Artifact Life Histories
A Catalogue of the Things Archaeologists Leave Behind
Curry Cat
Inventory unpublished
Provenance tchotchke store
Height 25.4 cm
Width 14.2 cm
Depth 13.2 cm
Weight 630.0 g
Material plastic; aluminum; paint; glitter
Condition intact
Precariously placed on top of a tarp covering plastic chairs and tables, the cat was still and silent. His left arm that had once bobbed from battery power stood directly vertical; cobwebs fell from his arm to the tarp. He was the maneki-neko, “good luck.”
The cat was a prize awarded to the team that won a cooking contest. In a country renowned for pastas and pizzas, we craved soy and spice; we craved curry. So weekly curry dinners became a tradition. One person volunteered each week to lead the charge, while others offered sides and salads, beer and wine, prep help and cleaning. Vegan was the rule, and it was mostly kept (a salad with feta crept under the radar one night, but no one seemed to mind).
We decided a competition was in order. Everyone was keen. Some who had never offered services in the weekly rotation even wanted to participate. Each of the six apartments provided teams, and guest scholars from other projects were called in to judge as well.
There were lentils and raisins, coconut milk and dough balls, tofu and tomatoes, ceci and red table wine. The food was set out on a side serving table, and most went up for seconds and thirds. The judges argued; each had strong opinions about which team had outperformed the rest. After much debate, curry cat and colorful leis were awarded to the victors. I did not clean a single dish that night, because I had cooked, and it was only fair. The leftovers served as lunch for a few the next day. The cat sat proclaiming success on the porch until the season’s end, when he was given pride of place in the storerooms where he now sits, patiently waiting for us to return each summer.
Cow Skull
Inv. unpublished
Prov. rolling hills
H. 23.0 cm
W. 42.3 cm
D. 13.5 cm
Wt. 1624.7 g
Mat. bone
Cond. sun bleached
I sit on a large tree stump on the porch next to the cow skull drinking my coffee as we watch the sun rise over the distant mountains. The swallows dive overhead while the pigeons coo on the neighbor’s roof. The sky slowly transitions from dark to light with bursts of blinding energy at the horizon.
The cow skull is an active participant in each serious and silly ritual that the excavation team undertakes during the season. It reclines amid lit candles during team dinners, a macabre but welcome guest. This tradition necessitates a nightly procession of sorts from its home in the dig house to the local civic center we rent in the evenings. No real fanfare; the skull is one of many objects stuffed in a blue duffel (with the serving utensils, plastic plates, napkins) and carried across our small summer town, a reminder of a sacrificial offering that had nothing to do with us.
The cow skull made its way to the dig house from the nearby hills early during an excavation season many summers ago, found and carried home by three of the project’s volunteers who had gone hiking on a weekend evening. When the three reached a high plateau, they sat, opened a bag of biscuits, and shared some beers.
They all rested for a bit before one member of the expedition went rogue; he dropped his day pack and continued over the nearby bluff, bottle in hand. The remaining two didn’t worry, because in spite of the fact that they had just met, they were already falling in love. (In retrospect, they thought, he probably left to give them some privacy.)
They shared details about their real lives, their fears, hopes, and goals. A summer in the field, they agreed, was not real life, though it gave them the will to do what they do. There were fast friends (and more) and fewer responsibilities — something to hold onto when the burden of real life got them down
An hour had passed; they’d finished their beers long ago. They stood up, holding hands, and although they didn’t know then that they’d be holding hands for many years to come, deep down, they knew that they wanted to face the real world together. They began to search for their third wheel when his head appeared over the scarp. Look! He shouted, as he lifted the yellowish white cow skull in both hands high over his head. As he climbed back up to meet the group, they agreed that the skull must come back to the dig house, and they agreed to distribute the burden. They packed up the biscuits and the empty bottles. They took turns carrying the cow skull back to their temporary home where they shared the story of their adventure and the spoils of their exploration with the others.
Harry Wicker’s Fan
Inv. unpublished
Prov. shopping mall
H. 53.5 cm
D. 18.6 cm
Diameter 33.2 cm
Wt. 2531.6 g
Mat. plastic, various metals
Cond. worn
It’s stored with excavation equipment (sifters, trowels, buckets, and the dumpy) in the basement of the dig house and is unearthed every summer as we prepare ourselves for the season. Veteran teammates and new volunteers arrive, and the fan is placed in a pile with other artifacts that everyone can claim for use during their stay: heavy wool blankets, sheets and pillows, clothing racks, lamps. The fan is claimed early; while wool blankets are nice and necessary for the first week or so, everyone knows it’s going to get hot, and a fan helps ease those sweaty nights.
Harry Wicker hasn’t worked in the field for twenty-six years. When he wrote his name along the back of the fan in capital letters, maybe he thought he’d be coming back to use it again.
Each season, we fill the house with our own things, brought to this temporary home from abroad and purchased nearby: flags, blow dryers, portable grills. We expect them to be used by others in our absence. We write our names on them, but we know that gesture toward ownership is largely ignored when we’re not there. We seal up the things we really don’t want others to use in large plastic containers: clothes, towels, sunscreen. We write our names on the duct tape so that we can identify tampering. But the fan is exposed, and exposed is fair game.
We scour Harry Wicker’s old excavation journal, perusing the text he wrote and analyzing the plans he drew. We find the coordinates for the trench that he dug, and visit the area. We think about his team of students and workmen. We consider his observations; his conclusions are sound. We don’t know anything about Harry Wicker. We’re left to our own devices, junior scholars filling the big shoes and using the leftovers of people we have never met.
Golden Thumb
Inv. unpublished
Prov. museum gift shop
L. 5.5 cm
Diam. 8.0 cm
Wt. 261.0 g
Mat. stone; iron; gold plating
Cond. chipped
It was sitting on a bookshelf next to The Neverending Story and a collection of old Loebs. I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so it took a while for it to come into focus. I walked up close. A golden thumb, attached to a golden keyring. The nail was a bit chipped, almost as if the owner had been nervously biting, and some of the white stone underneath the thin layer of gilding was visible.
I picked it up. It was heavy for its size. I held it next to my own, slightly smaller, thumb. My nail was longer and more squared; my joint creases were not as pronounced. The golden thumb had its own finger print, a visible arch, and I wondered if the impression was unique.
I was surprised to find the golden thumb abandoned on the dig house bookshelf, because it had once been mine. Years earlier, I’d found it in the bargain bin in the gift shop at a nearby museum. It sat among the stationary, the pens, and the bookmarks that had never been purchased by curious tourists. There were no other golden fingers left. The thumb was on its own.
It was never meant to be mine; I purchased it for a friend. A close friend, a fast friend. The kind of friend you’re surprised to click with so easily. A weird, nonsensical gift to mark our strange and complicated friendship; the golden thumb did not need an explanation, just as we ourselves were undefinable. I had borrowed his jacket, and when I returned it, I slipped the golden thumb in the pocket, no note, unwrapped. I don’t know when he found it. I don’t know if he ever used it. Our friendship was over as quickly as it began, and the thumb became a metaphor, collecting dust, reflecting light.
Leigh Anne Lieberman is finishing up her Ph.D. in the Department of Art and Archaeology at Princeton University. She serves as the Manager of Information and Data Resources for the Pompeii Archaeological Research Project: Porta Stabia, where she is also lead author for the project’s small finds volume. She also acts as the Data Supervisor for the American Excavations at Morgantina: Contrada Agnese Project.
