Somewhere, archaeologists are hard at work, doing important things. There is currently one right next to me, in fact, creating a 3-D model of his site in ArcScene.
So what am I doing? Making strange graphics for the blog using obscure internet applications.
'Tis Art, I say!
It’s beautiful. And there’s a bigger version here.
~I really shouldn’t sign my name
Think of everything that’s ever made you want to do archaeology - lost shipwrecks, Stonehenge, a golden Moche lord gracing the cover of National Geographic, Lara Croft and Indiana, the thought of coming up a rise and seeing at your feet an ancient city. Probably not ambitions of wearing a lab coat and counting granules under a microscope. Hence the challenging question mark Brian Fagan stuck at the end of his editorial’s title, “So You Want To Be An Archaeologist?“ in the 1996 summer issue of Archaeology. Wait, don’t we?
If whiskey is the genial beverage, Intro to Archaeology is the genial class. Where else do you daydream for ninety minutes watching smiling archaeologists tramp across a desert landscape (probably after a night of whiskey) and contemplate portraits of bearded white men? It usually provides a pick-me-up. Usually. This morning I walked out of class shaken, having heard as scary a lecture as any in my experience - and I’ve sampled USC’s departments voraciously, from Math (do numbers exist?) to Philosophy (do WE exist?) and even the classic doomsday discipline, Environmental Studies.
The panic was two-pronged; Dr. Boytner first planted the fear that archaeology is going to be so overladen with big business and data crunching that no one will care about it anymore, and then actually uttered the word “death” as he collated our insecurities into a snazzy blue slide featuring the ever-prescient Brian Fagan. Yes, he said gravely, many scholars are of Fagan’s opinion that archaeology is going the way of geography – a thriving discipline with no audience. “How many articles have you read in National Geographic that are actually about geography?” Looks around. Silence.
Which means, other than diminished hopes of appearing in the pages of a national magazine, that the resources and public support vital to eager young archaeologists taking up the quest for knowledge might, by the time we get out of Ph.D. school, have shriveled up like a charqui in the Tarapaca sun.
It’s not that archaeology is actually rock-stopped, flatlining, clinically dead, but the discipline as we know it may not exist in the future. We might be digging under freeways instead of into temples, going through old excavation records instead of drawing new ones. The search for buried treasure will have to bow down before the search for climate-controlled storage rooms to hold decades of thoughtlessly dug up treasure. To a serious archaeologist, these concessions sound okay. It’s still artifacts and theories, immersion in the past. But can you seriously imagine a murder mystery centering on the priceless diadem of Ruler X being conserved, pockmark by bronze disease pockmark, in the flourescent-lit basement of some chemical lab?