A discussion yesterday with Bruno Latour, after his presentation “Manifesto for Compositionalism” at Oxford, hinged upon how we go about composing our collective world now that ‘nature’ is no longer an organizing category. The difficulty for analyses is that the modernist notion of nature supplied a related host of distinctions which we routinely call upon in our descriptions. While the discussion and his talk raised various engaging issues for the discipline of archaeology, I want to pick up on his advocacy of abandoning anthropocentricism, and weave a contribution together with the recent threads here on Archaeolog regarding the symmetry principle. The following is a reworking of presentations at TAG-Stanford and CHAT-Oxford, and is prepared for the forthcoming proceedings of CHAT 2009, edited by Brent Fortenberry and Laura McAtackney.
Within archaeology cultural heritage managers are keenly aware of the rich compositions of the pasts at archaeological sites. Or, as I term them, of the many heritage ecologies anchored to these ‘habitats’ of the archaeological imaginary. These sites showcase a bewildering diversity of pasts articulated together. Some of these pasts persist, becoming ensconced in official literature, institutional governance, tourist agendas, or economic markets. Others are only encountered for brief moments at heritage sites, are not sustained and cease to be actors within these ‘ecosystems’.
While most attention is directed to enduring pasts, the World Heritage Site of Teotihuacan, Mexico presents many ‘failed’ pasts. For example, the top of the Pyramid of the Sun forms an important part of many relations with the archeological site. New agers from Mexico come every Sunday to climb its flanks and collect the energy thought to condense at its apex (Figure 1). Groups of Gaia worshipers from North America and Europe leave offerings on top of the pyramid to honor the Great Goddess whom the Teotihuacanos reputedly worshipped. Though they often run into scuffles with the site archaeologists and guards when they attempt to affix crystals to the stones on top, as they did when I met a group in September of 2005. And in October of 2006 the new media mogul Yahoo!, despite all of its preparations, planning and a permit from the Mexican government, had to cancel the lasering of its digital time capsule from the top of the pyramid just two weeks before the international event. Other relations with the Pyramid of the Sun that perhaps should have failed are (for now) sustained. Such as the view from the summit of the Wal-Mart opened in November 2005 and built just 2km away within the site’s protected perimeter (see Webmoor 2008 for a description of the Yahoo! and Wal-Mart relations with Teotihuacan).

Figure 1
There is certainly a multiplicity of pasts gathered with Teotihuacan. Yet not all of these past are equal. That is, like memories, not all pasts persist equally. Indeed, the isotopy of the pasts means they, like memories, are not inherently durable but must be made so. As archaeologists, however, our mandate is to care for these pasts. An obligation to assess, manage and sustain them. In particular, archaeologists and their media are, amongst others, responsible for making certain pasts endure while others perish. Our collective actions with media fix certain orientations to things, make certain relations linger. Epistemography traces the chains of associations that hold, however provisionally, the various pasts together. It explores how certain pasts, how particular sets of relation with things, are made more durable. Implicated in sustaining certain pasts, epistemography reveals the many other pasts that might be sustained as part of diverse heritage ecologies. In doing so, the discipline contributes to the pressing issues of our time by developing an archaeological metaphysics of care. A concern that does not recognize the disassembly between past and present, nature and culture, self and other.

Transitive Translation
It is now widely acknowledged that the archaeological record is not waiting for us to come along and passively impress it as upon the proverbial wax tablet for safe keeping in an analog archive or as digital heritage. Representing is transitive translation. Akin to a material engineering whereby we tinker the ‘codes’ of media with those of archaeological material, we achieve the past by actively working on it (González-Ruibal 2006; Shanks and Webmoor in press; Witmore 2006; for an early thesis of scientific activity as labour, see Amann and Knorr Cetina 1990). On the representational side, a code typified by the naturalism developed using single point perspective and Euclidean coordinates (Edgerton 1975; Ivins 1973). This side of the story is fairly well rehearsed. We have many great histories of the development of conventions for representing the world.(1) As visual and textual conventions have changed, so too have our engagements with the past. We also appreciate how mercurial media are. This seems especially so with the ever faster technological turnovers. These upgrades to representational techniques issue different possible pasts (Shanks 2007).
An awareness of representational effects is good as far as it goes. This is where, however, critical appraisals of representation in archaeology tend to stall. We have the usual suspects. Representations rooted in cultural and technological practices balanced against a single and invariant nature. Or multiple cultures set against singular nature. Considered in terms of knowledge practices, it is the moon on the water. A supposed ontological unity reflected over turbulent and capricious representational variety. Without a successor to ‘nature’ as an organizing category, a concern with archaeological representation holds onto an orthodox asymmetry: an overemphasis upon the powers of representation at the expense of remembering that things are involved too (Olsen 2003, 2010). These type of ‘crisis of representation’ studies seemed content to complexify the epistemological side of the question without venturing much over the equals sign (which would be, as Wylie 2006, 15 remarks, a “radical departure”).
Epistemography
What if we were to explore representation ontologically? To consider the multiplicity underneath both sides of the balance sheet; representational heterogeneity in contact with, as James (1909/1996) called it, a ‘pluralistic universe’ or a ‘pluriverse’. To shift consideration of representing and the action of media to the register of ontology? Is there enough elbow-room in archaeology’s post-normal questioning to do so?(2)
Again, I find the symmetry principle useful as a starting point for analysis. To begin from the flat ontology that does not arbitrarily split nature off from culture. Without this splintering at the root of much modernist thought there is an appreciation of the integral relations that bind not only our media and ourselves together as we collectively assemble the past, but also ourselves with the reality of the past. To create ourselves as we create the past; a relational existentialism encompassing nonhumans.
I want to develop what the Science and Technology Studies (STS) scholar Peter Dear (2001) has labeled “epistemography.”(3) To follow the relations that emerge between archaeological materials, archaeologists, stakeholders, instruments and media; documenting the material engineering that involves all of these things in making certain pasts endure. It is part of a symmetrical leveling that does not distinguish knowing from becoming (Jensen and Rödje 2010, 8 for a Deleuzian perspective).
To begin with, representational transformation goes both ways. And it is the other side of this material-media continuum which has not received much attention until lately (though see Lucas 2004; Webmoor 2005; Witmore 2006; outside of archaeology see Lynch 1990). Considering our facility with squaring excavation trench walls, cleaning features for photography, or digging a chequered set of statistically located test pits, this is a slight surprise. Such a continuum from media to material is made more apparent, however, when we work with sites and materials that undergo restoration or ‘reverse engineering’ (Figure 2).

Figure 2
Not far from our multiply composed Pyramid of the Sun is the plaza of the Pyramid of the Moon. It and the surrounding temples platforms were cleared in the initial years of the 20th century by Leopoldo Batres. While spared from the dynamite that was used to clear its larger neighbor of overgrowth (Ruiz 1997, 343), the plaza and its temples were later ‘restored’ in conjunction with the Teotihuacan Mapping Project (TMP) of the 1960s. An example of the Mexican National Institute of History and Anthropology’s (INAH) policy of reconstruction over preservation policies (García Robles 1996), the platforms mounds were squared, edges defined by questionable extrapolation, and rubble stabilized to uniform heights. Or, at least, such was the case with the facades of the platforms. And gone is the imposing statue of the ‘Water Deity’ that stood at the base of these temple platforms (Ruiz 1997, 279). These sculpting efforts continued at Teotihuacan for the next several years as part of the Proyecto Teotihuacan. Between 1962-1964 this INAH project excavated and restored the major temple platforms along the Avenue of the Dead as well as the Pyramid of the Moon and its plaza (Bernal 1965; Ruiz 1997). There is now a much more apparent isomorphism between the material features over the 20 square km of the Mesoamerican metropolis and the map. Thus, one confronts an effective merging of material and medium on a scale unprecedented at the time in archaeology (Figure 3).
Certainly, neither the site nor future engagements with objects of the site were the same after 1964. The work of the map and reconstruction stabilized a certain set of relations with the site. This orientation might be glossed as archaeological or heritage management. Most importantly, this merging of the map with the material encouraged the impression of widespread architectural complexity. Similar to everyday street maps of present day urban centers, the discreet boundaries of structures denoted by the clean lines of the TMP map made visibly apparent the metropolis quality of Teotihuacan. The project’s leader was quite candid in acknowledging the interpolative basis of these lines for the overwhelming majority of structures on the map (Millon 1973, 26-33). Similarly to our temple platform, after roughly 1,200 years since the site was abandoned most of the features encountered during the survey were mounds consisting of a mixture of soil and the typical teotihuacano building materials of stone with cascajo (crushed volcanic scoria) and tepetate (indurated subsoil).

Figure 3
This idea of an archaeological intervention into Teotihuacan’s morphology, of archaeologists shaping the material they work upon, is an important but shallow recognition of our imbrication with media and materials. Despite many efforts to work against the splitting of the human agent from the nonhuman stuff of the past, there is still the deeply ingrained tendency to hold on to substantive distinctions between the archaeologist and the archaeological (however see Knappett and Malafouris 2009; Webmoor and Witmore 2008). A splitting of the human agent from the nonhuman stuff of the past. An attitude owing to, what ‘deep ecologists’ have struggled against, the inevitability of anthropocentrism. With this lens, the events of 1962-64 appear to us as archaeologists imposing order upon the entropic decay of Teotihuacan; a part of the everyday activities in cultural resource management (CRM) and museology. The reconstruction crews, cement, shovels, wheelbarrows and the TMP survey personnel and their drafting instruments and context sheets, collectively ordering the derelict ruins of Teotihuacan. Aligning material of the site in order to transform it into media that can travel back to the INAH offices and the University of Rochester. Thereupon integrated with other compatible media: maps, photographs, frequency distributions of pottery types, and stratigraphic profiles from test pits.
The ‘deeper’ exchange has been ontological. A fastening of a certain past that the features of Teotihuacan and the archaeological teams and equipment all comprise. The site’s platform temples and the TMP map emerged together. Neither the archaeological site nor potential relations with the temple platforms will be the same.
The visible complexity emergent from linking map and ground encourages different sets of relation with Teotihuacan. Who may engage with what of the site and how is no longer flexibly negotiable. Gone are the alfalfa and maze fields, shabby huts and grazing sheep that wandered over the rubble and amongst the giant maguey orchards of the Pyramid of the Moon’s plaza. Landholdings and property boundaries, along with the landowners and their families, are removed and expropriated in tandem with the TMP survey project (Delgado 2005). Early renderings of the site, such as the Mazapan Map from around 1560, the relación geográfica from 1580 or even much later 19th century drawings by Mayer, Charnay or Almaraz noted the presence of all of these other relations with Teotihuacan.
In contrast to these depictions, the surveyors and context sheets did not translate these objects into media. Engaged as they were with prehispanic artifact scatters and feature dimensions, the resulting TMP map sediments this particular orientation to objects. An orientation stabilized further as the material on the ground continues to be merged with the map. The periférico, a road circumscribing the central or ceremonial zone, was completed in 1964 while the surveyors were still working. And though efforts at fencing off this central area had been undertaken since the earliest archaeological work in the 1920s (Gamio 1922), a permanent security fence was now erected along the inside of the periférico. Within this fence, ‘Perimeter A’, the ‘Central Area of Monuments’ covers around 263 hectares. And INAH controls admittance to the zone through five gates.
Within this perimeter work continues to mirror the map. Ground cover continues to be cleared, restoration work proceeds intermittently but steadily and plaza floors are leveled and covered with gravel. Archaeologically, future exchanges have been oriented toward chronological fine-tuning through controlled excavations and investigations of socio-spatial patterning. Media resulting from research projects are ‘infrastructured’ to be fungible with the TMP map; now more metadata than cartographic data (see Bowker 2000 on information design). As more and more layers of detail are hung onto this media architecture the feedback cycle continues and increasing efforts on the ground ensure a physique that complements such archaeological endeavors. Other engagements are to a great degree restricted or monitored. Even guards are posted at observational posts on top of the pyramids and patrol the perimeter by day and night.
Outside of the fence the types of exchanges with material from the site are more difficult to monitor. Yet even here the action of the TMP map continues to guide engagement. It acts at-a-distance through a different set of networks (Latour 1986, 219-32). If more diffuse, it has, in fact, wider agency. As a stipulation of Teotihuacan’s listing as a World Heritage Site in 1987, UNESCO required that there be a perimeter management plan to conserve the entire area surveyed and mapped by the TMP (UNESCO 1988). The creation of a series of additional perimeter zones extended management oversight from the central, ceremonial zone to cover more than 1,730 hectares (Marini Flores 2000, 167). Now, international UNESCO officers and publications, local municipal leaders and civic revenues, regional salvage archaeological crews and equipment, Mexico City INAH officials and regulatory reports as well as valley residents and building materials have all become part of the map’s network. And the range of influence of this expanded network of actors is as contentious as it is geographically far flung. New age literature in LA, mother goddess worshippers from Western Europe, Wal-Mart growth charts in Arkansas, high-tech companies in Silicon Valley, resource managers in Paris and pueblos in New Mexico are all acted upon by the map of Teotihuacan (Webmoor 2008).
Widened Identification, Narrowed Ego: Heritage Ecologies
The collective action of this network, with Teotihuacan and the map now nodes in a far flung empire of action, affords certain sets of relation with Teotihuacan. While other relations are no longer possible. Even on the backside of our temple platform (Figure 2) we are no longer going to find shepherds, their property boundaries and alfalfa fields. Nevertheless, the range of exchanges that occur with the material of Teotihuacan remains bewilderingly complex. They are the sort of which cultural heritage managers at urban or touristed archaeological sites are unavoidably aware. At Teotihuacan, the archaeological zone anchors an ecology of interdependent associations (Webmoor 2007). They involve heterogeneous groups of individuals and materials in a series of overlapping exchanges that can be labeled spiritual, economic, political or diversionary.
For instance, let’s return to the plazas at the base of Teotihuacan’s pyramids (Figure 4). Aztec dance troops come regularly to Teotihuacan to perform. One such event on 25 September 2005 was accompanied by offerings, the burning of copal for purification, and occasional pauses in the unremitting drumming to give prayer. The event was to re-consecrate Teotihuacan as the location where the gods came into being and the current cycle of existence began (Sahagún 1953-1982[1547-1577], book 3, 1).

Figure 4
Now the day’s events were certainly unique. The dance ritual drew upon a different network of people and things: shell beads, gourds, feathers, obsidian and drums adorning ‘new age’ spiritualists from (primarily) Mexico City. It was not the past as it was. Despite the best efforts of accurate reconstruction by the archaeologists with their published research, equipment and map, the plaza was not the same as during the Tzacualli phase of the 1st and 2nd centuries CE. And while the sights, sounds and smells of 25 September were the dancers’ deliberate attempt at re-creating the human spectacles of two millennia ago, the event was of a new and different age. Different pasts emerge as new and different relations are performed with the ‘same’ plaza.
Nonetheless, the event of the plaza’s mapping and reconstruction forty years before continues to have action. The shifting and creative composition of the days’ dance took up the events of 1962-64. The leveled plaza for dancing, raised platforms for sitting and burning copal, and stabilized partitions that enclose the plaza for acoustics. Of course, the dancers had been granted permission to perform by INAH personnel at the entrance gates. Were it not for the earlier archaeological intervention, the exchange on 25 September would not have been as it was. ‘Alternative’ and diverse as the many heritage ecologies at Teotihuacan are, their orientation is partially fixed to the archaeological.
Alfred North Whitehead (1920) discussed such relational ontologies. Indeed, some of his examples were archaeologically germane. Like our Pyramids of the Sun and Moon and platform temples at Teotihuacan, he asks us to contemplate the apparent intransigency of pyramids and obelisks. Cleopatra’s needle in London, for instance, seems solid enough. Yet every encounter with the needle produces novelty. None of the entities related from moment to moment are ever exactly the same. The obelisk is one object, one component of a shifting network of other objects. Traffic, cyclists and tourists, the water level of the Thames, and passing boats all partake in and alter the composition of this network. If we focus upon the needle, standing resolutely amidst the tide of changing variables, it is never exactly the same from moment to moment. No hidden and unalterable essence grants the needle an enduring identity. Instead, we have a gathering of relations in every moment which confer a “concrete togetherness” of the material (Whitehead 1929/1978, 21). Transitory and real, the obelisk is an “event” (ibid, 161). “The name ‘event’ given to such a unity, draws attention to the inherent transitoriness, combined with the actual unity” (1925/1967, 93). A continual (re)creation of the obelisk.
The Isotopy of the Pasts and an Archaeological Metaphysics of Care
The past is surely isotopic. The plaza at Teotihuacan or Cleopatra’s Needle shedding relations while forever forming new bonds; continually reorganizing their composition. The events, in Whitehead’s sense, of the plaza at Teotihuacan of five, forty or two thousand years ago were composed of varying networks. Differing in object-orientations with the plaza (Harman 2009), the teotihuacano, archaeological or new age networks held varying relations with the plaza. Different pasts emerged. These were unstable, constantly in flux, yet never perishing completely.
Indeed, despite the elemental instability, certain pasts endure. Yet these realities, like memories recorded on celluloid or in bytes, must be maintained to be real (Latour 1991, 118). An orientation fixed. The merging of Teotihuacan with the map stabilizes an orientation which threads through these multiple and different events. While the other heritage ecologies of Teotihuacan are held (more loosely) together by new age literature, political pamphlets or commercial licenses issued to peddle pottery at the site, the archaeological orientation is made more durable by the extensive network of the TMP map.
So connecting up disconnected, discarded or forgotten stuff, the archaeologist makes the pasts more durable. Indeed, this is archaeology’s long-standing fight with decay and ruination. We do this not as outside observers, dutifully and in a neutral manner inscribing a ‘record’ of what transpired. There is no, as Haraway (1999, 176) describes it, “god-trick.” No holy view from outside the messiness of mundane matters. We are one object or actor amongst many others that are becoming associated together. The archaeologist is a node in connecting up stuff of the past that otherwise goes about its forgotten way. Documenting these relations between objects holds them, however provisionally, together in a network.
This activity of epistemography extends our consideration from the dynamic and relational process of ‘representing’, understood as an exchange that begins to complicate our traditional categories of material/nature and cultural/human, to a consideration of ontology. To shift the register from understanding that representing is active intervening (Hacking 1983), that there are no views from nowhere – the “observer effect” in physics. To a consideration that as we deploy media, instruments and tools to do work upon and affect the objects of the past, the stuff of the past effects us—we co-emerge in those moments in the exchange.
What are our responsibilities with this new ontological turn? Do we simply celebrate the Heraclitean flux of pasts emerging and perishing? To facilitate stochastic change? Or, being part of the existential chain running through representation to reality, do we account for the orientations that are made to last a little longer? Decide which relations are actively maintained?
Archaeology’s mandate is to care for the past. Implicated as we are in these relations that are the pasts, we ought to develop an archaeological agnosticism with respect to the discriminations of ontology and epistemology. Understand them as outcomes rather than predetermined categories. Break from the gravitational hold of anthropocentrism and develop an archaeological holism. Understand that a care for things is a care for our collective selves. Perhaps then, along with cognate fields like Deep Ecology (de Jonge 2004) and ecophilosophy (Bennet 2010), we can make contributions to what the metaphysician van Inwagen (1998) has characterized as the perennial problems of humanity and the defining questions of being: to develop an archaeological metaphysics.
Notes
(1) Specific to disciplinary analysis is Rudwick’s (1976) early and influential study of geography. Within archaeology is the tradition of scholarship into visual representation developed by Moser and others (see Clack and Britain 2007; Molyneaux 1997, Moser 1998; Smiles and Moser 2005). Examinations of textual tropes and narrative styles for ‘writing the past’ figured more prominently during archaeology’s ‘linguistic turn’ (eg Hodder 1989; Tilley 1989).
(2) A contention of this paper is that a ‘post-normal archaeology’ is developing in the wake of the many ‘post’ prefixes having been attached to ‘normal’ theory and practice. Greatest ballast for such post-normal archaeology comes, however, from the discipline’s development of responses to the policy issues of risk and environmentalism facing society. I discuss the requisite speculation in terms of a metaphysics uniquely developing within the discipline. The concept is developed from Jerry Ravetz’s ‘post-normal science’ (see Funtowicz and Ravetz 1993).
(3) There are well-known variations on the ‘symmetry principle’ that have emerged from what can loosely be referred to as Science and Technology Studies (STS). I am not concerned to refine, define or defend one articulation over another, but rather to use the term as it has become a heuristic tool within archaeology to move beyond anthropocentric categories of thought (see Symmetrical Archaeology). For other insightful analyses of archaeology’s anthropocentricism, see Normark (2010).
(4) See Alberti and Bray’s 2009 Introduction to a special issue on animism and archaeological research. The authors and contributors to the session were interested in the possibilities of using ethnographic analogies to cast artifact assemblages in terms of non-Western practices which hold continuities (‘relations’) rather than distinctions between people, things and companion species. Eduardo Viveiros de Castro (eg 2004) has been an anthropological source of inspiration for these type of arguments. Rather than subsume archaeology within the (four-field) fold of anthropology, I want to underscore its unique experiences as alternatively sufficient to reconfigure how we think about deeper issues.
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