors in June 2009 could not see any roof-related conservation activities, they could stand on a platform that had never previously existed and look over the Victorian roof to the Tyntesfield estate and the valley beyond.

The staff consistently described the tower as existing primarily in order to view the conservation efforts (a task it was evidently not performing during the summer of 2009). This distinction between the old and new structures was shared by the visitors, who consistently took photographs of the view that included the chimneys and tiles of the Victorian roof but pointedly excluded the scaffolding of the tower. But this supposedly transient, inconsequential and apparently un-photogenic object is anticipated to have a lifespan of at least a year, during which time it will continue to modify both the building’s physical appearance and the visitor experience in a myriad of unacknowledged ways.

Staff and visitor reactions to the tower epitomise the Trust’s perspective regarding the properties in its care. Each site is presented as a physical relic of a point or period in time, which has always occurred prior to the Trust acquiring the property. Some of the Trust’s interventions are presented as conservation or restoration of the material fabric with the aim of ‘returning’ structures or landscapes to this privileged previous period. More prosaic alterations, such as turning fields or gardens into visitor car parks and the interiors of less cherished structures into tearooms, offices and holiday accommodation to provide sufficient funding to maintain the more visually spectacular elements, the Trust prefers to exclude from open recognition or debate.

An alternative conception would be to consider sites such as Tyntesfield House as evolving in direct consequence of their acquisition by organisations such as the National Trust. What the Trust regards as ‘turning back the clock’ is in reality the creation of an entirely new artefact. Though some elements come close to visually resembling the site’s previous appearance, others are entirely new and the site as a whole is fundamentally different both in its social rationale and agency. Such an approach would admit a proposal that during 2009 Tyntesfield House physically grew through the addition of a modernist openwork observation tower. The tower turned Tyntesfield into something other than it had ever been before, was as much a part of the architecture as the earlier elements of the assemblage, and had a specific social function that related directly to the desires of the human actors that visited the site during 2009.

In 2006 a wave of Polynesian art resurfaced from the storehouses of British Museums. Some three hundred years on from Captain James Cook’s first arrival in New Zealand the sacred objects of a colonial past were revisited, re-interpreted and recreated. Power & Taboo: Sacred Objects from the Pacific was a temporary exhibition of selected pieces at the British Museum, from their unparalleled Pacific collection of art and artifacts, dating between 1760 and 1860.1 Pasifika Styles: A fusion of contemporary style and technological innovation with ancient traditions, [..] unites the new wave of contemporary Pacific art and culture with extraordinary historical collections at the Cambridge University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology.2 These two case studies will be the focus of this analysis on the perceptions created by the naming of an exhibition. What’s in a name? Who’s telling the story? And, how does this contribute to the museum experience and the generation of knowledge about the Pacific?

Both Power and Taboo and Pasifika Styles presented material culture of the Pacific peoples, and as described by Rosanna Raymond “the Pacific emerge(d) into the public eye in the United Kingdom through a series of exhibitions and associated events that were spread across the southeast, creating a new Polynesian triangle of sorts between Cambridge, Norwich, and London.”3 Polynesia, a collection of cultures whose geographic location is bound by the tides of Tangaroa, the god of the ocean, and the ancestors who traveled aboard waka or canoes to share languages, histories and artistic practices. The role of art and artifacts as taonga or sacred treasures that disseminate cultural knowledge is a concept that is consistent throughout the Pacific and was recurrent within each of these exhibitions. Even though these commonalities were displayed; the juxtaposition of traditional and contemporary, art and artifact, primitive and civilized, presented an interesting basis for the discussion of curatorial choices made within each exhibition.

Advertising images for ‘Power and Taboo’ on the left, and ‘Pasifika Styles’ on the right.

Power and Taboo
The name itself insights imagery of awe and the untouchable, forbidden and exotic, especially when coupled with an unwitting mascot, the feathered head of a Hawaiian god sculpture with bulging eyes and a teeth bared grimace. The impression presented through the exhibitions name and marketing is one of an ancient distant world that will transport the viewer from the hustle and bustle of London streets to the antiquated cultures of a time gone by, allowing the visitor to stare at sacred objects of primitive art, from the safety of their confinement behind the shields of glass cabinets. In a London visitors guide review of the exhibition the author comments “So what we have here are apparently terrifying, nightmare gods, high-maintenance gods who demanded a lot of work of their adherents. Why might these societies, living in what we might think of as an idyllic world of swaying palm trees and soft sea breezes, have chosen to create such deities?”4 This outlook is reiterated by the information presented to the wider audience via didactic labels and the supporting website, the text is set in the past tense with constant reference to the Gods, the powerful and the sacred. The intention of the curators to acknowledge the validity of Polynesian values with statements such as “But traditional beliefs still survive: many Polynesian visitors to the museum come to greet the displays not as groups of objects, but as living treasures with immanent power”5, is somehow diminished by the very display of these objects which effectively discredits their mana or power, and tapu or taboo. Western perspectives continue to confirm the savage image of ethnographic objects, which is again reconstructed through this exhibition and its colonial viewpoint.

The concluding works of the exhibition are a waiata or song written by Che Wilson (2006) that describes the loneliness felt by taonga within museums, and a sculpture by renowned contemporary master carver Lionel Grant. The text associated with Grants carving discusses connections to the land and the ancestors, but no reference is made to either the gods or the sacred. Either the curators decided that only the ‘authentic’ artifacts from pre-colonial collections demonstrate the sacred ‘power and taboo’ or; Grant made a conscious choice to create a carving appropriate for a general audience who needs not be exposed to ‘potentially very dangerous’ sacred objects such as the Rarotongan god-stick6.

‘The only surviving wrapped example of a large staff god image from Rarotonga in the Cook Islands.’

Pasifika Styles
‘To me this name immediately places us which I feel is really important but is still not too specific i.e. not Aotearoa...not Samoa, not Tonga but alludes to the Pacific and encompasses us all...the ability to immediately take the person whether young, old, naive, or Polynesian specialist to know where they are heading to.”7

Pasifika is the Polynesian word encompassing the Pacific, and Style has elements of method, fashion, and in a contemporary world alludes to new trends and distinction. As quoted above, the name aims to speak to an eclectic audience, to educate and transport them on a journey through the Pacific. The artists’ voice is prevalent in Pasifika Styles from the choice of name for the exhibition, the marketing and logo design and the label text that is presented in the first person from the artists themselves. The context in which the show was created allows for curatorial choices to be made that would not normally be seen within the constraints of an ethnographic museum.

Co-curated by Samoan artist Rosanna Raymond, and Amiria Henare resident curator and lecturer at Cambridge University, the exhibition was the exploration of a conversation between objects, an artist and an anthropologist, all born in Aotearoa, New Zealand. Built on a trajectory of contemporary Polynesian and Maori art that began in New Zealand in the 1970’s, Pasifika Styles is another stepping stone in the renaissance of Polynesian art and culture being expressed with new materials and techniques, and based on the stories and philosophies of the many generations who have gone before.

The museum catalogue Pasifika Styles: Artists inside the museum is a compilation of essays and photographs that takes the audience behind the scenes to discover the processes involved in the creation of this exhibition. In a book review by Henare she discusses a conversation between herself and Raymond and their desire to push “beyond the restraints of the 'ethnic art' box to which it was assigned” and use Pasifika Styles as a platform for artists to present their work and commentate on contemporary issues.8 For such a groundbreaking exhibition critical attention was hard to come by; the UK and NZ fine arts press were virtually silent on the topic and the Museums Journal tried unsuccessfully to get it reviewed.9 The controversial nature of the exhibition presents artists works that challenge the very collection and display methods of the Museum itself, therefore the intention of the museum support was questioned, and Henare says that “for others it was clearly another case of a museum trying to update itself by inviting 'indigenous' artists to add their 'cultural' art to the collections.”10

Artists, Anthropologists and the Audience
The debate about the contextualization of ethnic objects is an ongoing topic of discussion between anthropologists, artists and indigenous communities. In her article What Became of Authentic Primitive Art? Errington dissects the evolution of Primitive Art as a category that was invented at the turn of the century, and through the recognition of avant-garde artists and collectors began to gain market value as it entered the mainstream of established art. The notion that “authentic” primitive people live as they have lived for centuries, untouched by Western civilization, and that “authentic primitive art” is work created by those people for their own uses and not for external sale, has been highly criticized.

Critiques by Fabian (1983), Clifford (1988) and Price (1989), among others, led to “primitivism” being thoroughly discredited as a Western ideological construct.11 In New Zealand, the mid 80’s were also a prominent time in the re-evaluation of these concepts as Maori artifacts gained international stardom when displayed as Art with a capital A, in the galleries of the Metropolitan Museum in New York City. In his paper Postcolonial Pasts and Postindigenous Futures: A Critical Genealogy of Maori Art, McCarthy highlights that at the same time, Pacific material was displayed as ‘art/artifacts’ at the American Museum of Natural History, and downtown at MOMA primitive art was hung alongside new masters like Picasso et al to suggest ‘affinities’ between the tribal and modern.12 He uses three examples of ‘Waharoa’ or Maori carved gateways from a 100 year period to assess how the “culture of display was inflected by the complex and specific relations of power/knowledge, modernity and nationhood, (and shows) how different forms of Maori Art were made visible through the categories of display current in the museum at that time.”13

For the wave of Pacific artists who’s work was presented at Pasifika styles the opportunity to engage with the “authentic primitive art” of their ancestors provided a vehicle for the continuation of cultural art practices, allowing the taonga to breathe a breath of new life. A chapter in the catalogue by doctoral candidate Carine Durand, entitled Fieldwork in a Glass Case, describes the ethnographic research process that she engaged in with the development and installation of Pasifika Styles. “It appeared that the Maori and Pacific Island artists involved in the project were conducting their own ‘fieldwork’ both within and outside the museum and that, through their artistic installations they were offering alternative ways of selecting, arranging, and presenting the ‘data’ they collected.”14

One of these artists was Lisa Reihana, a Multi Media Artist whose installation He Tautoko is featured on the cover of the exhibition catalogue, she created the third Waharoa in McCarthy’s analysis, and was one of Durands case studies. In her written contribution to the catalogue she says, “Pasifika Styles is an exciting model that progressive museums can use to re-invigorate their collections. As an artist it presented the perfect opportunity for me to extend my practice, by directly engaging with Maori customary taonga.”15 Durand continues to explain how her ethnographic research was altered by her interaction with the artists in their installation process, and by submitting herself to Polynesian oral traditions of teaching and learning she became a subject within her own study. The internal dynamic of the exhibition therefore became a research project, a learning environment and a venue for the development of knowledge for both the artists and anthropologists alike. So what then for the audience?

Both exhibitions were complimented by the common network of Polynesian artists who had traveled to the UK to assist in the preparation and installation of Pasifika Styles. A dynamic program of workshops, performances and artists’ demonstrations designed for audience participation, accompanied the exhibitions and highlighted the living nature of Polynesian culture. The openings both honored Polynesian protocols, although each event was distinctly different and further illustrated the role of the living people as objects within the intention of the museums displays. For Power and Taboo Ngati Ranana, the London Based Maori Culture Group, were invited to perform in front of an adulatory audience of museum professionals and media. They then led the crowd through the exhibition reciting karakia or Maori prayers, a practice that confirmed their connection to the taonga, and in turn, reiterated the wider audience’s sense of wonder attached to the power and taboo of the objects.

Contrasted by the artist-driven opening of Pasifika Styles, the Polynesian diaspora of London participated in the process with a complete powhiri or welcome ceremony, which fully engaged the audience and the objects. Protocols based in tradition were led by Che Wilson wielding the taiaha carved spear of his ancestor, reciting and bringing life to the song that was written on the walls of the British Museum. The space resonated with the sounds of an ancient Putatara Maori trumpet, as it echoed through the gallery halls singing for the first time in over a century. Anita Herle, Senior Curator at the CUMAA writes, “The museum agreed to the request that specific items from the collections be used in the opening ceremonies, confident that the cultural descendants of their makers would ensure their well being.”16 The trust displayed in this reciprocal relationship between the museum and the indigenous communities is a dynamic example of the exciting model that Reihana spoke of for museums to re-invigorate their collections.

Knowledge Generation
By considering the content of traditional vs. contemporary, and artifacts vs. art that were displayed in these two exhibitions, certain curatorial choices are reminiscent of Ethnographic and Fine art display methodologies. The myth of authentic primitive art that was apparently dispelled in the 90’s seems to have resurfaced in the form of gods and sacred objects. How authentic are the representations portrayed by the contemporary indigenous practitioners whose work contributes to the continuum of Polynesian culture? If the exhibition names were swapped and the ancient artifacts at the British Museum were entitled Pasifika Styles would this effect the audiences’ interpretation of the objects as living objects with imminent power? What if the contemporary works at the CUMAA were assigned the title Power and Taboo, would the commentary by the artists support or dispel the stereotypes that are evident within these two eminent words? The power, knowledge and nationhood mentioned by McCarthy are no longer a one sided investment, as museum workers are willing to collaborate with source communities and members of those communities, whether artists or cultural ambassadors, are actively engaged in the critique and interpretation of knowledge through objects. Cultural objects of Pacific origin are equally as powerful and sacred as the people with whom they communicate, whether carved in greenstone or Perspex these taonga continue to translate messages of gods, the land, people and their experiences, and the museum creates a sacred space for the exchange of tangible and intangible knowledge to materialize.

About the Author
I, Bethany Matai Edmunds, am a Contemporary Maori Artist who has learnt the skills of traditional Maori cloak weaving from a young age. In 2000 I graduated from Northland Polytechnic with a Bachelor of Applied Arts: Maori Design and Technology, and since then have exhibited throughout Aotearoa New Zealand and in 2002 displayed my work in Maorien Lurra an exhibition of Maori culture hosted by the Basque people of Northern Spain. In 2006 I participated in Pasifika Styles as an exhibiting artist and, although not in attendance for the opening, I travelled to the U.K. alongside Kahutoi Te Kanawa to deliver a series of weaving workshops and demonstrations to museum workers and the public. I was involved in the opening of Power and Taboo and the closing ceremony of Pacific Encounters at the Sainsbury Center in Norwich, England. I am currently completing a Master of Arts: Visual Culture, Costume Studies at New York University. With a specific focus on the storage and display of Maori Korowai (cloaks) within international Museums and, in a broader context the presentation of Maori, Polynesian and Indigenous histories through the exhibition of material culture.

Captions for images 4 - 12:

He Tautoko, Installation detail
(2006) Lisa Reihana
Pasifika Styles
CUMAA

The Do-It-Yourself Repatriation Kit
(2006) by Jason Hall
Pasifika Styles
CUMAA

Dad’s Chair (2006)
Niki Hastings-McFall
Pasifika Styles
CUMAA

Hei Tiki, Maori Pendant
Power and Taboo, British Museum

A Wooden Figure
(1998) Lionel Grant
Power and Taboo,
British Museum

Outer Space Marae
(2006) George Nuku
Pasifika Styles
CUMAA

Carved Male Figure
Power and Taboo,
British Museum

Tangaroa Doll by Ani O’Neil
In Welcome to da Klub Installation
(2006) Rosanna Raymond
Pasifika Styles, CUMAA

pART mAOri (detail)
(2006) Bethany Edmunds
Pasifika Styles, CUMAA

This conference will bring together archaeologists and anthropologists to discuss the concept and practice of wrapping and unwrapping the body. Through this we hope to:
• To develop the idea of wrapping materials and wrapping as a process in archaeology.
• To develop a better understanding of cross cultural conceptions of the human body through understanding wrapping in particular time and space settings.
• To allow an exchange of ideas between archaeology and anthropology.

Conference Abstract
Wrapping the body, whether through clothing, in burial or other transforming processes, requires malleable materials that envelope the body. Such materials have properties and efficacy that act on the body or the perception of the body; they may be textiles, fibres, skins, feathers, fur, clay or thin metals. As a cultural and technical act, wrapping is a form of containment that can be used to conceal and reveal, camouflage or highlight, transform and exhibit, conserve and preserve. Wrapping offers the potential to interpret these materials in a cultural context by posing the questions; what is being covered and from who, what is being revealed and why? How does wrapping change the body through the permanent or temporary artificial modification of body shape? How is the dead body displayed and revealed through wrapping? What is the socio-cultural symbolism and meaning of wrapping and how does this change across time and space?

Although common to archaeologists and anthropologists, wrapping the body has different traditions of research. In archaeology, there is a strong tradition of the analysis and identification of the materials used for wrapping such as textiles, skins, clay and fibres, the analysis of clothing, the structure of garments and the use of dress fastenings. Archaeologists also explore the presentation of the dead, both in the past and in museum presentation. In anthropology, the strength of research is in the process and efficacy of wrapping. Anthropologists document wrapping products and the particular cognitive processes of wrapping and knowledge transmission through the daily and ritual uses of wrapping as masquerades and performance, burials, fashion, aesthetics and trading. Relationships between the body, wrapping and mutual transformations can be identified in processes such as wrapping in tattoos, for curing and healing and for shaping the body.

For archaeologists the combined approach with anthropology offers the opportunity to explore the wide variation in the process and interpretation of wrapping. For anthropologists the past perspective provides an understanding of change and innovation in the long term.

We invite researchers to submit papers for one of three sessions:
Session I: Wrapping as transformation process
Session II: Wrapping the living
Session III: Wrapping the dead

Deadline for 200 word abstract: 30th October 2009
Email abstracts and questions to: ioa-wrapping@ucl.ac.uk

Conference organisers: Dr Susanna Harris (Institute of Archaeology, UCL) & Dr Laurence Douny (Department of Anthropology, UCL).

Updates will be posted on:

Note on TAG session: the conference organisers are hosting a related session “Wrapping Objects” at TAG 2009, which will be held at Durham University17th-19th December 2009.