Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown

HERITAGE
O F V A L U E,
ARCHAEOLOGY
OF RENOWN
Reshaping Archaeological Assessment and Significance
Edited by
Clay Mathers,
Timothy Darvill,
and Barbara J. Little
Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown
Cultural Heritage Studies
Florida A&M University, Tallahassee

Florida Atlantic University, Boca Raton
Florida Gulf Coast University, Ft. Myers
Florida International University, Miami
Florida State University, Tallahassee
New College of Florida
University of Central Florida, Orlando
University of Florida, Gainesville
University of North Florida, Jacksonville
University of South Florida, Tampa
University of West Florida, Pensacola
Cultural Heritage Studies
Edited by Paul Shackel, University of Maryland
The University Press of Florida is proud to announce the creation of a new series devoted to the
study of cultural heritage. This thematic series brings together research devoted to understand-
ing the material and behavioral characteristics of heritage. The series explores the uses of heri-
tage and the meaning of its cultural forms as a way to interpret the present and the past. The
series highlights important scholarship related to America’s diverse heritage.
Books include important theoretical contributions and descriptions of significant cultural
resources. Scholarship addresses questions related to culture and describes how local and na-
tional communities develop and value the past. The series includes works in public archaeology,
heritage tourism, museum studies, vernacular architecture, history, American studies, and mate-
rial cultural studies.
Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Archaeological Assessment

and Significance, edited by Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little (2005)
Heritage of Value,
Archaeology of Renown
Reshaping Archaeological Assessment
and Significance
Edited by Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little
University Press of Florida

Gainesville/Tallahassee/Tampa/Boca Raton
Pensacola/Orlando/Miami/Jacksonville/Ft. Myers/Sarasota
Copyright 2005 by Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little
Printed in the United States of America on recycled, acid-free paper
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Heritage of value, archaeology of renown: reshaping archaeological assessment
and significance / edited by Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little.
p. cm. — (Cultural heritage studies)
Includes index.
ISBN 978-0-8130-3648-9
1. Cultural property—Management. 2. Cultural property—Valuation.
I. Mathers, Clay. II. Darvill, Timothy. III. Little, Barbara J. IV. Series.
CC135.H463 2005
363.6'9—dc22 2004058120
The University Press of Florida is the scholarly publishing agency for the State
University System of Florida, comprising Florida A&M University, Florida Atlantic
University, Florida Gulf Coast University, Florida International University, Florida
State University, New College of Florida, University of Central Florida, University
of Florida, University of North Florida, University of South Florida, and University
of West Florida.
University Press of Florida

15 Northwest 15th Street
Gainesville, FL 32611-2079
http://www.upf.com
To Bill and Teg, whose significance remains in our hearts, and to Susan
and Dorothy for their enduring support, good humor, and cups of tea.
Clay Mathers
In memory of Dorothy A. Humpf

Barbara J. Little
Contents
List of Figures ix
List of Tables xi
Foreword: Valuing Heritage and the Heritage of Value xiii
Preface and Acknowledgments xv
List of Abbreviations xvii
1. Introduction: Archaeological value in a world context 1

Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little
I. Archaeology and heritage

2. “Sorted for ease and whiz”?: Approaching value and importance
in archaeological resource management 21
Timothy Darvill
3. Good citizens and sound economics: The trajectory of archaeology
in Britain from “heritage” to “resource” 43
John Carman
4. Shaping and suppressing the archaeological record: Significance
in American cultural resource management 58
Joseph A. Tainter and Bonnie Bagley
II. Archaeology in context

5. Archaeological significance and the governance of identity in cultural
heritage management 77
Laurajane Smith
6. “Rigidity and a changing order . . . disorder, degeneracy and daemonic
repetition”: Fluidity of cultural values and cultural heritage management 89
W. E. Boyd, Maria M. Cotter, Jane Gardiner, and Gai Taylor
7. The U.S. National Register of Historic Places and the shaping of archaeological
significance 114
Barbara J. Little
8. Reassessing archaeological significance: Heritage of value and archaeology
of renown in Brazil 125
Pedro Paulo A. Funari
9. Plastic value: Archaeological significance in South Africa 137
Gavin Whitelaw
III. Judging value and importance
10. “Drawing distinctions”: Toward a scalar model of value and significance 159
Clay Mathers, John Schelberg, and Ronald Kneebone
11. Significance in American cultural resource management: Lost in the past 192
Jeffrey H. Altschul
12. Archaeological deposits and value 211
Jane Grenville and Ian Ritchie
13. Archaeological and Indigenous significance: A view from Australia 227
Ian Lilley and Michael Williams
14. Sacredness, sensitivity, and significance: The controversy over Native
American sacred sites 248
Sherene Baugher
15. Traditional cultural properties and the national preservation program in the
United States 276
Nina Swidler and Michael Yeatts
IV. Managing valued places

16. Handling the unknown: The expanding role of predictive modeling
in archaeological heritage management in the Netherlands 289
Jos Deeben and Bert Groenewoudt
17. Assessing the cultural significance of World Heritage Sites: A case study from
Avebury, Wiltshire, England 301
Melanie C. Pomeroy
18. The bigger picture: Archaeology and values in long term cultural resource
management 317
Kate Clark
List of Contributors 331

Index 335
Figures
1.1. Sites discovered by year, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1900–1995 4
2.1. The hermeneutic relationship between subject and object 25
2.2. The place of preknowledge and experience in the relationship between
subject and object 25
2.3. The place of historical context in the hermeneutic cycle 26
2.4. The place of social values and specialist preknowledge and the relation-
ship between subject and object in the double-hermeneutic cycle 26
2.5. Value systems and importance systems within a generalized model of the
relationship between subject and object in the double-hermeneutic cycle
27
3.1. “Public” heritage values 51
4.1. Number of articles on how to practice cultural resource management
59
4.2a. Mean sizes of sites or components determined to be eligible or ineligible
for the National Register 61
4.2b. The presence of residential or religious structures produces a probability
of eligibility or ineligibility 61
10.1. New Mexico location map 162
10.2. Representation of National Register sites versus all known archaeologi-
cal sites, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1900–1995 163
10.3. Overall archaeological site distributions, Rio Arriba County, New Mex-
ico, 1900–1995 167
10.4. Comparison of site densities for buffers extending 1–10 km in the
Carson National Forest and the Tierra Amarilla Land Grant, Rio Arriba
County, New Mexico 167
10.5. Site visitation/recording frequency, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico,
1900–1995 169
10.6. Comparison of the frequency of sites < 1000 sq meters in size with those
> 1000 sq meters in Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1971–1995 175
10.7. Idealized site definition strategies 176
10.8. Mean size data for National Register, vandalized, and nonvandalized
sites, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1900–1995 178
10.9. Distribution of vandalized sites, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico 179
10.10a. Methods used in archaeological site investigation in Rio Arriba County,
New Mexico, 1900–1995 182
x / Figures
10.10b. Years required to achieve a 10 percent sample of sites using different site
investigation techniques, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1900–1995
182
11.1. The Yuma Proving Ground, Arizona 199
11.2. Location of cultural resources, Yuma Proving Ground 200
14.1. U.S. map showing the locations of archaeological sites 250
14.2. Map showing the location of the African Burial Ground and the John
Street Methodist Church site, New York City 258
14.3. Petroglyphs at Petroglyph National Monument, Albuquerque, New
Mexico 265
16.1. Predictive modeling integrated into the process of valuation and selec-
tion 291
16.2. Section of the Indicative Map of Archaeological Values (Indicatieve
Kaart van Archeologische Waarden, IKAW) 295
16.3. Predictive model of the iron slag distribution surrounding a Roman
period settlement near Heeten, the Netherlands 297
17.1. Avebury World Heritage Site general location map 306
17.2. Avebury World Heritage Site boundary 307
17.3. Location of Avebury within Wiltshire 308
Tables
1.1. List of major U.S. federal laws concerned with natural and cultural heri-
tage, 1964–1979 3
2.1. Value sets identified for the archaeological resource by Lipe 29
2.2. Value sets and themes identified for the archaeological resource 30
2.3. Scales and variables developed by Groube for the determination of “Prior-
ity Scores” for Dorset’s archaeological heritage 33
2.4. Importance scales and criteria developed for the Monuments Protection
Programme in England 34
2.5. Value sets and criteria applied in the valuation of archaeological sites as
proposed by Deeben, Groenewoudt, Hallewas, and Willems for the Neth-
erlands 35
2.6. Comparison of the key characteristics of value systems and importance
systems 37
3.1. Darvill’s value systems for archaeology 50
7.1. The National Register criteria for evaluation 117
9.1. Attributes and value points to assess archaeological sites for which there is
no oral or written history 147
9.2. Attributes and value points to assess archaeological sites for which there is
oral or written history 148
10.1. Most recent visit/recording data for sites in Rio Arriba County, New Mex-
ico, 1900–1995 171
18.1. The stages involved in conservation planning 321
Foreword
Valuing Heritage and the Heritage of Value
I am delighted that Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Ar-

chaeological Assessment and Significance is the inaugural volume for the Cul-
tural Heritage Studies series. The topics discussed in this book are exciting and
relevant issues to scholars and land managers who deal with the meaning of
archaeological heritage and broader cultural heritage issues. The volume is about
understanding the treatment and interpretation of archaeological heritage, and it
deals with issues related to cultural identities, the creation of official memories,
land ownership, repatriation, and protection of cultural heritage—all are impor-
tant concerns that have global applicability. This volume, I believe, will stir new
discussions on a variety of heritage issues that are critical to management, pres-
ervation, protection, and research strategies related to cultural resources.
Transformations of the world’s political economy over the past century have
threatened those vital senses of place and identity. In recent years, many of the
efforts to conserve heritage resources have been expressed in terms of “heritage
development.” A significant number of public and private initiatives have begun
to increase our awareness of the importance of sustaining locality and encourag-
ing diversity in the face of increased pressures toward globalization and homog-
enization. The recovery, celebration, and interpretation of the past are necessary
components of sustaining local identity and sense of place.
Heritage connotes integrity, authenticity, venerability, and stability, and it
clarifies pasts so that they can be used in the present (Lowenthal 1997). However,
the celebration of heritage often comes at a cost. With the increased interest and
the new infusion of monies into heritage development, there are always tradeoffs
that have social, political, and economic implications. The question that often
arises is, “Which heritage is best to preserve, and will the promotion of heritage
have an impact on the local cultural resources, the community, and the environ-
ment?” For instance, the celebration of heritage may provide a boost to the local
economy, but at present there is too little understanding of this economic impact.
Another question worth asking is whether the quality of life really increases for
indigenous groups with the promotion of heritage, or do they still receive rela-
tively low wages as they enter a new form of economy—the service industry. In
other words, while heritage development has shown to be a vital part of any
xiv / Foreword
community’s self identity, as practitioners we need to be careful about how the

public presentation of a group’s heritage, whether created or transformed, will
change lifestyles and perceptions of self and others (Chambers 2004).
Heritage is based on a shared value system that people have about culture and
their past. Historian Eric Hobsbawm (1983: 13) writes, “The history which be-
came part of the fund of knowledge or the ideology of nation, state or movement
is not what has actually been preserved in popular memory, but what has been
selected, written, pictured, popularized and institutionalized by those whose
function it is to do so.” Traditions, meanings, and memories are invented, and
they become legitimate through repetition or a process of formalization and
ritualization characterized by reference to the past. By implying continuity with
the past, and sometimes that is a matter of forgetting a past or reinventing a
collective memory, these traditions reinforce values and behavior (Hobsbawm
1983: 1–5).
Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown takes great strides to provide a
very broad definition of heritage. It includes sacred natural places, historic wood-
lands, battlefields, trails, and other historic and prehistoric sites. Archaeologists
are increasingly incorporating the ideas of groups that have not been tradition-
ally recognized in the decision-making process, and the indigenous view of cul-
tural heritage is discussed in several chapters. The authors embrace the opportu-
nity to reflect on how they are connected to the cultures and communities in
which they exist. Archaeologists are in a good place to address these changing
perspectives, and they need to respond effectively to these challenges and oppor-
tunities.
The study of heritage is an emerging field, and there is a clear need for research
devoted to understanding the cultural characteristics of heritage and its uses. It is
critical that this research be formulated in such a way that it can be readily
applied by those who are responsible for the management of our historic, cul-
tural, and environmental resources, as well as contribute to an increased public
awareness of the need for responsible heritage development. Heritage of Value,
Archaeology of Renown introduces new approaches to assessing archaeological
value and significance and promises to make important contributions to heritage
policies with global applications.
Paul A. Shackel, Series Editor
University of Maryland
Literature cited
Chambers, Erve. 2004. Archaeology, Heritage, and Public Endeavor. In P. Shackel and E.
Chambers, eds., Places in mind: Archaeology as applied anthropology. New York:
Routledge Press. 193–208.
Hobsbawm, Eric. 1983. Introduction: Inventing tradition. In E. Hobsbawm and T. Ranger,
eds., The invention of tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1–14.
Lowenthal, David. 1997. History and memory. The Public Historian 19(1):31–39.
Preface and Acknowledgments
In origin, most of the contributions to this volume derive from a session held at
the Annual Meeting of the Theoretical Archaeology Group at Bournemouth
University, December 16–18, 1997, and later repeated on the other side of the
Atlantic at a session of the 63rd Annual Meeting of the Society for American
Archaeology in Seattle, March 25–29, 1998. Not all the papers were presented at
these meetings, and we would like to thank the additional contributors whose
papers we have included here. We particularly would like to thank all those
involved in the organization of the original meetings, especially Louise Pearson,
Roger Doonan, Kevin Andrews, Helen Smith, Jeff Chartrand, Miles Russell,
Mark Maltby, Mark Brisbane, Margaret Cox, Paul Cheetham, Damian Evans,
and others in Bournemouth, and Timothy Champion, David Burley, John Car-
man, Joe Tainter, John Schelberg, Ronald Kneebone, Laurajane Smith, and Ian
Richie for the Seattle meeting.
Bringing the volume together for publication has taken rather longer than
initially anticipated, and for this we would like to thank all the contributors for
their patience and express our gratitude to the University Press of Florida for
encouragement and forbearance, particularly to Michele Fiyak-Burkley and
Susan Duhon. In addition to those acknowledged by individual authors in the
contributions below, we would like to thank Louise Pearson, Ehren Milner,
Eileen Wilkes, and Vanessa Constant for their help in making it all happen, and
especially Vanessa for her efforts knocking all the manuscripts into shape, chas-
ing all the authors for those last-minute queries, and coordinating all our queries
and requests.
Abbreviations
AAHRG Avebury Archaeological and Historical Research Group

AAI Aanvullende Archeologische Inventarisatie
AAO Aanvullend Archeologisch Onderzoek
AARF Australian Accounting Research Foundation
AHM Archaeological Heritage Management
ARCHIS Archaeological Information System
ARM Archaeological Resource Management
ARMS Archaeological Resource Management Section
ARPA Archaeological Resources Protection Act
CAA Centraal Archeologische Archief
CCC Civilian Conservation Corps
CHM Cultural Heritage Management
CRM Cultural Resource Management
CVM Contingent Valuation Method
DoE Department of the Environment
FAIRA Foundation for Aboriginal and Islander Research Action
GCI Getty Conservation Institute
GIS Geographic Information Systems
GNP Gross National Product
HLF Heritage Lottery Fund
HMC Historic Monuments Commission
HPM Hedonic Pricing Method
ICOMOS International Council on Monuments and Sites
IKAW Indicatieve Kaart van Archeologische Waarden
IO Isolated Object
KMC KwaZulu Monuments Council
MPP Monuments Protection Programme
NADB National Archeological Database
NAGPRA Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act
NHL National Historic Landmark
NHPA National Historic Preservation Act
NMC National Monuments Council
NPS National Park Service
NR National Register
NRHP National Register of Historic Places
xviii / Abbreviations
OAS Organization of American States

OSM Office of Surface Mining
PPG Planning Policy Guidance
PRC The Powder River Coal Company
RCHME Royal Commission on Historical Monuments
SAA Society for American Archaeology
SAAA Southern African Association of Archaeologists
SAHRA South African Heritage Resources Agency
SAI Standaard Archeologische Inventarisatie
SANS South African National Society
SHPO State Historic Preservation Office
SMC Scheduled Monument Consent
SRI Statistical Research, Inc.
TAG Theoretical Archaeology Group
TCM Travel Cost Method
TCP Traditional Cultural Property
THPO Tribal Historic Preservation Office
TVA Tennessee Valley Authority
UNESCO United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization
USDA United States Department of Agriculture
WHL World Heritage List
WHS World Heritage Site
WPA Works Progress Administration
1
Introduction
Archaeological value in a world context
Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little
We intend this book to be a call to action. Our essential purpose is to enjoin

archaeologists and those concerned about the historic environment to think dif-
ferently about how we conceive of, define, and assign value to archaeological
places and how we, in the broader sense, understand “heritage.” Furthermore,
we hope that the papers offered here will help to revitalize discussion in areas of
archaeological praxis that often have seemed both divorced from the mainstream
of archaeology and largely dormant over the last few decades.
From the beginnings of the discipline, archaeologists around the world have
made decisions about what should be protected for future generations, salvaged
in the face of impending destruction, or allowed to be destroyed without record.
Those decisions are related to the twin dimensions of value and importance,
arguably the most fundamental concepts in cultural resource management. De-
spite their significance for archaeology as a whole, discussions concerning the
definition, treatment, and interpretation of archaeological heritage have, since
the 1960s, moved in and out of focus and swung markedly between active debate
and widespread neglect: between being one of the discipline’s Big Issues, and a
ghettoized interest, restricted to dirt archaeologists and administrators.
Historical perspectives
Concepts of value and importance have been influenced by numerous factors

emanating from both inside and outside the profession. In recent years, the range
of archaeological places deemed to be valuable and important has broadened to
include many extremely diverse resource types extending well beyond the tradi-
tional suite of functional categories such as camps, settlements, buildings, burial
places, ceremonial centers, exploitation sites, and traces of cultivation. Archaeo-
logical heritage can now be seen to include, among many other things, sacred
natural places (for example, rock outcrops, boulders, springs, and trees), historic
2 / Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little
woodlands, battlefields, trails, and hedgerows. The multiplication of categories

used to define archaeological heritage, together with the expanded range of re-
source types, has further amplified the intellectual and practical challenges in-
volved in managing our cultural patrimony, whether we face that task at a local
or international scale (see Briuer and Mathers 1996b: figure 1).
In one sense, archaeological resources are whatever archaeologists define
them to be: the raw materials through which interpretations, explanations, and
understandings of the ancient, and not so ancient, past can be anchored to the
world around us. Increasingly, however, the position of archaeologists as the
sole arbiters of our archaeological heritage is being scrutinized and questioned
(see, for example, Smith, this volume). Who makes the critical determinations
about archaeological heritage, and how these decisions are arrived at, has been
the subject of considerable change and discussion over the last few decades as
decisions about our cultural patrimony have become more public and political
(for example, Layton 1994a, 1994b; Schmidt and Patterson 1995; Swidler et al.
1997). As new voices emerge from groups that have previously been underrep-
resented or ignored, there has been a considerable reshaping of archaeological
discourse and practice with regard to what is significant, what protocols are
appropriate in arriving at such decisions, and how different resource types will be
treated. Papers included in this volume address challenges emerging in Australia
(Lilley and Williams; Smith), South Africa (Whitelaw), Brazil (Funari), and the
United States (Swidler and Yeatts; Baugher) with regard to these ongoing issues.
The political activism and empowerment of Native American and African
American communities in the United States with respect to their heritage, in
prominent cases such as the repatriation of grave goods and skeletons in museum
collections and the recovery of remains from the African Burial Ground in New
York City, continue to have ripple-like implications for archaeological practice,
the heritage endeavor generally, and the public at large. For many of those unac-
customed to debates about cultural heritage, events such as the reunification of
Berlin and the attacks of September 11, 2001, on New York and Washington,
D.C., have raised the visibility of these issues to something more than incidental
and esoteric. What we do with the Berlin wall and at Ground Zero, for ex-
ample, has now become part of an active debate about what our heritage is and
should be, what form our collective memory (and memorials) should take, and
how we, as a culturally variegated society, arrive at our decisions. As archaeolo-
gists, we should welcome these opportunities to reflect critically on how we
work and how we are connected to the cultures in which we live and partici-
pate.
Within the archaeological profession, theoretical and methodological ap-
proaches to heritage have also expanded considerably since the early days of
cultural resource management. As noted above, increased levels of public con-
cern and more vocal public debate about the future treatment of cultural heritage
Archaeological value in a world context / 3
Table 1.1. List of major U.S. federal laws concerned with natural and cultural
heritage passed in the period 1964–1979
Federal Legislation Year passed by U.S. Congress
Wilderness Act 1964

National Historic Preservation Act 1966
National Wildlife Refuge System Administration Act 1969
Clean Water Act 1972
Endangered Species Act 1973
Archaeological and Historic Preservation Act 1974
Federal Land Policy and Management Act 1976
Archaeological Resources Protection Act 1979
have influenced archaeology in a profound way as descendent and local commu-

nities play larger roles in postcolonial resource management. Archaeology as a
discipline is also more broadly defined, with a greater plurality of theoretical
orientation than ever before. Central to many of these approaches is the isolation
of the significant as the focus around which debate revolves. Whether this takes
the form of classificatory systems in cultural–historical approaches, the defini-
tion of social subsystems in processualist thinking, or the isolation of symbolic
meaning in post-processual studies, the business of sifting, sorting, structuring,
and ordering archaeological entities pervades the discipline.
In the field of resource management, these tasks, and the obvious difficulties
associated with them, are all the more visible and contestable. While research-
oriented and university-based archaeology is often focused on single sites and
small areas and emphasizes long-term work on nonthreatened heritage, cultural
resource management (CRM) archaeologists contend with larger areas, more
public scrutiny, and a more vigorous contest of values. Between the mid-1960s
and the mid-1970s, a variety of landmark heritage legislation was passed in the
United States, prompting widespread changes in the practice of both natural and
cultural resource management throughout the county.
Table 1.1 provides a list, by no means comprehensive, of pioneering federal
laws passed during the 1960s and 1970s. It is perhaps no coincidence, therefore,
that in the wake of this active period of debate, political action, and legislative
activity, there was a notable surge in the number of publications dealing with
archaeological resource significance (especially during the late 1970s), with a
fairly steady, if sometimes small, number of publications appearing over the fol-
lowing two decades (see Briuer and Mathers 1996a). From the late 1990s, re-
newed interest and concern can be detected, especially among those archaeolo-
gists working in the publicly funded sectors. One focus of this latest phase of
interest is a call for greater formal guidance concerning how cultural heritage
1000
N = 10,452
900
800
700
No. of Sites Discovered
600
500
400
300
200
100
0
1900
1903
1906
1909
1912
1915
1918
1921
1924
1927
1930
1933
1936
1939
1942
1945
1948
1951
1954
1957
1960
1963
1966
1969
1972
1975
1978
1981
1984
1987
1990
1993
1996
Year
Fig. 1.1. Sites discovered by year, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1900–1995.
legislation is to be interpreted and implemented and, more recently, new direc-

tions in educational curricula (for example, Bender and Smith 2000).
Other major developments that continue to affect archaeological heritage
management in a significant way are the improvements in archaeological survey
and data recovery methods. In the United States, with the introduction of better
methods of site discovery in the late 1960s and early 1970s (in parallel with
major federal legislation protecting archaeological heritage), the number of sites
being reported increased dramatically. A large data set from Rio Arriba County,
New Mexico (reported on in more detail by Mathers, Schelberg, and Kneebone,
this volume), highlights the magnitude of this change. The number of recorded
archaeological sites reported in Rio Arriba County rose sharply after 1969 (fig-
ure 1.1), a date that is significant given the passage of the National Historic
Preservation Act (NHPA) a short time earlier. As a result of this influential act
and other important legislation that followed in the early 1970s, archaeological
jobs, sites, and associated cultural material began appearing on an unprec-
edented scale. The result of this activity has been a vastly improved knowledge of
our cultural heritage, but the volume of information has begun to create prob-
lems, too, particularly in recent years. Accumulated remains and records from
more than three decades of CRM activity have now become a major curation
issue for those public and private entities responsible for storing this large body
of information (Marquardt et al. 1982; Kodack and Trimble 1993; Childs 1995;
Parezo 1999; Thompson 2000; Robbins 2001; Stewart 2002; Traver 2001). The
problem is by no means confined to the United States (Thomas 1991).
In this context, heritage management and preservation must inevitably ex-
pand beyond their traditional boundaries, that is, the curation and conservation
of artifacts and the physical protection of sites in the field. Without due attention
being paid to other forms of documentation relating to these sites and objects (for
example, maps, photographs, field notes, reports, drawings, and, increasingly,
digital records), the critical contextual information needed to interpret sites and
landscapes will be lost (Richards and Robinson 2000). Our conservation and
preservation responsibilities extend not only to what we are collecting and creat-
ing in the present but also to the accumulated information produced by earlier
generations of archaeologists. The dilemma that emerges is, therefore, one that
confronts us not only in the field at the side of open trenches, but also among the
sagging shelves of museums and curation facilities and within the undigested
tsunamis of digital data. Many pragmatic and logistical questions such as what to
preserve, as well as how, why, for how long, and for whom, still remain to be
addressed by a profession that is only now coming to grips with the material
manifestation of its success.
Returning to the more general issue of value and significance, it is clear from
a historical perspective that an interest in the way that archaeological resources
are valued is not new. Baldwin Brown’s pioneering work on the care of ancient
monuments published at the beginning of the twentieth century starts from the
proposition that “the abstract value to the community of the objects or scenes
under consideration will as a matter of theory be generally admitted” (Brown
1905: 24). Perhaps naive to modern eyes, the acceptance of an assumed rather
than a demonstrated value has perhaps stood the discipline in good stead for
several decades. The need for more explicit statements to justify archaeological
activity and explain the basis of selective preservation has grown with the expan-
sion of resource management, the competition for resources, the recognition that
not everything can be treated equally because of limited resources, and the inte-
gration of archaeological management work into wider environmental interests.
By the time Michael Schiffer and George Gumerman published Conservation
Archaeology in 1977, archaeological thought was beginning to crystallize, al-
though old tensions remained. Introducing the section on assessing significance
they note that
the concept of significance, like no other in conservation archaeology, is a
constant source of frustration and inspiration. We are frustrated because
we wish that significance would be ignored. . . . Nevertheless, the many
kinds of significance that need to be taken into account when assessing
resources often immerses the investigator deeply in the most fundamental,
intriguing problems of the discipline: the nature of archaeological data and
the relationships between archaeology and society. (Schiffer and Gumer-
man 1977: 239)
A year later, Michael Moratto and Roger Kelly asserted that “the assessment of
significance is central to archaeological research and management planning”
(1978: 1), before going on to introduce a wide-ranging discussion that did much
to clarify thinking on the definition of significance as a means of underpinning
explicit values that may be attached to particular sites or areas. They emphasized
that there are many standards of significance applicable to cultural resources,
and that these vary according to the qualities of the resource, the context of
assessment, and the perspectives of the evaluator (1978: 23). Several subsequent
treatments focused on matters such as scientific, historical, ethnic, public, legal,
and monetary significance, paving the way for a number of studies that elabo-
rated these themes as expanded schemes and value systems (for example, Lipe
1984; Darvill 1993). Running through all of these studies is the crucial point,
well recognized by Schiffer and Gumerman that “relativity” is perhaps the single
most outstanding quality inherent in the concept of significance, for significance
can only be interpreted by employing some explicit frame of reference (Schiffer
and Gumerman 1977: 239).
Frames of reference
Building on this point, it was the idea of frames of flexible reference that are both
contestable and negotiable by parties having different standpoints and perspec-
tives that provided the starting point for the thinking behind the papers as-
sembled in this volume. Three broad domains of interest, which are traditionally
regarded as affecting the way that frames of reference are established and aspects
of archaeological resources are discussed, can be identified.
First is the physical and intellectual environment within which the value and
importance of archaeological remains are established. Archaeological resources
do not exist in isolation, nor are decision makers remote from cognate, some-
times overriding, interests. What is valued at any one time and in any one context
depends upon a whole range of considerations, which in broad terms situate
archaeological remains in relation to other goals and objectives. Recognition and
acceptance of the physical impact of archaeological material may be important
here; attention to the visible and upstanding heritage may be strong even while
subsurface and currently invisible material is dismissed or ignored.
Second, there are moral and ethical considerations that underpin and inform
particular approaches and perspectives. The financial or monetary value that
attaches especially, but not exclusively, to portable antiquities provides a dimen-
sion of value that challenges academic assumptions regarding and reasoned argu-
ments asserting the importance of things. Kristiansen notes (1979: 7–11), for
example, that in early nineteenth-century Denmark, the temporal sequence of
finds reported from regions around the country was directly linked to the differ-
ing monetary values attached to gold, bronze, and iron artifacts. Such matters are
widely recognized in the ethical principles accepted and promoted by archaeolo-
gists and heritage managers (Vitelli 1984; Chase et al. 1996; Renfrew 1999;
Wylie 2000). Rather different, but nevertheless concerned with financial value
and the realization of rewards from the formal designation and enhanced impor-
tance of places and buildings, is the dynamic effect that the conservation of build-
ings and areas has on capital value, price, and rental income (Allison et al. 1996).
In a recent review of the heritage dividend in Britain, English Heritage (1999)
found that every £10,000 invested in partnership schemes within designated con-
servation areas leveraged £48,000 in matching funds from the private sector and
public sources, which typically resulted in 177 square meters of improved com-
mercial floor space, plus one new job, one job safeguarded, and one improved
home. Another study conducted in Fredricksburg, Virginia, found that following
historic preservation efforts, residential property values rose 674 percent (from
1971 to 1990), while the value of nearby homes, outside the historic district
proper, rose by 410 percent during the same period (Veasey 1997). Identifying
areas as something special, designating them in some way, and using that desig-
nation for the discriminatory allocation of support is big business and a sharp
tool for governments to use in promoting regeneration, internal investment, and
a strengthened sense of community.
In addition to the ethical issues outlined above, two other key areas are worthy
of attention. One is the matter of commercialization (SAA 2000: 11; Principle 3)
and the need for fair, realistic, and supportable assessments of archaeological
significance and the importance of sites/finds. Brian Fagan, Paul Bahn, and
Bettina Arnold among many others (see Stoddart and Malone 2001) have noted
how pressure from the media in particular has variously encouraged the exag-
geration of results and the implications of new discoveries for all sorts of reasons,
among them the need to attract funding for ongoing research. A second but
related ethical issue is the recognition that different values may be attached to
things and places by specific ethnic, religious, or cultural groups (see SAA 2000:
11; Principle 4).
The third main domain lending structure to the way that issues of importance
and value are addressed is essentially an operational one. At one level, this opera-
tional approach may be related to legislation and the associated legal frameworks
(Hardesty and Little 2000: 7–9). Scales of importance are in some cases enshrined
in the legislation itself. Thus, in England, Wales, and Scotland, for example, the
Ancient Monuments and Archaeological Areas Act of 1979 incorporates a bi-
nary scheme whereby protection through scheduling is offered to monuments of
“national importance,” by implication associating all other monuments with a
less-valued status. Determining nationwide importance is itself increasingly diffi-
cult, and since the early 1980s, it has been the subject of systematic survey using
a scoring system (see Darvill, this volume). By contrast, in Denmark, the Protec-
tion of Nature Act No. 9 of January 3, 1992, incorporates within its rubric
narrow definitions of the way the provisions will be applied so that there is
blanket coverage for all visible examples of certain defined classes of monument
(ten classes are listed, including burial mounds, fortifications, and rock carvings);
items on two other lists (Part 2 with nine classes, for example, mills, holy wells,
and stone banks; and Part 3 with eight classes, for example, trapping pits, memo-
rial monuments, and soldier’s graves) are covered by the legislation only when
their existence has been communicated to the owner of the land on which they lie.
In resource management terms, the different lists, which in a way translate into
grades of importance, carry different practical implications: The first two lists
include protection not only for the monument itself but also for the entire area
within 100 meters of the monument; monuments on the third list do not enjoy
this wider level of protection.
Operational matters also introduce issues of scale and the impact of value
gradients. The rationale behind the development of many grading systems is to
identify those resources that are most significant or most important in relation to
a specified purpose. Inevitably, this creates divisions and categories and causes
things and places to be excluded as well as included. What happens to the things
or places that are not regarded as important? There is some potential here to
exploit value gradients rather than simple categories, but even if national, re-
gional, and local levels of importance are defined, questions arise, such as how
nationally important places are viewed in the local context and why it is that
everything of national importance is generally accepted as also having local im-
portance but not vice versa.
The complexities of these three domains and the need to unravel how they
impact on heritage management seem frequently to outpace the conceptual tools
available to deal with them. While to varying degrees, idiosyncratic, ad hoc deci-
sion making and implicit assessment strategies continue to be commonplace in
the day-to-day practice of heritage management, theoretical models and opera-
tional examples of best practice continue to be rare. Critical debate concerning
the value and importance of archaeological places needs to begin to break out of
the traditional domains that structure our approaches. This is essential to the
growth and development of responsible, comprehensive research and manage-
ment strategies within heritage policies, and within the practice of archaeology
generally. The artificial separation of heritage management and research within
archaeology continues to be a major obstacle to innovation and constructive self-
criticism.
Addressing and changing practice
In practical terms, addressing and changing practice means thinking differently,

and we anticipate that the result of thinking differently will prompt fresh ap-
proaches to the treatment and understanding of the archaeological heritage. All
the contributors to this volume recognize that archaeology is in a process of
perpetual and fundamental change. The vast majority of archaeology in the
world is done in the context of managing resources or heritage. Whether a prac-
tice is referred to as cultural resource management (CRM), cultural heritage

management (CHM), or archaeological resource management (ARM) is not only
a matter of national preference. The very choice of words, which colors percep-
tions about the places that are preserved or destroyed, is changing. Choosing to
use words such as “prehistory” also has its consequences, as Lilley and Williams
point out later in this volume. Even the term “archaeological heritage” has be-
come the center of considerable debate (Skeates 2000). Changing the way we
conceptualize the past is related to the language we use, and to the people we
include or exclude by employing that language.
The language at the very core of archaeological method is also in question. We
expect to find “sites,” but that word may not accurately reflect how people
live(d) and use(d) the land, as several authors in this volume suggest (Altschul;
Boyd et al.; Lilley and Williams; Tainter and Bagley). Old notions of fabulous
places worthy of exploration were not discarded with the science of the New
Archaeology, and, in spite of efforts to recognize the importance of settlement
patterns, the focus remains on sites rather than on landscapes. This emphasis of
archaeological research on single sites, frequently at the expense of the larger
cultural and geographic frame in which they are embedded, has had lasting con-
sequences for our understanding of archaeological heritage, as well as for its
physical integrity. Since we now possess a wealth of analytical tools and ap-
proaches that give us the capability of exploring significance in a myriad of ways
at the landscape and regional scale, it seems that we can, and should, do better.
One of the straightjackets that archaeologists need to escape from is our own
overly categorized learning. We need to recognize the constraints that we have
accepted along with the dominant evolutionary paradigm (see Tainter and Bag-
ley, this volume), which make us see large, salient sites as the point both of
evolution and of the discipline. As Denis Byrne observed over a decade ago,
“What is missing in the consciousness of heritage management practitioners gen-
erally: an understanding of the values underlying the Western management ethos
and an openness to alternatives” (Byrne 1991: 273). Such values are deeply em-
bedded in social and intellectual contexts. Consequently, a more rigorous analy-
sis of where we have been and a more robust critique of where we are currently
would do much to improve the quality of theory and method applied in archaeo-
logical heritage management. Mathers, Schelberg, and Kneebone, in their paper
on heritage management in New Mexico (this volume), for instance, offer an
example of how historical data can be used productively to critique the past and
current practice of archaeological heritage management.
As the heritage project grows to include more disciplines and communities,
there is a trend to integrate archaeology with other values in an interdisciplinary
and multiconstituent approach. Mary Hufford (1994a) describes some of the
serious attempts at such integration in the United States. Hufford calls for re-
thinking the federal government’s cultural mission and national system of heri-
tage preservation and talks of shifting from a top-down paradigm to “an ap-
proach more open and responsive to grass-roots cultural concerns” (1994b: 1).
The U.S. legal structure, as several authors mentioned above have noted, encour-
ages separation into categories of nature, the built environment, and folklife or
living culture. Heritage, however, tends to ignore such boundaries because people
use a wide range of resources in creating and sustaining their culture. As heritage
professionals attempt to deal more realistically with resources, what “is at issue
is the process for determining the significance of contested resources. Assigning
significance to any resource is a matter of describing the context within which the
resource makes sense” (Hufford 1994b: 5).
Heritage of value: An outline

Each of the seventeen papers in this volume concerns some aspect of social or
political power: the power to identify, designate, judge, research, save, and de-
stroy. Exercising such power is often emotive and controversial, and the outcome
is sometimes contested. At the local level, decisions about the value of remains or
resources may directly affect a developer’s cash flow or the ongoing employment
of an archaeological team. At a quite different level, decisions by a professional
organization or government department about how and where to spend taxpay-
ers’ money on conservation may well be viewed differently by different local
communities. As Mathers, Schelberg, and Kneebone emphasize in their paper
(chapter 10, this volume), archaeologists need to face, in a more direct and ex-
plicit way, the long-term reality of their decisions and the effects of those deci-
sions on the future as well as on the present. New approaches, both theoretical
and methodological, are offered in the wide range of contributions offered in this
book. Although the cultural context, geographic scale, and particular issues ad-
dressed in each paper vary significantly, all share the goals of reinvigorating de-
bate about the meaning of archaeological heritage and transforming the current
practice of heritage management.
We have divided the contributions into four sections. By the sequence in which
they are presented, they lead us from the wide and generalizing perspectives of
theoretical approaches and the way significance has come to be viewed in Euro-
pean and American resource management, through the particular approaches
adopted in various parts of the world, to schemes for judging value and impor-
tance in a range of situations and social contexts. The volume ends with three
papers that examine the implications of these general matters on the management
of particular sites. Although some of the papers adopt a peculiarly “Western
gaze” regarding what is important and valued among the places and things of the
cultural heritage, a number of other perspectives that take alternative positions,
as with Sherene Baugher’s review of sacredness in relation to Native American
sites (chapter 14) and Gavin Whitelaw’s examination of changing views in South
Africa (chapter 9), are introduced from around the world. Throughout, our aim
is to be polemical in the hope that future work on the theme of value will be
reflective.
The first section then, Archaeology and Heritage, is the call to action: a call to
start thinking about issues of value and significance from a starting position
outside the purely pragmatic and immediate needs of getting a job done or satis-
fying the latest trendy political agenda. We want this book to initiate serious
discussion among archaeologists, and among all those who are interested in the
archaeological heritage, about what it is and what it all means, as well as how we
value and care for it. Starting from an overtly theoretical position several steps
back from the business of making decisions, Timothy Darvill (chapter 2) asks
fundamental questions about how current concepts of significance emerged
against the background of modernity and how social values and professional
interests fit together within broad social frameworks. John Carman (chapter 3)
takes this further by contrasting the positions of those who see archaeological
resource management as being solely concerned with the “stuff” of the past and
those who emphasize the process or practice of management as a socially relevant
project in the contemporary world. There is a danger here, he warns, that we may
become overly concerned with performance and forget to ask about the purpose
of what we do. This theme is picked up by Joe Tainter and Bonnie Bagley (chapter
4), who complete this section by calling into question the unconscious assump-
tions that underlie the practice of archaeology and affect the ways we recognize
and value sites.
Accepting, recognizing, and indeed developing the social context of archaeo-
logical materials and the archaeological project underpin the papers included in
the second section: Archaeology in Context. In this section, the focus shifts to-
ward the identification of power relations and dominance structures in the defi-
nition and negotiation of value and significance. As a starting point, Laurajane
Smith (chapter 5) explores archaeology as a technology of government, empha-
sizing the fact that while some groups see material culture as a physical resource
linked to history and the past, others use it in an active process to create, recreate,
or maintain cultural and social identities. She shows how archaeological signifi-
cance criteria used in cultural heritage management become not only a means
through which Aboriginal cultural identity is governed, but also a means by
which archaeology as a positivist science is itself regulated and maintained. Wil-
liam Boyd, Maria Cotter, Jane Gardener, and Gai Taylor (chapter 6) note how the
traditional view of a single history is increasingly untenable and open to contest.
Using case studies such as the Suffolk Park buried shipwreck, the Woody Head
campground, the Alstonville historic town and countryside, the Beachmere Ab-
original midden, and the Gumbooya Aboriginal rock art site, the conflicts be-
tween fundamentally different perceptions of interest and significance are high-
lighted. They argue powerfully for accepting the inherent validity of diverse
meanings, and propose that resource management adopt a more fluid and multi-
vocal approach to determining significance. The public nature of archaeology

and the public nature of the materials that archaeologists are charged with look-
ing after leads Barbara Little (chapter 7) to explore the relationships between
public memory and the U.S. National Register of Historic Places. Although many
archaeological sites are eligible for listing in the National Register, a high propor-
tion are treated either by avoidance or mitigation through data recovery. This
incompletely considers the public benefit of archaeological sites to the nation’s
sense of identity. Contrasting the forces affecting heritage, the state, community,
and archaeological profession, Pedro Funari (chapter 8) highlights the effects of
an unstable government on the heritage project in Brazil. Advocating a humanis-
tic perspective on heritage management, he notes a growing awareness of the
political and ethical responsibility of empowerment, thus giving more diverse
groups of people access to archaeological remains. It is an approach whose accep-
tance finds support in many places. Gavin Whitelaw (chapter 9) examines how
significance has been defined in South Africa and how the definition has changed
since the end of apartheid. Here, legislation passed in April 2000 promotes re-
search into “living heritage” and recognizes the existence of the multiple and
different value systems that many of the papers in this section advocate.
Making legislation and solid well-supported perspectives work in practice for
the benefit of not just one sector of society but all sectors is one of the great
challenges for cultural resource management in the twenty-first century. In the
third section, Judging Value and Importance, the practice of determining, mea-
suring, describing, and communicating value and importance comes under scru-
tiny. The authors present cases that contribute to developing good practice in the
process of heritage management. Ian Lilley and Michael Williams (chapter 13)
focus on the situation in Australia, neatly complementing the earlier papers by
Laurajane Smith (chapter 5) and W. E. Boyd and colleagues. (chapter 6). Ian
Lilley and Michael Williams demonstrate the advantages of collaboration be-
tween archaeologists and the Aboriginal and Torres Straits Island people of Aus-
tralia, arguing that the separation of archaeological and Indigenous interests has
outlived its usefulness and that a new era of integrated collaborative research and
management is needed. Native American sacred sites are the subject of Sherene
Baugher’s paper (chapter 14), in which she discusses burial sites and other places
important to Native Americans while again asking the question, “Whose culture
are we preserving?” The nature of direct involvements with these sites, she ar-
gues, should extend beyond legal obligations and deal also with ethical goals.
This theme is again taken up by Nina Swidler and Michael Yeatts (chapter 15) in
their discussion of traditional cultural places in the United States. They argue for
tribal participation in the preservation program and offer guidance concerning
the treatment of these valued places so that they can continue to play a role in
the history and cultural maintenance of a tribe or descendant community. In the
Southwestern United States, Jeff Altschul (chapter 11) presents a case from the
state of Arizona to argue for a different way of thinking about sites and the land-
scape, one that takes us away from the hegemony of scientific thinking and the
application of hypothetico-deductive research paradigms. What is needed, he
suggests, is to find ways of recognizing the changing scientific nature of the sig-
nificance of the archaeological record in a compliance process that should be
routine. Making good use of archaeological knowledge in more holistic ways
than hitherto used is the subject of the paper by Clay Mathers, John Schelberg,
and Ronald Kneebone (chapter 10). They use a quantitative spatial analysis to
explore a variety of thematic and geographical contexts relating to archaeologi-
cal significance and to promote more responsible, comprehensive, and informed
decision making. In a rather different way, Jane Grenville and Ian Ritchie (chap-
ter 12) present two cases, a Roman amphitheater and medieval townhouses in
England, and stone circles and coal mining in the U.S. state of Wyoming, to argue
that the research value of archaeology should be the overriding consideration in
the decision-making process.
Making things work on the ground is, of course, the ultimate test of any
proposals that address the way we value things and assess their significance.
Many of the papers in Sections II and III include the experiences of their authors
in trying out novel approaches. The three papers in the fourth and final section,
Managing Valued Places, focus on approaches that have been already been devel-
oped and implemented, so now a reflective look at their achievements and further
potential is possible. Deeben and Groenewoudt (chapter 16) describe the na-
tional approach to archaeological significance in the Netherlands, emphasizing
the importance of predictive modeling in investigating much of this nation’s bur-
ied heritage. Melanie Pomeroy (chapter 17) discusses management approaches to
the World Heritage Site of Avebury, which includes a prehistoric henge monu-
ment and its associated landscape, in southern England. Kate Clark’s contribu-
tion (chapter 18) concludes the volume by providing a broad overview of the
management of heritage places with a view to sustainability and the integration
of archaeological work with wider social and economic concerns. In so doing,
she returns us to the question that opened the discussion: “What is it that we are
valuing?”
Conclusion
The attempt to revitalize simultaneously many of the major issues that inevitably
surround archaeological value and significance is paramount to what former
governor of New Mexico Bruce King once referred to as “opening a box of
Pandoras.” Having done so, we are acutely aware of the intellectual debt we owe
to our many colleagues whose data and ideas we hope to have built upon in
presenting this collection of papers. We have gone over some of the same ground
to be sure, since there were still many productive seeds there, many of them
planted in the literature more than thirty years ago. In our view, however, many
of these ideas have yet to produce their true yield or bring about fundamental
changes in archaeological praxis. For our part, we hope to have sown a number
of new ideas that will animate our colleagues to critique, improve, and build on
what is offered here.
Encompassed in the thematic subject areas listed below are some of what we
believe to be new perspectives, capable of beginning new major discussions
within archaeology concerning the theory and practice of heritage management.
Adequate discussion of these would more than likely require another book, but
a summary of them will hopefully encourage readers to examine closely all of the
contributions presented in this volume.
Theory and practice

The artificial divides between theory, research, and management in archaeologi-
cal heritage, which featured prominently in literature of the mid-1970s to mid-
1980s (for example, Lipe 1974; Glassow 1977; Raab and Klinger 1977; Schiffer
and House 1977; Dunnell 1984) have begun to erode, as witnessed by many of
the contributions in this volume. Papers in all four sections of this book, for
example, offer contributions combining all three elements: theory, research, and
management. Significantly, too, the issues they address are not restrictive, either
geographically or intellectually. Instead, they focus on questions that are of
common concern to archaeologists everywhere, whether based in universities, in
management positions, in museums, in the private sector, or elsewhere. The
dearth of empirical case studies, noted in a review of archaeological significance
some years ago (Briuer and Mathers 1996a: 24), has been addressed in this vol-
ume by papers offering a balance of method, theory, and data.
Politics and representativeness

The political context of archaeological heritage, and of archaeologists, in the
contemporary world is also addressed in depth by many of the contributions to
this book. The variety of contributions from the United Kingdom, Australia,
Brazil, South Africa, and the United States emphasize the range of political and
cultural agencies that shaped the archaeological record in the last century and
continue to do so today. Many of these processes (and their impacts) have re-
mained quietly in the shadows despite their importance to the development of
theory, practice, and cultural preservation generally. In addition, many of the
papers highlight practical approaches to more holistic and inclusive heritage
management strategies, particularly in the context of more culturally diverse
societies.
Heritage and accountability

While biological, geomorphic, and environmental pressures of various kinds
have often been identified as agents responsible for transforming the archaeologi-
cal record, the impact of archaeologists themselves has been far less explicitly
studied, whether in heritage circles or within the archaeological profession as a
whole. In Sections I and III particularly, a number of papers emphasize the need
to acknowledge and examine the consequences of archaeological practice on our
collective cultural heritage. The ideas presented in these contributions, as well as
their data-oriented analyses, have important implications for our approaches to
heritage management and to archaeological research and analysis generally.
Data quality
The quality of the information used in defining the significance, importance, and
value of archaeological heritage is also a major concern identified in many pages
of this volume. Many of the assumptions employed in assessing cultural re-
sources, as well as much of the data on which these assumptions are based, have
escaped the close scrutiny they deserve. Returning to issues such as the definition
of site, the representative nature of state and national records, and the geographic
frame for assessing significance, all have more than esoteric value. The quality of
the information we employ in managing archaeological heritage concerns funda-
mental issues relating to how archaeology as a discipline is conducted: what we
think we know, how well we think we know it, and why. By returning to core
assumptions about the quality of archaeological data and the practice of cultural
resource management, several papers in the book challenge, constructively, exist-
ing notions of how we manage cultural heritage. In a broader sense, too, they
dispute the widely held ideas that the heritage management literature fails to
address bedrock issues critical to the health of archaeology as a whole.
Critical and reflective historiography

The challenge of improving the current practice of heritage management in ar-
chaeology depends in large measure on an understanding of where we have been
historically as a discipline. Several papers in the volume stress the importance of
examining the history of CRM/CHM/ARM with respect to both explicit state-
ments of theory and method (in the literature) and the genuine implementation of
these ideas (and other less explicit ones) in practice. More effective monitoring of
what we have done and a better understanding of its consequences will, it is
argued, help us to approach cultural heritage with a more self-critical and histori-
cally aware perspective. Historical perspectives of this kind are an essential step
toward reforming and expanding good practice.
The burgeoning of new issues and analytical tools along with the increasing
public awareness and interest in heritage will, we believe, initiate a new period of
active discussion among archaeologists and others regarding the heritage en-
deavor. We are therefore hopeful that the papers contained here will stimulate
renewed discussion of archaeological significance and value. While we hope that
there are arguments here that will find general agreement among archaeologists
and heritage professionals, the revival of these important issues is more impor-
tant than consensus. In this context, former mayor of New York Ed Koch put it
well when he said, “If you agree with me on six out of ten issues, vote for me. If
you agree with me on ten out ten issues, see a psychiatrist.” Given the complexity
of the subjects raised in this volume and the inherently dynamic nature of ar-
chaeological significance, we realize many of our own limitations and welcome a
new period of discussion within archaeology and beyond.
As a group, the seventeen papers that follow identify key dimensions of ar-
chaeological heritage in many parts of the world and in relation to many situa-
tions and traditions. The details of the material they introduce and the case stud-
ies they present are diverse, but the message is identical. Significance, value, and
importance are not just relative concepts, they are also highly contextual. Re-
newed attention to our widely varied contexts of practice and their consequences
will, we believe, ensure the best future for our collective cultural heritage.
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Archaeology and heritage

2
“Sorted for ease and whiz”?

Approaching value and importance
in archaeological resource management
Timothy Darvill
Introduction
Archaeological resource management is not what it used to be. Increasing com-

petition for scarce financial and human resources in a world driven by what
might be called the “Bigger,” “Better,” “Faster,” “More” imperative, coupled
with the inevitable need for selectivity in our commitment to particular archaeo-
logical remains, means that archaeologists are not only having to justify their
very existence and the work that they do but also to make complicated, rational,
and justifiable judgments about the future of diverse archaeological materials. As
a result, issues of “value,” “significance,” and “importance,” what might collec-
tively be called the process of “valuation,” have become central elements in ar-
chaeological resource management in most parts of the Westernized world, and
elsewhere, too. In practical terms, valuation has become critical in the interpreta-
tion of results from what in Britain has become known as field evaluation (Cham-
pion et al. 1995; Darvill et al. 1995: 27–39), and in the integration of archaeo-
logical considerations during environmental impact assessment (Ralston and
Thomas 1993). But there are also wider issues.
Since the late 1970s, a fairly substantial literature has developed on the valu-
ation of archaeological remains, focusing both on general principles (Glassow
1977; Moratto and Kelly 1978; Lipe 1984; Darvill 1993; Carver 1996) and on
specific aspects of the archaeological resource, including, for example, rural sites
(Groube 1978), the selection of monuments for protection through law (Darvill
et al. 1987; Startin 1995), and urban deposits (Ove Arup and Partners et al. 1991;
Carver 1993: 1–18). In general, however, there has been little critical attention
paid to the underlying philosophies that are either implicit or explicit in the
approaches and schemes suggested. Even a cursory scan of the literature reveals
22 / Timothy Darvill
that notions of “value,” “significance,” and “importance” are rather vague and
ill-defined, and that these terms are used interchangeably. Key questions such as,
valuable to whom? significant in what context? or important for what? rarely
seem to be asked, and yet they lie at the heart of the debate.
Elsewhere, I have drawn attention to the development of value systems and
the social context of their emergence (Darvill 1995), while John Carman (1995,
1996) has considered the relationships between law, particularly English law,
archaeological materials, and the emergence of ascribed values pertaining to dif-
ferent elements of the archaeological resource. Carman concluded that the law
could be seen as part of a reductive and homogenizing process so far as the
components of the heritage are concerned (1996: 173), and in many ways the
same can be said of academic discussion of valuation in archaeology, which also
tries to develop a single, perhaps universal, approach to the recognition and
articulation of archaeological value. Martin Carver, for example, asserts that the
purpose of his paper on archaeological value “is to propose a definition of ar-
chaeological value which can serve the debate on behalf of archaeologists” (1996:
45). Likewise, CAG Consultants (1997: 1), in reviewing the eco-economists’
idea of environmental capital and proposing instead a new approach based on
the assessment of “functions” rather than “features,” aim at nothing less than
helping “policy makers and practitioners achieve an integrated, long-term ap-
proach to environmental protection and enhancement in policy and planning
processes.” Reading either of these papers, one could perhaps be forgiven for
thinking that the objective was to provide an overarching model for the assess-
ment and subsequent judgment of archaeological remains that was straightfor-
ward in its application and suitably trendy in its approach: to twist the title of
Pulp’s summer release of 1997, to get the valuation of archaeological resources
“sorted for ease and whiz.”
In this paper, I want to take one step back from operational aspects of de-
termining the significance of particular archaeological remains or deposits and
focus instead on the situational context of archaeology in general and the ar-
chaeological process in particular. My starting point is the recognition that the
development of archaeological resource management is itself a consequence of
modernity, the adoption of modes of social life and organization that emerged in
Europe from the seventeenth century onward, and which has subsequently be-
came more or less worldwide in its influence (Giddens 1990: 1). The relationship
between social life and archaeological practice can be examined through the
application of a hermeneutic model in which distinct but interrelated spheres of
action and agency can be recognized. On the basis of this model, I will argue that
“value” and “importance/significance” are not the same thing because they refer
to two distinct, but connected, spheres of meaning. In the first, there are social
values which, while not universal, are widely held. In the second, there are scales
of importance or significance which are objective-specific and, in social terms,
Value and importance in archaeological resource management / 23
differently situated. These two spheres are examined with reference to recent and
current approaches to the valuation of archaeological materials in Europe.
Implications of modernity
There has not always been the need for the explicit articulation of ideas about
value and importance. In his extended essay entitled The consequences of moder-
nity, sociologist Anthony Giddens notes four main shifts in the social organiza-
tion and institutional form which characterize modernity: surveillance; capital-
ism; military power; and industrialism (Giddens 1990: 59). It is the last of these
that is perhaps most important for archaeology because “modern industry,
shaped by the alliance of science and technology, transforms the world of nature
in ways unimaginable to earlier generations” (1990: 60). Although we might, as
archaeologists, be critical of some of Giddens’ simplification of what we know to
be complicated historical trends, his basic analysis holds up and has within it two
important points in relation to the question of value and importance.
First is the way that sources of risk and danger facing society and the world it
creates for itself have changed. In the premodern world, most threats and dangers
were perceived as emanating from nature. In the modern world, most threats and
dangers are perceived as resulting from the reflexivity of society: that is, an orga-
nizational form constantly referring back to itself to define a sense of being. In
consequence, within premodern society, there was a series of answers provided
by beliefs and received wisdom. In modern society, there are only ontologically
oriented questions. The change can be seen clearly enough in some highlights of
society’s approaches to the archaeological resource itself, mirroring a series of
more deep-seated intellectual shifts in what Andrew Sherratt (1996: 142) has
usefully set out as a cultural dialectic. First, there was the Christianizing of pagan
images in the early Middle Ages (for example, Grinsell 1986). Next, came the
development of antiquarian concerns for protection and preservation articulated
so clearly in the writing of William Stukeley and others and coincident with the
emergence of modernity (compare Marsden 1984). Finally, there are the current
concerns about the nature of the past and the definition of what constitutes the
archaeological record and what we should call its recognizable elements (for
example, Hodder et al. 1995).
The second of Giddens’ insights of use here is the recognition that in modern
societies, it is abstract systems that provide the means of stabilizing social and
economic relations across indefinite spans of time and space. These systems are
future-oriented and often counterfactual as a mode of connecting past and
present. As such, they contrast with premodern situations in which local commu-
nities provided the setting, religious cosmologies provided a providential inter-
pretation of human life and nature, and tradition provided a means of connecting
present and future through reference to the past. Again, these changes are evident
in the development of archaeological resource management. In Britain, it is

mainly conflated within the hundred years or so between the passing of the first
Ancient Monuments Protection Act in 1882 and the integration of archaeologi-
cal issues into the town and country planning system with promulgation of the
Planning Policy Guidance on Archaeology and Planning Act in 1990 (DoE 1990;
Champion 1996).
For archaeology, the emergence of modernity provided the social context for
the institutionalization, objectification, and commodification of archaeological
materials. What changed was the set of relationships that allow individuals either
singly or in groups to derive meaning from the physical world in which they find
themselves. At this point, archaeologists were not only reading the past but also
reading the present. There are no absolutes or intrinsic attributes that can be
separated off from what we experience in the world. Value and importance are
just as much sets of meanings and understandings derived from a body of mate-
rial as is the reconstruction of Neolithic burial practices or the development of a
view about medieval kingship. The socially prescribed detachment that distances
archaeologists from the material which is the source of the meanings they are
trying to discover is exactly the same for those researching the past in the present
as it is for those managing the past for the future. In exploring this relationship,
the principles of hermeneutics (the art, skill, theory, and philosophy of interpre-
tation and understanding) potentially provide a number of insights and allow the
development of a model.
A hermeneutic model of value and importance systems
In essence, the problem faced by archaeologists in justifying their work, or mak-

ing a valuation of some aspect of the archaeological resource, is one of detach-
ment between the agent or person seeking an understanding (subject/ego) and the
material under scrutiny (object/real world). The latter can variously be seen as a
socially defined subset of the physical world, for example artifacts and structures,
or indeed metaphorically as a text. The act of understanding involves bridging
the gap between subject and object, represented in hermeneutics as an intellectual
or cognitive action, which is two-way and essentially circular or cyclical in the
way it operates (figure 2.1).
There are three aspects of the hermeneutic circle particularly relevant to its
application in archaeological resource management. First are Martin Heidegger’s
insights, which focus on the way that understanding is constructed within the
framework of human existence and experience (Heidegger 1962). In this way,
there is a phenomenological relationship between subject and object, in which
the subject holds a preunderstanding of the world and thus experiences the object
according to those principles (figure 2.2). In this way, the gulf between subject
and object is significantly reduced, if not rendered altogether invisible.
Fig. 2.1. Schematic representation of the hermeneutic relationship between subject and
object.
Heiddegger’s work was later developed by Hans-Georg Gadamer (1975) to

provide what can be recognized as the second aspect, namely the way that preju-
dice, tradition, and authority relate to the act of understanding. These things
make any set of understandings historically located within a tradition credited
with authority (historic context) and which therefore relates to the viewpoint of
whoever wishes to understand (figure 2.3). Taking this still further, Anthony
Giddens (1984: 284 and 374) defines what he calls a double-hermeneutic, which
is the third aspect. Giddens recognizes that in modern society, where experts or
specialists become involved in the administration and implementation of abstract
systems of thought, there is a metalanguage that articulates the circle involving
agents and the real world (subject and object). However, since the agents cannot
stand outside the social domain, there is also a way in which the actions and
understandings of lay agents (who are themselves also elements external to the
subject) routinely reenter the universe of experience that represents the historical
situation of the subject (Giddens 1990: 14). It is this double-hermeneutic model
Preknowledge
Experience
(Phenomenology)
Fig. 2.2. Schematic representation of the place of preknowledge and experience in the
relationship between subject and object.
Preknowledge
Historic
Context
Experience
(Phenomenology)
Social Values
Fig. 2.3. Schematic representation of the place of historical context in the hermeneutic
cycle.
Preknowledge
Metalanguage & Specialist Preknowledge
Historic
Context
Experience
(Phenomenology)
Social Values
Fig. 2.4. Schematic representation of the place of social values and specialist preknowledge
and the relationship between subject and object in the double-hermeneutic cycle.
(figure 2.4), together with the phenomenological basis of experience and the
historical situation of the agents, that provides a tool with which to return to the
practical matter of how archaeological materials are evaluated and assigned im-
portance or significance.
Applying the hermeneutic model
That the process of valuation in archaeological resource management is histori-

cally and culturally situated cannot be denied, and, while generally poorly under-
stood and little debated among practitioners, its overall effect is probably widely
recognized. Likewise, the emergence of specialization in the execution of desk-
based assessment, field evaluation, and environmental impact assessment proce-
dures has become a fact of life in archaeological resource management within
government agencies, and among contractors, consultancies, and archaeological
curators. The piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is currently missing is the full use of
the parallel or concentric articulation between subject and object inherent in
Giddens’ thinking about the hermeneutic circle and born of his analysis of mo-
dernity and its consequences. I would like to suggest that our thinking on this
could be sharpened by visualizing these concentric circles as two systems. Both
are abstract in form but have considerable practical utility: a general value system
and a specific importance system (figure 2.5). Elements of each can be glimpsed
Value Systems
Importance Indicators
Importance
Systems
Perceived Importance
Social Values
Fig. 2.5. Schematic representation of value systems and importance systems within a gen-
eralized model of the relationship between subject and object in the double-hermeneutic
cycle.
in archaeological thinking, but deserve to be teased apart, better defined, and set
in relationship to the social context in which they are situated.
Value systems in archaeology

The idea of a value system is here conceived in its sociological sense. By this I
mean that values are social values, that is, a set of standards against which things
are compared and held to be, for example, desirable or undesirable, appropriate
or inappropriate, worthwhile or pointless. These standards trigger feelings and
emotions and provide the basis for emotional commitment. I have discussed else-
where how such value systems emerge (Darvill 1995), but here it is important to
recognize that they are commonly but not universally held, that they are con-
stantly being renegotiated and changed, and that their formulation and accep-
tance is a consensual matter. As the hermeneutic model implies, changes in values
are not independent of innovations in cognitive orientation created by shifting
perspectives on the social world. There is no rational basis for values, and shifts
in outlook deriving from diverse inputs of knowledge have a mobile relation to
changes in value orientations (Giddens 1990: 44). Three possible sources for the
production of values can, however, be seen:
• the logical abstraction of known situations to other situations;
• the application of general social wisdom and assertion; and
• the self-gratification of individuals and groups.
For archaeology, some of the key values that can be identified at present include
• archaeological remains should be preserved rather than destroyed be-
cause they represent a direct and tangible link to the past;
• care for the archaeological heritage is good because it brings economic
rewards;
• it is better to have archaeological remains than not to have them;
• preservation in situ to maintain authenticity is better than investigation,
which is short-term and destroys authenticity;
• visibility is preferred to nonvisibility;
• old things are more interesting than more recent things;
• the archaeological heritage is a collective heritage, owned by no one and
available to everyone;
• investigation of archaeological remains is worthwhile because of the
knowledge it creates;
• interest in the past brings social benefit in relation to the quality of life,
and is a component of education and the process of socialization; and
• the archaeological heritage is a resource that can be used or stored up, as
we think fit.
These values (not all of which everyone necessarily agrees with) and the value
system to which they relate are generalizing in their constitution. A number of
archaeological value schemes have been proposed, most of which focus on the
ways in which archaeological sites and materials are consumed.
In a groundbreaking review of archaeological value systems, William Lipe
(1984) considered four types of value (table 2.1). These he linked to a range of
interests within society, recognizing that archaeological value is embedded in
wider issues, although retaining the notion that cultural materials from the past
function as resources in the present. Later, in 1993, I presented a rather different
way of treating archaeological materials (Darvill 1993, 1995), which looked at
value in terms of three interrelated value sets (table 2.2). The idea of “use values”
perpetuated the principle that archaeological materials are resources for immedi-
ate consumption. In thinking about the range of possible uses, I tried to reflect on
the fact that archaeologists themselves are only one of a wide range of consumers
and that we are not concerned about archaeological materials purely out of self-
interest. In “defining option values,” attention turns to the deferred use of ar-
chaeological materials and recognizes not only the conservation ethic of preser-
vation but also the realization that not all possible uses are currently definable.
Other ways of using archaeological materials will undoubtedly come along, and
our descendants deserve the opportunity to exploit such opportunities. Finally,
“existence values” are related to emotional attachments and to things that can-
not be directly experienced: the sense of well-being stimulated by knowing that
everything is in order; the sense of stability, familiarity, local distinctiveness, and
attachment; and the physicality of identity within an historic environment. Each
Table 2.1. Value sets identified for the archaeological resource by Lipe
Value Context
Economic Economic potential

Market factors
Costs of development vs. cost of preservation
Aesthetic Aesthetic standards
Stylistic tradition
Human psychology
Associative/symbolic Traditional knowledge
Historical documents
Oral tradition
Folklore and Mythology
Informational Archaeological research
History
Art history
Architectural history
Folklore studies etc.
Source: Based on Lipe 1984, Figure 1.

Table 2.2. Value sets and themes identified for the archaeological resource
Value system Application
Use value Archaeological research

Scientific research
Creative arts
Education/socialization
Recreation and tourism
Symbolic representation
Legitimation of action
Social solidarity
Monetary and economic gain
Option value Stability
Mystery and enigma
Existence value Cultural identity
Resistence to change
Source: Based on Darvill 1993 and 1995.
of these value sets embraces general socially determined values and relates, to
different degrees, to scales of emotion: the pleasures of consumption; the thrill of
revelation; the contentment of preservation; the peace of mind in conservation;
and so on.
Martin Carver (1996: 46–47) has argued that all the value sets listed by Lipe
and Darvill ultimately derive from the realization of the results of archaeological
research. He offers, instead, a rather different approach based on the competing
interests that reside in the use of a defined piece of land. These he defines as
market values, community values, and human values. Archaeology is set squarely
in the last of these three groups, competing with the other two for attention.
Although this dialectic model tries to recognize the broader social context of
archaeology in defining what is valuable, it ultimately fails because it falls back
on the myopic position that archaeology is somehow more special than other
things. As Carver himself suggests, “The platform that archaeology must argue
from must cite moral rewards and human benefits, and do so with such persua-
sion that the community is willing to suspend its normal basic desire for profit
and allow archaeologists access to the land instead” (1996: 48). Thus instead of
trying to situate archaeological value within a broader range of social values as
others have done (Lipe 1984; Darvill 1995), Carver prefers to ring-fence archaeo-
logical interests and set them apart.
Inevitably, the question of how archaeological values work in the wider world
is difficult to see from within the profession. It is interesting and instructive,
therefore, to consider attempts to look at questions of value in relation to the
archaeological and built heritage from other perspectives. Recent work, for ex-
ample, has introduced the economist’s view and the property market’s view
(Allison et al. 1996). Here, formal valuation methods have been applied to par-
ticular issues. The Hedonic Pricing Method (HPM) looks at changes in the value
of property in order to estimate the value of environmental goods. The Travel
Cost Method (TCM) is based on the premise that visitors reveal the value they
put on a resource by the amount of time or money they are willing to spend in
order to see elements of it. In contrast, the Contingent Valuation Method (CVM)
relies on questionnaires, which ask people to declare the value they put on differ-
ent kinds of resources or the existence of some feature. These and other indica-
tors of value operate mainly at the level of the case study, although they poten-
tially provide insights on a far more general scale. In a review of The Heritage
Dividend, English Heritage (1999) concluded that giving grants for conservation
attracted at least matching funding from the private and commercial sectors and
that this additional funding was based on desires to enhance cultural distinctive-
ness and pride of place for local communities, establish local cultural identity,
and contribute to the sense of place. At the same time, such work created new
jobs and secured the future of others, and created new floor space in formerly
redundant historic buildings, which in turn provided opportunities for new jobs
and economic revival.
Within the general realm of value systems, there is also the matter of what is
considered within the domain of any particular discipline or specialty: what com-
prises the archaeological resource or archaeological heritage. This determination
has both academic and political dimensions.
Academically, the archaeological resource may be seen in terms of any mate-
rials that assist in developing an interpretation of the past. In Britain, the tradi-
tional core of the archaeological heritage includes familiar enough things: for
example, inhabited caves, barrows, hillforts, Roman villas, Saxon churches,
medieval villages, and historic towns. More recently, a whole range of previously
ignored structures and deposits have also come to be embraced by an expanding
universe of relevant materials: for example, hedgerows, peat bogs, valley fills and
colluvium, historic parks and gardens, and ancient landscapes (Darvill and Ful-
ton 1998: 12–14). The creation of the archaeological record is in this way a
function of the balance between what can be recognized and how society chooses
to think about it and classify it (Carman 1996).
Politically, the archaeological heritage is created through expediency and re-
sponses to various pressures and social trends. In Britain, increasingly holistic
visions of the physical landscape and the developing influence of “Green” politics
are slowly changing the place of archaeology in relation to the management and
development of both rural and urban environments (Macinnes and Wickham-
Jones 1992; Swain 1993). Similarly, increasing interest in military works con-
nected with the First and Second World Wars (Schofield 1998) can perhaps be
linked to changing world attitudes toward such matters and the end of the cold
war. In other parts of Europe, as elsewhere in the world, the integration of tradi-
tional, Aboriginal, and First Nation interests into broader political agendas pro-
vides the basis upon which social values are attached to the cultural heritage.
All of these elements refer to the totality of society and the archaeological
resource rather than to any particular component of it; this is what separates the
general matter of value from the particularizing question of importance.
Importance systems in archaeology
In thinking about importance, attention focuses not on the place of archaeology

as a contemporary academic and political theme but on particular pieces of real-
ity to ask the question, “Is this site more or less important than that one?” Work
is done to address the issues that the investigator sets. Importance indicators are
set up to mediate between subject and object, the result being the placement of
some aspects of the real world within a scheme or scale of perceived importance.
The methodologies used and the indicators set are cast in the metalanguage of
archaeologists, or of some other special-interest group, although to be effective
they will inevitably draw upon and translate appropriate social values.
Two main kinds of importance system are currently being applied in archae-
ology: quantitative systems and qualitative systems. A general review and anno-
tated bibliography of significance systems used in the United States has been
published (Briuer and Mathers 1996), so here attention is focused on European
examples.
Quantitative systems and scoring schemes

One of the earliest quantitative systems applied in Britain, and in retrospect a
rather innovatory one, was developed by Les Groube to help determine a set of
priorities for the deployment of resources in managing the rural archaeological
resource in Dorset, England (Groube 1978; Groube and Bowden 1982). Dorset
is widely recognized as one of the richest areas in England in terms of the number
and quality of prehistoric, Roman, and later monuments. It has been host to
many major investigations in the latter half of the twentieth century, including
work at Hengistbury Head (Cunliffe 1987), Hambledon Hill (Mercer 1980),
Mount Pleasant (Wainwright 1979), Maiden Castle (Sharples 1991), Cran-
bourne Chase (Barrett et al. 1991), and Bockerley Dyke (Bowen 1990). It is also
an area in which the impact of agricultural regimes and urbanization has had an
adverse effect on the preservation of archaeological sites. Groube’s scheme
hinged on determining the position of different kinds of archaeological site or
strategy on two scales, a threat scale and a problem scale (table 2.3). These could
then be combined to produce a single “priority score.” The “threat scale” scored
three factors:
a) the physical characteristics of the site type (for example, whether an

earthwork or a structure) in relation to typical natural decay trajectories
of such remains;
b) the typical land-use situations in which particular site types are found
(for example, arable land, pasture, or woodland) in relation to the way
that such a land use will accelerate the natural decay trajectories of such
remains; and
c) the potential of the site type, in terms of the number of examples known
in relation to the number that formerly existed.
The “problem scale” involved the consideration of three factors:
a) the level of problems relevant to particular types of site: whether it is an
initial exploratory problem, an integrative problem, or a general theo-
retical problem;
b) the feedback potential to generate further research questions; and
c) the local relevance, or otherwise, of solving such problems.
Combining these scores allowed different strategies to be ranked. As a result, a

survey of the Bronze Age settlement pattern in the county was given highest
priority, and the excavation of additional Bronze Age round barrows received the
lowest priority (Groube 1978: 49).
This system set the background for the development of a systematic scoring
system to help identify monuments in England that should be considered for
protection in law by scheduling (Darvill et al. 1987). The main legislative instru-
ment protecting archaeological sites in England is the Ancient Monuments and
Archaeological Areas Act of 1979, which simply states that monuments included
on the Schedule, and therefore subject to the controls set out in the act, are of
“national importance.” Criteria for the determination of national importance
Table 2.3. Scales and variables developed by Groube for the determination
of “Priority Scores” for Dorset’s archaeological heritage
Scales Variables/criteria
Threat scale Physical characteristics (natural decay trajectory)

Landuse (accelerated decay trajectory)
Potential (rarity/loss rate)
Problem scale Archaeological problem level (exploratory/integrative/
theoretical)
Feedback potential (low/medium/high)
Local relevance (low/medium/high)
Source: Based on Groube 1978.

Table 2.4. Importance scales and criteria developed for the Monuments Protection
Programme in England
Importance scale Criteria
Characterization Period (currency)

(applied to specific identified Rarity
monument classes) Diversity
Period (representativity)
Discrimination Survival
(applied to recorded populations Potential
of defined monument classes) Diversity (features)
Documentation (archaeological)
Documentation (historical)
Group value (clustering)
Group value (association)
Amenity value
Management assessment Fragility
(applied to individual Vulnerability
identified monuments) Condition
General conservation value
Source: Based on Darvill et al. 1989.
were first established by the U.K. government in 1983 (DoE 1983; reprinted in
DoE 1990, Annex 4), but their systematic application to perhaps 300,000 re-
corded monuments required a more formal structure to their deployment. What
was developed was a nested three-level review of archaeological importance
(table 2.4). At the national level, individual monument classes were characterized
by applying four criteria. In this, it was recognized that all definable classes of
monument included some examples that could be considered as of national im-
portance, so the question was what percentage would provide an academically
viable representative sample (compare Startin 1993b). At the next level down, all
recorded examples of a particular class of monument had to be ranked to allow
the selection of an appropriate number. This discrimination process involved the
application of eight criteria. Local populations of a given monument class were
ranked by scoring each criterion against the recorded information available for
each site. When all the sites were listed in rank order, a threshold could be estab-
lished based on the results of the characterization process and the best examples
of the class identified. Finally, individual monuments singled out for special at-
tention were visited, and the future management regime was determined by con-
sidering a third set of criteria: the management assessment criteria. At each stage
in the process, the scoring and determination of importance was systematic, doc-
Table 2.5. Value sets and criteria applied in the valuation of archaeological sites as
proposed by Deeben, Groenewoudt, Hallewas, and Willems for the Netherlands
Values/importance scale Criteria
Perception Aesthetic value

Historical value
Physical quality Integrity
Preservation
Intrinsic value Rarity
Research potential group value
Representativity
Source: After Deeben et al. 1999, table 1.
umentable, consistently applied, and repeatable. Although it was a point-in-time

assessment of importance, the process allowed decisions to be revisited as and
when required. Professional judgment was given an important role throughout
the procedures in order to overcome inconsistencies in the records available and
consider issues not covered by the defined criteria (Startin 1993a: 194–95,
1993b).
Subsequently, the Monuments Protection Programme (MPP) monument
evaluation system was applied in slightly different circumstances to assess the
importance of individual recognized monuments within large-scale development
schemes, for example, in the case of a proposed new visitor center for Stonehenge
(Darvill 1991: 82–90). The general principles were also carried over into the
development of a scheme to assess urban deposits in Cirencester, Gloucestershire
(Darvill and Gerrard 1994). Here, zones of high, medium, and low archaeologi-
cal interest within the town and its hinterland were determined on the basis of
generalizing scores generated through a detailed review of available results from
archaeological interventions such as excavations, watching briefs, and recorded
observations, combined with a study of the main available historical sources. A
variant was also used in mapping the landscape around Stonehenge (Batchelor
1997). In an area of 135 square kilometers, scores developed for individual
monuments were combined with data on the distribution of flintwork recorded
through systematic field survey. The resultant map provides a visual representa-
tion of areas of high, medium, and low importance in the whole landscape.
The step-by-step process inherent to the MPP scheme, in which valuation is
separate from selection, can also be found in a method proposed to deal with
monuments and deposits in Holland (Deeben et al. 1999). In this scheme, the
criteria are arranged into three groups (table 2.5): perception, physical quality,
and intrinsic value. Each criterion is scored on a three-point scale to provide a
general ranking.
Qualitative approaches
Qualitative models of archaeological importance lend themselves to area map-
ping rather than to the consideration of individual sites or monuments. One
pioneering study relates to York in the north of England (Ove Arup and Partners
et al. 1991; Carver 1993: 13–15; also see Grenville and Ritchie, this volume). The
city is well known for its tremendous wealth of archaeological deposits represent-
ing over 2,000 years of settlement, including superimposed Roman, Anglian,
Anglo-Scandinavian, medieval, and later layers, which in places reach a total
thickness of more than thirteen meters. In this study, the archaeological impor-
tance of a site was defined as a function of the quality of the archaeological
deposit present and the potential of the deposit to meet the needs of current
research. The quality of the deposits could be conceptualized in terms of their
“legibility” using the available techniques of archaeological investigation. The
needs of current research could be defined through the development and agree-
ment of a rolling predefined research agenda. In the study, thirty-five areas within
York were examined and compared; two were found to be of little or no archaeo-
logical interest, while the other thirty-three contained deposits deemed of high
quality. In the conventional wisdom enshrined in archaeological legislation and
planning guidance, areas or sites of high archaeological importance should be
preserved for the future. However, using the York model of archaeological im-
portance, Martin Carver has argued that “sites of high research value should be
dug; the rest conserved” (1996: 54). This line of reasoning has started a debate
that rather usefully highlights the relationships between general social values and
archaeological views of what is important (compare, Grenville and Ritchie, this
volume).
In another domain, landscape assessment and the allied topic of countryside
characterization also lend themselves to qualitative studies of importance. Lam-
brick (1992) provides a preliminary view of what he called “Landscape Integ-
rity” assessment as a means of combining the value of the aesthetic with the
analytical modes of evaluation. This involved a two-tiered approach to judging
the historic value of landscape in terms of features and areas. Other rather prom-
ising attempts at providing evaluative maps of the landscape are being developed
through experiments with historic landscape characterization (Fairclough 1999).
Other approaches
In many of the cases already cited, both quantitative and qualitative, the matter
of importance is determined using principles derived from other disciplines, in-
cluding, as John Carman has pointed out (this volume), accountancy and eco-
nomics. It is surprising, therefore, that little attempt has been made to introduce
some of the concepts of environmental economics to the discussion of archaeo-
logical importance. Traditionally, this hinges on the notion of “environmental
Table 2.6. Comparison of the key characteristics of value systems and importance
systems
Value systems Importance systems
Macroscale Microscale
Top-down Bottom-up
General orientation Specific orientation
Conceptual Pragmatic
Production Consumption
Inspired by the past Looking to the future
Widespread Local
Society-based Specialist-driven
Holistic Atomized
capital,” which can be conceived as consisting of assets that can provide a stream
of benefits or services. Such assets are usually divided into “critical,” “constant,”
and “tradable” capital to reflect an intuition that some things are more important
and less replaceable than others. However, this emphasis on things or features
has recently been challenged, and the suggestion made that there should instead
be a greater focus on the functions that assets provide in terms of human well-
being: What are the benefits and services that environmental things provide to
society (CAG Consultants 1997)? How exactly such a model translates into ar-
chaeological practice remains to be seen, but its greatest potential deployment is
in connection with the integration of archaeological resources with the concept
of sustainable development (English Heritage 1997).
Comparing importance systems and value systems
When viewed side by side, the characteristics of what are presented here as value
systems are very different from those of what are here called importance systems;
indeed many of the characteristics of these two systems are almost opposites
(table 2.6). Thus, on the one hand, value systems are generally holistic and con-
ceived on a macroscale; they have a general orientation, largely relate to the
production of archaeological resources, and are conceptual, widespread within
the population, and generated with reference to past experience from the top
down. By contrast, importance systems are atomistic, relate to the microscale,
have specific orientations, are generally pragmatic, relate to the consumption of
the resource, look to the future, have local relevance, and are created and admin-
istered by specialists.
While it is easy to emphasize the differences, it must also be remembered that
these two systems interlock in two places: with the subject and the object. Value
systems provide an aspect of the preknowledge of the expert formulating the
importance indicators, the pursuit of which in turn become recognized and ab-
sorbed within the real world, thereby contributing to the dynamics of the value
system as well as supplying insights into the perceived importance of those ele-
ments of the real world that are of interest to the subject. In this way, knowledge
or meaning claimed by specialist observers rejoins its original subject, altering it
in the process. Thus reflexivity, the continual redefinition of being, does not
stabilize the relationship between subject and object but rather provides momen-
tum for continual redefinition. When thinking about value and importance sys-
tems, it is critical to recognize that they are never stable.
The application of a hermeneutic model to the question of importance and
value in archaeological practice emphasizes the dynamic state of affairs, and
opens up three sets of implications. First, in using knowledge for the decision-
making process, an individual or organization is likely to draw on two intercon-
nected systems of knowledge, a general value system and a professionally deter-
mined, or interest-group determined, importance system. The relative weight
given to each will depend on where that individual or institution is situated and
the historical context at the time.
Second, because preknowledge and the nature and extent of experience differs
between individuals and organizations, the orientation of importance systems
will inevitably also differ. It is in the nature of importance systems that they have
specific orientations, and these will, according to this model, be tied back to
preknowledge. Thus, the importance systems developed for the MPP were spe-
cifically oriented to develop an understanding of the perceived importance of
things that could be dealt with under the prevailing ancient monuments legisla-
tion in England. As part of that process, preknowledge and a received value
system guided the development of the program. As such, it was widely recognized
that the importance system as it stood did not deal adequately with all kinds of
archaeological remains. The same applies in reverse to Martin Carver’s propos-
als, developed in the light of experience in the city of York. Here, rather different
received value systems provided the preknowledge for the formulation of impor-
tance systems. Not surprisingly, therefore, the importance systems that were de-
veloped are very different. They have a distinct set of orientations, which are
peculiar to a set of circumstances. Neither the MPP scoring system nor the York-
inspired system has universal application; in fact, taken together, they are rather
complementary. Ontologically, each focused on a different conception of the
existence of archaeological remains (monuments for the MPP, and deposits for
Carver), yet, if asked to define the archaeological resource as a totality based on
current knowledge, many archaeologists would probably include both notions.
Third, the creation of importance systems carries with it the implication of
incorporating and reflexively redefining preknowledge, at least some of which
relates to widely applicable value systems. Where that preknowledge comes from
might usefully be the subject of critical review in some cases. The value systems
to which it relates will be socially specific, and thus the dangers of applying values
systems cross-culturally should be recognized and taken into account. If we fol-

low Galbraith in accepting that the reflexive mode of redefining values results
from “a persistent and never-ending competition between what is relevant and
what is acceptable” (1958: 9), then as archaeologists, we should perhaps pay
more attention to the development of importance systems that mirror fairly
closely those things that can be recognized in the more widely held value systems.
Conclusions
In conclusion, in this paper, I have attempted to step behind archaeological prac-

tice to look at its broader social context. I have used what I hope is a fairly
familiar hermeneutic model of social action in a contemporary application to
tease apart some of the issues and explore what we are doing when we use these
widely held notions of “value” and “importance” in the context of decision
making at various levels. As a result, I have argued for a distinction between
“value systems,” as a set of socially defined orientations applicable to the whole
resource, and “importance systems,” as an archaeological or interest-group
methodology applicable to specific elements of the resource, in order to allow
some kind of ranking or discrimination. It is suggested that there is no universal
system or methodology that can or should be applied, but rather a series of
specifically oriented schemes relevant to particular needs. Moreover, the suc-
cessful development, and widespread acceptance, of comprehensive and easy-to-
apply importance systems hinges on the dynamic coincidence of archaeological
interest with more general value systems.
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Good citizens and sound economics

The trajectory of archaeology in Britain from “heritage”
to “resource”
John Carman
Introduction
One of the often unstated themes of any discussion of issues in cultural resource
or heritage management is the difference between those who understand the
object of concern to be “stuff,” comprising objects, monuments, landscapes, and
ideas about such things from the past, and those who think of it as a field of
“practices” in the present. This is a crucial difference, although not much dis-
cussed and often confused, sometimes perhaps deliberately so. At the same time,
there is a distinction to be drawn between those who bring an a priori agenda to
bear in their comments upon heritage matters and those who attempt simply to
understand the phenomenon. The difference is between those who talk about
what the heritage should be and those who try to understand what this thing is in
all its complexity. Researchers in the field of archaeological heritage management
fall into the latter category; their aim is to understand the nature of the heritage
project in the contemporary world, and in particular in relation to the field of
archaeology.
The word “heritage” has only recently taken over in Britain to describe what
heritage managers are concerned with; elsewhere, the idea of ancient remains as
a “resource” is far more common. Even where the term “heritage” is preferred,
as it is in the United Kingdom, the current tendency is to think of it in terms of use
values, and therefore as a kind of resource. Use of the term “heritage” has grown
very rapidly in the United Kingdom since it burst onto the scene as a legal term,
internationally (Council of Europe 1969; UNESCO 1972a, 1972b; OAS 1976),
nationally (National Heritage Act 1980, 1983), and subsequently as part of the
idea of “the heritage industry” (Hewison 1987). The idea of the thing we call
heritage has a slightly older pedigree, but the belief that preserving things from
44 / John Carman
the past is a good and worthwhile thing to do is (in Britain) only just over a
hundred years old. There are some inklings of it earlier in Britain, and elsewhere
it has a slightly longer pedigree, but it appears in the form of concerted action
only in the later nineteenth century. The justifications at that time are couched in
almost exclusively social welfare and political terms. This contrasts with the
modern language of cultural resource and heritage management, especially as
applied in archaeology, which is almost exclusively economic in tone. In this
chapter, I will examine the values ascribed to the cultural phenomenon now
called heritage by outlining the historical trajectory of the concept from its emer-
gence in Britain in the late nineteenth century to the present. The original purpose
of creating what we now call heritage will be contrasted with its current place in
our cultural frame.
A brief history of archaeological values in Britain

Making good citizens for the modern age
In the late nineteenth century, archaeology was at the heart of disputes about the
way the future would look (see also Carman 1996: 67–96, 1997). One work in
particular dominated from the time of its first publication in 1865 until at least
World War I. In fact, it was still being very widely read and consulted as late as the
early 1960s, a total shelf life of nearly a century. The book is John Lubbock’s
Prehistoric Times (Lubbock 1872), the first great synthesis of European prehis-
tory in English. The book opens with a discussion of the antiquity of bronze and
iron weapons found in Europe and their priority over written evidence. It gradu-
ally moves backward in time, through the ages of iron, bronze, and stone, to a
consideration of the great antiquity of the human species. Then, reversing the
sequence, Lubbock cites the untrustworthiness of historical and traditional
sources in explaining prehistoric finds (Lubbock 1872: 424), but urges instead
the usefulness of ethnological parallels (Lubbock 1872: 428). In the second part
of the book, he then proceeds by moving forward in time, comparing what he
calls “modern savages” with the finds of archaeology. The ultimate purpose of
the book is explained in the final chapter.
In these “Concluding Remarks” to Prehistoric Times, Lubbock connects im-
provements in physical welfare to increases in population and vice versa (Lub-
bock 1872: 593–94). These in turn are linked to the mental condition of the
members of a society, since “the pleasures of the civilized man are greater than
those of the savage” (Lubbock 1872: 597). All this is then given support by citing
the inverse correlation between literacy and criminality as evidenced by data
from British prisons (Lubbock 1872: 600). Drawing on Darwin, he argues that
natural selection works to advance both physical and moral conditions over time,
and that science (in the sense of learning) makes people more virtuous (Lubbock
1872: 601). Accordingly, advances in learning lead to a greater understanding of
nature, to technological advance, and thus to increased happiness. Then, bril-
The trajectory of archaeology in Britain / 45
liantly reversing the argument, Lubbock leads us to the conclusion that scientific
advances will necessarily lead to both physical and moral improvement among
modern European populations. It follows from all this that “Utopia turns out . . .
to be the necessary consequence of natural laws” (Lubbock 1872: 603), and the
proof of this lies in the archaeological and ethnographic record.
This is in essence a statement of late nineteenth century Liberal politics with a
time dimension added. Lubbock was a Liberal politician and elected Member of
Parliament as well as an archaeologist. He was one of a new breed of rising
middle-class professionals (Perkin 1989; Carman 1996: 70–89) who assisted in
the creation of the distinct disciplines of archaeology and anthropology by clas-
sifying and defining appropriate behavior patterns for these new sciences. He was
also the prime mover in legislating the preservation of prehistoric monuments
and active in promoting the scientific education of the wider public. Eight times
between 1873 and 1880, he proposed a bill that would have preserved certain
ancient monuments by law. These attempts at legislation all failed, and the rea-
sons include the entrenched opposition of the landed interests (Chippindale
1983: 13; Saunders 1983: 11). In 1882, however, Lubbock was able to force a
vote of the House of Commons that committed the new Liberal government to
propose a bill of its own. It was this bill that became the first legislation in Britain
to preserve ancient remains and the beginning of what today we call heritage.
Prehistoric Times should accordingly be read as a strategy in contemporary poli-
tics whereby a scientific explanation of how human society functions gave sup-
port to the Liberal political program of national public education and welfare.
Others, however, did not accept any connection between technological knowl-
edge and moral condition. “Man has always been Man” so far as mental powers
are concerned, and nothing less. So said the Duke of Argyll (1870: 150) in his
reply to Lubbock, which he called Primeval Man: An Examination of Some Re-
cent Speculations. In this work, he cited the lack of hard evidence for human
progress and the copious evidence for the decline of civilizations into savagery
and barbarism. Similarly, although at a later date, Peter Kropotkin in his book
Mutual Aid (Kropotkin 1972 [1902]) set up a vision in direct opposition to that
of prevailing Liberalism. Kropotkin argued that the medieval commune, at the
heart of which lay the guild, was a free association of artisans and workers orga-
nized from below without coercion or state intervention (Kropotkin 1972
[1902]: 162). The evidence that this form of social organization culminated in
“the greatest development of human intellect” lay in the legacy of medieval city
architecture (Kropotkin 1972 [1902]: 184):
The [medieval] cathedrals . . . [displayed] a purity of form . . . which we

now vainly try to attain. . . . If the medieval cities had bequeathed to us
. . . nothing . . . but the monuments of building art, . . . we might yet
conclude that the times of independent city life were times of the greatest
developments of human intellect. (Kropotkin 1972 [1902]: 183–84)
46 / John Carman
These three volumes, Prehistoric Times, Primeval Man, and Mutual Aid, encap-
sulate late nineteenth century discourse about heritage, and in doing so, they are
all statements of political belief wrapped in a scientific framework. Lubbock
argued for the Liberal vision of progress and educational welfare led from above.
Argyll argued against the capacity for human improvement in favor of maintain-
ing the aristocratic status quo. Kropotkin argued for radical libertarian change.
Although all referred to the “natural” condition of humanity, drawing on archae-
ology, history, and ethnography for their foundation, they were nevertheless not
arguments about history, prehistory, or ethnology but about what to do here and
what to do now. What we now call heritage was recruited to support programs
of public education and welfare, and of political and social advancement. The
same applies to the foundation of such organizations as the National Trust (Gaze
1988) and the growth of public and private museums (Hudson 1987; Hooper-
Greenhill 1992), which were dedicated to the “improvement” of the rural and
industrial working classes. In the later nineteenth century, the discourse of heri-
tage was always about politics and society: it was about making good citizens.
Making strong nations for a secure world

The tradition of “Liberal” thinking about the public role of archaeology by ar-
chaeologists continued well into the twentieth century, albeit altered. At the out-
break of World War II, Grahame Clark published the first edition of his Archae-
ology and Society, a book intended to “describe [to a lay audience] the processes
of archaeology, its aims, its limitations and its social value” (Clark 1939: viii).
Much of the final chapter of the book is a discussion of the role of archaeology
in building new nations and rebuilding old ones after the catastrophe of World
War I. In Poland, archaeological work “can heal the wounds of cruel partitions”
(Clark 1939: 190). In China, “the combination of national awakening and ar-
chaeological research can be observed on a gigantic scale” (Clark 1939: 191). In
Eire, “the free development of archaeological research is the finest imaginable
propaganda for the liquidation of partition and the full achievement of Irish
nationality” (Clark 1939: 194). Clark’s ultimate point is that archaeology re-
quires a heavy investment by the state, since archaeology “has outgrown private
enterprise. To be conducted adequately . . . it must be a social enterprise sup-
ported by the entire community” (Clark 1939: 211). Throughout, the idea of
community is synonymous with that of the nation-state.
The second and substantially revised edition appeared in 1947. In this edition,
the argument is largely the same, but the emphasis on the role of archaeology in
nation-building is even more emphasized. In part, it is a reflection of the per-
ceived need to rebuild not only nations but the world itself, shattered by World
War II. “It is only through the reconciliation of and integration of coherent na-
tions that any world community can be realized in the foreseeable future. . . . The
essential point is . . . that in a liberal world the operation of national . . . sentiment
can . . . serve only to enrich society” (Clark 1947: 202). Accordingly, “archaeol-
ogy may contribute to the integration of society not only by strengthening local
ties and fostering patriotic sentiments, but, if allowed to develop freely, by pro-
moting a fuller realization of the underlying solidarity of the human race, upon
which the possibility of a world order ultimately rests” (Clark 1947: 203). A few
years later, this need for a stable world order grounded in its material historical
legacy gained international status under the United Nations Educational, Scien-
tific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Convention for the Protection of
Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict (UNESCO 1954); this idea
underlies subsequent international laws on the cultural heritage (for example,
Council of Europe 1954, 1969; OAS 1976; UNESCO 1972a, 1972b). In the mid-
twentieth century, the discourse of heritage was still about politics and society,
but it was transformed: instead of being about good citizens, it was now about
making good nations and a stable international order.
Commodification and justifications for a new millennium

The current idea of heritage as a commodified past is one that is commonly held.
It is reflected in the interest in tourism shown by archaeologists (Boniface and
Fowler 1993), and it is the central thesis of works well known in the heritage field
(Hewison 1987; Lowenthal 1985, 1998). Tourism also provides one of the great
justifications for the preservation and management of archaeological remains
globally (Cleere 1989: 9; in the U.K., Hunter and Ralston 1993: 249–50; Darvill
1987: 164–66; in Australia, Smith and Clarke 1996: 109–19; in South Africa,
Spiegel 1994: 191–93; in Papua New Guinea, Blacking 1990: 160–72; in relation
to former Nazi death camps, Beech 2002).
This emphasis on the economic is reflected also in the way archaeologists
justify to themselves and to others the preservation of ancient remains. The for-
mal procedures for deciding what shall be preserved from all the things surviving
from the past are remarkably uniform across the world. The argument for selec-
tion in the first place is grounded in the belief that if “we were to declare that all
cultural materials . . . were to be preserved our societies would undoubtedly come
rapidly to a halt, and we would soon stifle in our own refuse” (Lipe 1984: 1); it
“would be utopian to consider that all cultural resources must be preserved in
perpetuity—nor, indeed, would it be in the interests of contemporary and future
societies. . . . [Accordingly] selection of the best and representative is imperative”
(Cleere 1984: 127). In this way, material from the past is brought into a realm of
competition, the prize for the most valued being survival.
The standard approach across the globe is to establish sets of criteria whereby
the relative value of any site can be compared with the relative value of another,
usually similar, site. In Britain, the secretary of state’s eight criteria for establish-
ing the national importance of monuments (and thus their suitability for inclu-
sion in the Schedule of Ancient Monuments) has been further developed and
refined by the Monuments Protection Programme (Darvill et al. 1987). In the
United States and Australia, the standard to reach is that of significance, which is
48 / John Carman
measured by sets of suitable criteria (Schaafsma 1989; Bruier and Mathers 1996;
Smith 1996). Having been developed and refined in these territories, the idea of
evaluating the remains of the past by formal means is being rapidly disseminated
across the globe: to Europe (Deeben et al. 1999), Africa (Wester 1990), Asia, and
Latin America. In efforts to theorize these practices, commentators on the no-
tions of value applied in archaeology inevitably call upon schemes derived from
economics. A present and growing focus on sustainability draws upon ideas
taken from environmental and development economics (for example, Young
1992) to provide a framework within which archaeological remains find their
place and are provided with appropriate functions that will simultaneously ben-
efit the community and allow their continued survival.
This is a fundamentally different way of thinking from that evident in earlier
decades. Instead of a concern with public welfare, that is, with society and poli-
tics, it is a concern with the exploitation of archaeological remains as an eco-
nomic resource. Archaeological sites and monuments are measured and assessed
for their value relative to one another against the various practical and produc-
tive uses to which they can be put. Instead of being about good citizens, strong
nations, or a peaceful world, the discourse of heritage as we enter the third mil-
lennium is about value for money and effective use. It is about sound economics.
Current value schemes
This concern with economics is expressed in the dominant language of value as

applied to archaeological remains. Three such schemes of value can currently be
identified; they are usually treated as mutually exclusive, and each performs a
different function. Each scheme has its adherents and its adversaries, its uses and
abuses; each also has its source in a discipline outside archaeology, although these
sources are rarely acknowledged. Two of them draw upon ideas from economics,
but the third contains echoes of the nineteenth century origins of heritage.
The accounting school of value

That there is today a flourishing trade in antiquities is well known. What is
perhaps less well known is that museums in some parts of the world are being
required to behave toward their collections as if they were items for sale: to place
a financial value or price on them. This is currently the case for financial report-
ing purposes in Australia, where the provisions relating to assets in Australian
Accounting Standard AAS29 on “Financial Reporting to Government Depart-
ments” became operative in July 1997 and requires precisely this type of valua-
tion for “assets [which are] ‘difficult to measure’” (AARF 1993; 1995).
This approach is grounded in the notion that museums are public institutions
and thus need to justify their expenditure of public money by showing how
valuable they are to the community. It is held that a financial measure is an
appropriate one and that such a valuation makes the activities of the institution
more transparent. Several ways of measuring the financial value of museum col-
lections have been put forward by accounting professionals, and discussion of the
merits and demerits of this system has therefore largely been confined to the
literature of accounting, particularly in Australia (compare, Carnegie and
Wolnizer 1995, 1996, 1997; Hone 1997; Micallef and Peirson 1997; but see also
Carman et al. 1999). This system currently applies only to museum collections,
but there is no reason why the approach cannot be extended to other types of
collections, including sites and monuments in state care, or those protected under
scheduling provisions or as national monuments or in national parks (Micallef
and Peirson 1997: 32 and 36). Placing a market value on antiquities is also jus-
tified as part of a campaign for a licit international trade in ancient objects (Mer-
ryman 1994). The charge of commodification leveled at the proponents of such
a trade is challenged on the grounds that “there is a close relation between art
world consensus about artistic value and market value,” and these tend to change
together (Merryman 1994: 55); the commodification objection to the licit market
is thus no more than “an effete prejudice” (Merryman 1994: 55). Where a mar-
ket value is not available (as, for example, where no market exists for an item),
alternatives have been proposed (see Carman et al. 1999: 144).
The main advantage of this accounting school of value is that it recognizes the
value of cultural objects on a universal scale. It also gives archaeologists a me-
dium whereby they can deal with others, since financial terms for the purchase of
items can be offered. This is effectively the system operating in Britain in respect
of the law of Treasure (Department of National Heritage 1997: 25–29). Other
means of a similar kind include the offer of financial inducements to desist from
looting or damage, payment for access to sites and material, and offers of em-
ployment as part of a research team. The disadvantage of such a value scheme is
that it represents a very narrow sense of the idea of value.
The economic school of value

There is sometimes a tendency among archaeologists to be scornful of the “dis-
mal science” of economics, based upon the misconception that all that econo-
mists care about is money. This is not necessarily true, as economists take a
sophisticated approach to questions of value, grounded in the recognition of the
environment as a scarce (that is, finite) resource.
From the perspective of economics, the environment comprises both renew-
able and nonrenewable elements (Young 1992: 9; Brown 1990), and most eco-
nomic efforts have been put into considering renewable and potentially renew-
able components (Young 1992; Orians et al. 1990). This approach is of limited
help to archaeologists, who consider their material to be finite and nonrenewable
(Cleere 1984: 127; Darvill 1987: 1; McGimsey 1972: 24). Nevertheless, the gen-
eral scheme of value applied by economists has been borrowed for application in
archaeology. This scheme recognizes two main types of value: “use values” and
“non-use values” (Young 1992: 23), sometimes called “non-consumptive val-
50 / John Carman
Table 3.1. Darvill’s value systems for archaeology
Use values Non-use values
Option values Existence value

Research Social stability Cultural identity
Creative Arts Mystery and enigma No change
Education
Recreation and tourism
Symbolic value
Legitimization of current action
Social solidarity
Monetary gain
Source: Based on Darvill 1995.
ues” (Brown 1990: 214). Included in non-use values are types of “future uncer-
tain non-consumptive value” (Brown 1990: 214–17), such as, “option value”
(Young 1992: 23), “existence value,” and “bequest value” (Young 1992: 23;
Brown 1990: 215).
These types of value have been introduced to archaeology especially by Darvill
(1993, 1995), who approaches value by providing lists of the specific types of
value that fall under each heading provided by the economists (table 3.1). Under
use value, he lists those of “archaeological research,” “scientific research,” “cre-
ative arts,” “education,” “recreation and tourism,” “symbolic representation,”
“legitimation of action,” “social solidarity and integration,” and “monetary and
economic gain” (Darvill 1993: 12–20; Darvill 1995: 44–45). Under option value,
he lists “stability” and “mystery and enigma” (Darvill 1995: 46–47), and under
existence value, he lists “cultural identity” and “resistance to change” (Darvill
1995: 47–48). Exercising the option latent in an option value converts that value
into a use value; option value is therefore no more than a deferred use value. The
same, however, applies to existence and bequest values; these, too, are simply
deferred use values because they describe uses that may be acted upon in the
future. In fact, all these apparently different values represent the productive, but
not necessarily destructive, use of the item in question; the only doubt relates to
when that use will take place and what type it will be.
In other words, the “economic” school is concerned with what benefits indi-
vidual components of the heritage are able to provide. This is essentially the
approach taken in schemes that attempt to assess the importance of sites in the
United Kingdom (Darvill et al. 1987), or their significance elsewhere (Bruier and
Mathers 1996). It is a scheme that assumes various alternative uses for a site or
a body of material, which is exactly Martin Carver’s (1996) starting point in his
consideration of archaeological value. This is the approach taken by economists,
who recognize that, since the value with which they are concerned only arises at
the point of making a decision, “different decisions may require different con-
cepts of value and [thus] different valuation methods” (Sinden and Worrell 1979:
411). Here, it becomes evident that the values measured or recognized by econo-
mists always relate to the comparison of one thing with another, which is exactly
what “archaeological significance testing” is deemed to be about (Startin 1993;
and compare Baudrillard 1981: 29, who calls all such values “exchange values”).
The advantage of this comparative economic approach to the value of the
heritage is that it gives us a usable list of very tangible purposes for having a
heritage and treating it as something different from anything else. The disadvan-
tage is that it lifts the heritage into the powerful realm of economics where other
noneconomic schemes of value have far less authority.
The social school of value

An alternative to these is the belief that the fundamental purpose of the heritage
is simply to be the heritage. The institutions that we have established to create the
heritage, museums, laws, academic disciplines, are all concerned with setting the
heritage up as something above and beyond the ordinary, outside the realm of
accountancy, “the audit society” (Power 1997), and the economic.
Individuals and societies have at their disposal both “cultural” and “eco-
nomic” types of capital, which are convertible into one another (Bourdieu 1984).
The conversion can be effected either directly by individuals via the exchange of
knowledge and the use of social position to find more lucrative employment, or
more indirectly via the acquisition of commodities, which either have or can be
manipulated to acquire symbolic cultural value (Baudrillard 1981) (figure 3.1).
Thompson’s (1979) “durable” and “transient” types of values can be held to
Thompson 1979 Baudrillard 1981 Bourdieu 1984
creates
Symbolic Cultural
Durable = Value marks
Capital
promotion
cost-benefit convertible
Rubbish to heritage
analysis
object
buys
Economic
Transient = Use Value Capital
Fig. 3.1. “Public” heritage values.

52 / John Carman
equate with Baudrillard’s (1981) “symbolic” and “use” value realms, and the
dynamic of Thompson’s Rubbish Theory (1979) provides a model of the process
by which the conversion from economic to cultural capital is achieved: essen-
tially, one of promotion (Carman 1990). Objects with this symbolic value both
mark and serve to create a stock of cultural capital. The reconversion of cultural
capital to economic capital is the process by which the symbolic value of the
object is (by Baudrillard’s 1981 “cost-benefit analysis”) turned back into use
value, which is then susceptible to measurement and comparison per Darvill
(1993, 1995) and Carver (1996), or to the measurement of site significance
(Bruier and Mathers 1996). However, this reconversion to use value reverses the
initial promotion to cultural status. In other words, after having promoted se-
lected things out of ordinary life into a special realm where they carry special
meanings, to assess or evaluate them we then have to remove them once more
from that special realm and thus remove the special meanings they carry for us.
In the process of evaluation, heritage items are required to be stripped of the very
characteristic that made them heritage in the first instance.
This scheme of “social” value should not be seen as the promotion of Darvill’s
(1995) “symbolic” or “research” values to overarching importance, or simply as
the acceptance of Carver’s (1996: 53) assertion of the importance of research
over and above everything else. The difference is that in Darvill’s scheme, differ-
ent values vie with each other, and in Carver’s, archaeological research vies with
other possible uses of land. The social value approach does not ask what the
purpose is of the individual components of the heritage, but what the purpose is
of the heritage as a category. The answer, derived from philosophers and social
theorists (Thompson 1979; Douglas and Isherwood 1979; Baudrillard 1981;
Bourdieu 1984), is that heritage is there simply to be important and to be kept. It
is a form of corporate saving, possessing the “otherworldly morality” recognized
by Douglas and Isherwood (1979: 37). In other words, the archaeological heri-
tage has nothing to do with financial quantification, or with productive use how-
ever defined. It is meant to be (in the fullest and best sense) useless; it is also
priceless.
The force of this approach lies not in the intellectual application of a narrow
reason (as in the accounting and economic schools), but in its appeal beyond
reason to our sense of what is right and proper. It is a social argument, appealing
directly to the nature of our society as a community, exactly the purpose for
which the heritage, as a category, was created over a century ago. This approach
is not intended to help us decide what things to keep in particular sets of circum-
stances, but to remind us of the point of having a heritage at all. It places the idea
of heritage back in the political arena, from which it emerged and where it be-
longs, as a device to help us decide who we wish to be (however we wish to define
“we,” what values we wish to subscribe to, and what our society should be like
now and in the future). In arguing about our heritage, we also discover and
rediscover our history in all its complexity and intricacy, with all its complica-
tions, contradictions, and shades of light, dark, and gray. In such a value scheme,
the heritage is seen not as an object to which to apply procedures, however
sophisticated, but as a social phenomenon in its own right, with a history of its
own and purposes beyond those of mere convenience. As a social force, heritage
has the power to disturb us and make us think about how we wish to live. In
doing so, it takes us beyond accounting and the economic.
Conclusions
Those who can be considered the “inventors” of heritage in Britain were con-
cerned with real people. They sought to improve the everyday lives of real people
by introducing them to ideas about how the world could be improved, derived
from studies of the past. Their successors took us away from that into a concern
with more abstract notions: the nation-state, the world order. Archaeology as a
social resource was to be utilized to construct a collective welfare. The trajectory
of our own age has been deeper into abstraction: into a discourse deriving from
the sometimes abstruse language of economic thinking. The public use of archae-
ology is increasingly divorced from people and absorbed into bureaucratic agen-
cies. It is carried out by specialists, who work on behalf of (but not for) the public
they serve. Although we have gotten better at what we do, we have also lost our
way and forgotten what heritage is for.
As well as moving into increasingly abstract realms of relevance, the field of
heritage has become increasingly normalized. In the later nineteenth century, the
preservation of ancient materials and their use for public education was a fairly
radical agenda, sometimes open to violent challenge in the public arena. Even in
the mid-twentieth century, the idea of preservation had still to be argued for, and
it would be several decades before there was full international agreement on
heritage conservation as a necessary state function. Today, there is universal
agreement on the value of heritage. We know what it consists of: talk to anyone
and use the term “heritage” or any of its equivalents in other languages, and in
general people will know what you mean. There is widespread agreement as to
what a heritage can be used for and those things where its use is illegitimate. The
idea that the heritage is valuable and its preservation useful is no longer part of
political debate. Arguments may rage over specific components, such as the fates
of “Kennewick Man” or African American burial grounds, but not about the
concept itself, which is usually accepted without question.
Instead, heritage has become a set of mere practices, which are conducted
properly or inappropriately; as one archaeologist has put it, heritage is merely
“applied archaeology” (Embree 1990: 31). Open any textbook on heritage, and
it will tell you how to identify and record the heritage, how to evaluate it, how to
interpret it, and how to present it to the general public. While we may differ on
the specifics of each of these functions, there is no disagreement as to the func-
tions themselves. These we accept as common, basic, unchallengeable. Heritage
54 / John Carman
has ceased to be a project and has become merely a collection of “stuff” that we
treat in a particular way—and in an increasingly homogeneous way all over the
globe, especially so as programs of international development and cooperation
include the archaeological heritage within their scope. Heritage has become a
realm of bureaucracy and of standardization. It is no longer about anything that
really matters. Instead, it is a resource to be used for some purpose external to
itself.
As the third millennium progresses, it may be time to reconsider the path we
have been treading over the past hundred or so years regarding our cultural
heritage. It began as a matter of politics and ethics. There was disagreement
about its purpose and its value for that purpose. We seem to have reached a stage
where we forget to ask about purpose and are more concerned with performance.
That is why the concern of some researchers is not with heritage as “stuff,” nor
with an a priori understanding of what heritage is about, but with gaining an
understanding of the heritage “project” in the world. It is important to know
why we have a heritage and what having a heritage does. This chapter is accord-
ingly not a statement about a body of stuff: it is a call to action, for us to start
seriously researching the field of heritage in ways that help us understand what
this thing we so blithely manage actually is, what it does, and how it does it.
Acknowledgments
A portion of the content of this chapter was presented in sessions organized by

the editors at the annual Theoretical Archaeology Group (TAG) conference in
Bournemouth, U.K., in December 1997 and at the annual meeting of the Society
for American Archaeology (SAA) in Seattle, Wash., U.S.A., in March 1998; an-
other portion was presented at the Idea of Heritage conference held at London
Guildhall University, U.K., in September 1999. I am grateful to the editors and to
Simon Ditchfield of York University, U.K., for the opportunity to test these ideas
in public and to Darrin Lee Long for reading my paper at the latter conference,
which I could not attend personally. Thanks are also due to Joseph Tainter for
pointing out during discussion at the 1998 SAA meeting the crucial difference
between treating the remains of the past as a “heritage” and treating them as a
“resource,” and thus providing the core idea for this contribution. Last, but
never least, immeasurable thanks go to Patricia Carman, my sternest but also my
most supportive critic.
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58 / Joseph A. Tainter and Bonnie Bagley
Shaping and suppressing the archaeological record

Significance in American cultural resource management
Joseph A. Tainter and Bonnie Bagley
One characteristic of contemporary archaeology is the emergence of perpetual

introspection. Collective introspection arises from the decay of certainty, which
in the United States can be traced to the 1948 publication of Walter Taylor’s A
Study of Archaeology (Taylor 1964). Since that time, our leading theorists have
proffered framework after framework to interpret the past, while some now
conclude that value-neutral interpretation is impossible. Archaeology, the field
that concerns itself with the distant past, has paradoxically been in the vanguard
of the postmodern emphases on deconstruction, exposing and evaluating as-
sumptions, and denying authority to established narratives and established nar-
rators. We have even become subject matter for philosophers of science (for
example, Embree 1989). Regardless of where this reflection leads, archaeologists
of the future will no doubt consider it a hallmark of our time.
Future archaeologists will also judge whether our introspection was on the
whole productive, and whether we engaged in it too little or whether we indulged
too much. They may note that late in the early twenty-first century, there was a
very important part of our field that contravened the trend. This is cultural re-
source management (CRM), at least as practiced in the United States. Every day
in this field, decisions are made that affect the future of archaeology by determin-
ing what material future archaeologists will be able to study. Yet these decisions,
which are often irrevocable and which any of us should be humbled to make, are
routinely made by rote application of unconscious assumptions. Here is an area
where self-reflection is urgently needed. Yet, while introspection was once com-
mon in CRM, in recent years it has become conspicuously rare (figure 4.1; see
also Briuer and Mathers 1996: 6–7).
We seek in this essay to reverse that quiescence, to coax the discussion of
archaeological significance back to a position it formerly held at the center of
discourse (Briuer and Mathers 1996). In earlier work, one of us argued that the
American concept of significance, as established in regulation and routinely ap-
Shaping and suppressing the archaeological record / 59
20
15
Number of Articles
10
0
1969-73 1974-78 1979-83 1984-88 1989-93 1994-98
Fig. 4.1. Number of articles on how to practice cultural resource management published in
American Antiquity between 1969 and 1998.
plied, is illogical and unworkable and does not entirely meet the purpose for
which it was intended (Tainter and Lucas 1983: 715). We extend that argument
here, and show how the unconscious assumptions that guide significance deci-
sions both shape and suppress the archaeological record that we pass to the
future. This has the effect of obscuring much past behavior, and of denying to
entire regions and peoples the opportunity to become part of the human
chronicle. In our conclusion, we suggest that the first step toward resolving this
dilemma is publicly to expose and debate the assumptions underlying signifi-
cance evaluations: to revive in cultural resource management the critical intro-
spection it once displayed.
We move freely between discussions of archaeological remains that are signifi-
cant to research and those that are significant to management. While the latter
are not fully a reflection of the former, significance to research is one of the
criteria that makes a site significant to management. The assumptions, biases,
and cases that we discuss pertain to the selection of sites for both purposes.
Significance and the formation of the archaeological record
The concept of significance in American cultural resource management is as old

as historic preservation itself. We have grappled with it, in one form or another,
for over a century. As the federal historic preservation effort grew in the twentieth
century, it was necessary continually to refine the standards by which sites or

buildings were selected for preservation. These standards were first formulated in
1934, rewritten in 1949, revised in 1956, and developed in their current form as
part of the regulations implementing the National Historic Preservation Act
(NHPA) of 1966 (Tainter and Lucas 1983: 707–9). The NHPA established a
National Register of Historic Places to list sites significant in American history,
archaeology, or architecture. To be eligible for the National Register is to merit
management and protection under federal law. Sites eligible for this register are
those that possess integrity and
(a)that are associated with events that have made a significant contribution
to the broad patterns of our history; or
(b)that are associated with the lives of persons significant in our past; or
(c) that embody the distinctive characteristics of a type, period, or method
of construction, or that represent the work of a master, or that possess
high artistic value, or that represent a significant and distinguishable
entity whose components may lack individual distinction; or
(d)that have yielded, or may be likely to yield, information important in
prehistory or history. (Title 36, Code of Federal Regulations, Part 60.4)
Archaeological sites have generally been evaluated under criterion d, and it is this
consideration that we address.
The critical point in cultural resource management comes when one must
evaluate significance, and from the results of this evaluation, recommend or de-
cide whether a site should be preserved, studied in the face of impending destruc-
tion, allowed to be destroyed without study, or simply ignored. While some au-
thors have taken care to recommend that evaluation should be a rigorous,
thoughtful exercise (King et al. 1977: 231; Tainter and Lucas 1983: 716), the
unexamined assumptions of cultural resource managers mean that many evalua-
tions are, for practical purposes, preordained. As a result, large segments of the
archaeological record are routinely judged to be forever unimportant.
Cultural resource management, at least in the United States, is guided by what
has been called the “National Geographic” approach to preservation (Tainter
1998). This is the notion that importance or significance is most evident in sites
that are superlative (those that are exceptionally large, or deep, or old, or pos-
sessed of a rich material assemblage), the kind of site that is featured in National
Geographic magazine. It is unsurprising that many of us should hold this view,
for it is implicit in the way that students are taught and professionals trained.
When children are introduced to archaeology, it is through accounts of the explo-
ration of sites such as Troy or Tutankhamen’s tomb. At an early age, we are
taught to equate archaeology with the discovery and examination of such places.
Even at the university level, students in the early stages of training are taught by
accounts of the excavation of especially conspicuous sites.
Any reading of cultural resource management reports written in the United
States quickly discloses the results of this training: The larger, deeper, older, or
richer a site, the more likely it will be considered worthy of study or preservation.
Conversely, the shallower, smaller, or more materially impoverished a site, the
less likely it is that American archaeologists will give it further consideration
(figure 4.2. Tainter 1979, 1983, 1998; Tainter and Plog 1994: 169). Put another
way, the overriding but understated criterion for determining the value of a site
in American cultural resource management is its degree of “salience.” Artifacts,
as every archaeologist knows, occur ubiquitously (Ebert 1992), to such an extent
8000
7000
4.2a. Mean sizes of
Mean Size in Square Meters
6000
sites or components
determined to be eli-
5000
gible (N = 8,929) or
4000 ineligible (N = 842) for
the National Register.
3000 The mean size of all
sites is 5,312 square
2000
meters (N = 31,379).
1000
0
Eligible Ineligible
Residential or Religious Structures

1
0.9 4.2b. The presence
0.8 of residential or reli-
0.7 gious structures pro-
0.6 duces a probability of
0.5 eligibility of 0.921 (N
0.4 = 5,815) and a prob-
0.3 ability of ineligibility
0.2 of 0.015 (N = 92).
0.1
0
Probability of Eligibility Probability of Ineligibility
Fig. 4.2. Implicit criteria for National Register evaluation of archaeological sites in north-
ern New Mexico. The charts are based on all Anasazi sites from the period a.d. 400 to
1600 in the data files of the Archaeological Records Management Section, New Mexico
Historic Preservation Division (N = 35,931). Data provided courtesy of Scott Geister and
Timothy Seaman.
that they are commonly seen as background noise. Salient sites are those that
stand out most clearly from their backgrounds. Obvious examples include
mounds, tells, barrows, the large pueblos of the Southwestern United States, and
sites with deep, stratified deposits. Sites that are well known, either within the
profession or to the public, are always salient (for example, Fagan 1997). Of
course, it is common to human perception that we respond to such clear signals
amid an otherwise disordered world. Unfortunately, American cultural resource
managers have given little thought to the implications of this perceptual bias.
The archaeological record is a continuum of patterns, from those that are
highly salient to those that are ephemeral and apparently unstructured (Plog
1983; Tainter and Plog 1994). The latter may consist of only light scatters of
broken, undiagnostic artifacts, such as plain-ware pottery or stone tool manufac-
turing debris. Superficially, they often show little content, structure, or analytical
redundancy. Although in many areas such remains constitute the majority of the
archaeological record (Plog et al. 1978), students learn early on to characterize
them with dismissive phrases such as “just a lithic scatter.”
Salient sites, for obvious reasons, gladden the heart of any archaeologist. They
provide the material to fill both museum displays and data tables. What they may
not do is give us an accurate or representative glimpse of the past. Consider the
case of the American Southwest. In the northern part of this area, the most salient
sites are pueblos: structural sites that in late prehistory contained as many as
2,000 to 3,000 rooms. Southwestern prehistory is typically written as the devel-
opment and abandonment of such sites, both individually and regionally. One
question rarely asked is, “How well do such sites reflect the prehistory of the
area?” The answer, even more rarely given, is, “perhaps not very well.” In one
study in northwestern New Mexico, 95 percent of the archaeological record was
found to consist of occurrences so ephemeral that by a common definition they
would not even be recorded as sites (Plog et al. 1978). Clearly one must wonder
how well we have written prehistory relying on an unrepresentative sample of 5
percent or less of the archaeological record.
Alan Sullivan has investigated small sites in the area of the Grand Canyon in
northern Arizona, and his results illustrate the problem (Sullivan 1996). The sites
he studies are light surface manifestations, few of which would be considered
significant by most cultural resource managers. Yet what he found in them
should greatly change our comprehension of regional prehistory. The conven-
tional wisdom in Southwestern archaeology is that from a.d. 500 onward, popu-
lations depended substantially on maize agriculture, just as Puebloans did in the
historic period. It seems reasonable to think so, for maize is commonly found in
Puebloan sites and figures prominently today in ritual life. Yet, in the sites that
Sullivan (1996: 154) investigated, maize is barely represented in the pollen pro-
files. The dominant pollen types are of undomesticated plants, which were pro-
cessed at these locations.
Here we have a very different picture of ancient Puebloan subsistence, one in
which maize does not appear to have played a dominant role. It is a sobering
check on one of the foundation assumptions of Southwestern archaeology, and it
suggests that this part of our reconstruction of prehistory may be incorrect. If it
is incorrect, this is purely a function of perceptual bias: our tendency dispropor-
tionately to investigate salient sites. Sullivan (1996: 154) points out the subtle
nature of this bias: Pueblos are places where food was consumed, whereas the
ephemeral sites he has studied are places where food was produced. The two
kinds of site yield a different picture of the economic basis of Puebloan life, each
of which by itself is incomplete.
Sullivan’s work has profound implications for cultural resource management.
Most cultural resource managers would treat ephemeral sites of this kind as quite
unworthy of study or preservation (Tainter 1979, 1998; Tainter and Plog 1994:
169). Some would consider them not worth enough recognition even to record as
a site (Tainter 1983). If the cumulative effect of such decisions is to skew the
database preserved for future archaeological study, then such potential errors as
the one Sullivan has exposed may be rendered uncorrectable.
The underlying problem is that significance assessments are based on the
wrong criteria. That is, they are based upon material content, rather than upon
the behavior that produced the content (figure 4.2). The goal of archaeology is to
understand past behavior, but, as we now know well, behavior does not translate
in any simple or direct manner into the formation of the archaeological record.
The assumption of most cultural resource managers is that less-salient archaeo-
logical remains, the kind usually considered insignificant, must reflect less-
interesting past behavior. Such an assumption has never been explicated or dis-
cussed in published literature, and it is easy to show it to be naive. Consider the
matter in terms of frequency of behavior or processes. The formation of a salient
archaeological record is a low-frequency process. Rome, as it is said, wasn’t built
in a day. Neither, for that matter, were Southwestern pueblos; they were built,
used, and abandoned on timescales ranging from perhaps a generation to over a
century. The formation of a tell or a deep, stratified site takes centuries to millen-
nia. It is precisely the record of these low-frequency processes that most cultural
resource managers value and seek to protect.
The high-frequency business of making a living from day to day by foraging or
farming on a landscape is not fully represented in salient, low-frequency sites, as
Sullivan’s work so clearly shows. If we wish to understand the economic basis of
ancient subsistence societies, we clearly must study this record of high-frequency
behavior, and conserve it for future studies. Yet here we confront a fact that
contravenes the assumptions underlying much of cultural resource management.
Simply put, high-frequency land use among subsistence producers seems often to
generate a minimal archaeological record. Two examples illustrate this point.
The first example is Lewis Binford’s (1976) study of Nunamiut Eskimo forag-
ing, a study which conveyed lessons for cultural resource management that have
regrettably escaped notice. In April 1971, Binford accompanied Nunamiut hunt-
ers on forty-seven trips from their village, recording for each trip what items the
hunter left and returned with. The difference between the outgoing and returned
inventories is the potential archaeological record of the hunters’ activities. Of
647 items taken on these forty-seven trips, only 53 were not returned to the
village. Thus, the archaeological record generated during these excursions
amounts to little more than one item per trip.
An archaeologist studying past land use would want knowledge of the hunt-
ers’ behavior and of locations where activities took place. Such things are essen-
tial to understanding past cultural landscapes. A manager preserving data for
future research would presumably wish to ensure that future scholars could study
the Nunamiut cultural landscape. Yet the archaeological record generated by
Nunamiut hunters would be dismissed by most American archaeologists as “iso-
lated finds.” These items would not normally be entered into databases or con-
sidered worthy of further notice. Archaeologists of the future would be denied
the chance to study this aspect of high-frequency land use.
A second example is David Thomas’s (1971, 1972, 1973) study of Shoshon-
ean subsistence and land use in the Great Basin of western North America. This
is another classic study, published in the early 1970s, and still to this day one of
the best archaeological analyses of a cultural landscape. It, too, has implications
for resource management that have never been recognized.
Thomas set out to test whether Julian Steward’s (1938) account of historic
subsistence and land use was valid for the prehistoric period. The Shoshone
maintained winter villages, which along with dry caves are the most salient part
of the Great Basin archaeological record. Yet they are only part of that record.
The Shoshone used a variety of plants and animals distributed from lower eleva-
tion valleys to the highest mountain peaks. The artifacts deposited across the
landscape compose the archaeological record from which to interpret Shoshone
land use. Thomas developed a computer simulation of subsistence activities to
model the archaeological record that would result from Shoshone land use as
Steward described it. The data he collected to test the model included the full
spectrum of archaeological remains, down to individual, isolated artifacts. He
was able to confirm Steward’s description and to delineate the prehistoric cul-
tural landscape only because he considered the full archaeological record, includ-
ing indications of both low- and high-frequency behavior.
We see in the Nunamiut and Shoshone cases an inverse relationship between
high-frequency land use and the formation of a salient archaeological record.
This relationship may apply to other types of economies and to the historic pe-
riod as well. Consider the following description by John Mason Peck, a Baptist
missionary who worked on the Missouri frontier in 1818:
About nine o’clock I found the family to which I was directed. . . . The
single log cabin, of the most primitive structure, was situated at some dis-
tance in the cornfield. In and around it were the patriarchal head and his
wife, two married daughters and their husbands, with three or four little
children, and a son and daughter grown up. . . . There was evidence of
backwardness, or some other propensity, attending all the domestic ar-
rangements. . . . Not a table, chair, or any article of furniture could be seen.
(quoted in Hofstadter 1963: 76–77; emphasis added)
The entire material assemblage of these eleven or twelve people apparently con-
sisted of farm and kitchen utensils, bedding, and a change of clothing or two
(Hofstadter 1963: 77).
For European heritage management, consider the problem of identifying
archaeologically the poorest classes of peasantry, whether those of antiquity or of
the Middle Ages. Regional surveys done over the past two decades have given us
remarkable views of rural settlement over time. Yet Peter Garnsey and Richard
Saller (1987: 76) rightly caution that even the smallest sites encountered in such
surveys exceed what one would expect of a peasant’s residence (but see Alcock
1993: 53). Karen Carr (1992) has analyzed settlement data collected by Michel
Ponsich in the Guadalquivir Valley of southeastern Spain. She suggests that the
most ephemeral sites in Ponsich’s hierarchy of site types (termed shelters) may in
fact represent peasant houses. Yet such sites compose only 5 percent of the total
number of sites dating to the fourth century a.d. (Carr 1992: 170, 214). If the
social hierarchy was pyramidal, as most roughly are, the most ephemeral sites
should be the most numerous. The fact that they are not suggests that if these sites
were occupied by peasants, they were among the more prosperous peasants. The
bulk of the farming population must have generated an archaeological record so
minimal that we have either not detected or not recognized it. Thus, for European
as for American archaeologists, the high-frequency processes of creating and
employing a cultural landscape produce an archaeological record that can be
difficult to discern.
These cases suggest a broader point. With some obvious exceptions, such as
when lithic debris or broken pottery is deposited or when people live in an aggre-
gated community, people throughout most of human existence have had little
capacity to generate a salient archaeological record. Prior to the industrial era,
most people simply did not produce, possess, or deposit enough durable material
culture to do so. This disarming fact has far-reaching implications. It is, for ex-
ample, part of the reason for the enduring importance of burials. The most salient
archaeological record many people are able to generate is their own corpse. It is
no coincidence that archaeologists studying so-called dark ages, such as post-
Mycenaean Greece or post-Roman Europe, have tended disproportionately to
concentrate on burials, for often those are the only archaeological record that
they can find (Tainter 1998, 1999). The capacity to form a salient archaeological
record is unrepresentative of much of the human experience. To focus as we do
so predominantly on salient remains is thus to disenfranchise much of humanity.
We deprive such people as hunter-gatherers, subsistence agriculturists, and the
materially impoverished of any period of the opportunity to have their experi-

ences entered in the narrative of human history. Conversely, to include nonsalient
remains in our investigations of the past, and in our lists of significant sites,
would be to democratize the past.
It is ironic to point out the contrast between archaeological practice and the
experience of historians of the ancient and medieval worlds. Their data consist
substantially of records of low-frequency processes such as successions, sieges,
wars, invasions, and edicts. They constantly bemoan their lack of high-frequency
data (for example, Garnsey and Saller 1987: 75). The records of common persons
that they do come upon are eagerly analyzed (for example, Millar 1977: 465–
549; Laurence 1994). Surely, they would be astonished to observe cultural re-
source managers who, blessed with an abundance of such data, casually toss
them away.
Significance evaluations: Privileging narratives of the past
Although many archaeologists long ago abandoned efforts to model prehistoric

societies by the evolutionary typologies of Elman Service (1962) or Morton Fried
(1967; Tainter 1978), the principles of evolutionism remain implicit in our
thinking. The nineteenth century belief in progress, although shaken in the twen-
tieth century, continues to dominate American popular culture. At a very young
age, we are socialized to think that societies evolve inevitably toward the Euro-
American political and economic institutions of today. Where this fails to hap-
pen, our government formulates foreign policies to help the process along. We
treat the cases where evolution to greater complexity is punctuated by collapse as
aberrations and catastrophes that do not negate the trend (Tainter 1988, 1999).
In 1914, European powers and their offshoots controlled fully 84 percent of the
earth’s surface (Parker 1988: 5), and their undoubted military prowess (Tainter
1992) cemented the evolutionary presumptions.
This view was of course employed to justify conquest, colonialism, and annex-
ation. Ann Stahl (1999) has brilliantly critiqued the influence of this progressivist
stance on African archaeology and history. Her analysis enhances our under-
standing of cultural resource management in not only Africa but also the United
States and, indeed, large parts of the world. In Africa, colonial-era studies helped
to legitimize occupation by arguing (most blatantly in the case of Great Zimba-
bwe) that such developments as complexity and urbanism did not have an Afri-
can origin, but arrived late under outside influence. With independence, the
narrative changed. It became important to demonstrate that Africans, too, par-
ticipated in the broader story of cultural evolution, and independently developed
the same institutions for which Europeans pride themselves. In this effort,
though, postcolonial scholars unwittingly adopted the Western notions of evolu-
tion and progress. Africa was not peripheral to history; its history parallels that
of places more commonly described in evolutionary narratives. Indeed, in Octo-
ber 1999, Albuquerque’s public television station broadcast a series under the
title Wonders of the African World. Harvard literary critic Henry Louis Gates Jr.
traveled to East, West, and South Africa, showing in each area that the cultural
ideals privileged in the European progressivist narrative (such as urbanism, trade,
and other aspects of complexity) were also developed independently in Africa
(Gates 1999).
Stahl (1999: 43–46) shows the influence of this narrative on the development
of African archaeology. Alongside the perennial questions of human antiquity,
the primary emphases of African archaeology came to concern complexity. Cities
and civilizations have been high on the agenda. Primacy is given to trade, towns,
and empires. Iron Age studies have blossomed. Within this narrative, as Stahl
notes, “so-called acephalous societies [are] important only insofar as they repre-
sent precursors of more complex forms” (Stahl 1999: 44). All this effort denies
the legitimacy of the colonial narrative while unconsciously adopting its tenets.
The progressivist narrative biases the record that Africanist archaeologists
perceive as significant. Sites selected for study are those that exemplify the evolu-
tionary account. Great emphasis is placed on the most salient sites, those associ-
ated with complexity. Large Iron Age sites are good, as are sites that evidence
trade, iron-working, or craft specialization. Cities are the best of all. Yet much
evidence of other behavior is suppressed. The history of simple communities has
been marginalized. Attention has been diverted from other potential questions,
such as relationships between sites supposedly representing different evolution-
ary stages and the nature of subsistence in the Iron Age (Stahl 1999: 44). Ulti-
mately, this approach has affected cultural resource management throughout
Africa. Agencies such as UNESCO have issued site-significance criteria that at-
tempt to universalize African history. Significant problems are defined on the
basis of a progressivist, evolutionary model. Funding is attuned to the last two
millennia and to evolutionary developments. Needless to say, the most salient
sites are accorded the greatest privilege. As in the United States, the National
Geographic approach dominates cultural resource management. Stahl (1999: 39,
42, 44–46) refers to the entire process as “winnowing variability.”
There are clear lessons in the African experience for American cultural re-
source management, for in many ways we show similar biases: progressivist, if no
longer colonial. Our parks and monuments presenting archaeology always fea-
ture the most salient sites. In the Southwest, as noted, we place high priority on
understanding the development of the pueblos. Schemes for the evaluation and
management of Southwestern sites routinely privilege this evolutionary narrative
(for example, Green and Plog 1983; Upham 1988). In so doing, we limit our
ability to perceive variability and to generate narratives of other patterns of be-
havior (for example, Upham 1984). The archaeological record of peoples prac-
ticing nonsedentary land use is usually distanced in time, and treated as precur-
sors to, rather than contemporaries of, the Pueblo people (see Stahl 1999: 46).
Thus, Southwestern archaeologists remain unable to unravel many questions of
the early Athabascan occupation in the Southwest. Many suspect the primary
reason is that we distance the kinds of sites early Athabascans may have pro-
duced, ephemeral lithic scatters, to what we think is their proper place in an
evolutionary narrative. While we probably do encounter early Athabascan sites,
we would typically label them Archaic. Similar problems could be enumerated
for other areas where more complex societies and salient sites developed late in
prehistory. In the Midwest and Southeast, the evolutionary narrative emphasizes
earthworks and exotic artifacts of the Middle Woodland and Mississippian peri-
ods. In studying settlement patterns, researchers concern themselves more with
vertical relationships among sites than with horizontal ones (Blitz 1999: 579).
The possibility of a Late Woodland (ca. a.d. 400–900) collapse in this sequence
is often denied.
One consequence is that there are curious lacunae in the archaeological map
of North America. For example, the vast area of southeastern Colorado and
adjacent states, tens of thousands of square kilometers of land, is largely ignored
and nearly unknown archaeologically (for example, Johnson et al. 1989: 1;
Anderson 1989: 8). The archaeological record of the area clearly displays a long
and varied occupation from Folsom to historic times, yet the region figures mini-
mally in syntheses of Plains prehistory. There is evidence of long-term persistence
in what is often considered a marginal area (Bagley 1999). To the extent to which
the late prehistory is known, it is from the most salient sites: from the stone
structures of the Antelope Creek Focus in the Texas Panhandle and of the Api-
shapa Focus in Colorado, and from occasional cave sites (Gunnerson 1987: 87–
90). Yet fieldwork by the authors in the Piñon Canyon area of the Purgatoire
River and by Bagley (1999) in the Picture Canyon area reveals that these sites are
a limited part of the regional archaeological record. That record consists substan-
tially of chipped stone tools, quarries, and debris spread across much of the
landscape, but concentrating in settings of high topographic diversity such as
canyons.
This is a rich and extensive archaeological record, which Bagley (1999), bor-
rowing from Max Evans (1962), has dubbed “Hi-Lo” archaeology: high site
densities but low site profiles. Across the region, nonsalient remains constitute
most of the evidence of past land use, yet they figure little in either cultural
resource management or regional prehistory. Management concentrates on
highly visible caves, rock art, areas of land-use impacts, and historic sites such as
the Santa Fe Trail. Research focuses on caves, rock art, and stone structures.
Within this focus, many questions can never be answered: the relationship of
salient to nonsalient sites; subsistence, seasonality, and high frequency land use;
adaptive change; regional population levels and distribution; the Apachean occu-
pation; and many others. The region also cannot fulfill its potential to contribute
to a broader understanding of how foragers and subsistence agriculturists have
used so-called marginal landscapes (Bagley 1999). We are constrained instead to
the segments of prehistory that can be learned from a minority of sites or from
those that need immediate management. It is those sites that we will most empha-
size in managing for the future. In this and other areas, we not only winnow
variability, we suppress it.
Significance and the production of the archaeological record
The concept of significance stems from the Western philosophical tradition

known as empiricism in England or as positivism on the Continent (Tainter and
Lucas 1983: 711–12). Proponents of this tradition assert that we know things by
experiencing them, so that the path to knowledge is to perceive sensory experi-
ences without preconceptions. In this view, scientists observe and record for the
future an undistorted description of their subject matter. The influence of this
philosophical view on archaeology and cultural resource management leads to
the supposition that the archaeological record is something that we perceive,
record, and evaluate for the future based on objective criteria.
It is clear from the discussion here that this view is disquietingly naive. Cul-
tural resource managers do not merely perceive, record, and evaluate the ar-
chaeological record. To the contrary, they apply a set of mostly unexamined
assumptions, biases, and filters to privilege certain parts of the record, and to
suppress the rest. Through this filtering, entire categories of archaeological re-
mains (and the behaviors by which they were produced), and even entire regions,
are denied the opportunity to be recorded in databases, to be passed to the future,
or to enter the corpus of humanity’s knowledge of itself.
In this sense, the archaeological record is not the mere accumulation of our
passive observations. Given the numerical and fiscal dominance of cultural re-
source management in American archaeology, what cultural resource managers
choose to recognize, record, and manage becomes the archaeological record.
Cultural resource managers do not so much discover the archaeological record
as, unconsciously but actively, they shape and produce it. The archaeological
record is an active construct of our assumptions and biases. Although cultural
resource management was established to preserve for the future as much of the
archaeological record as possible (Lipe 1974; Glassow 1977), what we actually
pass to the future, without caveat, is precisely these assumptions and biases and
the material remains that they privilege. It is one thing to pass a distorted record
to the future if, having examined our biases and filters, we are cognizant of doing
so and warn the future of what we have selected. To do so in ignorance of how we
privilege some parts of the record, and suppress others, is inexcusable.
Concluding remarks
The problem of archaeological significance goes beyond blind application of

unquestioned assumptions. It arises from the very essence of how we compre-
hend our world. We comprehend and describe the world in categories: animal/
vegetable/mineral; earth/space; mind/body; human/animal; site/isolated find; sig-

nificant/insignificant. To comprehend the cosmos, it is of course necessary to
employ categories to reduce and bring order to the vastness about us. Cognition,
and retention of information, is unthinkable without categorization.
We learn to think this way as infants, and in so doing absorb categorization
into our cognition so fundamentally that few of us realize that this is how we
think, let alone question it. We assume unconsciously that, since we perceive our
world in categories, that is how it occurs. This is natural and mostly unremark-
able. Categorical thinking is necessary, but it can also be insidious. It works its
worst when we are unaware of it. This is clearly illustrated in the matter at hand:
Most American practitioners of cultural resource management are now social-
ized to believe that archaeological sites in a management context occur in two
varieties: significant and insignificant. This categorization is intrinsic to our
thinking and our work. As we have seen, it leads us actually to suppress much of
the archaeological record, and thus many dimensions of past behavior. We are
reminded of Christopher Hitchens’ (1988: 301) remarks on such reasoning: “The
best that can be said for this method [categorical thinking] is that it economizes
on thought. You simply unveil it like a Medusa’s head and turn all discussion into
stone.” Our unconscious categorization, and our transmission of this categoriza-
tion to new archaeologists, sets in stone an approach that contravenes the prin-
ciple on which cultural resource management was established: conservation for
the future.
The first step toward resolving a dilemma arising from unconscious assump-
tions is to expose them. It is time for the profession publicly to debate how we
value nonsalient sites, the past behaviors from which they originated, and the
losses that we incur when we routinely dismiss them. This is no more than to call
for a return to an earlier phase in our literature. The early period of cultural
resource management in the United States produced a substantial reflexive litera-
ture. Throughout the 1970s and into the early 1980s, theorists explored and
argued about the best ways to practice this emerging field (for example, King
1971; Lipe 1974; Glassow 1977; King et al. 1977; McMillan et al. 1977; Schiffer
and Gumerman 1977; Moratto and Kelly 1978; Raab and Klinger 1977; Shar-
rock and Grayson 1979; Tainter 1979, 1983; Lynott 1980; Tainter and Lucas
1983). Since those heady days, these reflexive expressions, with very few excep-
tions (for example, Leone and Potter 1992), have precipitously disappeared (fig-
ure 4.1). No longer does our literature feature very many discussions on the
relationship of archaeological variety to preservation requirements, on conflicts
between land uses, on evaluating significance or importance, on the role of bias
in preservation decisions, or on the role of heritage management in contemporary
society. Instead, cultural resource management has evolved into a technical field
in which important and irrevocable decisions are made on the basis of prescribed
regulations applied without critical thought. It is urgent that our earlier intro-
spection be revived, for in its absence we witness daily the destruction of part of
our heritage, which archaeologists will someday regret. Perhaps this book signals
a renaissance in critical thinking about heritage management. It may, but only if
we take up our pens and continue the effort begun here.
Acknowledgments
We are pleased to express our appreciation to Clay Mathers for the invitation to
prepare this paper, and to Scott Geister and Timothy Seaman of the Archeologi-
cal Records Management Section, New Mexico Historic Preservation Division,
for providing the data files from which figure 4.2 was developed.
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II
Archaeology in context
5
Archaeological significance and the governance

of identity in cultural heritage management
Laurajane Smith
Introduction
Archaeological significance is a useful starting point when considering the conse-

quences that cultural heritage management (CHM) has for both archaeologists
and others who have an interest in the past and its material culture. Significance
is a central concept in CHM, as it is those things that we regard as having value,
or as being “significant,” that we actively protect, manage, and conserve. It is
thus those measures used to define what is significant that will define and shape
the nature and meaning of the sample of material culture that is saved for the
future. For archaeologists, the significance of material culture often lies in its
usefulness or lack of usefulness as data for research. For many other groups,
material culture provides the physical resources, linked to history and the past,
which are drawn on in an active process to create, recreate, or maintain cultural
and social identities.
The different values and meanings attributed to material culture may, and
often do, come into conflict with each other within the CHM process. It is not,
however, this conflict that makes CHM political, but the fact that different
groups bring to any conflict varying resources of power to give legitimacy to the
values and meanings they hold to be significant. Archaeological significance as-
sessments have become integral to the CHM process and, as such, provide an
interesting link between archaeological science and expertise and the politics of
cultural identity.
In this chapter, I use Australian Aboriginal CHM as a case study to examine the
way archaeological discourse on “significance” has become a resource of power
in CHM. The point I wish to make here is that, as Purvis and Hunt (1993) argue,
discourse may have an ideological content. A distinction can be made between an
unproblematic discourse on science and method and a scientific discourse, which
78 / Laurajane Smith
is intertwined with ideology. The ideological content of the discourse on archaeo-

logical significance revolves around processual values and assumptions about the
value-free nature of science, allowing political problems and conflicts over the
meaning of the past to be rendered merely technical issues of management.
The degree to which processual values and assumptions are embedded and
naturalized in the discourse on archaeological significance in Australian Aborigi-
nal CHM has had a number of consequences. Not least is the ability of archaeo-
logical significance discourse to depoliticize the values and meaning Aboriginal
people place on material culture so that Aboriginal cultural politics becomes
tractable and more governable by policy makers. To make sense of the impact
that the archaeological discourse on significance has on cultural politics, I draw
on the idea of governmentality, which offers a useful way of understanding how
expert knowledge may be mobilized in ways not intended by experts to govern
and regulate social and political problems.
Archaeological significance as processual ideology
CHM in Australia is a relatively recent phenomenon; it was not until the late
1960s or the 1970s that most Australian states developed public policy and en-
acted heritage acts to deal with the conservation of what was defined in the
legislation, until recent amendments in some states, as “Aboriginal relics.”
By the late 1960s and 1970s, public concern over the destruction of cultural
heritage had become a notable issue (Flood 1989; Mundey 1988). Also at this
time, Aboriginal activism had become increasingly assertive, following the un-
equivocal granting of Australian citizenship to Aboriginal people in 1967. From
the late 1960s, Aboriginal activists were using claims to past material culture and
identity to reinforce demands for land. Thus, by the late 1960s and early 1970s,
a significant social problem existed regarding the management and use of Ab-
original material culture.
During this period, archaeologists had also been lobbying governments for
legislation to protect what they defined as “archaeological sites and Aboriginal
relics” (for instance, Mulvaney 1964, 1970; Megaw 1966; McCarthy 1970;
McKinlay 1973; Edwards 1975). Lobbying was successful in that in almost all
states, heritage legislation was written either by or in close consultation with
archaeologists, and archaeologists found jobs administering policy and legisla-
tion in state heritage agencies (Sullivan 1983; Smith, forthcoming).
What is of interest here are the reasons archaeologists gave as to why they
were concerned with the development of heritage legislation. Archaeologists,
writing in both Australia and the United States, where CHM was also undergo-
ing rapid redevelopment in the 1960s and 1970s, emphasized the need to prevent
the looting of sites by nonarchaeologists (see, for example, Mulvaney 1990: 249f;
also McGimsey 1972; Deetz 1977; Arnold 1978; Cockrell 1980; Fowler 1982).
This concern reached a climax in a period when there was also general public
Archaeological significance and the governance of identity / 79
concern about the fate of cultural resources in the face of increasing development.
Archaeologists were at this time concerned with ensuring that scientific values
were legally recognized and differentiated from public perceptions about the
value of heritage objects.
As part of their lobbying, archaeologists were asserting for themselves a newly
aggressive identity as “professional objective scientists.” In Australia, this asser-
tion was underlined by the importation in the late 1960s and early 1970s of
processual theory from the United States and the arrival of so-called “profes-
sional” or university-trained archaeologists from the United Kingdom. Proces-
sual theory successfully advocated that the discipline epistemologically remodel
itself on the natural sciences. Logical positivism was forcefully advocated as the
correct philosophical position for archaeologists to adopt. The professed aim of
the “New Archaeology” was to develop universal laws. Archaeological science
claimed stewardship over the past, particularly Indigenous pasts, through its
ability to universalize that past and make it relevant to all “mankind.” See Smith
(forthcoming) for an elaboration of this argument.
Early Australian debates on the nature of archaeological significance and how
it should be used in CHM drew heavily on literature from the United States,
where similar debates were occurring. Bowdler (1981: 131), for instance, argued
for the need to use research designs, stressed in the U.S. processual literature,
when assessing the significance of sites to “raise the standard of contract archae-
ology,” and to ensure site management was “carried out according to the most
vigorous scientific principles.” However, she also recognized that research values
attributed to sites and places could change (Bowdler 1981, 1984). She argued
that as archaeological research develops, what we perceive to be important ar-
chaeologically will change as new research questions are developed and explored
(Bowdler 1984: 7). To preserve only those sites of value to archaeologists in the
present would stifle the development of important research questions in the future.
Thus, two broad criteria for the measurement of archaeological significance
were proposed: research “significance” and “representativeness” (Bowdler 1981:
0 129, 1984: 1; Bickford and Sullivan 1984; Pearson 1984). Both of these con-
cepts were drawn directly from the U.S. literature on CHM, or cultural resource
management (CRM).
Much of the American CHM debate can be shown to reflect the theoretical
concerns of the New Archaeology. One of the major debates in the 1970s in the
U.S. management literature revolved around the need to develop clear research
designs, which would provide frameworks for the assessment of scientific or
research significance. It was agrued that the preservation of sites that could be
explicitly linked to research questions would provide a more meaningful data-
base than sites preserved for vague or and unspecified reasons (King 1971, 1977;
Gumerman 1977; Goodyear et al. 1978; Raab and Klinger 1977, 1979; Lynott
1980; Fowler 1982). This debate was framed by the New Archaeology’s concern
with deductive research as opposed to the inductive research base of earlier ar-
chaeology (King 1977; Gumerman 1977). Further, research criteria provided a

more acceptable scientific basis for significance assessments, as it helped to dis-
tinguish archaeologists in the public perception from treasure hunters and unsci-
entific amateurs. The scientific value of sites was emphasized in several popular
books published in the 1970s to educate the public about the values of the ar-
chaeological resource (see, for example, McGimsey 1972; McGimsey and Davis
1977; Deetz 1977; Fowler 1977).
In addition, acceptable scientific criteria and assessment were stressed in rela-
tion to American Indian protests of the use of their sites by archaeologists. In the
American literature (for example, Meighan 1992; Bonnichsen 1999; Owsley
1999; Landau and Steele 2000), as in the Australian (Mulvaney 1981, 1991;
Allen 1983, 1987; Murray and Allen 1995), it is often the unquestioned value
and authority of scientific research and knowledge that archaeologists cite in
defense of their access to Indigenous human remains, places, and artifacts.
Numerous archaeologists, writing in the 1970s and early 1980s, coupled their
concern with providing a scientific basis for site assessment with the assertion
that a “crisis” was upon archaeology (for example, Mulvaney 1970; Clewlow et
al. 1971; King 1971; McGimsey 1972; Coutts 1977; McGimsey and Davis 1977;
Lowenthal 1981). Their alarm was triggered by the increasing destruction of
archaeological sites and places by development or by the uncontrolled collection
of sites by amateurs. By stressing the scientific and objective nature of archaeo-
logical research and site assessments and by a discourse that identifies and dis-
cusses archaeological resources, this literature maps out the legitimacy of ar-
chaeological access and control over material culture (for example, McGimsey
1972; McGimsey and Davis 1977).
Material culture has a physical existence, and its social construction as “ar-
chaeological sites,” “archaeological data,” or as part of the “archaeological rec-
ord” has direct political consequences. The positivism and empiricism of proces-
sual theory often assumes that objects from the past are inherently archaeological
in that they are data or part of an objective “archaeological record.” The positiv-
ist epistemology of processualism conflates the signifier with the signified; thus,
by adopting this epistemology, archaeologists, with an authority conferred on
them by their professional and intellectual status, put forth a view that the objects
are the label rather than that which is described by the label. The idea that mean-
ing is inherently fixed in an object and that we must have a research question that
will make a priori sense of that meaning denies that sites can have meaning, and
thus value, outside of a scientific framework (Tainter and Lucus 1983; Hill 1992:
810).
The New Archaeology, by advocating and providing a rigorous and system-
atic theory and methodology, was responding to several political needs. It was in
effect ensuring the priority of archaeological access to sites (the database) over
access by the public and Indigenous peoples via the authority invoked by the use
of archaeological language and scientific ideologies. As Dunnell (1984: 64) ironi-
cally notes, the U.S. heritage legislation developed at this time protects sites and
places on public land from everyone “other than archaeologists.” This is re-
flected in the Australian situation, where archaeologists are often the ones in the
position to control the administration of legislation. This situation is interesting
when we note the fundamental paradox underlying the archaeological conserva-
tion ethic. Given that much of archaeological research, or research as it was
traditionally viewed in the 1970s and 1980s, is destructive, the ideal of archaeo-
logical conservation becomes problematic.
The use of research designs in assessing significance, advocated by many New
Archaeologists in the 1970s, came under criticism with the realization that just
because a site might not fit a current research problem, that did not mean it was
not significant either to archaeology or to other interested parties (Sharrock and
Grayson 1979; Barnes et al. 1980). Other archaeologists felt that research de-
signs developed their own bias, and that it was only certain research problems
that would be considered to be important enough in assessing sites (Dixon 1977;
Dunnell 1984: 71). To deal with these issues, many Australian and U.S. writers
(most notably Lipe 1974, 1977; Dixon 1977; Glassow 1977; Bowdler 1984;
Pearson 1984) advocated the notion of representativeness. They argued that rep-
resentativeness, as a significance criterion, ensured that both rare sites and good
examples of common types would be preserved for future reference.
As with the idea of research value, one of the assumptions underlying the idea
of representativeness is that a site or place will have inherent qualities that make
it either unique or common (Tainter and Lucus 1983; Smith 1994). Australian
studies that have attempted to identify the representative attributes of various site
types have failed (see, for example, Smith 1989, 1991; Hiscock and Mitchell
1993). These studies argued that it was not possible to identify representative
criteria that were not influenced by the values held or research questions posed by
the researchers. Although the concept of representativeness does not solve the
problem it was designed to solve, it is still implemented as a way of ensuring that
a range of sites and places reflecting nonarchaeological values are protected (see
chapters in Dunnett and Feary 1994).
The problem here is that the concept of representativeness in the U.S. and
Australian literature has diverted critical archaeological attention from the long-
term implications of the observation that values change between time and place,
and from the idea that values held by other groups may be fundamentally differ-
ent from those held by archaeologists.
The consequences of archaeological significance criteria
The privileging of archaeologists and their values in CHM occurred as a result of

the authority conveyed by their claims to scientific expertise and rationality em-
bedded in archaeological significance criteria. The development of CHM came at
a time when the New Archaeology was actively redefining archaeology and em-
phasizing the scientific aspects of the discipline. CHM provided a vehicle to pub-
licly reinforce these claims and presented archaeology with a means not only to
protect their database but also to institutionally distance themselves from claims
that they were treasure hunters and grave robbers. This was particularly impor-
tant in Australia because Aboriginal people were explicitly using such negative
imagery when criticizing Australian archaeology.
As embodied by archaeological values in CHM, processual theory became a
significant resource of power utilized by archaeologists and heritage agencies.
For archaeologists, the immediate consequences of exercising this resource of
power were access to data and the assurance that data would be preserved for
future research. However, this situation has had wider ramifications both for
archaeologists and for Aboriginal people, whose material culture is the subject of
management.
To understand this consequence, it is important to note that significance as-
sessments are the keystone of the CHM process in Australia. All decisions about
the management of a site or place should flow from the assessment of signifi-
cance. Management must aim to maintain the values given to a site or place, and
no action should be implemented that would adversely impact on heritage values.
Thus, the privileging of archaeological values in the assessment process means
that they also become central in defining the intellectual parameters of any debate
about the meaning of the past and its material culture.
During this process, archaeological significance assessments have come to
play a part in the governance of aspects of Aboriginal cultural identity. The litera-
ture on governmentality, drawing on Foucault’s (1991) later work, is useful for
theorizing this process. The governmentality literature argues that intellectual
knowledge by “rendering the world thinkable, taming its intractable reality by
subjecting it to the disciplined analyses of thought” (Rose and Miller 1992: 182)
is incorporated into the act of governing populations and social problems. Impor-
tantly, this process is based on liberal modernity, which stresses rational universal
truths (Rose 1993). Thus, archaeological rationality, emphasized by the logical
positivism of processualism, became useful for defining populations (be they
Indigenous peoples or other groups) through both their archaeological past and
the material culture (or heritage objects) that was defined as representing their
past. Furthermore, the application of rational knowledge explicitly renders the
social problems it governs as nonpolitical and thus more tractable.
Archaeological knowledge and values became inextricably tied into the CHM
process, and through CHM archaeology they became a “technology of govern-
ment” (Rose and Millar 1992: 175), that is, a body of knowledge and expertise
that government and bureaucracies mobilize to get things done (Dean 1994,
1999). Archaeological expertise determined the value and meaning of Aborigi-
nal cultural heritage, and subsequently archaeological significance assessments
helped to govern the legitimacy of Aboriginal claims made on the basis of links to
the past and cultural identity, while also depoliticizing these claims by redefining
them as technical issues of assessment and management.
Implications and future directions in CHM
Both in the United States and in Australia, Indigenous and other interest groups
have over the two last decades increasingly lobbied government heritage agencies
for a more active role in the management of their heritage. One of the major
implications of the observations made above is that archaeological notions of
heritage value and significance, based as they are on processual science, provide
little intellectual room for the inclusion of knowledge systems and values not
encompassed by logical positivist frameworks. This situation, then, has the po-
tential to increase conflict and tensions between archaeologists and Indigenous
or other interest groups with a cultural or historical stake in the past. Since the
1980s in Australia, both government and freelance archaeological heritage man-
agers have increasingly attempted to include Indigenous values in the assessment
and management process. However, the disjunction between archaeological and
Indigenous values, together with the authority of archaeological science, has led
to an increasing sense of marginalization and an increasing frustration with both
archaeologists and their research in Indigenous groups (see Ellis 1994; Greer and
Henry 1996). On the other hand, where government heritage agencies have ac-
tively chosen to privilege Indigenous values over archaeological values, the result
has tended to be the marginalization of archaeological interests and research
values. One case in point is the celebrated conflict over the return, after legal
action, of Tasmanian Aboriginal artifacts and other excavated material from La
Trobe University to the Tasmanian Aboriginal community at the behest of the
Tasmanian government. In this case, archaeological values were completely side-
lined and a major research project jeopardized. Subsequently, the failure of ar-
chaeologists to frame arguments about the value of the collection in anything but
scientistic discourse meant that it became difficult for nonarchaeological heritage
policy makers to develop an inclusive resolution to the conflict. Thus, archaeo-
logical values, in this case at least, were marginalized (Smith, forthcoming).
However, an either/or situation between nonarchaeological cultural and his-
torical values and archaeological values need not arise. For conflict resolution in
CHM to be inclusive of a wider range of nonarchaeological values, archaeolo-
gists must reposition themselves in the CHM process. Rather than maintaining
the position of objective experts and utilizing a discourse embedded with proces-
sual ideology, archaeologists may need to critically question their positions of
power and renegotiate their position as “experts” relative to other interest
groups such as indigenous peoples. In Australia, this has been done by some
archaeological researchers and heritage managers, who, by identifying the net-
work of power relations between archaeologists and Indigenous people in the
CHM process, have been able to successfully negotiate the development of re-
search and heritage projects. These projects aim to include Indigenous interests as
active players in setting project aims and parameters (see, for instance, Ross
1996; Clarke 2002; Greer et al. 2002; Smith et al. 2003). However, I am not
advocating that archaeologists uncritically accept all nonarchaeological values
and interests as equally valid, nor am I necessarily advocating that archaeologists
abandon all claims to a central role in heritage management. What I am suggest-
ing, however, is that archaeological managers not only recognize the political
nature of CHM but, more importantly, that they identify the resources of power
and privilege that archaeologists bring to any negotiation or conflict over the
disposition of material culture. By recognizing and understanding archaeological
resources of power, archaeological managers may be in a better position to con-
sciously and constructively influence the outcome of heritage conflicts and man-
agement processes. In the process, archaeological knowledge may lose its privi-
leged position in the governance of indigenous cultural claims, but the ability of
CHM to maintain and regulate archaeology as a positivistic science may also,
usefully, become jeopardized.
Conclusion
In Australian cultural heritage management, it is archaeological values in assess-

ment processes that define the intellectual parameters of debate over the meaning
of the past. In effect, archaeological ideas of significance and knowledge are used
both to interpret Aboriginal values and meaning in terms understood by bureau-
cracies and to make legislative or binding statements that may be used by bureau-
cracies and policy makers to legitimize Aboriginal claims about cultural identity.
In this process, archaeological significance concepts and the ideology underly-
ing them are constantly recreated and reinforced through their institutionaliza-
tion by the CHM process. Furthermore, the authority given to archaeological
significance and knowledge through their mobilization as a technology of gov-
ernment ensures archaeological access to the database and the privileging of
archaeologists in CHM. Ultimately, archaeological identity and authority, as well
as values, become embodied in CHM and physically reinforced by archaeological
access and control of material culture. In Australia, at least, this has resulted in an
inability to effectively break from the processual ideologies that underpin ar-
chaeological authority and access to data, because to do so would jeopardize that
access. In this way, the archaeological significance criteria used in CHM become
a means through which not only Aboriginal cultural identity is governed, but also
a means by which archaeological identity as a positivistic science is itself regu-
lated and maintained.
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“Rigidity and a changing order . . . disorder,

degeneracy and daemonic repetition”
Fluidity of cultural values and cultural heritage management
W. E. Boyd, Maria M. Cotter, Jane Gardiner, and Gai Taylor
A start: Cultural heritage and human behavior
Human beings bring complexity to any situation: the derivatives of human be-
havior, cultural values and social behavior, may then be reasonably expected to
have enhanced complexity. The consequential representation of these values and
behavior must therefore be expected to be diverse and complex. In this discus-
sion, these consequences are the representations of the cultural past through the
medium of cultural heritage. With the emergence of multicritical analyses of
society and culture, a traditional view of a single history becomes increasingly
untenable and open to contest.
In recent years, the issue of a multicritical, multivocal, and connected past has
been amplified in various disciplines and contexts. Tuan’s observations on hu-
man nature and behavior, for example, extend, in his view, beyond the personal
to social and cultural scales (Tuan 1974, 1977), hinting at multivocality and
contest: “people sometimes behave like cornered and wary animals . . . [but] may
also act like cool scientists . . . neither posture hold[ing] sway for long. . . . The
human person . . . is animal, fantasist, and computer combined. . . .” (Tuan 1977:
5). In a more direct heritage context, Lavine and Karp’s (1990) assessment of
museum exhibition as the archetypal representation of cultural past emphasizes
the behavioral element of exhibition. Taking the limited perspective of the cre-
ator or curator, multivocality and contest is readily apparent:
Every museum exhibition . . . inevitably draws on the cultural assumptions
and resources of the people who make it. Decisions are made to emphasize
one element and to downplay others, to assert some truths and to ignore
others. The assumptions underpinning these decisions vary according to
90 / W. E. Boyd, Maria M. Cotter, Jane Gardiner, and Gai Taylor
culture and over time, place, and type of museum or exhibit. Exhibitions
made today may seem obviously appropriate to some viewers precisely
because those viewers share the same attitudes as the exhibition makers,
and the exhibitions are cloaked in familiar presentational styles. We dis-
cover the artifice when we look at older installations or those made in other
cultural contexts. The very nature of exhibiting, then, makes it a contested
terrain. (Lavine and Karp 1990: 1)
As a final opening comment, we hear Vogel observing that “an exhibition on how
we view African objects (both literally and metaphorically) is important because
unless we realize the extent to which our vision is conditioned by our own cul-
ture, unless we realize that the image of African art we have made a place for in
our world has been shaped by us as much as by Africans, we may be misled into
believing we see African art for what it is” (Vogel 1988: 11). Her analysis of her
Art/Artifact exhibition of African art in anthropology collections focuses on the
way in which object value changes with exhibition context. Using Mijkenda
memorial posts presented in various exhibition settings (for example, reproduc-
tions of traditional museum rooms, dioramas, natural history displays, and art
galleries), Vogel describes how both the display-based inference of value and the
viewers’ interpreted values are influenced and constructed by the contextual set-
ting of the objects. This complex of curation-setting-object-viewer results in a
diversity of cultural interpretations of a common object, and hence explicit con-
testation of original represented and subsequent received value.
Cultural heritage can, therefore, be usefully analyzed in terms of contested
terrain. This theme is becoming increasingly central in discussions of cultural
values and notably of presentation or representation of past culture, and provides
a conceptual basis with serious implications, which should influence the practice
of cultural heritage management. Here we identify some of the symptoms of
contest inherent in constructions of cultural heritage meanings. Implicit here is
the notion of construction(s) of meaning(s), and thus that an appreciation of the
diversity and dynamism inherent in multiple meanings provides an invaluable
approach to both intellectual and practical considerations of cultural heritage
and, especially, possibilities in the realignment of method in cultural heritage
management. We approach this in three ways.
• First, we examine issues emerging in the broad cultural studies literature.
These are issues of cultural heritage itself, the cognitive ownership of
knowledge, contest, the gaze, and the text as metaphorical approaches to
understanding heritage. The focus of our interest is on their application
to understanding cultural heritage.
• Second, we present several case studies: observations presented as read-
ings of cultural heritage places. These are used to illustrate the complex-
ity and multivocality of cultural heritage, and in all cases reflect the
connectedness of diversity inherent in any item of cultural heritage, espe-
Fluidity of cultural values and cultural heritage management / 91
cially where examined from a cognitive ownership perspective. The spe-

cific studies are largely arbitrary, arising from the authors’ research inter-
ests, and are by no means taken as representative of specific classes of
cultural heritage.
• Finally, we draw a larger picture of cultural process, specifically to pro-
pose a liberating process for the practice of cultural heritage manage-
ment. This process emerges from consideration of the colonial/postcolo-
nial faces of cultural heritage management, the growing acceptance of
multivocality in the “tracing of play of power in social formation” and a
recognition that “commodity is ideology made material” (Fiske 1989:
45, 14), and the implications these have on our perception of meanings of
cultural heritage.
Cultural heritage as contested terrain
The theme of contest and contested terrain reflects, in part, growing and broad
interests in the intellectual discourse of social and cultural studies, issues of iden-
tity, conflict of representation, construction of values, and the development of
complex and often metaphorical models of explanation (for example, Jackson
and Penrose 1993; Keith and Pile 1993; Cloke et al. 1994; Porteous 1996; Barnes
and Gregory 1997; Fuery and Mansfield 1997). Much of the analysis within this
literature applies to matters of cultural past and its representation. In particular,
a sense of cultural heritage, as contested domain, most strongly emerges with
practical examination of modes of representation, such as museums, heritage
places, events and visitor centers, and historical writing, and their effectiveness in
representing the cultural past (for example, Karp and Lavine 1990; Walsh 1992;
Darien-Smith and Hamilton 1994; Gostin 1995; Schmidt and Patterson 1995).
Contested interpretations of past culture may emerge within a culture, notably
with the growth and acceptance of the popular or folk cultures, which frequently
challenge, counter, and question the dominant received wisdom of traditional
upper- and middle-class high cultures and the perseverance of official history.
Noting that history, for example, comprises “the objective processes lived and
experienced by peoples which constitute the only way to understand and explain
present-day social conditions,” Arena (1995: 47–48) notes that official histories
“. . . mask the real causes of historical change . . . [communicating] the idea that
history is a linear, chronological accumulation of events, names, and dates unre-
lated to everyday life . . . [and manipulating] the knowledge of history.”
The force of contestation becomes most readily apparent where several cul-
tural groups interact, often in colonial or postcolonial political and social set-
tings. The contest is heightened where the representation of elements of one
culture is dominated by another: the public administration of Australian Indig-
enous places, for example, is firmly set within the parameters of non-Indigenous
governance (for example, Pearson and Sullivan 1995; Hall and McArthur 1996),
despite efforts to involve Indigenous people in heritage management (compare

Birckhead et al. 1993; the same applies elsewhere, for example, Kerber 1994).
Ultimately, and given the intellectual and political traditions of historically and
colonially established behavior still influential in nominally postcolonial societ-
ies, any change becomes an issue of national and inherently contested politics.
Any statement of re-representation and restructuring of cultural heritage man-
agement, which will often include the recognition of the plurality of represented
values, presents an expression of what Wylie, in reviewing alternative writings of
history, describes as the “struggle against various forms of dominant history and
against the terms of its construction—the structures of opposition, the presuppo-
sitions about historical scholarship and authority—where these threaten to in-
fuse and usurp the alternatives” (Wylie 1995: 258).
Notions of cultural heritage
The discussion here emerges from previous work, in which the inadequacies of
what are considered to be oversimplified statements of cultural values attached to
particular types of cultural heritage places (archaeological sites, Indigenous spiri-
tual sites, historical buildings, visitor centers, and so on), appear to have led to
the problematic management of these places (Boyd and Cotter 1996; Boyd et al.
1996). That work recognized that the individual cultural heritage “site,” the
conventional focus of administrative and legislative cultural heritage manage-
ment (for example, Flood 1990; Hall and McArthur 1996; English 1994), is
becoming increasingly inadequate. Cultural places have been traditionally de-
fined in culturally, temporally, and geographically limited ways: definitions tend
to be monocultural or monoethnic, to a lesser extent monotemporal, and most
frequently microgeographical. In this context, several processes are assumed: (i)
the cultural place is defined by reference to one cultural and often ethnic group,
who claims or is attributed sole proprietary rights over the cultural capital of the
place; (ii) the place is identified in terms of a static history fossilizing meaning to
a few single points in time; and (iii) the place is defined by its immediate sur-
roundings (often pragmatically expressed in land-tenure terms and physical fenc-
ing) as an individual point seemingly unrelated to its landscape contexts.
Two trends indicate that this individual-site-focused approach is increasingly
inappropriate in managing cultural heritage. In archaeology, cultural landscape
concepts emphasize the connectedness rather than the singularity of sites (for
example, Head et al. 1994; Ross 1996) and the importance of landscape and
environment in the understanding of past human behavior (for example, Butzer
1982). Second, increasing awareness and vocalization of Indigenous and other
community claims to land and places (for example, Toyne and Vachon 1984;
Lippman 1994; Fourmille 1996) draw attention to the complexity of interest in
sites within any landscape, resulting in Indigenous and community involvement
(albeit often still marginal) in site and area research and management (for ex-
ample, Birckhead et al. 1993; Kerber 1994; Layton 1994a, 1994b). Conse-
quently, cultural heritage sites become identified within complex social and
physical landscapes, and heritage managers need to be able to recognize, identify,
understand, and operate within such landscapes (Cotter et al. 2001).
There are several implications of such an analysis of cultural heritage places
and their management. First, the traditional monolithic approach to cultural
places represents an intellectual denial of meaningful cultural, social, political,
and geographic understanding of the place. Second, the practice reflects a denial
of the multiplicities of meaning, the modes of construction of these meanings,
and the complexities of overlapping landscapes implied by the places. Third, in
practical terms, political and administrative issues of site access, use, and man-
agement become blurred by simplistic notions of meaning, which are often char-
acterized by the uncritical and monolithic acceptance of a single and indisputably
correct history, and become sidetracked into discussion and debate which is at
best trivial and at worst inappropriate, unnecessary, and adversarial.
Cognitive ownership of cultural heritage
From this situation, Boyd and Cotter previously developed the idea of “cognitive
ownership” (Boyd and Cotter 1996; Boyd et al. 1996), a deliberately provocative
term designed to focus attention on the diversity of socially constructed values
which may be identified for any cultural place. Founded on the concepts and
pragmatics of social construction theory (Jackson and Penrose 1993), the term
refers to the interest in or association with a cultural site claimed, even implicitly,
by any person or group who attaches some value to that place. As such, cognitive
ownership represents the link between people and place defined by the intellec-
tual, conceptual, or spiritual meanings a group or individual attaches to the
place. For each individual, the place is defined by some constructed meaning; that
meaning may be articulated through a sense of the landscape within which the
place has value. The emphasis of social construction theory is to recognize mul-
tiple meanings: the important issue is not the truth or validity of one meaning
over another, but merely their identification. Using this approach, the cultural
heritage place ceases to be an isolated place, but is relocated within sets of paral-
lel, particular, and cognitive landscapes constructed under the influence of many
social and cultural parameters (see Tuan 1974, 1977; Haynes 1981; Gould and
White 1986). It therefore becomes one node within overlapping networks of
physical, social, cultural, and political linkages, pathways, edges, landmarks, and
surfaces.
The upshot of a cognitive ownership or social construction analysis of cultural
heritage places is that for every place a wide range of “owners” and meanings can
be identified, each with particular relationships with the place and, importantly,
with every other owner (Boyd et al. 1996: figure 4). Further sociocultural value
studies reveal a further dimension to this issue. In studying or managing such
places, values and owners shift: new values emerge as site significance is assessed
or becomes more widely known, or existing values evolve, possibly becoming
redundant or elevated in importance. New owners also emerge following
changes in public perception of the place as active study or management draws
attention to the place. Here, we document such shifts, illustrating them by ex-
ample, and discussing them in the context of contemporary conceptual models.
In this regard, our previous work represents an example of an application of
social analysis (social construction theory) in the interrogation of cultural heri-
tage and its management. Progress, however, demands the application of some
stronger critical theory, not merely to identify patterns of values but to define
processes of value attribution and change (see Fuery and Mansfield 1997).
Context and the gaze: Cultural heritage as text
Given the observations introduced here, and given their implications in terms of
potential diversity of value, meaning and cognitive ownership inherent in every
cultural expression, and the fluid nature of these values and meanings, a timely
revision is in order. It is now necessary to revise the source of value and meaning
and to divert attention from the object (the cultural place or artifact) to the
subject or observer, or person making value judgments about the place or artifact.
As Demeritt (1996: 500) indicates, “For too long we have been debilitated by the
notion of disembodied, Olympian truth and the correspondence theory of
knowledge.” This suggestion is, however, not novel. In reviewing the role of
“human agency—of the powers and capabilities of human beings,” Barnes and
Gregory (1997: 356) draw attention to several important and relevant themes.
First is the danger, described by Daniels (1997), of inattention to context and
convention, both social and historical. Thrift (1983) reinforces this with a call for
a “fully contextual social theory . . . one that is rooted in the continuous flow of
social action in time and space” (Barnes and Gregory 1997: 361). Related to this,
Daniels indicates the strength to be gained from an evaluation of the subjective
over the objective:
[The] process [of narrative], a dialectic of discovery and construction, can
involve complex and delicate adjudications: between the perspectives of
participants and observers, between particular incidents and general
themes, between competing theories. Interpretation and judgment are in-
gredients to narrative, not operations performed before or after the evi-
dence has been collected and processed. (quoted in Barnes and Gregory
1997: 374)
Clearly this path of inquiry and analysis has considerable implications for the
study and management of cultural heritage. By focusing on context rather than
object, one is forced to consider all those people and groups who, by their inter-
action with the cultural heritage, inevitably create meanings and construct values
regarding that heritage. While some of these constructions may remain purely
cognitive, others translate readily to behavior, and here the realm of management
practice becomes explicitly implicated. Crudely, what is to be done about the
people using the sites? Dressed up as visitors, they can be controlled, educated,
entertained, distracted, and so on by the gamut of available practical human
management techniques (for example, Uzzell 1989; Pearson and Sullivan 1995;
Hall and McArthur 1996). However, where cultural sensitivities tend in a par-
ticular direction, some visitors are assigned greater or lesser status: individuals or
groups become custodians (officials, Indigenous representatives, and so on) or
problems (the skateboarders and pedestrians at Gumbooya; see below). Where
officialdom is particularly rigid, defining appropriate designation of authority
becomes problematic: only one Indigenous representative, after all, can be the
true owner of the midden at Beachmere (see below), and where competing claims
are evident, the bureaucratic response denies all validity of values held. By adopt-
ing the “Olympian truth” model of a single, objective meaning at any cultural
heritage place, Barnes and Gregory’s “fluid movements between agency and
structure” (1997: 361), the shifting values and meanings held about cultural
places by all people associated with these places, are ignored.
This call for a shift in the intellectual tradition informing heritage manage-
ment is little more than a reinforcement of our opening exposition that the appli-
cation of social construction theory may inform cultural heritage management. It
remains to be considered if some useful theoretical structure may assist in under-
standing the processes explicit in the “fluid movements between agency and
structure” (Barnes and Gregory 1997: 361). This would involve considering the
relationship between dominant and subordinate action in society, a relationship
that is inherent in social construction theory. This, however, begs the question of
the object–agent relationship, and it is with this that we briefly close this section.
The humanist tradition of inquiry contains many starting points for consider-
ing the relationship between object (here, the heritage place or artifact) and the
agent (the person viewing or interacting with it). A dominant metaphor is the
gaze, the active perceptual engagement of the person with an object. Fuery and
Mansfield (1997: 70) summarize the idea of the gaze as being “bound up with
formations and operation of subjectivity . . . the gaze is not simply the mechanism
of perception, but rather a fundamental structure in the ways in which the subject
relates to the cultural order. . . .” It is a complex structure, which contributes to
the self-making of identity. It allows expression of self-identity through the con-
struction of ideas focused on an object or other subject. It is a potentially reflec-
tive process, which requires a form of reinforcement:
We constantly seek the gaze of some, other (person, group, institution,
ideology, etc.) in order to confirm our sense of presence. Making sense of a
text—that is, having a sense of relevance for the text, and from the text—
is part of the process. When we read we are seeking confirmation from the
gaze of the text. (Fuery and Mansfield 1997: 81)
This form of analysis revolves round the acceptance of two other concepts: the
object as text, that is, as something to be read; and the meaning of reading emerg-
ing from the action of reading, and being constructed by the reader rather than by
the author. The extension of these concepts is that all texts are interrelated, that
is, that “the constituent parts of a text refer back to, quote, and react with all the
other texts that exist around them, and have existed before them . . . [and are]
. . . part of some vast interconnecting collection of images, representations, mean-
ings, part-meanings, ideas, impressions, and memories” (Fuery and Mansfield
1997: 56–57). Equating cultural heritage with text, to be read by all those coming
into contact with it, provides a powerful metaphor with which to contextualize
the multiplicity of values, meanings, and landscape contexts described, as, for
example, in the studies below. The multiple social and political readings of the
Gumbooya engraved rock site, the diversity of official responses to land-use con-
flict at the Beachmere midden complex, and the capability of the Byron Bay
shipwrecks to acquire new meanings, all represent the gaze. However, they are
not simply what Fuery and Mansfield (1997: 56–57) describe as a “mechanism of
perception,” but rather display their “fundamental structure[s] in the ways in
which the subject[s] relate to the cultural order,” properties that are embedded in
the cultural heritage and its diverse constructions. The intertextuality of these
examples is articulated in contentions surrounding these items of heritage. Iden-
tifying multiple landscapes into which the individual heritage places and items
may be articulated reinforces the essential intertextuality of the constructs sur-
rounding these places and items (Cotter et al. 2001). Furthermore, adopting the
metaphor of text as an analytical device opens the way for an analysis of cultural
heritage that expands the range of acceptable views and meanings for that heri-
tage. In particular, the multiplicity of gazes becomes acceptable, as does the con-
tinuing action of redefining and multiplying values.
The liberating implications for management must be evident and will be devel-
oped below. It should be noted, however, that in practical terms, cultural heritage
management could be enhanced by adopting relatively simple conceptual models
of value and action structures for analyzing environment–people relationships.
Two such examples are Porteous’s (1996) model of the interaction between scien-
tific rigor and political urgency in defining dominant intellectual and practical
approaches to environment issues, and Short’s (1991) links between myths, ide-
ologies, and text in the study of relationships between environment, culture, and
society. These and many other models provide useful practical constructs to link
the complexities of cultural theory framing and intellectual acceptance of mul-
tiple read meanings, the complexities of multiple constructions of cultural heri-
tage meaning inherent in any pragmatic view of cultural heritage, and ap-
proaches to cultural heritage management sensitive to these complexities.
Some readings of cultural heritage places
In considering . . . problems it is easy to believe, each to ourself, that the

issues and problems are clear, the processes understood and the solution
therefore at hand. If this were so it would be good. Such views are generally
rapidly dispelled if the views are articulated to others. Then the range of
views press on us, and the lack of common knowledge becomes apparent.
. . . One of the greatest problems in modern life is the enormous range of
messages in the milieu in which we live. Our lives are overcrowded and we
deliberately switch, selecting what we want to hear and react to. . . . In all
this we run into the wide range of views and attitudes. In one way it is a
great feature of our society that we have our diversity of values, beliefs,
attitudes and understandings; it leads to our fascinating lives as human
beings. (Johnson 1994: 46–48)
Thus, an environmental scientist synthesizes the human contribution in compre-

hending complexity in environmental degradation. The emergence of the com-
mon theme in any discussion of environmental degradation that there are as
many perceptions and understandings of the degradation process as physical
factors, and thus of the practicalities of environmental management, the concep-
tion of complexity and diversity of opinion regarding underlying causative effects
becomes a useful analytical artifact (for example, Dovers 1994). Likewise, we
can turn to the practicalities of studying and formulating realistic management
practice in cultural heritage contexts. As indicated above, the values, equivalent
to the perceptions and understanding referred to above, may be diverse, and,
importantly, lead to equally diverse management practice.
In this section, case studies are presented, not for their own sake but for the
light they shed upon processes or structures of value formulation. The processes
importantly reflect the existence of fluidity and evolution of ideas and values
attached to cultural heritage. Equally, they highlight the influence of the politics
of site management and the effects of networks of interested people upon the
construction of meanings and values, which in turn guide people’s cognitive asso-
ciation with these cultural places.
Six case studies from coastal New South Wales and southeastern Queensland
(Australia) independently provide an insight into the way the meanings and val-
ues attached to places evolve and conflict during their public exposure. They
loosely cluster into three classes of cultural heritage place.
• Historical shipwrecks: Suffolk Park, where a public campaign of concern
developed over the potential destruction of a shipwreck site, and Byron
Bay, where a confusion of cultural and natural values developed within
efforts to develop a management strategy for the recreational use of a
shipwreck site;
• Historical settlement places: Woody Head, where a study of the values of
place held by long-term campground residents resulted in a sophisticated
geohistorical statement of personal values, and Alstonville, where a land-

scape heritage study increasingly elicited community understandings of
historical values associated with the landscape; and
• Aboriginal places: Beachmere, where legal considerations of conflicting
land use provided the stimulus to articulate a diversity of values, mean-
ings, and interest in the Indigenous cultural landscape of this coastal
area, and Gumbooya, an Aboriginal rock engraving site in suburban
Sydney, where some unconventional site uses highlight the inadequacy of
a unitary value system.
Each study emphasizes that while underlying community knowledge of historic
and cultural values was attached to the places, the action of studying these values
resulted in an evolving construction of interests and values. The involvement of
academic researchers, public campaigners, and public administrators led to the
places becoming increasingly and more complexly valued as historic and cultural
places by the community.
Readings of two historical shipwrecks
The Suffolk Park buried shipwreck

At Suffolk Park, a historic shipwreck is buried within coastal sands. That the
vessel was there has been known since the 1920s, and it was reencountered dur-
ing sand mining in the 1960s. Its exact location has been lost, and there is an
opinion that the vessel’s remains may have been destroyed during the sand min-
ing. However, several artifacts were removed in the past, and their recovery a few
years ago in part stimulated a renewed interest in the vessel. For various reasons,
the shipwreck was originally considered to be of considerable antiquity but was
later proven to date from the late nineteenth century (Boyd et al. 1993, 1994;
Boyd 1995). This shipwreck has attracted much interest from community and
professional groups (Boyd and Cotter 1996; Boyd et al. 1996).
Of importance here is the history of interest in this place. Much of the recent
renewed interest stems from a local campaign against a proposed residential
development. Prior to this campaign, local residents had been aware of the vessel
and had considered it to be part of this coastal area’s shipping history. However,
one of the campaign’s chief participants identified the shipwreck as part of the
natural and cultural heritage threatened by development, and thus part of the
evidence required to disallow any residential development (it was later shown
that the proposed development did not actually affect the place). Closely allied
with this campaign was the creation of a history, now shown to be largely falla-
cious (Boyd et al. 1994). In essence, the presence of the vessel was conflated with
a particular interpretation of Aboriginal stories of a massacre of early sailors
following a shipwreck and altercation involving the rape of a local Aboriginal
woman or women. This interpretation was supported by estimates of the story’s
age by reference to the generations of storytelling associated with it, and by

putative identification of a local rock feature as a primitive fort in which the
sailors may have sheltered. This interpretation implied an age for this European
ship predating, possibly by several centuries, the earliest documented European
presence on this coast, and thus attracted considerable public attention. Conse-
quently, amateur and professional historians, archaeologists, and other academ-
ics became involved, as did officials of the Heritage Branch of the New South
Wales Department of Planning, and members of the public. Each of these people
or groups acquired an inherent interest in the site and contributed to the under-
standing of this heritage site.
The current understanding now depends upon the individual interpretation
held. The scientific evidence indicates a recent age and thus lesser historical sig-
nificance, and the official view largely corresponds to this interpretation, al-
though with some difference of details. A section of the community probably still
considers the vessel to be older, and prefers the original interpretation. An inter-
esting development is the Aboriginal involvement. While the site is strictly not an
Indigenous one, the early interpretation of association with European–Aborigi-
nal contact has considerable Aboriginal significance. As the issue ran its course,
the local Aboriginal elders notably reiterated the early-presence interpretation,
and thus gave it the respectability of received tradition, probably reinforcing
community acceptance of this interpretation.
The Byron Bay historic shipwreck heritage

The management of historic shipwreck heritage may seem a relatively benign
undertaking, largely devoid of issues of cultural interaction, misappropriation,
and inappropriate context that may influence the management of Indigenous
places, and largely focusing on practical matters of material conservation. This
assumption is to a degree reflected in the relatively straightforward assessment
process used by government agencies in reviewing the cultural significance of
shipwreck sites (for example, Heritage Office 1996a, 1996b). At Byron Bay,
generic heritage assessment guidelines (Anon. 1990) were adapted to suit the
local underwater heritage (Clegg 1997). Evaluation followed official state guide-
lines and represented the traditional approach to defining cultural heritage val-
ues. It followed a three-stage process of (i) investigating the range of heritage
values, (ii) interpreting and comparing heritage values, and (iii) classifying the
significance. Thus, heritage values were first defined by reference to historical,
scientific, cultural, social, archaeological, architectural, aesthetic, natural, and
Aboriginal significance. Interpretation then focused on rarity, group value, land-
mark value, representativeness, and integrity, and finally classification placed
these significances in local through to global context. The emphasis is on the
cultural and social elements of cultural heritage, and in reality it is these elements
which will determine the managerial fate of a place. While Clegg was able in this
case to identify some significant elements of (mainly) historical, social and ar-
chaeological importance, and thus to make a case for further investigation, he

also made passing comments of some relevance to the discussions here. In
the case of the wreck of the ship Wollongbar, he noted that the site serves as
habitat for endangered marine species. A similar conclusion was drawn for
nearby historic jetty remains, which were noted to provide a hard substrate and
thus a refuge for marine organisms atypical of this sandy bay. In the case of the
wreck of the Tassie II, openings within the wreck provide habitat for green and
loggerhead turtles, both identified under Schedule 2 of the New South Wales
Threatened Species Conservation Act (1995). The significance is that the wrecks
provide a hard substrate within a largely soft-bottomed bay, introducing a micro-
environment highly suited to these endangered animals. This cultural heritage’s
significance has thus moved considerably from its initial role as historic monu-
ment, with all the social and archaeological implications such a definition brings,
to being items of significant environmental importance. This expansion of value,
however, continues. Presently, consideration is being given to these sites as recre-
ational places. Based on their historical interest and their emerging natural val-
ues, they are now acquiring recreational value, only, one suspects, to be further
enhanced by the increasing natural value of these places.
Readings of two historical settlement places
Woody Head recreational campground

Woody Head is a small settlement within the coastal Bundjalung National Park
of northern New South Wales. The location comprises a rocky headland, exten-
sive tidal rock platforms, beaches, and a sheltered bay. Importantly, the settle-
ment includes a campground used for much of the twentieth century by residents
of nearby rural towns, and it has been often used by these residents over many
years. Facilities include a shop, National Parks buildings, and a boat ramp. The
locality has a long Indigenous association, including an interdependency and
interrelationship between the local Yaegl people and the land, defined in terms of
Yaegl mythology. However, non-Indigenous use forms the basis of the study re-
ported here (Taylor 1997), a study centered on the place as a recreational place
set within the culture of long-term, if periodic, residents of the campground.
Woody Head’s non-Indigenous history revolves around recreational activities
(camping, fishing, swimming, and boating) and professional fishing. Through
the use of intensive interview methods, the study of the meanings that non-
Indigenous residents attributed to the place was founded on a recognition that
meanings are not essentialist, but subjective and formed by groups and individu-
als, and that the meanings and their interpretation reflect the complex of social
and cultural relationship of both interviewee and interviewer (Maykut and
Moorhouse 1996; Taylor and Bogden 1984; Tuan 1974, 1977). The study was
open to a complex diversity of expression of meanings, an openness appreciated
by the interviewees. Reporting the findings to the participants, interestingly, ap-

pears to have enhanced their sense of value and meaning and provided sanction
to previously nonexplicitly held views.
In practical terms, the study was structured round the initial identification of
groups of cognitive owners: eight groups were identified, and a single member of
each was interviewed. These private views were complemented by official views
derived from documents relating to the place. These sources revealed many
meanings of the relationship between residents and place: the cultural construc-
tions of the place. These were embedded in the perspectives of each participant
and official group, and appear to be related to the background of each, reflecting,
for example, personal attributes such as gender and age, and cultural, political,
social, and economic structures that define the participants’ lives and life histo-
ries. Structuring the emerging meanings provided eleven broad categories (the
following headings are given in keeping with the personal approach of this work;
the participants’ own words are used): Freedom (a place for the different and
new); Familiarity (continuity and ritual); “Woody Head as an inspiration for
me”; “It’s part of our culture” (the culture(s) of Woody Head); Conflict and
power; Woody Head (money and work); “It’s a safe place”; “A people’s place”
(family, friends, and generation); “A whole pile of memories”; The landscape;
“It’s just a very beautiful place”; and Woody Head is “special.”
These clusters of meanings were spread across the eight owner groups. Many,
such as those expressing ideas of safety and recreational values, were evident
across diverse groups. However, conflicts of meanings were also evident where
fundamental constructions of meaning differed, such as the National Parks and
Wildlife Service’s perception that people were only visitors to Woody Head (the
service is the official manager of the place). The permanent site holders, on the
other hand, consider Woody Head to be an integral part of their lives, and, based
on a significant history of presence and the essential cultural role the place plays
in their lives, that the place belongs to them and they to it.
Beyond these parallels or conflicts, however, it was also evident that the mean-
ings identified are not confined to one boundary or under a single heading. They
are fluid; they cross and meld within each story of meanings. They change and
reflect each other in the telling, forming a complex, total but ever-changing view
of Woody Head and the meanings constructed around it. In particular, the mix-
ture of meanings appears to get more complex over time, with the interweaving
of human, place, landscape, and meaning, at times resulting in increasing depths
of feeling for Woody Head. As noted above, the very process of this study con-
tributed to this dynamic evolution, assisting in part to articulate and reinforce or
support certain expressions of these cultural meanings.
Alstonville historic town and countryside

The Alstonville study attempted to determine, as part of the local environmental
planning processes, whether the surrounding rural landscape was deemed a valu-
able landscape of cultural significance (Gardiner and Knox 1996; Gardiner

1999). Alstonville is a relatively small, rural village, founded in the early twenti-
eth century in the relatively densely populated rural area of northeast New South
Wales, and located on a basalt plateau close to an escarpment overlooking the
ocean and a plateau edge with views toward forest-covered mountains. The pla-
teau is regarded as a distinct entity within the region, and the town tends, as with
many small towns in the region, to have a distinct if often not clearly articulated
identity. With little previous heritage assessment in the immediate area, the local
community was consulted to identify local indicators of cultural significance,
community understandings of values attached to the landscape, and any particu-
lar senses of attachment to heritage items.
This study adopted a social value methodology (Johnston, 1994), placing
emphasis on the expression of social values as indicators of a significant interest
in an area’s cultural heritage. The study revolved around group and individual
interviews, with younger people being engaged through a high school photo-
graphic assignment. In this study, the term heritage item became a general one
referring to items of cultural significance and largely reflecting community ex-
pressions of what was considered to be cultural heritage. As a truly social con-
struction, the term was defined in response to the participants’ developing ex-
pression of cultural heritage and included a wide range of places and objects:
moveable objects, relics, street trees, cultural landscapes, towns, buildings, gar-
dens, conservation areas, waterfalls, swimming holes, and so on. This approach
confirmed that people develop attachments to places as a consequence of using
these places over time, and it acknowledges that there is more to heritage studies
than what is usually gleaned from historical or material research on the physical
landscape (Gardiner and Knox 1996, 1997; Gardiner 1999).
Prior to this study, twenty-four local places had been listed on the registers of
the National Estate, the New South Wales National Trust, and the Ballina (that
is, local) Shire Council Local Environmental Plan. Following this community
participation study, in which participants were encouraged to think of heritage in
broad terms such as natural features, historic items, views and travel routes,
landmarks, and community places, over a hundred items were identified as lo-
cally important. Notably, this list was much wider than those in the various
official registers, including such items as local waterfalls (important in social
history as well as for aesthetic values), land activities such as peanut cultivation
and “stooking” (regionally and aesthetically distinctive), public works such as
the local Duck Creek weir, and landscape views. Furthermore, most formally
listed items were considered important to the community. The omission of some
items, however, may have been an artifact of the survey or a reflection of shifting
public knowledge or values.
By broadening the expression of cultural heritage, notably by encouraging the
community to construct its own expressions of significance and value, several
consequential outputs now contribute to the redefinition of the area’s cultural
heritage. These outputs include a formal report identifying community-based

heritage items, now lodged in local libraries, public talks to community groups,
heritage tours to special places in the area, a heritage main street study, a heritage
information board for public display, and a successful application for listing on
the register of the National Trust of New South Wales. These all have an impact
upon the community and its respective memory and attachment to heritage
items, and thus have redefined the public understanding and expression of the
cultural heritage value of the area.
Readings of two Aboriginal places

Beachmere Aboriginal midden complex
Issues of heritage value definition at the Beachmere midden complex in Moreton
Bay, southeast Queensland, emerged as a by-product of litigation associated with
an application for sand extraction. Here, Aboriginal archaeological sites formed
the focus of community and professional interest during the litigative process
(Boyd and Cotter 1996; Boyd et al. 1996). That process required explicit state-
ments of interest from all parties, and allowed for a detailed examination of the
relative roles and views held by each party. The midden complex, comprising
shell middens of varying size and age, is a valuable regional archaeological re-
source whose integrity is threatened by recent land-use development. For this
discussion, what clearly emerged from the litigative process was the diversity of
interest and range of groups who claimed cognitive ownership of this cultural
heritage. Importantly, some cognitive owners, especially local residents, became
aware of their role only during the process. Equally, several Indigenous groups
claiming right of ownership, and each defining that right differently, became
apparent only when their role regarding the site needed to be clarified. For each
group, a social, political, cultural, and economic context can be described, and
for each context, subtle differences in inferred cultural value can be identified.
Of particular interest in this analysis is the complex of interactions between
identified groups. From mapping the web of relationships between groups, it
became apparent that neither the notion of cultural place nor the interests of
groups in cultural places were static or absolute (Boyd et al. 1996). Each may be
influenced by links between potential stakeholders (government legislation, for
example, may affect the way groups and individuals define and express their
association with a cultural place) and by the dynamic nature of the relationships
between individual groups and cultural places. The mining industry, for example,
has a capacity to create, destroy, modify, and interpret places of cultural heritage
value, depending on criteria such as the nature of the place, economic impera-
tives, and historical perspectives. Indeed, by mapping the web of relationships, an
ecological-type system became evident, defined by cognitive owners, landscape
ideas and values, strategic and political relationships, and so on. Few compo-
nents were static, and shifts in one necessarily affected all others.
Whatever the focus, a striking element of this analysis was the complexity of
this cultural place and its definition as either an isolated site or a cultural land-
scape and, by implication, the potential effects such interpretations have on
stakeholders and their competing interests. Previously, with reference to the no-
tion of midden complex, a cultural landscape model encompassing past and
present Indigenous landscapes was deemed appropriate for the interpretation of
the area’s cultural heritage. It became clear from the nature and number of iden-
tifiable cognitive owners, however, that many claims of association with or cog-
nitive ownership of the midden complex existed. Interestingly, it was evident that
the very nature of the perceived threat to the heritage in part defined those groups
and individuals claiming association with the heritage, and had the potential to
introduce values seemingly unrelated to the original issue.
A perceived threat to the broader regional environment produced claims of
association by such regional groups as the Sunshine Coast Environment Council
and the Bribie Island Environmental Protection Association, whose concerns
related largely to wildlife habitat change and depletion. The principal non-
Indigenous community group was the Beachmere Community Association, whose
claim of association was based on the threat to local amenity expressed in terms
of ecological damage, pollution, increased traffic, and potential land devalua-
tion. Interestingly, from an Aboriginal cultural heritage management perspective,
local residents supported those Indigenous community groups who, largely be-
cause of inadequate consultation and a perceived threat to their cultural heritage,
opposed the sand extraction operation. Much of this non-Indigenous community
support can be attributed to genuine concern for Aboriginal cultural heritage,
although some of this support appears to have been political: Indigenous cultural
heritage issues, because of their complexity and sensitivity, were perceived to be
pivotal in preventing the sand extraction operation.
Five Indigenous community groups were identified in this process: FAIRA
(Foundation for Aboriginal and Islander Research Action), the Dalaipi and Jin-
doorburrie organizations, and two tribal groups, both referring to themselves as
Gubbi Gubbi. FAIRA makes a claim of association on the basis of a general
concern for Aboriginal cultural heritage and a perception that inadequate re-
search was employed in the original environmental impact statement to establish
legitimate claims to cognitive ownership of the midden by Aboriginal groups
involved. Although FAIRA has interests shared by all Indigenous groups, all such
groups did not support its advocacy role. The two Gubbi Gubbi groups claimed
cognitive ownership of the midden complex and surrounding area on the basis of
tribal and kinship affiliations, but differed in their form of kinship. In contrast,
the Dalaipi group is a social action organization primarily concerned with assist-
ing local Aboriginals with access to housing and health care, and it is intimately
linked with the Jindoorburrie organization. These two groups associate with the
midden complex by a social and historical attachment to the area and a clear
delegation of cognitive ownership rights to the cultural heritage via a tribal affili-
ation with the Undanbi tribe, which is considered by the Jindoorburrie to be the
only tribe with ownership rights to the midden. This denies the Gubbi Gubbi
claims of exclusive ownership based on tribal affiliation.
These competing claims of tribal affiliation introduce complexities to the cul-
tural heritage management of this midden complex, and they are further compli-
cated by the association of group members with external bodies as government
and industry advisers. A trainee heritage officer with the Department of Environ-
ment and Heritage, for example, both has affiliations with the Dalaipi and
Jindoorburrie organizations, as well as a historical link to the area as a former
resident, and is influenced by departmental policy and research methodology.
Whether real or imagined, potential conflict of interest arises, possibly affecting
the implementation of government policy and, more importantly, giving one
group preferential access to the decision-making process.
Gumbooya Aboriginal rock engraving site

Gumbooya, an Aboriginal rock engraving site in Sydney, New South Wales, is
superficially less contentious: there are no matters in litigious contention here,
although the study of associated values and cognitive ownership yielded some
less tenuous, but theoretically more important, processes. Gumbooya Reserve is
an area of bush and rock outcrops in the northern suburbs of Sydney with Ab-
original rock engravings typical of the area’s Aboriginal cultural heritage (Sattler
1995; Boyd and Cotter 1996; Boyd et al. 1996). Several official bodies (the Na-
tional Parks and Wildlife Service, the local Shire Council, and the regional Ab-
original Land Council) have responsibilities for this site, but on investigation of
community interest, several additional important and entirely unofficial public
groups were identified as having inherent interest in the site. They all thus have
claims as cognitive owners. The rock surfaces provide short and convenient path-
ways through the reserve between residential areas and the local College of Tech-
nical and Further Education and a shopping center. Furthermore, some of the
rock surfaces provide ideal ramps and ledges for skate boarding, a use encour-
aged by the fact that this site is more conveniently located than local official
skateboard ramps. Officially, management issues at the site cover a range of
typical issues: control of access, interpretation and representation of the site as
Aboriginal heritage, control of weeds and other physical intrusions, and removal
or limitation of sources of damage to the site. When appropriate management
was being determined, it became apparent that the various groups with some
legitimate interest in the site hold very different conceptual values regarding the
site, and each places the site within a different geographical context.
The official bodies have some legitimate access to ownership, albeit framed
within the limits of their jurisdiction; this is moderated by the individualistic
approach of individual staff members, who are influenced by not only the culture
of their employer but also their own personal cultural context and experience.
The National Parks and Wildlife Service has a statutory obligation to protect and
preserve the site and therefore officially places the site within the context of the
totality of Aboriginal sites, both as physical entities and as cultural items, in the
state. The service staff, while working within the service legislative and institu-
tional context, tends to impose a greater personal sense of value upon the site as
both an Aboriginal and a natural site of local and regional importance. This
duality of value results in the staff placing the site both into a statewide, official
context, defined in terms of the distribution of Aboriginal sites, and into the local
and regional contexts of such sites and their local and regional distribution and
Aboriginal meaning. Furthermore, the value of this particular site is enhanced
when viewed as a node of uncharacteristic nature within a specifically urban
geography. The local government authority responsible for this area takes a dif-
ferent value stance for this place. Whereas individual staff members recognize
heritage value in the site, official interest provides indirect cognitive ownership of
the cultural heritage, constructing the site as a place of natural bushland conser-
vation and protection. Geographically, values are localized within the geographi-
cal and socioadministrative context of local government authority.
The third official body provides interesting comment upon the emergence of
site-specific value. The relevant local Aboriginal Land Council represents Indig-
enous views in this region and has, ostensibly, the greatest claims of cognitive
ownership of a site such as this. It, after all, represents the activities of the cultural
ancestors of the region’s Indigenous people. The Land Council and its members
clearly view this site as an intrinsic part of both the past and present Indigenous
cultural heritage: it is representative not merely of past events, but is a physical
manifestation of present Indigenous residence. However, interestingly but per-
haps unsurprisingly (there are many such sites in the region), the council did not
know of its existence prior to late 1995, when it was approached by a researcher
inquiring about the values and relationships between people of this site. The
council, therefore, did not have a specific cognitive interest in the site, but found
it very easy to transfer a general interest in such sites to a specific interest in this
site: this transfer was done in a matter of minutes during an interview. Once done,
the site became valued on a number of planes. Its intrinsic value as an engraving
site dovetailed well with the council’s view of a network of sites under threat by
conflicting land use within the council’s jurisdiction; as a site type, it could also be
placed into a broader regional distribution of like sites. Most importantly, how-
ever, the site was immediately placed into a political landscape of Aboriginal
claim to sites and the desire to exclude (most) other people and uses from the site;
its engraved symbolism became subsumed into a strong contemporary political
symbolism.
Despite these official statements of value, further interest is evident. Local,
non-Indigenous residents played a pivotal role in defining this cultural place. A
group of pedestrians valued the site as a convenient pedestrian thoroughfare: this
valuation has bearings on site management, and other than indicating a construc-
tion of place in terms of local geography, adds little to the development of cultural
value. A second group, local skateboarding youths, took a much more active role
in developing cultural value. The location and geometry of the site makes it a
most suitable and accessible skateboard site, and local youths value this site as
such. However, in doing so, they are reinforcing values of a local subculture and
marking the place as a focal point of that subculture. This may be seen as a
natural extension of the original function of Indigenous engraving at the place: it
has heightened value within the culture of the social group using the place, which
contributes to the self-definition and assertion of that culture. This activity, there-
fore, imparts upon the site a sense of heritage value integrally associated with
contemporary youth culture, which, while it may be most closely associated with
original site function, is likely to elicit the strongest opposition from other cogni-
tive owners.
The final group, while also apparently being relatively benign, a benignity
marked by the lack of any opposition to its activities, possibly presents a cultural
process of equal import to the skateboarders’ cultural redefinition. There were
local residents, mainly those whose houses back onto the reserve, who had devel-
oped a sense of the site being important as an Aboriginal place. One resident
adopted an unofficial custodial role, keeping an eye on the site and keeping the
site tidy and in good repair. This was the strongest sense of custodianship dis-
played by any of the parties associated with this place and to some extent had
replaced the traditional Indigenous custodial role at the site.
A discussion: Rigidity or a changing order?
An important feature of colonial discourse is its dependence on the concept

of fixity in the ideological construction of otherness. Fixity, as the sign of
cultural/historical/racial difference in the discourse of colonialism, is a
paradoxical mode of representation: it connotes rigidity and a changing
order as well as disorder, degeneracy and daemonic repetition. (Bhabha
1994: 66)
Every commodity reproduces the ideology of the system that produced it:
a commodity is ideology made material. . . . Culture [is] the active process
of generating and circulating meanings and pleasures within a social sys-
tem: culture . . . can never be adequately described in terms of the buying
and selling of commodities. . . . In a consumer society, all commodities have
cultural as well as functional values. . . . The audience . . . now becomes a
producer . . . of meanings and pleasures. The original commodity . . . is, in
the cultural economy, a text, a discursive structure of potential meanings
and pleasures. (Fiske 1989: 14, 23, 27)
While the case studies represent empirical observations (but consider the implica-
tions of the concepts of heritage as text), it is important to consider whether they
can be framed within broader conceptual contexts. Are they unique observations
or examples of general cases? A growing literature of critique identifies cultural
values as complex, in many cases intangible, and certainly multifaceted. Bhabha’s
observation of the role of fixity in the colonial discourse provides a valuable
starting point in analyzing the examples. Bhabha’s fixity, of course, is presented
as a foil for a discussion of the diversity and fluidity of cultural values and the
diversity of expression, whether viewed as a reading or as an articulation of
cultural values. Fiske’s analysis of popular culture indicates a useful direction
that such discussion may take, one in which the processes of generation and
circulation or expression of meanings as cultural commodities allow some under-
standing of the system within which they are evident. In practical terms, this may
provide a guide to the practice of cultural heritage management.
However, returning to the colonial allusion is an important step. By doing so,
one is forced to contemplate the concept of cultural heritage management. In the
immediate sense, cultural heritage management is about “making better deci-
sions concerning culturally important places” (Pearson and Sullivan 1995: 8). In
practical terms, this involves the identification, assessment, and evaluation of
individual objects and places, and the formulation of plans, strategies, and prac-
tical work schedules. In implementing such schemes, issues of material conserva-
tion, visitor management, education, public access, record keeping, research, and
so on become increasingly important. However, all this is predicated on an under-
lying Western philosophy of the value of culture and its representative, heritage.
This heritage may be divided into cultural places, a rather amorphous concept
including in many instances the entire landscape, which represent the mark of
humanity on the earth’s surface, and heritage places, which tend to be more
localized and contain “some degree of heritage value or significance for people
today or in the future” (Pearson and Sullivan 1995: 7). However one defines
cultural places or heritage places, that definition reflects the underlying ideology
of the society making the definition. Although originally aimed at understanding
items of popular material culture, Fiske’s comment that “every commodity [read
cultural heritage item] reproduces the ideology of the system that produced it: a
commodity [cultural heritage] is ideology made material” is most apt here (1989:
14).
Cultural heritage management stems from a long Western antiquarian intel-
lectual tradition of examining the past (for example, Horton 1991; Renfrew and
Bahn 1991), founded in the Renaissance and the emergence of modern science
from the natural history tradition. This tradition may be couched in terms of the
“discovery of ‘truths’ and ‘facts,’ or rather claims for the possibility of objective
truths about the world and ‘Man’s’ place within it . . . and thus considered as a set
of discourses concerned with the possibilities of representing reality and defining
eternal truths” (Walsh 1992: 7). However, in reality it is and has been set firmly
within the sociopolitics of the places and times, predominantly eighteenth and
nineteenth century Europe, in which it emerged. Any careful examination of the
social context of science (sensu lato) is likely to reach similar conclusions to this:
that “scientists are perhaps too slow to consider the connections between their
interventions in the laboratory and structures of social domination. . . . Scientific
knowledge is mediated, embodied knowledge and . . . scientific facts are socially
constructed” (Demeritt 1996: 500). In a nutshell, the intellectual tradition from
which cultural heritage management is derived and from which it maintains
its place in modern Western society is the colonial expression of the positivist,
reductionist, and specialist scientific tradition. Such tradition, as indeed any tra-
dition does, determines a limiting range of possible relationships between human
groups (the colonist, with a baggage of Western perceptions of racial, ethnic, and
social hierarchies and conditions, and the Indigenous or Aboriginal), between
people (“Man”) and nature, and between people and knowledge. This melange
creates real boundaries to the type of management of cultural heritage possible
within a society. Certain expressions of culture are acceptable (the high culture of
opera, classical music, certain visual art forms, architecture as art rather than
utility, and so on), whereas others, such as popular music, popular forms of dress,
and utilitarian technology, are not. Certain values may be applied to the assess-
ment of the quality of these expressions of culture, these values usually being
those of the educated, middle- to upper-class, and, often, white and male part of
society. Certain evidence is acceptable, with, for example, so-called objective
or scientific evidence usually outweighing folklore, storytelling, or mythology
(where these latter forms are even considered). Overlaps between, for example,
historical and contemporary, high and low culture, social and aesthetic expres-
sions, and cultural and natural tend to be treated conservatively. Ethnocentric
thinking and ethnic stereotyping, however well disguised, inevitably influence
thinking and action. Facts are privileged over opinion and value. Finally, in terms
of the actual practice of cultural heritage management, a minimalist (even reduc-
tionist) approach is generally favored.
We return to the assertion, based on observation, mentioned in the beginning,
that the tradition of (Western) cultural heritage management has been to define
cultural places in culturally, temporally, and geographically limited ways, and
that such definitions tend to be conservative: monocultural or monoethnic, to a
lesser extent monotemporal, and most frequently microgeographical. This form
of definition assumes that (i) the cultural place is defined by reference to one
cultural or ethnic group who claims or is attributed sole rights over the cultural
capital of the place; (ii) the place is identified in terms of a static history fossilizing
meaning to few single points in time; and (iii) the place is defined by its immediate
surroundings as an individual point apparently unrelated to its landscape con-
texts. All else in the practice of cultural heritage management thus follows a
limited path.
In this paper, we argue, however, that by opening the definition of cultural
heritage, by refocusing from object to subject, by allowing recognition of the
social construction of multiple and fluid meanings, by privileging the multiple
readings of cultural heritage, and by accepting a diverse and fluid cognitive own-
ership of cultural heritage, management may be liberated from such limitations.
Culture, time, and geography may be harnessed to create insightful and dynamic
understandings of cultural heritage rather than be used to encase that heritage in
restrictive boundaries.
A conclusion: Liberation and the power of social formation
The role of the critic-analyst, then, is not to reveal the true or hidden mean-
ings of the text, or event, to trace the readings that people make of it; rather,
it is to trace the play of power in the social formation, a power game within
which all texts are implicated and within which popular culture is always
on the side of the subordinate. . . . A reading is the interplay of tactics and
strategy, it is a poaching raid, it is part of the power game of culture. . . .
Popular readings are always contradictory; they must encompass both that
which is to be resisted and the immediate resistances to it. (Fiske 1989: 45)
In this paper, we attempt to follow Fiske’s suggested path, the tracing of power in
social formation, by accepting the inherent validity of diverse meanings attached
to cultural heritage evident by observation (albeit only one of the many possible
readings available). In particular, we highlight several matters: the important and
critical consequence of diverting attention from the cultural place or artifact as
object to the subject as observer or person making value judgments about that
place or artifact; the diversity of meaning that may be read into the cultural
heritage, where that heritage is viewed more as text than as essentialist object; the
pivotal role the investigator may play in influencing readings of the heritage; and
that existing meanings may evolve through time and new meanings emerge.
The argument, therefore, becomes liberating because it accepts the legitimate
right of multiple meanings as being representative of cultural heritage and rejects
notions of essentialism in cultural heritage. It also accepts the fluidity and, at
times, contradictory nature of these constructions of meanings. It does so for
good reason: by such acceptance, cultural heritage management should invari-
ably become more inclusive and imaginative in its application. Management thus
would become a matter of identifying the poaching raids, not to detect, deflect, or
deter them, but to acknowledge them and to integrate them into a more imagina-
tive management. By doing so, of course, management would be successfully
subverting the constructed meanings: the meanings often built at the popular or
subordinate edges of the mainstream society managing (and traditionally defin-
ing in limited essentialist terms) the cultural heritage. By doing so, it will invari-
ably stimulate further construction of meaning. And here we return to our start-
ing point, to the Bhabha’s “paradoxical mode of representation: the rigidity and
. . . changing order . . . degeneracy and daemonic repetition” (Bhabha 1994: 66).
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114 / Barbara J. Little
The U.S. National Register of Historic Places

and the shaping of archaeological significance
Barbara J. Little
I wish to highlight the connection between the public nature of archaeology and
the public nature of the National Register of Historic Places, especially as it is
now perceived and presented. Listing in the National Register ascribes status to
archaeological resources that they otherwise do not have. In the case of precon-
tact sites, such status helps most (non-indigenous) citizens understand and better
appreciate the long-term history of the land that is now the United States. In the
case of postcontact sites, such status helps the American public to understand
that the history of America as colony and nation includes archaeology. There are,
therefore, implications in the severe underrepresentation of archaeological prop-
erties in the national lists.
The National Register of Historic Places
The Historic Sites Act of 1935 authorized the Secretary of Interior to recognize as
National Historic Landmarks (NHLs) nationally significant properties in United
States history and archaeology. The National Historic Preservation Act of 1966
(NHPA) expanded this recognition to properties of state and local significance
with the creation of the National Register of Historic Places. All NHLs and
cultural units of the National Park System are automatically listed in the Na-
tional Register. The National Register, therefore, is meant to be a comprehensive
official list of the United States’ cultural resources considered worthy of preserva-
tion. To be listed, tangible properties must be significant and have sufficient
integrity to convey that significance.
The passage of the NHPA was a response to the unfettered development,
urban renewal, and widespread destruction of historic places in the post–World
War II years. This preservation act does not necessarily protect properties, but
legislation and regulations ensure that there is consideration of historic proper-
ties if federal funds or permits are involved in projects. The fate of archaeological
The U.S. National Register of Historic Places / 115
sites or any other historic property on private land, where no public money is
involved, is completely in private hands.
The National Register in context
Many archaeologists working in the United States would say that there is no
point in going to the trouble of preparing a nomination and working with the
state (or federal or tribal) historic preservation office to nominate an archaeologi-
cal property because under Section 106 of the NHPA, the same protection is
provided for a site that is determined eligible for listing as for one that is actually
listed. (See http://www.cr.nps.gov/linklaws.htm for the text of laws and regula-
tions.)
If the purpose of the National Register were to simply flag sites for mitigation
or avoidance, then this response would be reasonable. However, the National
Register, established over thirty years ago by the same legislation that gave us the
Section 106 process, has become much more than “a list of places worthy of
preservation,” and archaeology has become much more than it was in 1966 as
well.
During the first several years of the NHPA, properties were afforded consid-
eration only if they were actually listed. Executive Order 11593 in 1972 and later
amendments to the act in 1976 expanded that protection to unlisted eligible
properties, spawning a whole industry of cultural resource management (CRM)
tied to all kinds of projects with federal involvement. Reference to Section 106 in
U.S. archaeological parlance refers to this provision of the act. The National
Register criteria have become enormously important in U.S. archaeology. They
are applied far beyond the actual listing of sites to nearly every potentially threat-
ened site on federal, and much state, land. It is clear that state offices, where many
of the day-to-day recommendations about significance are made, use what is
currently listed on the register as a guide to determining what is eligible for the
register (for example, Kuhn and Little 2000).
The legislation itself was created over several years under lots of influences.
The “New History” was actively promoted in the 1960s, but its practitioners
were not extensively involved in the preservation movement, which was influ-
enced by a separate section of the history profession. The “New Archaeology,” in
contrast, was more actively promoted, and, although not the sole influence on the
legislation, its “scientific,” “problem-oriented,” “and deductive” approach was
codified in the way that the National Register criteria were written and applied to
archaeological sites.
The data-gathering industry that resulted from this legislation and its amend-
ments changed the way American archaeology was done. Reflecting on the
thirty-year anniversary of the law, Hester Davis (1996, 44) recently wrote:
“Without the National Historic Preservation Act, archeology might have re-
mained a largely esoteric endeavor. With the National Historic Preservation Act,
archeology has been transformed into public archeology, and has changed the
future of the past forever.” We archaeologists often behave as if we can have our
choice of both worlds: We seem to want the control and secrecy that being an
esoteric endeavor allows, and we also want public interest and knowledge and
the public law that supports much of the work we now do.
The data collected since the mid-1970s has far outstripped either our ability or
our will to synthesize it. There is an ironic twist to the results of the data collec-
tion, problem-oriented approach codified into public law. The Section 106 pro-
cess has become such an efficient management tool that land management needs
rather than archaeological research goals control the process. Quite opposed to
the goals of problem-oriented archaeology is management-driven archaeology,
wherein research in many cases has become so generic that the specifics are irrel-
evant. We often end up seeking to answer the same important questions. In some
states, the same generic summary of the past (the they-made-stone-tools-and-
hunted-and-then-they-made-pottery-and-planted sort of history) precedes the
actual report of survey or test results. There may be little attempt to place results
in the context of what is known or, more importantly, what may be new and
challenge what is known. It is no wonder that some parts of the public are ques-
tioning what we have learned and whether we continue to learn enough to make
it worth spending public money (see Altschul, this volume).
If a site is determined eligible and is going to be affected by a federal undertak-
ing, then generally it is either avoided or mitigated by data-recovery excavation.
If a site is mitigated, basic site report information may get entered in the National
Archeological Database (NADB) or in some comparable accessible database.
That does not seem to happen frequently enough. If avoided, a site is a perfect
candidate for nomination to the National Register, but that rarely happens. Con-
sider that the register annually receives approximately 1,200–1,500 nomina-
tions, while about 12,000 properties are determined eligible by the states (NPS
1997). No national database of properties determined to be eligible is available;
often that information remains buried in survey reports or office memos. That is,
it virtually disappears. When information on sites disappears, it becomes inacces-
sible to the public, and that loss tugs archaeology back into the esoteric endeavor
it once was.
The National Register criteria for eligibility
Properties are nominated by states, federal agencies, and Indian tribes under four
criteria: their association with important (a) events, (b) persons, (c) architecture,
art, or engineering, or (d) information. (See table 7.1 for the full criteria.) When
listed, archaeological sites are nearly always included under this last criterion,
that is, for their important information. Other significance is occasionally ac-
knowledged; for example, spectacular ruins in the Southwest are sometimes
Table 7.1. The National Register criteria for evaluation
The quality of significance in American history, architecture, archaeology, engineer-

ing, and culture is present in districts, sites, buildings, structures, and objects that
possess integrity of location, design, setting, materials, workmanship, feeling, and
association, and:
a) That are associated with events that have made a significant contribution to
the broad patterns of our history; or
b) That are associated with the lives of persons significant in our past; or
c) That embody the distinctive characteristics of a type, period, or method of
construction, or that represent the work of a master, or that possess high
artistic values, or that represent a significant and distinguishable entity
whose components may lack individual distinction; or
d) That have yielded, or may be likely to yield, information important in
prehistory or history.
Source: Code of Federal Regulations, Title 36, Part 60.
listed for architectural value, and rock art may be listed for its artistic as well as
information value.
The language of the criteria sounds straightforward but also is quite general.
In their introduction to a collection of articles on assessing archaeological signifi-
cance of historic sites, Lees and Noble (1990: 10) assert that the “National Reg-
ister criteria, as almost everyone agrees, are woefully inadequate for providing a
workable definition of site significance.” The major problems Lees and Noble
identify as subjective, biased, and inconsistent approaches to historic sites in
survey, evaluation, and treatment may be inherent in a set of criteria flexible
enough to be used for all types of properties throughout the country. As one
solution, they promote the idea of context, which has actually long been essential
to the National Register evaluation process. Over the years, there have been calls
for more explicit significance criteria (for example, Raab and Klinger 1977; King
1978; King and Lyneis 1978; and others in Briuer and Mathers 1996: III b1; see
also Briuer and Mathers 1996: III b8). No such calls, however, have offered
evaluation schemes that are regionally or nationally applicable (Briuer and
Mathers 1996: 12). There have also been those who have argued that the criteria
are adequate (for example, Sharrock and Grayson 1979; Barnes et al. 1980;
Wendorf 1980; LeBlanc 1983; and see Briuer and Mathers 1996: III b8).
The actual application of the criteria has developed over the thirty-plus years
that they have been in place and used by state historic preservation officers and
federal preservation officers. Guidance from the keeper of the National Regis-
ter is currently provided in a series of National Register Bulletins, many of

which are available over the Internet at http://www.cr.nps.gov/nr/publications/
bulletins.htm.
An assumption embedded in the criterion of important information is that
information is the only reason that archaeological sites may be worthy of preser-
vation. The single-minded focus on information ignores other values that the
public sees in archaeology, including associative, educational, aesthetic, national-
istic, and economic (such as in the form of tourism draws) values. We ought not
to ignore these other values of sites, unless we are committed to archaeology
being for archaeologists only (Lipe 1984; Moratto and Kelly 1978).
The National Register significance of archaeological sites is a narrow concept
that does not encompass the ways in which various publics perceive and use
archaeology. It is also quite different from the significance assumed to be at-
tached to other kinds of properties acknowledged by the national preservation
program.
For a property to be listed, it need meet only one criterion. In spite of the
general way in which the criteria are written, they often are interpreted in such a
way that no more than one criterion is applied. King (1998: 77) comments on the
apparent illogic of this practice: “Arguably, though, to be eligible under Criterion
D a place must also be eligible under Criterion A. How can a place have impor-
tant information about the past if it’s not associated with some sort of important
pattern of events?” The keeper, who manages the National Register, has re-
sponded in public meetings to such statements by making the point that the
criteria have been kept separate and applied separately so that they maintain their
distinctiveness. Otherwise, it would indeed be difficult to use any criterion with-
out including criterion a (C. Shull, personal communication). In spite of this long
effort to keep the criteria separate, the trend has been changing, particularly with
regard to archaeological properties. In the past several years, the keeper has
frequently stated that archaeological properties may be eligible under more crite-
ria than just criterion d. In practice, however, this application has been difficult to
achieve, particularly because of the requirement that a property eligible under
criteria a, b, or c must have a demonstrated ability to convey its significance,
while a property eligible under criterion d is required to have only a demon-
strated potential to yield important information. Conveying significance is usu-
ally interpreted in terms of aboveground, visible remains that are readily appar-
ent to a member of the general public. I drafted the revised National Register
Bulletin on evaluating and registering archaeological properties to make the ap-
propriate application of all criteria to archaeological properties a little more
transparent (Little et al. 2000).
The evaluation criteria for the National Register are used not only for formal
listing but also for the daily work of CRM. Defining the research potential, and
increasingly other values, of archaeological sites and districts according to these
criteria has affected the way the public and the profession regards the significance
of archaeology.
Criterion d’s specification that the archaeological information be “important”
makes the assumption that we know what the important questions are now and
what they will be in the future. Problems arise, of course, when the future brings
new methods, new questions, new types of archaeology, and the need to reexam-
ine old conclusions. If we are honest, we cannot predict either what we will want
to know or what we will value in the future. Peacock (1996: 42) summarizes the
problem this way: “Debates concerning significance in archaeology have helped
establish the problem-oriented research design as the major way in which CRM
projects are structured. The major drawback of this approach is that it fails to
insure the survival of an archaeological database for future research needs.”
Therefore, while the National Register criteria are firmly entrenched in CRM
and are broadly applied, they are also widely resisted, as many archaeologists
perceive that applying current research values to sites may unintentionally impair
future research because judgments about significance change over time. Some
federal agencies and states have created the category “potentially eligible” for
sites. Peacock (1996: 42) writes, “Potentially significant sites located on federal
lands should not be evaluated unless absolutely necessary, but set aside for pres-
ervation and research needs.” The idea behind this unofficial category is to allow
managers to take sites into account when planning without tying a site’s fate to
current questions. Whether sites and districts actually are preserved more effec-
tively with or without formal evaluation is an open question, the answer to which
may rest in the management practices of particular agencies.
There is a disconnection between the use of the National Register criteria
under the Section 106 process and the formal listing of properties that reflects the
dual role of the National Register, a split that Tom King (1998: 93) emphasizes by
insisting that “eligibility determination and nomination are completely different
things.” He sees a listing in the National Register as useful only as an honorary
designation, not in the planning process. He writes (1998: 95): “In a rational
world, the Register would be an honorific tool and we’d use other, simpler,
cheaper, more flexible tools for planning purposes. . . . We struggle along trying
to use the Register, and its eligibility criteria, for both honorific and planning
purposes.”
The National Register, archaeology, and the national memory
Archaeological properties, which are almost exclusively nominated under crite-

rion d, are underrepresented because they make up only about 7 percent of more
than 72,000 listings, whereas more than 80 percent of the listings are for archi-
tectural significance. A higher percentage, about 10 percent, of more than 2,000
NHLs are archaeological. Does it matter that archaeological sites are under-
represented? The National Register is of two minds: one commemorates history

and the other reserves scientific information for future retrieval. The first is con-
cerned with association, feeling, and connection with the past, with heritage,
with the creation of a national identity. This part is primarily architectural and
overwhelmingly non-Native American. The other, which uses criterion d, is
largely archaeological.
The introductory materials to early editions of the National Register book
provide little context of how the list might be used or perceived, although the
bicentennial edition applauds the evolution of historic preservation from elitism
to expanded representation. It is not until the latest edition published in 1994
(which I believe is the tenth edition) that the anonymous authors (NPS 1994: viii
and ix) of the introduction write that a listing in the National Register:
has meaning that far transcends an honor roll of significant places. . . .
National Register documentation of historic properties becomes part of a
national database and research resource available for planning, manage-
ment, research, education, and interpretation. Listing furnishes authentica-
tion of the worth of a historic place and often influences a community’s
attitude toward its heritage.
Perhaps the final point is most important: listing in the register serves to authen-
ticate the worth of a historic place. It is this authentication that gives the register
power in public perception. The preamble to the 1966 NHPA states: “The his-
torical and cultural foundations of the Nation should be preserved as a living part
of our community life and development in order to give a sense of orientation to
the American people.” I think that the implication is clear that the list of signifi-
cant places is meant to be representative of American history. It strikes me that
archaeological resources might account for more than 7 percent of actual historic
places and should have a higher representation on this official list. I do not claim
to know what an ideal proportion might be, but consider that history before
European exploration and settlement lasted at least twenty times as long as his-
tory after that settlement began. The dearth of archaeological listings results in a
deafening silence: a gap in the national memory.
The National Register and the National Historic Landmark program play an
important role in influencing public perceptions (and policy decisions) about
what is significant in American history. The connection between the public na-
ture of archaeology and the public nature of the National Register, especially as
it is now perceived and presented, is the key to addressing the question of why it
matters that archaeological sites are underrepresented on the national lists.
Archaeologists working in this country today are aware that the “public” has
become exceptionally important to archaeology: we are anxious to educate the
public, to share the excitement and discoveries of the discipline; we are eager to
point out the public benefits of our discipline, to reveal the wrongheadedness of
those who would profit from the plunder of sites and the sales of artifacts; we
want to protect archaeological resources and the legislation which addresses

them; and we want the public’s help in doing so. We have been quite successful at
enlisting the public’s support. But we are not using an important tool at our
disposal. I have become convinced that archaeologists undervalue and underuse
the National Register, which has become an essential component of the public
memory. In considering public memory when discussing the National Register, I
am speaking less of content than of form. In some ways, the medium itself is an
essential message of the National Register.
I believe that it is relatively recently that the Register has taken on a role as an
essential component of public memory in the United States. I think that part of
the reason it has done so is that it is now available as a searchable and useable
database. Only in the past decade has the database been computerized, and sta-
tistics can now be more easily compiled and interpreted.
Until U.S. citizens see the “prehistory” of their country as important to their
identity as Americans and as valuable to their sense of belonging in the land, the
“us versus them” relationship between indigenous and immigrant peoples will
remain unresolved. In addition, public attention to the conservation of archaeo-
logical sites will be sporadic at best and given only to sites perceived as spectacu-
lar. Peter Fowler (1981: 67) writes that, for the public, a few generations are
easier to understand than the distant past. Most people’s sense of the past prob-
ably does not extend beyond a few generations. Therefore, he argues, archae-
ology’s single most important contribution to society may be a sense of perspec-
tive in time. Archaeology, therefore, extends the past deeply. It may counter the
modern cognitive time line, which compresses 500 generations into a single
word: “prehistory.” I do not mean to confine archaeology to indigenous sites
alone; also missing from the register is a fair representation of sites of the non-
elite, whose buildings and structures have not been carefully curated: African
Americans, Chinese Americans, the poor of many ethnicities, and the laboring
class.
In his book Silencing the Past, anthropologist Michel-Rolph Trouillot ana-
lyzes some ways that historical narratives silence certain aspects of the past. He
writes:
Silences enter the process of historical production at four crucial moments:
the moment of fact creation (the making of sources); the moment of fact
assembly (the making of archives); the moment of fact retrieval (the mak-
ing of narratives); and the moment of retrospective significance (the mak-
ing of history in the final instance) [emphases in original]. (Trouillot 1995:
26)
Silences may enter into historic preservation at several of these moments, but
particularly at the moment of preserving an archive of our physical surroundings.
The National Register, as an official list, is both an archive and a collection of
narratives. It has added power to the promotion of the preservation of selected
places. Its silences therefore are compounded when histories are compiled with-
out those building blocks which have been judged worthy or unworthy of pres-
ervation.
I suggest that archaeologists have the opportunity to contribute to the “offi-
cial” public memory and to add many silenced voices to that memory. Archaeolo-
gists can nominate sites as a way to confront the silencing of an important part of
the past. Archaeological sites listed and therefore acknowledged as “places im-
portant in American history” would then be available to contribute to the cre-
ation of public memory (Little 1997).
Conclusion
So, where are we with the National Register of Historic Places? We have a pro-
cess through which many sites that are eligible for listing in the National Register
are not listed but are treated either by avoidance or by mitigation through data
recovery. Until recently, this system has worked fairly well, at least from the point
of view of archaeologists, but it is a process which incompletely considers the
public benefit of archaeological sites to the nation’s sense of itself. The problem-
oriented approach narrows the significance of archaeological properties, inad-
vertently restricts the future of inquiry, and supports a data-gathering industry
resistant to synthesis. The underrepresentation of archaeological sites hinders
our attempts to raise public awareness and promote the public benefits of archae-
ology.
Does this assessment sound hopeless? I don’t mean that it should. The criteria
are actually quite flexible as they are written, and the formats for nominating and
listing sites are flexible as well. I believe that the tool is in place, although it must
be used creatively to get us where we want to be. I am most interested in working
toward a register that lists archaeological sites in proportion to their importance
to the history of the land of the United States. As an archaeologist, I want that to
happen because I am vitally interested in public education and public memory. I
propose that my colleagues should be vitally interested in countering the silences
that currently fill the archaeological gap in the National Register of Historic
Places.
It is important to use the National Register so that it will be used for public
archaeology. Archaeologists should be able to justify significance and to clarify
why we value the sites that we value so that the general public, legislators and
journalists do not flounder or have to guess the significance of archaeological
properties to the nation’s history.
Acknowledgments
This essay is adapted from papers I presented at meetings of the Theoretical

Archaeology Group (TAG) in 1997 and the Society for American Archaeology
(SAA) in 1998 and 1999. I thank Frank McManamon for his comments on those
papers, which helped to clarify my thinking, and Clay Mathers for inviting me to
participate in the TAG session in 1997. I also thank Clay and Paul A. Shackel for
helpful comments on this article.
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Reassessing archaeological significance

Heritage of value and archaeology of renown in Brazil
Pedro Paulo A. Funari
Introduction: Words and definitions
Notions of “value,” “importance,” “significance,” and “renown” are in general

use in both archaeological resource management and public archaeology (see
Darvill, chapter 2); however, there is still a great deal of discussion about the
precise meaning of these terms. It is interesting to note that none of these words
are of Anglo-Saxon origin, as they are indeed medieval French loan words, of
only indirect Latin ancestry, as is the case with approximately half the English
language vocabulary (Potter 1950: 36). French expressions have more ethereal
and less down-to-earth connotations and associations, so they naturally are par-
ticularly open to specialized and perhaps abstruse usage. Although of Latin ori-
gin, the Romans did not use words related to these French terms; they used
pretium (price) or uirtus (courage) for value, grauitas (dignity) or auctoritas
(rank) for importance, efficientia (influence) for significance, and fama (the voice
of the many, fame) for renown. The nobility, both ecclesiastical and lay, intro-
duced the elite French terminology, which lasted for 300 years alongside the
“ordinary” English speakers. This elitism is exemplified by the chronicler, Robert
of Gloucester, who wrote that, “unless a man know French, one counts of him
little” (Potter 1950: 35) The language of this “superior” social class naturally
conveyed an elitist Weltanschauung, a concept concerning high society and the
life style of a minority.
Value, in the first instance, means “the monetary worth of a thing” and, by
extension, “that which is worthy of esteem for its own sake,” precisely the oppo-
site of the market value of something. This ambiguity explains recent discussions
concerning the possibility of measuring heritage value, because sometimes heri-
tage material culture has a value in the marketplace (see Grenville and Ritchie,
chapter 12), especially elite, high-style buildings, works of art, and the like, while
126 / Pedro Paulo A. Funari
the more “humble” remains of ordinary people are tossed away even by cultural
research managers (see Tainter and Bagley, chapter 4). In this context, some
scholars would prefer to split the two meanings of “value,” as they indeed are
contradictory; something cannot at the same time attain a price and have worth
for its own sake. “The archaeological heritage has nothing to do with financial
quantification, or with productive use however defined” (see Carman, chapter
3). “Significance,” “importance,” and “renown” are terms whose medieval ori-
gins betray their upper-crust context, as they were originally meant to express the
importance of people and things as recognized by the nobility. As is noted in the
King James Bible, “the . . . mighty men which in old [times were] men of renown”
(Gen. 6:4). The two aspects of these concepts are thus market value on the one
hand and subjective social value on the other. There is tension between these two
types of value, but there is even more contention about the social value attached
to material culture. At least three forces are trying to define the importance and
significance of the material world: the state (through legislation), the community
(a rather imprecise term that refers to a host of heterogeneous groups and inter-
ests), and archaeological scholarship (see Grenville and Ritchie, chapter 12).
In many countries, it is not illegal to deal openly in artifacts that have been
obtained through illicit excavation, or which have been smuggled out of their
country of origin. The trade in illicit antiquities may reach an astonishing two
billion U.S. dollars annually (Brodie 1998: 1–2). It does not help matters when
the occasional professional archaeologist encourages this trade by opening his
own “antique” shop (for a Brazilian example, see Funari 1998: 44). The market-
place also contributes to this trade by dealing in artifacts acquired through theft,
war, and colonial exploitation (Economist 1997), further complicating the pic-
ture. The state as an agent of heritage evaluation is in fact composed of a variety
of institutions, from world organizations such as UNESCO to national and local
(state and municipal) legislatures. The basic criterion of the 1972 UNESCO
World Heritage Convention, “outstanding universal value,” has been useful for
providing legal protection to numerous sites, but it fails to take into account non-
European, nonelite, and indigenous contexts, for ordinary people’s concerns and
values are undervalued (Cleere 1998). National, state, and municipal legislation
and legislated heritage registers have become more numerous during the last
decade (see Little, chapter 7), but “ordinary” heritage is still often ignored (for
example, Kamide and Rodrigues 1998), contributing to the popular mispercep-
tion that only spectacular sites are worth preserving (see Little, chapter 7). Nev-
ertheless, local laws enacted to protect cultural heritage may serve as instruments
to register sites and to protect them (for example, Pernisa Júnior 1998 on Juiz de
Fora, a city in Brazil).
The community comprises local inhabitants, indigenous peoples, and elite
groups, among a host of many other interest groups. The diversity of values
attached to different cultural properties by different groups cannot be underesti-
mated (see McGuire and Walker 1999), as the value of a heritage property is not
Heritage of value and archaeology of renown in Brazil / 127
inherent and immutable, nor linearly related to size, depth, and material content
(see Tainter and Bagley, chapter 4). This diversity also implies that any hierarchy
of values, whatever its practical justification, is perceived by the different inter-
ested groups as a decision imposed by a distant scholar. Precisely for this reason,
a heterarchical model of significance has been proposed of late (see Mathers et
al., chapter 10). Archaeological scholarship thus has a pivotal role in defining
what matters and in prioritizing the scientific access to sites over that of the
general public and indigenous peoples by invoking the use of scientific discourse
(see Smith, chapter 5). The limited assessment criteria often used by scholars do
not take into account nonscientific, social demands (see Mathers et al., chapter
10); sometimes these criteria are not even explicit (Darvill and Mathers 1997) or
available to the community at large. Community involvement is essential if the
concerns of scholars are to be taken seriously by the laity; for example, there are
numerous instances of people volunteering their time and effort to the restoration
of ancient buildings (for example, Januzzi 1998).
It is in this context that in this chapter I address the values associated with
material culture and archaeological preservation in Brazil by discussing the eco-
nomic, social, political, and ideological issues at stake. Brazil, a huge state in
South America, has a population of more than 160 million people, and is one of
the ten largest economic powers, in terms of its gross national product (GNP),
and at the same time, it is one of the most unequal societies in the world. Its
history has been one of secular exploitation, patriarchalism and patronage, and
violence rather than of civil peace (Batista 1995). Authoritarian government has
been the rule, and freedom from economic exploitation and social dependence
the exception. Rita Camata (1998), a liberal representative in the Brazilian
Chamber of Deputies, has noted a societal split so vast that the “elite fascists,”
which represent 1 percent of the population, earn 14.6 percent of the country’s
income, whereas at the lower end of the scale, approximately 800 children die
every day, stricken by hunger and disease, or at the hands of death squads. Values
in such a society are thus split even more along class lines and between ethnic
groups and other interests than elsewhere. In this chapter, therefore, I attempt to
explore some intricacies of the Brazilian case.
Heritage in Brazil: History, features, and outlook
Several scholars have been studying the intrinsic features of Brazilian society,
astonished as we always are, by the apparent contradictions of such an odd social
structure. Brazil has witnessed more than 300 years of absolutist Portuguese rule,
its inhabitants being vassals rather than citizens, living in a rigid hierarchical
system (Velho 1996). Independence in 1822 perpetuated this system with the
continuation of dynastic rule up to 1889, and the aggiornamento of the republic
did not change the arcana of social power: people in power rule, others obey, as
privilege and patronage are pervasive (Chauí 1992). The private will of elite
families is often assumed as public policy (Schwartz 1997), and personal subor-
dination is a feature of the national character (Schwarz 1988a: 16). The sphere of
the public, or Öffentlichkeit, to use Habermas’s definition of the common inter-
est (Habermas 1978), is considered by the authorities as cosa nostra, loyalty
being a key word to define a society based on privilege (Da Matta 1991: 4).
Patronage is so strong that opposing it is almost like being a foreigner in one’s
own country (Schwartz 1988b; Graham 1995; Toledo 1996; for an example in
archaeology, see Funari 1997).
In this context, it is natural that the earliest document relating to the official
protection of archaeological heritage in Portugal, which dates to the eighteenth
century, tries to protect “any old building, statue, inscription in Phoenician,
Greek, Latin, Gothic or Arabic, as well as coins” (Andrade 1987: 66), was not
applicable for use in the Portuguese colony in South America. During the nine-
teenth century, despite the attention paid by the court to scholarship in general
and the foundation of the Historical and Geographical Institute, no law on the
subject was enacted. Museum officials, as well as amateurs and other interested
individuals, often collected and registered archaeological artifacts (for example,
Prous 1992; Martín 1997; Funari 1999). In the beginning of the twentieth cen-
tury, the earliest proposal of legislation protecting archaeological remains, never
approved by the Congress, was written by Alberto Childe, the Keeper of Classical
Antiquities of the National Museum, Rio de Janeiro (Silva 1996). Childe states
that “remains, buildings, caves, cemeteries, shell middens are to be considered
national assets and owned exclusively by each state of the Union” (Silva 1996:
11). During the 1920s and early 1930s, other proposals were also written, but
not approved.
In 1936, Mário de Andrade, a leading intellectual from the State of São Paulo,
prepared a draft bill protecting cultural assets that was discussed by representa-
tives in the Congress and very nearly approved when there was a coup d’état by
the president himself, Getúlio Vargas. President Vargas, who had supported the
law during as Minister for Education, published the bill soon afterwards as a
decree (decree number 25, dated November 30, 1937), and from 1940 the Na-
tional Artistic and Historic Heritage Service began to register and protect ar-
chaeological sites and collections. However, most cultural properties continued
outside the protection of the decree (Andrade 1952: 66). Another leading intel-
lectual, Paulo Duarte, was to become the main fighter for heritage protection in
Brazil. Duarte, a liberal who fought for the creation of the first university in
Brazil, the University of São Paulo, in the early 1930s, lived in exile during the
dictatorship of Vargas (1937–1945). Upon returning to the country, he brought
with him the idea of initiating the scholarly study of prehistory. Duarte had been
influenced by French humanism, and his friendship with Paul Rivet and his admi-
ration of the Musée de l’ Homme in Paris led him to propose the establishment of
the Prehistory Commission in São Paulo, later renamed the Prehistory Institute
(Duarte 1967, 1994, 1996).
Duarte was very active in the years of democracy in Brazil (1945–1964), orga-
nizing a series of initiatives for the development of archaeology and heritage
protection. A bill protecting archaeological sites was finally approved by the
Congress in 1961 (Law number 3924); this law the first comprehensive law regu-
lating the protection of archaeological remains (Souza Filho 1997: 54). While the
decree of 1937 was intended to protect “those assets linked to the memorable
facts of Brazilian history and those of exceptionable value” (for the first article,
see Pinheiro da Silva 1996: 20), the law of 1961 was much broader in its scope,
referring to “whatever archaeological or prehistoric monument” (for the first
article, see Pinheiro da Silva 1996: 20). Consequently, archaeological sites are
now protected immediately ex ui legis (by law) (Castro 1991: 106). A military
dictatorship was established with a coup d’état in 1964, and the humanist ap-
proach to the past, so clearly expressed in efforts to preserve a “humble” shell
midden against developers, for example, was first sidelined and later opposed by
the authorities. Betty Meggers and Clifford Evans, two American archaeologists
who had worked since the 1940s in Brazil (Roosevelt 1991: 106), used the oppor-
tunity offered by the new authoritarian regime in Brazil to set up, soon after the
coup, a large archaeological survey project, known as Pronapa (National Pro-
gram of Archaeological Research). The program trained several Brazilian archae-
ologists, and the Americans worked in close cooperation with the military au-
thorities.
As Pronapa increased its influence, the military authorities hindered humanist
archaeology and its preoccupation with heritage protection. Duarte himself was
expelled from the University in 1969; others left the country, while those remain-
ing continued low-profile careers. Pronapa resulted in several field seasons being
conducted throughout the country, though with very few published reports, and
heritage management was usually not even considered by the field workers. Dur-
ing the heyday of military rule, official heritage institutions were left on the
sidelines, as the regime was based on a reactionary, antihumanist cultural policy,
compounded by a drive for development, which gave rise to the destruction of
protected heritage sites, notably shell middens. This picture was blurred by the
actions of individuals, within or outside heritage institutions, as there have al-
ways been people fighting for the preservation of such “humble” remains. A case
in point is Joinville in Santa Catarina state, the only shell midden museum in the
country, which was inaugurated during the height of military rule but whose
collection of artifacts originated in earlier archaeological work (Tamanini 1999).
Another notable example is the Institute of Prehistory, founded by Duarte and
almost destroyed in the wake of his expulsion in 1969, whose heritage section
later dealt with the educational aspects of social consumption of cultural assets
(Bruno 1996).
The restoration of civilian rule in 1985 led to the blossoming of a variety of
new practices and standpoints, free from the oppressive shadow of the hard days
of the dictatorship. The archaeological establishment, born during the authori-
tarian period and under its influence, tended to continue impervious to change,
but as time went by, more and more archaeologists began to distance themselves
from the isolationist approach that had prevailed during the military years. The
dialogue between archaeologists and other scholars, anthropologists and his-
torians in the first place, led to a growing awareness of the social implications
of archaeological work. Furthermore, heritage institutions, already active in the
previous period, changed their character in the new democratic framework from
bureaucratic branches of a military dictatorship to institutions responsible, in a
way, not only to the state but also to the people, and became again a political
player. Archaeological monuments would thus be able to play an active role in
exposing social tensions and contradictions, in the wake of Herrmann’s some-
what earlier comment, that “archäologische Denkmäler enthalten die Wie-
dersprüche ihrer jeweiligen Entstehungszeit,” which translated means “archaeo-
logical monuments contain the contradictions of their original conditions”
(Herrmann 1981: 27; cf. Funari 1988).
To heritage officials, accountability meant that the interests of different social
groups should be within the horizon of heritage management. The devolution of
power to states and towns also led to the sprouting of municipal and state heri-
tage institutions and legislation. Brazilian Heritage, the federal agency founded
by the Union government in the nationalist period before World War II, had been
complemented by some state heritage institutions, but they were almost exclu-
sively concerned with high style and outstanding monuments. The new winds of
freedom led to the introduction of new concerns in established institutions, such
as the São Paulo State Heritage (Condephaat), and to the multiplication of mu-
nicipal heritage institutions throughout the country. In the same vein, town coun-
cils and state assemblies passed laws regarding the protection of heritage, whose
application accounted for the direct participation of heritage institutions in the
supervision of fieldwork by archaeologists. Another notable move came with the
introduction of federal legislation regarding the mandatory archaeological sur-
vey and rescue of areas affected by major development projects, within both
urban and rural contexts. In the wake of this legislation, archaeological field-
work had to be linked, at least in theory, to some kind of heritage management
supervision and cooperation.
Increasingly, people recognized that archaeological knowledge is not neutral
or apolitical by virtue of its very nature as a human endeavor (Veit 1989: 50) and
that archaeological work should result in a motivation for the development of
critical thought (Vargas and Sanoja 1990: 53). The observation that archaeolo-
gists produce evidence to be changed into knowledge, “sein Wissen ist—wie noch
Kant sag—cognitio ex datis” (Kittsteiner 1997: 6), has also been acknowledged
in Brazil through the ironic but realist words of a senior French archaeologist
(who has worked in Brazil since the 1960s), “tout ce que l’ont fait ou trouve est
nouveau . . . ce qui n’encourage ni à l’autocritique, ni à fuir la routine” (Prous
1994: 11). In other words, the introduction of laws protecting heritage, the
sprouting of heritage institutions themselves, and the growing field activities are
not necessarily conducive to creative and socially engaged practices, even though
the newly found liberty led to the emergence of a variety of situations.
Archaeology of renown is still very strong in the sense that at least some
leading conservative institutions continue to propose the display of elite material
culture and the maintenance of mythical discourses about the past. A case in
point is the Paulista Museum, whose main task continues to be to protect elite
tradition (Funari 1991, 1994, 1995). Constructed in the late nineteenth century
as a huge memorial monument celebrating the country’s independence, it is used
to reinforce in the popular mind a mystic and imaginary history that justifies
social inequalities and social exclusions. Instead of demystifying archaeology and
teaching about how a past is constructed (for example, Leone et al. 1987: 285),
the Paulista Museum’s overt purpose is to reinforce and exemplify its function as
a civic cathedral, which consequently alienates ordinary people (for a conserva-
tive defense of this approach see Meneses 1991: 5; compare Oliveira 1998).
Conversely, the same alienation explains the lack of concern, by the same ordi-
nary people as well as by the elite, about the plundering of heritage in general
and, notably, of high-style artifacts. Recently, the masterpieces of Aleijadinho, an
eighteenth-century Brazilian artist, have been sold at auction at Christie’s. In a
single day, almost $10 million worth of Brazilian works of art were sold (Blanco
1998). As a side effect, theft from church buildings and museums is widespread
(Rocha 1997).
In the recent past, there has been an increasing awareness that high-style archi-
tecture and art are part of the people’s heritage; consequently, government au-
thorities and nongovernmental organizations have been active throughout the
country trying to prevent their decay and to foster the active participation of the
community in the preservation and social use of heritage. The Coffee Stock Ex-
change Building in Santos, a 1920s building in a large port town, for example,
has recently been restored by the São Paulo State government and converted to
the Museum of Brazilian Coffee (Rodrigues 1998). When official institutions and
nonprofit civic organizations unite, it is easier to propose the preservation and
actual pedagogic use of historic buildings. Thus, the fight against the decay of
colonial towns in Minas Gerais state (Sebastião 1998a), including Itaverava,
Itabirito, and Conceição do Mato Dentro alongside the more famous Ouro
Preto, Diamantina, and Tiradentes (Sebastião 1998b), has received much atten-
tion. Even though the majority of historic buildings still remain in poor condition
(for example, Verzignasse 1998; Werneck 1998), the active involvement of the
people has been essential to the successes (for example, Leal 1998). In the last few
years, there has been a resurgence of interest in historic heritage, with restora-
tions of downtown areas in Salvador, Recife, Rio de Janeiro, and São Paulo
(Masson 1998) as well as in several smaller towns from Belo Horizonte (Campos
1998) to Campinas (Magnusson 1998; Santos 1998).
The “humble” prehistoric archaeological artifacts suffer from the lack of
identification of Brazilians with this heritage, which is sometimes deemed foreign

to the national identity. However, the struggle “for a more equal world” (Bruno
1991: 3) implies the recognition of the importance of the preservation and ped-
agogic use of even such humble remains. Following Paulo Duarte’s lead (Mindlin
1991; Uchôa 1991), several museums and local displays (for example, Cruz
1997) have since been paying attention to prehistoric sites and artifacts. Another
important feature of the recent past is the search for the victims of oppression,
especially the archaeological evidence for mass graves relating to missing people.
Ivan Cáceres, a Chilean archaeologist, has emphasized that archaeological work
in other Latin American countries, most notably in Argentina, Chile, and Guate-
mala, has led to a change in the “whole perspective of a society that was taught
to forget about these crimes” (quoted in Padgett 1992: 8; compare Masland and
Padgett 1993). In Brazil, the recent authoritarian period is still a taboo subject,
but the humanist approach indicates that the community is increasingly aware of
the importance of remembering the past.
The way forward?
The way ahead is fraught with obstacles, but humanism is now an option for
scholars and the general public alike. Museums are beginning to incorporate
research projects investigating the social history evidenced by the contexts in
which artifacts were made and used (Hall 1993: 181). There is also a growing
awareness of the political and ethical responsibility of empowerment, which af-
fords more diverse groups of people access to archaeological remains (Shanks
1995: 54). The time is coming for archaeologists to engage in dialogue with
society, especially its ordinary groups, such as working people and Indians
(McGuire and Walker 1999). The values of different social strata must be in-
cluded in the horizons of archaeologists, and actual collaboration between schol-
ars and the laity is finally taking shape. Values are now being interpreted in a
much broader sense, taking into account several social strata and their interests.
It is no mean task to meet the new demands of society, but Brazilian archaeology
is facing its new daunting tasks with fresh enthusiasm.
Acknowledgments
I owe thanks to the following colleagues, who forwarded papers (sometimes

unpublished ones), exchanged ideas, and helped me in different ways: Martin
Hall, Barbara Little, Clay Mathers, Randall H. McGuire, and Michael Shanks.
The ideas presented here are my own, for which I am therefore solely responsible.
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Plastic value
Archaeological significance in South Africa
Gavin Whitelaw
Introduction
In this paper, I examine the concept of archaeological site significance in South

Africa, with a focus on the province of KwaZulu-Natal. Unless stated otherwise,
I use the term “archaeological” to refer to sites predating a.d. 1840 associated
with the indigenous people of South Africa. I begin with an outline of past heri-
tage legislation in South Africa, which has provided the background to current
perceptions of archaeological significance. Then I turn briefly to current legisla-
tion and the future.
Background
A. C. Haddon, president of Section H of the British Association for the Advance-

ment of Science, indicated the need for legislation to protect archaeological sites
during his visit to South Africa in 1905 (Deacon 1990). Legislation followed six
years later, prompted by concern at the destruction of San paintings, engravings,
and artifacts, and their export from South Africa. To a large extent, this legisla-
tion was the result of a campaign by the South African National Society (SANS),
a pressure group founded in 1905 concerned with the conservation of the
country’s natural, cultural, and scientific heritage (Deacon and Pistorius 1996).
This legislation, the Bushman-Relics Protection Act (No. 22 of 1911), defined
Bushman relics as (Section 1):
any drawing or painting on stone or petroglyph of the kind commonly
known or believed to have been executed by the South African Bushmen or
other aboriginals, and shall include any of the anthropological contents of
the graves, caves, rock shelters, middens or shell mounds of such Bushmen
or other aboriginals.
138 / Gavin Whitelaw
The act made no provision for the protection of any other type of site. Nor did it
provide for the establishment of a body responsible for the protection.
Not satisfied, the SANS continued to apply pressure on the government, lead-
ing to the promulgation of the Natural and Historical Monuments Act in 1923
(No. 6), which operated in tandem with the Bushmen-Relics Protection Act. The
new act made provision for the creation of a body which was required, among
other things, to make a register of monuments that in its opinion “ought to be
preserved” (Section 4). Monuments were defined as including (Section 8):
areas of land having distinctive or beautiful scenery, areas with a distinc-
tive, beautiful or interesting content of flora or fauna, and objects (whether
natural or constructed by human agency) of aesthetic, historical or scien-
tific value, or interest, and also specifically includes in any event and with-
out limiting the generality of the previous portion of this definition, water-
falls, caves, Bushmen paintings, avenues of trees, old trees and old
buildings.
These acts together provided legal protection to archaeological sites and their
contents, though with a distinct hunter-gatherer (“Bushman”) flavor. This is not
surprising as archaeologists at the time were concerned primarily with the
hunter-gatherer past and had not yet recognized the significance and time-depth
of the agricultural sequence in South Africa. Since all archaeological residues
were considered equal, as “monuments” or “Bushman-relics,” there was no need
to delve into the issue of site significance.
The longer Preservation of Natural and Historical Monuments, Relics and
Antiques Act (No. 4 of 1934) replaced both earlier pieces of legislation. In con-
trast to the all-encompassing definition of monuments in the 1923 act, the term
“monuments” in the 1934 act was restricted to sites formally proclaimed as such
and which, as a result of the proclamation, received special legal protection. The
act in its original form provided no protection whatsoever to any site or object
not proclaimed a monument, relic, or antique. This flaw was quickly recognized,
and in a 1937 amendment, protection was extended to all drawings, paintings,
and petroglyphs, and their immediate surrounds, associated with people who
“inhabited or visited South Africa before the advent of the Europeans” (Section
8.b); as well as to graves, caves, rock shelters, middens, and shell mounds used by
them. This amendment effectively encompassed all archaeological sites of a
precolonial nature, though again the language had a hunter-gatherer flavor.
The 1937 amendments have since determined the character of archaeological
heritage management in South Africa. An early burst of activity, during which
several archaeological sites were proclaimed monuments, was followed by a long
period during which the proportion of precolonial monuments declined from 14
percent of the total in 1948 to 2 percent in 1991 (Deacon 1993a, 1993b). The
reason for the decline was a decision taken in the 1940s by the Historical Monu-
ments Commission (HMC; more correctly, the Commission for the Preservation
Archaeological significance in South Africa / 139
of Natural and Historical Monuments, Relics and Antiques) not to proclaim

archaeological monuments except in unusual circumstances, because the sites
already received blanket protection under the act. The HMC thus relieved itself
of the task of defining archaeological significance, other than in the very broad
terms of the act. The legislation simply protected all sites and allowed the HMC
to regulate the excavation, removal, or export of archaeological material through
the establishment of a permit system (Sections 11.d and e and 13.1.d; 1937
amendments).
The 1934 act was replaced by the National Monuments Act (No. 28 of 1969),
which was in turn replaced by the National Heritage Resources Act (No. 25 of
1999) on April 1, 2000. After several amendments, the National Monuments Act
also provided blanket protection to archaeological sites and retained the permit
system (Section 12, 2A):
No person shall destroy, damage, excavate, alter, remove from its original
site or export from the Republic:
(a)any meteorite or fossil; or

(b)any drawing or painting on stone or petroglyph known or com-
monly believed to have been executed by Bushmen; or
(c) any drawing or painting on stone or petroglyph known or com-
monly believed to have been executed by any other people who in-
habited or visited the Republic before the settlement of the Europe-
ans at the Cape; or
(d)any implement, ornament or structure known or commonly be-
lieved to have been made, used or erected by people referred to in
paragraphs (b) or (c); or
(e) the anthropological or archaeological contents of graves, caves,
rock shelters, middens, shell mounds or other sites used by such
people; or
(f) any other historical site, archaeological or palaeontological finds,
material or object,
except under the authority of and in accordance with a permit issued under
this section.
Other than blanket protection, the National Monuments Council (NMC), which
replaced the HMC, could protect archaeological sites in three ways. Greatest
legal protection was provided by declaring a site a national monument. The
NMC could also declare provisional national monuments, a strategy which it
sometimes used to buy time in the case of sites facing an immediate threat. Sec-
ond, the NMC could list sites on the National Register, in consultation with local
authorities, which brought the NMC into local town-planning decisions that
potentially affected the site. Finally, the NMC could designate conservation areas
of special historic, aesthetic, or scientific interest. Few archaeological conserva-
tion areas were declared, though I believe there was potential for greater use of
this option. Independently of the NMC, some local planning authorities “listed”
heritage sites, thus providing protection through planning incentives and a strin-
gent application of the National Building Regulations. This system of listing was
sometimes poorly integrated with NMC strategies. To my knowledge, no ar-
chaeological sites were listed by local authorities or placed on the NMC’s Na-
tional Register.
It is worth noting that where earlier legislation referred simply to “monu-
ments,” the monuments declared in terms of the National Monuments Act were
“national monuments.” This change had considerable implications, raising the
question of what exactly is meant by “national,” particularly in a country as
divided and culturally diverse as South Africa and one with such a deep and
varied archaeological record. The term emphasized the political nature of monu-
ment proclamation. Section 10.1 of the Act stated:
Whenever the Minister considers it to be in the national interest that any
immovable or moveable property of aesthetic, historical or scientific value
or interest be preserved, protected and maintained he may . . . on the rec-
ommendation of the council . . . declare any such property . . . to be a
national monument.
Clearly, some monuments recently declared, such as John Dube House (Dube
was first president of the South African Native Congress, subsequently the Afri-
can National Congress) or the Passive Resistance Site in Durban (where the In-
dian Congress movement launched the Passive Resistance Campaign of 1946–
1948), would not have been considered as being “in the national interest” during
the apartheid era, however persuasively the NMC might have motivated their
declaration to the Minister. Their declaration now is part of the process of creat-
ing a new past, one that acknowledges the oppression of past South African
society.
Archaeological interests would perhaps have been less affected by the political
implications of the act because, in an empiricist way, they are frequently consid-
ered “scientific” and therefore independent of society. In any event, the issue was
rarely broached because by the time the act was in place, the principle of not
declaring archaeological monuments was well entrenched. With respect to other
interests, the generality of the criteria for monuments allowed for the creation of
a diverse suite of monuments other than those that represented opposition to the
state, whether or not those monuments had a national character, whatever that
might be. A Claim Your Heritage project, launched in September 1998, provides
an example: the NMC married national and local interests by inviting the public
to honor democracy (a national interest) by nominating sites “you consider to be
of cultural significance in your community. [These] might include the homesteads
of our leaders, or founders of democracy, or sites where historic events occurred,
or places where people gathered to discuss community affairs” (NMC poster

1998).
Archaeological significance: Research and cultural resource management
A consequence of the nondeclaration policy was that archaeological significance

was defined solely by research interests. As Carver (1996: 53, his emphasis) put
it, “Archaeological value derives from the character of the deposit on the one
hand and the research agenda on the other.” The permit system through which
the HMC and NMC managed activities affecting archaeological and historical
sites therefore provides a partial record of archaeological significance in South
Africa since 1937. The permit record excludes rock art research, unless that work
involved the destruction of art or its removal from its original site. Other “non-
destructive” forms of rock art fieldwork, even those that involved direct physical
contact with the art (tracing, rubbing), did not require a permit (this is no longer
the case in KwaZulu-Natal, which has its own provincial heritage legislation).
Research that did not physically affect archaeological residues is also not re-
corded in permits allocated.
I do not wish to review that which research has made significant over the last
century; histories of South African archaeology are available elsewhere (Deacon
1990; Hall 1990; Maggs 1993). In the field of cultural resource management
(CRM), there has been limited formal discussion of archaeological significance,
possibly because the formal practice of CRM does not have a long history in
South Africa. Rescue or salvage archaeology, however, has been part of the disci-
pline for many years. Environmental impact assessments and CRM were not
legal requirements until the 1990s. Instead, early CRM depended upon the level
of archaeological awareness within development agencies or on the relationship
between specific developers and archaeologists. Some were more appreciative of
archaeological concerns than others. The Department of Water Affairs, for ex-
ample, in its various guises, developed considerable archaeological sensitivity
with relatively little prompting by archaeologists and funded surveys and rescue
excavations in several dam basins.
South African archaeologists began a concerted effort to organize CRM in
1988, prompted by coming environmental legislation that would make provision
for environmental impact assessments. The process was managed through the
Southern African Association of Archaeologists (SAAA), to which most practic-
ing archaeologists in South Africa belong. By the end of 1989, the SAAA had
produced a code of ethics, archaeological sites were protected by the National
Monuments Act, while the Environment Conservation Act of 1989, which
adopted a holistic view of the environment, provided the legal mandate for CRM
within the framework of a planning philosophy called Integrated Environmental
Management.
The Department of Environment Affairs took a strong interest in cultural

resources, commissioning a study on the “problems, objectives, principles, and
management models for cultural resource management.” Some of the depart-
ment’s proposals were strongly opposed, in particular, for our purpose here, its
definition of CRM as “the integrated application of management skills (such as
planning, organizing, giving direction, control and evaluating) in a proactive
manner in order to achieve objectives determined through the policy formulation
process, with a view to ensuring the effective and efficient protection and respon-
sible utilization of cultural resources for the benefit of all South Africans”
(Coetzee et al. 1991: 3). Rather, archaeologists believed the term CRM should be
restricted to the identification, evaluation, and treatment of cultural resources
within areas in which development is proposed. This restricted definition is now
widely accepted, though some archaeologists in South Africa may still prefer a
broader definition (for example, Wahl et al. 1998).
In 1997, a “CRM Section” with its own admission criteria was established
within the framework of the SAAA. Most archaeologists who either belong to the
CRM Section or practice CRM adopt a pragmatic approach in accepting CRM as
a compromise solution to the conflict that arises from the varying values (market
versus community versus archaeological) that may be assigned to a property (see
Carver 1996; Lipe 1984). For archaeologists, this approach involves making
decisions about the relative significance of archaeological sites affected by
planned development and the distribution of funds in the treatment of those sites.
Huffman and Sievers (1996: 19) write: “A few [archaeologists] believe that all
sites are of equal value and therefore all must be preserved. This view is theoreti-
cally untrue (the importance of data depends on relevance to a problem).” Some
archaeologists might express concern at this position, but there is no published
discussion or debate in South Africa that deals with the ethical and practical issue
raised by such choices. In essence this concern is, how can archaeologists accept
the destruction of archaeological sites simply because they are not relevant to a
particular research problem, or, put another way, might sites marked for destruc-
tion not become significant in terms of future research problems? This, of course,
is unknowable.
Research relevance links CRM to current research and determines the signifi-
cance rating assigned to deposits of varying character. In recent years, it was a
guiding factor in CRM projects at large dam sites in the province of KwaZulu-
Natal, where the money available from the development agency allowed large-
scale investigations of agricultural sites dating to the first millennium a.d. (Loub-
ser 1993; van Schalkwyk 1994a, 1994b; van Schalkwyk et al. 1997; Whitelaw
1993, 1994). The project on which I worked in the late 1980s focused almost
entirely on these sites, leaving many others to flooding without mitigation. This
strategy (in a post hoc sense) could be seen as consistent with Carver’s (1996)
recommendation to target those sites with immediate research relevance (in other
words, those with high significance) for archaeological investigation, and to
leave the rest conserved beneath the development. Carver’s suggestion does pro-
vide an option: it is true that many archaeological deposits in the dam basin
suffered no mechanical disturbance; the conservation of the remains might be
improved in the stable anaerobic conditions at the bottom of the dam; and ar-
chaeologists of the future would have access to the deposits if the dam were
drained one day (however unlikely). In most cases, however, I wonder whether
the lack of widespread public support for archaeology in a world which applauds
cost-effective delivery of material economic benefits might not prohibit this strat-
egy in South Africa. Financial resources are already strained by efforts to deliver
essential services to people who have none. Moreover, future implementation of
the Development Facilitation Act, which is designed to expedite development,
might suspend consideration of environmental (and archaeological) concerns,
though in KwaZulu-Natal this has not happened yet (Rigby and Diab 2003).
The relationship between CRM and research was explored in a workshop
held during the course of the 1998 SAAA biennial meeting. The product of the
workshop was a list of types of sites regarded as worthy of mitigation if affected
by development. It was stressed that the list would need updating on a regular
basis as research priorities changed, but that it provided a “general rule-of-thumb
for CRM practitioners who may not be fully conversant with the interests of
archaeologists in specialist fields” (SAAA 1998: 5). The usefulness of the list is
questionable, however, because it is so all-inclusive that it seems that the focus of
the workshop attendants was on not leaving anything out, rather than on direct-
ing attention to key areas.
In South Africa, where much basic cultural history must still be done, it is the
need to fill gaps in the archaeological record that frequently drives the selection
of sites for mitigation. While CRM does generate new bodies of information, and
point to new avenues of inquiry (for example, Anderson 2000; Huffman and
Steel 1996; Maggs 1980; Maggs and Ward 1980), its product manifests itself
partly as a growing volume of minimally curated, minimally analyzed archaeo-
logical material reported in documents that are not widely, nor always easily,
available. For Carver, protected sites (monuments) are “simply a redundant pile
of yesterday’s ideas” (1996: 49). The same could be said for the growing number
of assemblages stored in museums, ostensibly for their future research potential.
Archaeologists may work on these collections in the future, but if the data are
relevant, then they are relevant now. There is every reason to believe that if a site
is worthy of extensive mitigation, the results are worth publishing. Archaeologi-
cal significance has a plastic, contextual character. Apart from making data more
widely available, peer review in publication would promote an ongoing molding
of assessment criteria according to current research interests. In turn, the data
would present new questions to the discipline. Perhaps it is time that practitioners
passed the costs of publication on to their clients as part of the absolution of the
clients’ responsibility to the country’s heritage.
Archaeological significance: Monuments
The blanket protection strategy adopted by the heritage authorities from the
early twentieth century is in keeping with more recent calls for the protection of
all archaeological sites, whatever their character (for example, Kristiansen 1989).
However, the local consequence of the strategy, the nonproclamation of monu-
ments, drew the attention of the heritage authorities away from archaeology and
directed it toward colonial heritage sites. As a result, historians, cultural histori-
ans, and architects came to dominate the staff of the HMC and NMC. The
monuments proclaimed to a large extent reflected the interests of the staff since
it was they who put recommendations forward to the Minister. Indeed, a rela-
tively high proportion of archaeological monuments in the 1940s reflected the
interests of archaeologist C. van Riet Lowe, who was at that time secretary of the
HMC, as well as those of the conservation bodies that stimulated the birth of
heritage legislation in the first place.
In retrospect, the nonproclamation policy missed a key point. Monuments are
created to protect sites of significance. But their declaration also serves as a mark
of respect and commemoration for past cultures, people, and events. Monuments
represent what is known about the past: according to the National Monuments
Act, monuments should serve as “tokens of the past” and “inspiration for the
future” (Section 2A). But monuments are also divisive in nature because they
concern sectional interests, even if identified within the framework of a national
theme (the Claim Your Heritage project). The declaration of monuments is an
overtly political act in that it creates and acknowledges a particular past and, in
doing so, enriches a particular present. Through their policy of nonproclamation,
the HMC and NMC helped promote the erroneous impression among tourists
and South Africans alike that the country’s history began with the arrival of
colonial explorers on our shores. The near absence of archaeological monuments
played a collaborating role with ideological claims that black agriculturists had
reached the country at about the same time as the first whites settled at the Cape,
and that white settlers had moved into a largely empty land (see Maggs 1993).
The past low public visibility of archaeology is surely also partly responsible for
the currently limited public enthusiasm for a past created by mainly white archae-
ologists and the failure of the discipline to attract significant numbers of black
students.
It would be easy to accuse the HMC and NMC of complicity in the support of
apartheid. Hall (1992: 58) suggests that in the field of “statutory cultural conser-
vation . . . accusations of élitism, Eurocentrism and simple racism . . . are as
justifiable as they are for most other areas of state intervention in . . . human
experience.” But it is difficult to make the accusation stick from an archaeologi-
cal point of view. The staff of the HMC was small, part-time, unpaid, and over-
worked. While secretary of the HMC, van Riet Lowe was also director of the
Bureau of Archaeology (later renamed the Archaeological Survey). He had a busy
field schedule and visited many countries in Africa to advise governments on

archaeological matters (Deacon 1990). It seems possible that the nonproclam-
ation policy was considered an appropriate strategy to reduce the HMC’s work-
load because archaeological sites already received blanket protection. It is also
worth considering the pace of the development of research in South Africa.
In the first half of this century, the development of archaeology was relatively
pedestrian (see Deacon 1990). It was only after R. Inskeep’s appointment at the
University of Cape Town in 1960 that South Africa witnessed an explosion in
archaeological posts, students, and research. It was, for example, only in the
late 1960s and early 1970s that the depth and breadth of agricultural history
was recognized. Thus, by the time research began providing numbers of sites of
monument-level significance, the principle of not proclaiming archaeological
monuments was well established. If we are to seek active neglect of archaeology
for ideological reasons, it is perhaps better found in the effective closure in 1962
of the Archaeological Survey, a government-funded statutory body. It was, as
Inskeep (1962) termed it, a withdrawal of a moral responsibility toward the
discipline (see Deacon 1993b). Thankfully, this withdrawal of direct support did
not extend to archaeological research funding and posts funded by the govern-
ment by less direct means. This was probably because science was viewed as
somehow independent of society (see also Hall 1990, 2002). Nevertheless, it is
true that the emphasis on the proclamation of colonial heritage sites contributed
toward the construction of white South African culture at a critical time in apart-
heid history. Indeed, the altered focus of the HMC found support in the 1960s
from a growing interest in colonial heritage among white South Africans (Hall
and Lillie 1993). Perversely, when the general protection provided for archaeo-
logical sites was extended in 1986 to all historical sites older than fifty years, the
NMC continued to declare colonial sites as national monuments on a large scale.
Archaeological monuments in KwaZulu-Natal
NMC personnel expressed concern in the early 1990s at the unrepresentative

nature of the NMC’s work (Hall and Lillie 1993). By this time, the organization
had adopted a policy for the declaration of archaeological monuments following
J. Deacon’s appointment as the NMC archaeologist in 1989. Deacon called on
the archaeological community to identify conservation-worthy archaeological
sites to the NMC (SAAA 1991, 1992). The October 1992 edition of the SAAA
Newsletter noted that the “National Monuments Council’s Science Committee is
keen to identify archaeological sites that are worthy of declaration as national
monuments.” The same edition included the NMC’s “Minimum standards for
archaeological site museums and rock art sites open to the public.”
In line with this transformation, the Natal Regional Committee of the NMC
established a project to (Hall 1992)
(a) establish criteria to evaluate archaeological sites in Natal for national

monument status and,
(b) identify sites that merited declaration as national monuments.
A similar project was later established by the KwaZulu Monuments Council

(KMC) to evaluate archaeological sites situated in KwaZulu, the self-governing
homeland created for Zulu speakers by the apartheid regime.
I have described the two projects in detail elsewhere (Whitelaw 1997). Briefly,
I created a scoring system to evaluate sites on the basis of research interest, char-
acter of deposit, and potential for public interest. I examined the records of 3069
sites, selecting those that merited assessment with the attribute tables (tables 9.1
and 9.2). Scores varied from 29 percent to 88 percent (excluding the bonus
point). I suggested that all sites with scores of 70 percent or greater be considered
for declaration as national monuments. The twenty-eight sites within this high-
scoring group ranged from Middle Stone Age to rock art and agricultural sites.
No Early Stone Age sites scored sufficiently high for inclusion, which is not
surprising given the lack of Early Stone Age research in the province and the
emphasis in the scoring procedure given to organic preservation and layered
archaeological context. Five of the sites were subsequently declared national
monuments.
The assessment procedure was not designed to have universal application. It
had a specific purpose and should not be used in other contexts without consid-
eration of its usefulness. The project also produced a personal selection of sites
that might not be replicated by another archaeologist repeating the project—
although I would like to think that there would be a good deal of overlap if the
same scoring procedure was used—and especially not by a nonarchaeologist.
This subjectivity is illustrated by one example.
I evaluated the rock art site of Gonzaga 1 in the Qudeni area of KwaZulu-
Natal. The site comprises monochrome black and red paintings of human figures
and an outlined image of an elephant. It is an interesting and well-preserved
panel, but one which I did not rate sufficiently highly to propose as a national
monument. However, the site is one of several which have considerable spiritual
significance for people of the Sithole community living in the Qudeni area, who
associate the paintings with their origins (Prins 1998). In the 1970s, the NMC
considered the removal of the panel to the town of Eshowe for conservation
purposes.
Discussions took place without consulting the local community. After all,
why ask contemporary Zulu people for their opinion about old San rock
art? Fortunately this project never materialised. When I suggested this pos-
sibility to Sithole people two decades later this idea was met with fury and
disbelief. Informants emphatically maintained that this action would have
led to widespread discontent and even violence. It was also pointed out that
Archaeological
Table 9.1. Attributes and value points to significancesites
assess archaeological in South Africa there
for which / 147
is no oral or written history
1. Degree of organic preservation

none/poor (only nonorganic remains) 0
fair (fragmentary faunal remains, some charcoal) 1
good (good preservation of faunal and/or floral remains) 2
excellent (abundant floral remains or floral and faunal
remains of great age) 3
2. Long sequences
stratigraphic separation of two different layers/episodes
of occupation 1
moderately complex sequences (3–5 separate layers/episodes) 2
long sequences (6 or more layers/episodes) 3
3. Presence of exceptional elements
of some interest 1
of considerable interest 2
outstanding 3
4. Potential for future archaeological investigation
Is the site’s potential
lacking 0
Or is the site a
poor 1
moderate 2
good 3
example of its kind, such that a future researcher might consider it for further work?
5. Degree of archaeological investigation
recorded 1
tested and/or mentioned in publication 2
researched and adequately reported 3
6. Potential for public display
Are there visible artifacts or features? 1
Are they intrinsically interesting? 2
Is the site physically accessible? 1
Is the site likely to appeal to public imagination? 2
7. Aesthetic appeal
Are the environs of the site appealing?
no 0
yes 1
Does the cultural content of the site have
no 0
low 1
medium 2
high 3
aesthetic appeal?
Maximum score obtainable: 25
Bonus point
Is there potential for the implementation of a long-term management plan?
no 0
yes 1
Table/ 9.2.
148 GavinAttributes
Whitelaw and value points to assess archaeological sites for which there is
oral or written history
1a. Historical and/or cultural significance

Is the site associated with a person or group who was or were of
little/no 0
some 1
great 2
historical or cultural significance?
1b. Historical and/or cultural significance
Is or was the site the scene of an event of
little/no 0
some 1
great 2
historical or cultural significance?
Alternatively: Is or was the site the scene of a material or social practice that is or was of
no 0
some 1
great 2
historical or cultural value?
2. Volume of oral or written history
brief mention 1
some detail 2
plenty of detail 3
3. Degree of preservation
poor (only non-organic remains) 0
fair (faunal remains, some charcoal) 1
good (features preserved) 2
4. Degree of research
mentioned in publication 1
researched in some detail 2
5. Potential for public display
Are there visible artifacts or features? 1
Are they intrinsically interesting? 2
Is the site physically accessible? 1
Is the site likely to appeal to the public imagination? 2
6. aesthetic appeal
Are the environs of the site appealing?
no 0
yes 1
Does the cultural content of the site have
no 0
low 1
medium 2
high 3
aesthetic appeal?
Maximum score obtainable: 21
Bonus point
Is there potential for the implementation of a long-term management plan?
no 0
yes 1
local knowledge systems have contributed much towards the preservation

of these paintings . . . as it is widely believed that human damage to Bush-
man art will cause the offender to “lose his mind.” (Prins 1998: 116)
Regardless of their origin, all heritage sites may contribute to a sense of identity
and place. Their presence allows people to key into existing cultural and histori-
cal frameworks. The city of Pietermaritzburg, for example, is widely known for
its red-brick Victorian and Edwardian buildings. One such structure, once an
exclusive school for “young ladies,” was rehabilitated through a project which
focused on the development of building skills (Hall 1992). Now known as
Tembaletu (Anglicized Zulu for “our hope”), the building has become an adult
education and skills-training center for people placed at an economic, political,
and social disadvantage by apartheid.
Reuse of rock art sites of a rather disturbing kind occurs elsewhere in
KwaZulu-Natal, where traditional healers scrape paint off the rock face for use
as a principal ingredient in protective medicine. Traditionally, the medicine pro-
vided protection from witchcraft and various supernatural beings. It is today
believed that the medicine provides protection from bullets. Consequently, there
appears to have been a surge in damage to rock art in the conflict-ridden 1980s
and early 1990s (F. E. Prins, personal communication). The practice presents a
difficult challenge to heritage managers. The archaeological material is valued,
but its very value is the cause of its destruction. Is it possible to stop the practice?
And is it even ethical to do so? Prins believes alternatives to the paint may provide
a solution, but we can only hope that political and economic conditions amelio-
rate to the extent that the practice is considerably reduced or stops altogether.
Whatever the case, reuse such as this and Gonzaga 1 attributes significance to
sites that may not be evident to uninformed observers. It is advantageous, there-
fore, for local interest to be embedded as a principle of heritage management, as
it is in the new legislation, as its cultivation is in most cases likely to be the surest
route to protection.
Current legislation
Since April 1, 2000, the National Heritage Resources Act has governed the man-
agement of South Africa’s heritage. The act established the South African Heri-
tage Resources Agency (SAHRA), which replaced the NMC. SAHRA is charged
with the overall management of the national estate, comprising sites or objects
that are and will be of significance or value to South Africans now and in the
future. Of interest is that the act promotes research into “living heritage,” that is,
oral tradition, ritual, and indigenous knowledge systems. Archaeological sites
and archaeological objects recovered from South African soil or waters are
among the resources listed as part of the national estate. Also included is any-
thing with the “potential to yield information that will contribute to an under-
standing of South Africa’s natural or cultural heritage” (Section 3.3.c). Further,

blanket protection for archaeological sites is retained, as is the permit system,
while all archaeological objects other than those already collected without a
NMC permit become property of the state. The exempted objects remain the
property of the owner, who should have registered their details with the respon-
sible heritage authority by April 1, 2002.
A major departure from earlier heritage legislation is the provision made for
impact assessments. This gives the heritage authorities a greater compliance role
than any earlier heritage authority had. Developers are required to notify heri-
tage authorities about any proposed development over certain specified size cat-
egories. The heritage authorities may require that an impact assessment be car-
ried out at the developers’ cost. The criteria for evaluating heritage resources are
not specified, though reference is made to management principles that are appli-
cable to both national and provincial heritage authorities. The most important of
these are the following, laid out in Section 5.7:
The identification, assessment and management of the heritage resources
of South Africa must:
(a)take account of all relevant cultural values and indigenous knowl-

edge systems;
(b)take account of material or cultural heritage value and involve the
least possible alteration or loss of it;
(c) promote the use and enjoyment of and access to heritage resources,
in a way consistent with their cultural significance and conserva-
tion needs;
(d)contribute to social and economic development;
(e) safeguard the options of present and future generations; and
(f) be fully researched, documented and recorded.
There is recognition here of multiple and different value systems that might be
applied to heritage sites, and of the minimal impact principle that Carver (1996)
advocates. If these requirements are to be properly fulfilled, it is critical that
heritage assessment teams have a multidisciplinary character incorporating, for
example, archaeological, anthropological, historical, architectural, economic,
and museological expertise. We are a long way from this goal in South Africa.
The act provides for a three-tiered system for heritage resources management
in line with the principle of devolving responsibility for heritage matters to the
lowest competent authority. SAHRA is responsible for national-level functions,
provincial heritage agencies for provincial-level functions, and local authorities
for local-level functions. SAHRA managed the national estate until April 1, 2002
(KwaZulu-Natal excepted), by which date all provincial heritage agencies should
have been established. Unfortunately, only KwaZulu-Natal had the appropriate
legal and administrative structures in place. (The result was a legal impasse: no
permits could be issued for excavation or destruction—a provincial-level func-

tion—outside of KwaZulu-Natal. By May 2003, two other provincial heritage
agencies were established, and others were in the pipeline.) In KwaZulu-Natal,
Amafa aKwaZulu-Natali (Heritage KwaZulu-Natal), was established on April 1,
1998 under the KwaZulu-Natal Heritage Act (No. 10 of 1997). The act antici-
pated the national legislation, providing some inspiration to its authors. Not
surprisingly, given the order of their evolution, there are inconsistencies between
the national and KwaZulu-Natal legislation which may require amendments in
the future.
Formal protection provided by both acts is broadly similar to that of the
National Monuments Act. In KwaZulu-Natal, Amafa may confer Provincial or
Heritage Landmark status upon a site with “important elements of the heritage”
of the province (Section 19.20.1), the distinction resting upon the ownership
(public or private) of the property on which the site is situated. Amafa may
designate buffer areas (Sensitive Sites) around landmarks for their protection.
Amafa must compile a Heritage Register of conservation-worthy sites, and may
declare significant objects or collections thereof as Heritage Objects. The act
provides no clue as to how significance will be defined in each of these cases. It
does, however, indicate that assessment criteria for CRM projects will be set out
in regulations (Section 27.3.b). As already noted, these must be consistent with
principles established in the national legislation. The regulations are not yet
available.
Like the earlier and new national legislation, the KwaZulu-Natal Heritage Act
provides blanket protection to archaeological sites and objects, but with an inter-
esting rider that does not quite amount to an exception: it is “provided that
Amafa aKwaZulu-Natali may . . . take account of existing small-scale agricul-
tural activities” (Section 26.6.a). A large percentage of KwaZulu-Natal’s popula-
tion is engaged in subsistence agriculture, often on land that is archaeologically
extremely rich. While they are required to cease operations upon discovery of
archaeological remains, their activity and needs place a different, nonarchaeo-
logical value on the land containing those remains.
In a recent case in the Thukela Valley, the ninth century a.d. site of Mamba
with evidence of large-scale industrial activity (see van Schalkwyk 1994b; the site
was one I identified as a possible monument) was cleared of vegetation during the
course of a project to establish community gardens. Amafa’s negotiations with
the garden committee and the traditional authorities achieved a successful reso-
lution whereby the gardens would not be located on that part of the site with the
greatest concentration of archaeological material. Amafa accepted this compro-
mise knowing that the gardens would be subject to hoe rather than mechanical
tillage. The community clearly appreciated the sensitivity of the archaeological
remains and was prepared to work around them, even though their presence
affected the development of what would hopefully become an important eco-
nomic resource. This willingness to compromise may in part have been due to the
excavation projects that had been going on the immediate area since the late
1970s; one member of the garden committee had actually worked on an excava-
tion project (L. O. van Schalkwyk, personal communication). Amafa has demon-
strated skill in negotiations of this sort, but it is going to be interesting to see the
results of similar negotiations in areas in which archaeology is an unfamiliar
concept.
Existing national monuments in KwaZulu-Natal became provincial heritage
sites in terms of the national legislation, though they require assessment by April
2005 to determine whether any are of national significance. Those determined to
be of national significance will become national heritage sites and the responsibil-
ity of SAHRA. The tiered management system is linked to a system of grading of
resources that SAHRA must establish. The grading must include at least three
grades (Section 7.1) such that Grade I comprises sites and objects of national
significance that are the responsibility of SAHRA; Grade II sites and objects are
of provincial or regional significance that are the responsibility of provincial
heritage agencies; and Grade III comprises other conservation-worthy sites and
objects that are the responsibility of local authorities. Ordinarily, archaeological
sites and material are Grade II resources and managed by provincial heritage
agencies, unless they are “so exceptional that they are of special national signifi-
cance” (Section 7.1.a), that is, Grade I resources. SAHRA is required to develop
criteria “to assess the intrinsic, comparative and contextual significance of a
heritage resource and the relative benefits and costs of its protection, so that the
appropriate level of grading of the resource and consequent responsibility for its
management may be allocated” (Section 7.1). The criteria should be consistent
with principles in the act, which rate significance in terms of community or his-
torical importance, rarity value, information value, representivity, aesthetics, and
cultural associations.
Underpinning significance-grading systems is the idea that significance resides
within heritage resources rather than is assigned to them (see Tainter and Lucas
1983). The whole idea of grading heritage resources against defined assessment
criteria seems at odds with the principle of devolving responsibility for heritage to
the lowest level, and I suspect that it will not be possible to do so without difficul-
ties. For a heritage resource mapping project, a group of heritage workers in the
Cape Metropolitan Area defined Level 1 areas (equivalent to Grade I) as those
“of high heritage significance that are of national importance.” Significance is
assessed in terms of a fairly standard checklist of attributes, but no way of mea-
suring is provided. The group noted, “assigning sensitivity or importance to any
given area is subjective and based very much on the experience and disciplinary
background” of the assessor (unpublished notes from a workshop held on May
28, 1999, Archaeology Contracts Office, University of Cape Town). Unsur-
prisingly, this seems as far as the group was prepared to go.
Conclusion
Significance is always assigned by interest groups, which are by definition local

or in some sense limited. Significance is associated with sectional interests and is
therefore a political resource. The plasticity of significance provides an interest-
ing conundrum for SAHRA, which is required to “guard against the use of heri-
tage for sectarian purposes or political gain” (Section 5.1.d). Given this, what
would make an archaeological site so exceptional that it was rated Grade I? Two
things, I think. The site must either be conceived as culturally and therefore
politically neutral, or it must be politically exploitable, useful in pursuit of cur-
rent governmental priorities such as President Mbeki’s vision of an African re-
naissance. Cultural neutrality may be achieved by great time-depth, such that the
sites may be claimed by all humanity rather than sectoral interests within South
Africa. Examples include the hominid sites in the Sterkfontein Valley and long-
sequence Middle Stone Age sites such as Border Cave, Blombos, and Klasies
River Mouth. (Creationists would, of course, disagree with this proposal, indi-
cating how unattainable “cultural neutrality” is: the term is truly an oxymoron.)
For President Mbeki, the African renaissance “links the past to the future and
speaks to the interconnection between an empowering process of restoration and
the consequences or the response to the acquisition of that newly restored power
to create something new” (Mbeki 1998). Resources that may be exploited in
pursuit of the renaissance include the K2-Mapungubwe complex in the Limpopo
Valley, representing precolonial African state formation, and the San rock art of
the Drakensberg, representing aesthetic achievements of indigenous Africans.
Motivations for Grade I status might well emphasize the general Africaness of the
resources rather than the specific identity of their creators (and descendants of
the creators), allowing for their appropriation by all South Africans. Also
though, some Grade I sites, the Drakensberg for example, could serve a dual
political purpose in that they might be exploited for sectional interests in ways
that do not jeopardize and may support the ruling party’s hegemony.
Archaeological sites may also serve other governmental priorities. Mbeki
noted their potential for tourism and job creation in his state of the nation ad-
dress in February 2000. This brings me to my final point. At least one other
criterion is likely to play a significant role in Grade I evaluations. SAHRA is likely
to ask how each heritage resource can contribute to the social and economic
welfare of South Africans, in particular those that might live adjacent to the
resource. The problem heritage authorities face is similar to that faced by conser-
vationists throughout Africa: to show that conservation can improve the day-to-
day lives of people (Hall 1992). Said another way: “If monuments pay they stay”
(van Schalkwyk 1995: 41). A nonarchaeological example from KwaZulu-Natal
illustrates one strategy.
The battle of Isandlwana was fought on January 22, 1879. During the course
of the day, the Zulu army routed British forces in one of the worst colonial defeats
suffered by the British army. The battle site has since become a place of pilgrim-
age for mainly white local and international Anglo-Zulu war enthusiasts. The
KwaZulu Monuments Council (KMC) inherited the management of the site from
the NMC in the early 1980s and was confronted with an extremely limited pro-
tected area, vandalism, and homesteads, a road, a shop, and a school, all con-
structed on the battlefield. Discussions involving the local community, the KMC,
and other provincial structures resulted in the replacement of the road by an
upgraded version routed around the battlefield; the removal of the school and
shop from the battlefield and their construction elsewhere; and a protected area
increased from 2.8 ha to 815 ha, encompassing the larger part of the battlefield.
The protected Historical Reserve was fenced. Local people have free access to the
reserve and may collect firewood and graze a limited number of cattle therein.
Other members of the public are now charged an entry fee. The local Traditional
Authority receives a quarter of all revenue received. Furthermore, the reserve is a
source of jobs, and local school children are trained as guides. The process took
more than ten sometimes-difficult years of negotiation. Amafa, however, now
has a product of considerable value (van Schalkwyk 1995). In 1999, a monu-
ment to the Zulu dead was unveiled at the battlefield, another appropriation of
a heritage site that seemingly cements Isandlwana’s value in modern South
Africa.
Acknowledgments
I am especially grateful for the assistance and advice of J. Deacon (National

Monuments Council), M. Leslie (South African Heritage Resources Agency), L.
van Schalkwyk (KwaZulu Monuments Council), C. Curren (Natal office of the
NMC), and T. Hart (Archaeology Contracts Office, University of Cape Town).
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III
Judging value and importance

10
“Drawing distinctions”
Toward a scalar model of value and significance
Clay Mathers, John Schelberg, and Ronald Kneebone
Introduction
Context, taxa, scale, and space were among the keystones of archaeological
thought and analysis even before the discipline crystallized formally in the nine-
teenth century. Although these concepts continue to be essential to our under-
standing of archaeological remains and heritage today, it appears that they are
often neglected in the contemporary practice of cultural resource management
(CRM). In focusing on these key components of archaeological thought and
practice, we hope to reenergize discussion about the future of archaeological
heritage management. At the same time, we are hopeful that many of the points
raised below will contribute to wider discussions within the discipline concerning
formation processes, contextual/spatial approaches, and archaeological praxis
generally.
The return to elemental concepts such as space, context, scale, and taxa makes
it clear that the heritage management literature has been here before. However,
the notion that this ground has been traversed already, and is therefore sterile or
unlikely to produce anything of real substance, seems to ignore many fundamen-
tal dimensions of heritage management that remain as beguiling, complex, and
unresolved as they were when they were first raised more than thirty years ago.
These issues include (but are by no means exclusive to) such major topics as how
archaeological value and significance are evaluated; what defines and distin-
guishes sites and isolated finds; what scales of analysis are appropriate for assess-
ing significance; and how we understand the different dimensions of space in
both evaluating and managing cultural resources. All of these questions remain
critical to the health of the discipline as a whole, as they have in the past. Their
importance is not restricted to either the management-focused or the research-
oriented arms of archaeological practice, but applies in equal measure to both.
160 / Clay Mathers, John Schelberg, and Ronald Kneebone
It seems particularly ironic that archaeologists use concepts such as context to

distinguish professionals (like themselves) from more amateur enthusiasts, when
many aspects of context frequently have been sacrificed to tell their story, their
way, and with their focus. Very little effort (and literature) has been devoted to
self-critical, historical analyses of the practice of heritage management, especially
in North America. Equally, there is little recognition, apparently, that archaeolo-
gists themselves have a significant impact on the archaeological record, and that
agents of change and transformation are not restricted exclusively to people in
the past, or to the environment. The focus of this discussion is, therefore, less on
what archaeologists claim to be best practice with regard to heritage, and more
on what the practice of heritage management has actually been, what conse-
quences it has had, and (with a critical eye towards the future) what archaeology
and heritage management could become.
In an attempt to provide concrete examples of where we have been and where
we might go, our discussion relies on a set of spatial and quantitative analyses
conducted on archaeological sites in Rio Arriba County, in north-central New
Mexico. The number of sites included in this study (10,452) and the geographic
breadth (5,894 square miles) underline our desire to expand the analytical frame
of archaeological significance beyond single sites, as well as the methods used to
investigate it. Although the emphasis of this discussion is a reflection of American
legislation and archaeological practice concerning heritage management, we
hope that the following discussion will provide observations that will be of value
to others.
Points of departure: The National Register in context
The National Register of Historic Places (and the legislative act that brought it
into being) was the focus of considerable debate shortly after it was established.
Judging by the extended hiatus in the professional, peer-reviewed literature re-
garding this subject, however, it appears that many archaeologists and heritage
professionals in the United States have now accepted the broadly phrased lan-
guage of this act. Whether this acceptance is an artifact of reluctant resignation or
a cheerful embrace of laws that provide considerable latitude and flexibility, little
critical attention has been devoted to determining what de facto criteria deter-
mine a site’s eligibility for the National Register (NR) and the protections that
eligibility affords to it.
The laws governing historic preservation in the United States, as elsewhere,
have been subjected to the bias of both legislation and legislators during the
course of their evolution (for examples outside of the United States, see Carman;
Funari; Smith; and Whitelaw, this volume). Practical implementation and inter-
pretation of these laws by archaeologists has further conditioned what remains of
the extant cultural record. Despite some implicit and explicit acknowledgment of
these effects, American efforts at heritage management seem to be reluctant or
Toward a scalar model of value and significance / 161
unwilling to move beyond the anecdotal to the analytical. Most U.S. profession-
als are aware that NR sites have a differential focus on historic, rather than
prehistoric sites, and poorly represent the diversity of our cultural experience
with respect to ethnicity, site function, economic class, site size, chronology, and
other important variables. Without an understanding of the nature and magni-
tude of these discrepancies, as well as their implications, it is arguable whether we
are doing a reasonable and responsible job of managing our nation’s cultural
patrimony. A closer examination of archaeological praxis is therefore in order.
New Mexico case study
In New Mexico, the work of the State Historic Preservation Office (SHPO), and
that of the Database Management Branch subsumed under it, has provided us
with extraordinary insight into how heritage management laws have been inter-
preted and their concrete implications on the ground. Many questions concern-
ing the what, where, when, how, and why of archaeological and heritage man-
agement practice can be addressed with these data in a way that moves us beyond
anecdotes and toward some of the large questions that are important to the
profession as a whole.
The sites we have focused on in this paper lie in Rio Arriba County, situated
in north-central New Mexico immediately east of the heartland of the Chaco
phenomenon (located in adjacent San Juan County) (figure 10.1). The Continen-
tal Divide, which separates east- and west-flowing drainages in the United States,
falls in the western third of Rio Arriba. One of the major tributaries of the Rio
Grande, the Rio Chama, flows east from the Continental Divide and joins the Rio
Grande proper in the southeastern corner of the county. The Rio Chama corridor
forms the principal drainage in the area and has been a major focus of historic
and prehistoric occupation in this region of New Mexico, especially following
population decline in the San Juan Basin in the thirteenth century and migrations
to neighboring areas, including Rio Arriba (Stuart and Gauthier 1984; Adler
1996).
Representativeness
One of the concepts of archaeological significance and value that was most cited
and discussed during the formative period of American CRM, was the idea of
representativeness (see Briuer and Mathers 1996a, 1996b). In essence, the notion
of representativeness was intended to convey the idea of a sample of cultural
remains from a given geographic area that accurately reflected the range of hu-
man cultures and activities that had taken place there through time. Although
this term is rather idealistic and ill-defined (spatially, theoretically, and other-
wise), U.S. archaeologists have, since the mid-seventies at least, generally agreed
that the goals of heritage management need to include this important component.
Rio Arriba County
Chaco Canyon
Santa Fe
Albuquerque
Fig. 10.1. New Mexico location map.
Certainly, if the public’s goals of a more pluralistic society and the discipline’s aim
to maintain a reasonable sample of sites for future research are to be viable, the
notion of a representative sample will play an important role.
An examination of our Rio Arriba data makes it clear that these goals are far
from being achieved. Figure 10.2 compares the number of recorded archaeologi-
cal sites in this county by chronological period with the number of archaeological
sites currently listed (by period) on the National Register. The aim of this analysis
was to test whether the site frequencies for different chronological/cultural peri-
ods were related proportionately to the number of NR sites for those same peri-
ods and cultural phases.
The pattern that emerges from this analysis is that some of the shortest chro-
nological periods (for example, the Pre-Pueblo Revolt, Pueblo Revolt and Post-
Pueblo Revolt, Post Reconquest, Spanish Colonial, Pre-Reservation, U.S. Terri-
torial, N.M. Statehood/WWII, and Recent Historic periods), have the greatest
representation on the National Register. Notably, all of these periods are historic.
Duration of Cultural Periods

(1000s of years)
10 0 0 0
12 0 0 0
14 0 0 0
16 0 0 0
2000
4000
6000
8000
0
Pre-Clovis
Clovis
Folsom - Midland
National Register Component Frequency

Late Palaeo-Indian
National Register Component Frequency
Duration of Cultural Period

Terminal Palaeo-Indian
Unspecified Palaeo-Indian
Early Archaic
Duration of Cultural Period

Middle Archaic
Late Archaic
Unspecified Archaic
Basketmaker II
Basketmaker III
Pueblo I
Pueblo II
Pueblo III
Pueblo IV
Unspecified Anasazi (Pecos)
Developmental
Cultural Periods
Coalition
Cultural Periods
Classic
Unspecified Anasazi (N. Rio Grande)
Unspecified Plains Village
Unspecified Plains Nomad
Pre-Pueblo Revolt
Post-Pueblo Revolt
Pre-Reservation
Early Reservation (to arrival of RR)
Middle Reservation (to WWI)
Late Reservation (to WWII)
Recent Navajo
Unspecified Navajo
Spanish Contact/Colonial
Pueblo Revolt
Post-Pueblo Revolt
Mexican/Santa Fe Trail
U.S. Territorial
New Mexico Statehood/WWII
Recent Historical
Unspecified Historic
Unspecified or Prehistoric
Unspecified or Historic
Unknown
0
10
15
20
25
30
35
40
No. of National Register Sites
Fig. 10.2. Representation of National Register sites versus all known archaeological
sites (by chronological period and duration of period) for Rio Arriba County, New
Mexico, 1900–1995.
By contrast, the periods preceding and including the Pueblo I phase occupy the
vast majority of the prehistoric sequence in Rio Arriba and are represented by no
NR sites whatsoever. Clearly, the aim of selecting a sample of sites for the NR that
is an accurate reflection of our cultural heritage in this area has not been met. It
should be pointed out that sites that are eligible for the NR, and those that are
nominated and listed on it, are afforded similar degrees of protection (at least in
theory). Obviously, the type of analysis undertaken to produce figure 10.2 could
be carried out on sites classed as eligible and ineligible as well, to provide a more
complete and balanced picture of current archaeological practice. Many of the
decisions about eligibility, however, are made without undertaking this rather
elementary type of historical analysis.
The point here is not so much to critique our colleagues (past and present)
who have struggled to formulate and implement preservation policies. Many of
them, especially those in SHPO offices, are frequently understaffed, overworked,
and underpaid. Instead, what we hope to illustrate is that analysis, research, and
management are integral to one another, and should be pursued regularly by all
branches of the discipline, rather than be reserved for university-based archae-
ologists. The benefits of these activities are too important and critical for effective
resource management to be the exclusive domain of so few (see Schiffer and
House 1977 for an earlier argument along these lines).
Without such analyses and regular stocktaking of where we are and what
effects our policies are having, questions can certainly be asked about our claims
to be following best practice. While data of the type displayed in figure 10.2 may
not alter significantly either the policies of SHPOs across the country or many of
their newly established counterparts (that is, Tribal Historic Preservation Offices
or THPOs), at least these policies would be pursued on the basis of a clearer
understanding of (and better empirical evidence for) some aspects of our current
heritage management practices.
There is one other brief and related point about representativeness that we
would like to raise. The relationship between the archaeological community and
native/minority communities continues to be critical to the health and general
understanding of archaeology and heritage management, as well as the public
support for them. With the emergence of independent heritage bodies in the form
of THPOs, it is even more important for groups that are formulating the policies
and strategies for managing our collective heritage to communicate regularly,
and to share their analyses and research with one another. The failure to do so
will create an idiosyncratic and eclectic site record that will be national in name
only. The challenge before us is to create a National Register that is more than a
reflection of our nation’s major cultural norms and history, but is instead inclu-
sive and as diverse as our whole nation’s past and present. Part of what is needed
if we are to make that goal a more tangible reality is the data and analyses to
understand how we are actually practicing archaeology and heritage manage-
ment.
Regional context and analysis
Another dimension of past discussions of archaeological significance, in North

America and elsewhere, is the importance attached to regional analysis and re-
gional context (Scovill et al. 1972; Lipe 1974; Schiffer and Gumerman 1977;
Moratto and Kelly 1978; Plog 1981; Tainter 1987; Knoerl et al. 1989; Delgado
1992; Townsend et al. 1993; Schelberg 1996). Although this seems like a pen-
etrating glimpse into the obvious for most archaeologists and heritage profes-
sionals, definitions and examples of regional approaches to significance evalua-
tion continue to be rare, long after the calls to adopt such approaches.
Despite the emergence of interest in cultural landscapes (for example, Crum-
ley and Marquardt 1990; Bender 1993; Crumley 1994; Tilley 1994; Hirsch and
O’Hanlon 1995; Ashmore and Knapp 1999;), including the recognition of his-
toric districts and cultural landscapes by the U.S. Park Service, and multisite
landscapes by international bodies such as the International Council on Monu-
ments and Sites (ICOMOS, Pomeroy, this volume), site evaluations in the United
States at least, continue to be done largely on a site-by-site basis. For the same
reason that we argue that individual objects are diminished in their significance
by removal from their original context, it is difficult to see the merits of doing
precisely this at a regional scale by divorcing individual sites from the larger
cultural, geographic, and other matrices in which they are embedded.
In analyzing data from Rio Arriba County, we were particularly interested in
evaluating the wider regional context of sites around the Abiquiu Reservoir, op-
erated by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. By combining local and regional
scales of analysis, that is, individual sites and the larger constellations of sites of
which they form a part, new patterns emerge that are critical in evaluating ar-
chaeological significance beyond the level of single sites. A comparison of one
portion of our study area (the Abiquiu Reservoir area) with the rest of Rio Arriba
County showed that an appreciable number of the Archaic period sites located in
the county as a whole are found at Abiquiu (Schaafsma 1976, 1977; Reed et al.
1982; Reed and Tucker 1983; Wozniak et al. 1992). Although the reservoir re-
gion composes less than 1 percent of the total land area, it nevertheless contains
nearly 14 percent of the known Archaic period sites. Without this wider perspec-
tive, management decision makers who focused on the reservoir area alone might
infer that Archaic sites were relatively common, and therefore expendable. Com-
parisons between the sites known at Abiquiu and those listed on the National
Register further highlight the value of the sites represented at Abiquiu, since no
Archaic period sites in the whole of the study area are found on the National
Register (figure 10.2). If archaeologists are to succeed in securing a representative
sample of our cultural heritage for the future (Thompson 1974; Dixon 1977;
Schiffer and House 1977; Raab and Klinger 1979; Dunnell 1984; Reed 1987;
Smith 1990; Grumet 1992), knowledge of such gaps and biases in our preserva-
tion policies is essential.
From a still larger, international perspective, the Archaic period in the Ameri-
can Southwest marks one of the key sequences we have to understand the transi-
tion from late glacial hunting and gathering to sedentary food production
(Matson 1996; Huckle 1996; Plog 1997; Wills 1988a, 1988b). Blessed with ex-
traordinary preservation, large numbers of sites, a rich ethnographic and paleo-
environmental record, as well as high-precision dating, the archaeological record
here has major advantages that are lacking elsewhere. The preservation of key
components of this record is clearly something requiring strategies that are predi-
cated on broad regional approaches and analyses, rather than narrower admin-
istrative perspectives focused on single sites.
Another aspect of contextual analysis at a regional scale that is essential for
evaluations of significance is an accurate assessment of surveyed space. Areas
where archaeologists have focused major attention in the past are obviously
likely to produce larger numbers of sites than those that have been less frequently
visited and investigated. Our ability to assess these differences, either in qualita-
tive or quantitative terms, has until recently been very limited. Thanks to some
extraordinary efforts in the states of New Mexico and Arkansas, to name a few,
archaeologists in the United States are beginning to gain insight into how well
different parts of the country have been investigated: when work was conducted,
how frequently, using what methods, and so on.
The importance of understanding the historical evolution of the archaeologi-
cal record has been something that U.S. archaeologists, especially those in the
heritage management realm, have seemingly placed less emphasis on than their
European counterparts, some of whom have traced more than 150 years of
change in the patterns of land use, antiquarian collecting, and archaeological
investigation (for example, Kristiansen 1985, 1996, Holman 1985).
Our analysis of the Rio Arriba data suggested that differences in the way the
land has been used are of absolutely critical importance to how we understand
and evaluate regional patterning in the archaeological record. Figure 10.3 illus-
trates a large void in the dense distribution of archaeological sites in the north-
central area of Rio Arriba County.
Although it was initially unclear why this gap exists, eventually it emerged
that the void is largely an artifact of an early Spanish land grant, the Tierra
Amarilla, which encompasses a large area, the majority of which has remained in
private ownership since the nineteenth century (Wozniak et al. 1992). In this case
at least, differences between private and public lands with respect to archaeologi-
cal fieldwork and recorded site densities are profound (figure 10.4). There are
also major differences in site densities and discovery patterns for each of the
major land holdings in the area, which are administered by state and federal
agencies as well as by Native American communities. These differences are
clearly related to modern land management and survey intensities, and are not
explicable merely in terms of variations in surface visibility, natural resource
potential, or other major environmental factors.
Toward a scalar model Tierra Amarilla Area
of value and significance / 167
Fig. 10.3. Overall archaeo-

logical site distributions for
Rio Arriba County, New
Mexico, 1900–1995.
120
110 Carson National Forest (Public Land)
Tierra Amarilla Land Grant (Private Land)

100
90
Number of Sites per 100 sq. km
80
70
60
50
40
30
20
10
0
1 km 2 km 3 km 4 km 5 km 6 km 7 km 8 km 9 km 10 km
Incremental Buffers
Fig. 10.4. Comparison of site densities for buffers extending 1–10 km in the Carson National
Forest and the Tierra Amarilla Land Grant, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico.
A detailed geographic information systems (GIS) analysis along the perimeter

of the Tierra Amarilla land grant revealed the magnitude of the differences in site
densities between areas within the grant (which are largely, but not wholly pri-
vate), and adjacent land to the east, administered by the USDA Forest Service.
Taking the private–public boundary on the eastern edge of this grant as the start-
ing point, a series of one-kilometer-wide buffers were created, radiating out to ten
kilometers. The result was a series of buffers extending from 1 to 10 kilometers
inside the Tierra Amarilla land grant (largely in private ownership), and a similar
set of nested buffers inside the Carson National Forest, publicly owned and ad-
ministered exclusively by the USDA Forest Service.
This analysis demonstrates that there are major differences in site densities (a
minimum ratio of 30:1) between public and private land in this area in each of the
buffer zones—despite a larger proportion of high altitude, broken terrain and
more heavily vegetated ground surface in the Carson National Forest. (The den-
sity figures reported above have been normalized to account for the different
surface areas, because of topological differences, between each pair of buffers,
since a 1-km-wide buffer in the Tierra Amarilla grant, for example, does not have
an identical surface area to the corresponding 1-km-wide Carson National Forest
buffer.) These major variations highlight different land-management practices,
particularly the statutory requirement for cultural resource inventories on the
public land managed by the Forest Service.
Data quality
Another important aspect of archaeological analysis, whether in the context of

heritage management or not, is the quality of data on which evaluations are
based. Surprisingly, perhaps, this aspect of interpretation has seldom been a
major topic of discussion in the peer-reviewed literature relating to CRM or in
the practice of U.S. archaeology generally.
It is perhaps no coincidence that the period from the mid-1970s to the mid-
1980s marked something of a peak in archaeological discussions of both signifi-
cance and site recovery/survey techniques. As the number of sites being reported
increased dramatically with the introduction of new legislation as well as theo-
retical and methodological tools for investigation and analysis, questions con-
cerning what to preserve, and how much, began to surface regularly in the litera-
ture. The lessons of plowzone archaeology (Ammerman 1981, 1985; Baker
1978; Ammerman and Feldman 1978; O’Brien and Lewarch 1981; Wandsnider
and Camilli 1992; Steinberg 1996; Boismier 1997), however, were seldom trans-
lated into heritage management circles, so that problematic issues such as a site’s
size, depth, chronology, function, integrity, and uniqueness, were usually not the
subject of debate or analysis, except among those whose task it was to investigate
and evaluate individual sites. These variables are, however, arguably basic at-
tributes of any site and are among the principal criteria used in evaluating a site’s
10000
N = 10,452
9000
8000
7000
6000
No. of Sites
5000
4000
3000
2000
1000
0
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
No. of Site Visits
Fig. 10.5. Site visitation/recording frequency in Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1900–
1995.
significance. If there are major questions about one or more of these variables,
such as a site’s size or chronology, then it follows that other attributes may be
called into question as well, such as the site’s integrity, depth, function, or unique-
ness.
As much of the sampling, survey, and plowzone archaeology of the 1970s and
1980s demonstrated, field investigations of the archaeological record are condi-
tional and context-dependent, and, like the concept of significance itself, they are
dynamic as well. Hirth’s (1978) survey in the Basin of Mexico, for example,
reported an eightfold difference in sherd density when the same area was repeat-
edly surveyed, largely because of intervening rainfall and agricultural distur-
bance. It should go without saying that a strong link exists between what we
know about a given site and the number of times that site has been investigated.
Visitation frequency is obviously a variable that requires greater attention in the
context of significance evaluation: when was the site visited (1930 or 1990?) and
last visited, what methods were employed in its investigation (for example, pe-
destrian survey, coring, shovel tests, area excavation), and what techniques were
used in determining its geographic boundaries?
In Rio Arriba, a significant number of sites have been minimally recorded. The
vast majority of archaeological sites in the county have been visited only once,
9,841 out of 10,452 or nearly 94 percent (figure 10.5). In addition, the vast
majority of these have not been subjected to anything more than a one-pass,
pedestrian survey, suggesting that our knowledge of their true nature (size, date,
chronology, integrity, depth, and so on) must be incomplete at best. When sites
known from either one or two visits are combined, the total number reaches
10,355 (99 percent).
If the superficial nature of these investigations seems unproblematic, the case
of a site from Abiquiu Reservoir is worth highlighting. Although the site was
identified on three separate occasions as a lithic scatter, it was intentionally in-
cluded in a small sample of sites earmarked for excavation with the aim of ob-
taining a chronometric date, given the apparent presence of a single hearth on the
site. Upon excavation, it became clear that the site, in fact, contained several
Archaic period pit houses and adjacent work areas. The probability that this site
would have been randomly selected for excavation from the NR-eligible lithic
scatters at Abiquiu is, however, low (Stiger, no date, manuscript on file).
How frequently mistaken identifications such as this are made is, of course,
difficult to calculate in any absolute sense. Nevertheless, there are ways of using
our existing data, in New Mexico and elsewhere, to calculate some of the poten-
tial error associated with, for example, site size estimates (among other param-
eters). Provided that we make the effort to examine our CRM data in a critical,
historical, and analytical fashion, we have a good deal of new and productive
territory to explore.
In a similar vein, analysis of our Rio Arriba data indicates that a number of
sites have not been visited in thirty years or more (a total of 274 sites, or 2.68
percent of all sites) (table 10.1). Furthermore, some of these sites have had no
recorded visit for more than sixty years. Although the percentages represented by
these data are relatively small, the distribution of these sites is again nonrandom,
with significant clusters occurring in the southeastern corner of the county be-
tween Abiquiu and Española, in the Gallina and Navajo City–Gobernador areas,
and a particularly dense cluster around Navajo Reservoir in the extreme north-
west corner of Rio Arriba.
If we are evaluating the significance of a suite of sites, some of which were
surveyed several times in the last decade, alongside sites without a recorded visit
for more than forty, fifty, or sixty years, it seems prudent to account for these
differences when evaluating which are eligible for the NR. Whether many sites
can be found again, or even whether they still exist, must be an open question
when the information we have in hand is more than half a century old. Further-
more, not only is the significance of these individual sites problematic, but so too
may be any attempt to evaluate sites in their vicinity. Efforts to characterize the
significance of single sites by reference to their regional context may be compro-
mised considerably by the lack of quality information of any currency about sites
in their immediate geographic vicinity.
Other details concerning the locational fidelity of our data are equally prob-
lematic. Of the 10,452 sites that we analyzed from Rio Arriba County (recorded
Table 10.1. Most recent visit/recording data for sites in Rio Arriba County, New
Mexico, 1900–1995
Last site visit Number of sites Percentage of all sites
= 30 years ago and < 40 years ago 168 1.64

= 60 years ago 25 0.24
Total 274 2.68
Note: Of the 10,452 sites in our study, 245 of these do not have specific details concerning
the chronology of site visits. The percentages above are therefore calculated using the figure
of 10,207 (that is, 10,452 - 245).
between 1900 and 1995) only ten (about 0.09 percent) had, for example, their
location recorded by using a global positioning system (GPS) instrument. Effec-
tive monitoring and management of archaeological heritage requires the requi-
site levels of precision and accuracy to ensure that when a site is revisited, we are
clear that the field records from one visit relate to the same site as those from a
subsequent visit. Without such precision, it is difficult to determine whether the
locational information we have from different episodes of recording indicates
that (a) the original site is larger (or smaller); (b) there are two or more sites
present—rather than one; or (c) the original coordinates recorded for the site
were erroneous.
The fact that we have precise GPS coordinates for a site does not necessarily
resolve the question of what those coordinates mean or how they relate to defin-
ing the geographic boundaries of whatever cultural phenomenon we have iden-
tified on the ground. The centroid of a site (however defined), or various mea-
sured locations around a site’s perimeter, for example, may mean very little if we
do not know how those points were selected and the methodology/assumptions
behind those choices. Is a site’s boundary defined by absolute measures (such as
the absence of any artifacts outside a clearly defined cluster of materials), or is it
defined in a more quantitative fashion by diminishing densities of material? How
do variations in ground visibility affect the size, shape, and discovery of sites?
Seemingly small matters of detail of this kind have important implications for our
stewardship of cultural heritage. Very few CRM reports that we are familiar
with, at least, provide the type of specific information that would make it clear
exactly how an estimation of size, for example, was arrived at. Combined with
the poor locational precision and accuracy we have for many of our sites, both in
Rio Arriba and the United States generally, the small number of visits many sites
have received, and the rather unspecific documentation about key variables (such
as site size), the quality of information we have available to evaluate and manage
cultural resources must often be regarded as lamentable. In this area, we can

certainly do more and demand better quality.
It is certainly true that no set of archaeological data collected over a period of
several years, decades, or centuries can hope to be absolutely comparable or
without significant variations. However, since many of these variations are by no
means trivial when evaluating the significance of cultural resources, it seems
absolutely essential for us to be aware of the nature, magnitude, and spatial
location of these resources. The appearance and development of large archaeo-
logical and heritage databases, especially those with spatial analytical capabili-
ties in the form of geographic information systems (GIS) data, make the display
and analysis of such attributes both rapid and straightforward. Whether sites in
a potential impact area were surveyed five times between 1990 and the present or
once in 1950 is obviously not without importance. The methods used to investi-
gate and record these sites (essentially archaeological metadata) are equally criti-
cal and determine how far we can go in interpreting our evidence given its quality.
Management of archaeological and other heritage resources in the absence of
such data, and attempts to analyze and evaluate data quality, undoubtedly fall
short of the best the profession can offer.
Archaeological taxa
As archaeologists, the contexts and language we use clearly matter, and nowhere
more so than in our individual and collective decisions to assess significance, and
thereby influence what remains of the archaeological record. Nevertheless, given
the narrow parameters that have been used to address archaeological signifi-
cance, it would be difficult to find an area of archaeological praxis where there is
a more frustrating gap between objectives and application than archaeological
taxa.
Despite widespread discussion over more than two decades, much of the ter-
minology used to characterize archaeological significance, and archaeological
sites generally, continues to be misleading, muddy, or profoundly confusing.
These ambiguities are often veiled by reassuring dichotomies such as significant
vs. not significant, or masked by catchall, nondescript categories such as lithic
scatters. Those engaged in heritage management in a professional capacity, as
well as other interest groups and the public at large, would be better served by
adopting terms that more accurately reflect the conditional and imperfect nature
of archaeological assessment.
It would be more accurate, for example, to label sites as more or less signifi-
cant on a sliding scale, since their significance is subject to change through time
and because arguably all sites have attributes that can be seen as significant
(McMillan et al. 1977). Equally, more attention could be focused on what labels
such as lithic scatter actually mean, that is, on a more specific characterization of
what it is (in compositional and functional terms) and its size and location, rather
than simply dismissing such sites as ineligible with a minimum of investigation.
Without further discrimination, for example, the thousands of lithic scatters
in our study area will remain lumped together in a homogeneous catchall cat-
egory that is likely to ensure their extinction before we have even an inkling of
what they are or their wider significance. If we allow small and less visible com-
ponents to be winnowed from the extant archaeological record, the value and
credibility of our discipline will decline accordingly. Consequently, the power
and influence of terms that appear to be precise but create confusion rather than
clarity, should be borne in mind, both for their impact inside and outside of the
discipline.
Other aspects of archaeological taxa are an equally critical focus for all as-
pects of archaeological theory and practice. Take, for example, the dilemma of
whether to record individual or isolated clusters of objects. Many patterns of
human activity that have left traces on the landscape emerge only with some
considerable reluctance, often over lengthy periods of time. Teasing out such
patterns will require the patient accumulation of data from isolated locations and
disparate recording episodes, evidence which is unlikely to make sense except in
the longer term. Archaeologists normally comfortable with phenomena on the
scale of centuries and millennia may find such timescales irritatingly inconve-
nient in the context of their individual career or life span. While it may seem that
time and commercial development wait for no one, we do have methods and
technologies to record such finds at low cost and high resolution, before the
opportunity to interpret them is lost forever. What is less clear, however, is how
much of this type of record will be sacrificed to the tidying tendencies of profes-
sional judgment and personal ego. It is equally unclear how well we will fare in
attempting the more difficult task of placing such isolated materials in their wider
spatial and historical context.
Despite a considerable body of literature devoted to the concept of sites,
nonsites, and archaeological distributions (Goodyear 1975; Ebert 1981; Foley
1981a, 1981b; Thomas 1969, 1975; Dunnell and Dancey 1983; Bintliff and
Snodgrass 1988; Rhoads 1992), the site concept remains an elusive one. The
issues raised by this continuing conundrum affect archaeological management
and significance evaluation, along with the discipline as a whole.
Although the notion of a siteless landscape, punctuated by artifact clusters of
variable density, is an innovative and elegant proposition in the minds of many
archaeologists familiar with the reality of such phenomena in the field and on
their computer screens, such ideas have had less positive traction in the heritage
management arena. The issue of what a site is, and is not, remains important and
awkward for research and management alike, as is the question of whether a site
is significant or not. Like nested Chinese boxes, these are related and dependent
questions that remain open.
The need to determine the significance of larger (landscapes) and smaller (iso-
lated objects or IOs) phenomena further clouds and complicates the archaeolo-
gist’s task of attributing significance to cultural remains. At both ends of the size
spectrum, time and further investigation often reveal characteristics that change
our view of landscapes (such as the recent discovery of new enclosures near the
West Kennett Long Barrow in the Avebury area; Pomeroy, this volume), or our
understanding of IOs and their relationship to sites and activities in the surround-
ing area. In New Mexico, where the site density is very high indeed, the identifi-
cation of IOs often seems more an act of belief than of science, since little attempt
is made to understand what such objects are, what relationship they have with
their surroundings, and whether there is meaningful patterning associated with
them (for example, with respect to raw material, spatial location, function, or
chronology).
Returning to the issue of sites and their definition, the use of terms such as
lithic scatter obviously has important implications for what we preserve or dis-
card, and consequently understand, of the existing material record. Tainter
(1979), for example, analyzed the Mountainair (New Mexico) lithic scatters in
an attempt to look more deeply into what we mean by this catchall category and
tried to provide some methodological tools for improving our approaches to this
type of archaeological resource. The prevalence of such sites (and this term) in
New Mexico is formidable, since lithic scatters constitute the vast majority of the
prehistoric record here. Consequently, the need to understand differences among
sites placed in this category is clear.
In this context, management without research and analysis will continue to
populate the archaeological record of New Mexico and other regions of the
country with sites that we dimly understand, and discard at our peril (witness the
example from Abiquiu, referenced above).
Our analysis of the Rio Arriba data for the period from 1971 to 1995 suggests
that the definitions of an archaeological site in use at this time (at least in Rio
Arriba) were not as static and well defined as we might have been led to believe.
The graph in figure 10.6 emphasizes that a major shift in the size of sites being
reported took place around 1982, when the proportion of large sites (more than
1,000 square meters) reported overtook that of small sites (that is, those with less
than 1,000 square meters).
The timing of this change is significant and in many ways counterintuitive for
several reasons. First, it is logical to think that the reported proportion of large
sites in Rio Arriba County should have diminished through time, as the more
visible sites were found first, and more rigorous surveys (with more labor ex-
pended per unit area) that could detect smaller, less visible sites with more dis-
persed materials occurred later. Second, and perhaps just as important, the late
1970s and early 1980s were periods when much research on small sites, nonsites,
and distributional landscapes was being presented in the literature, especially the
work of Lewis Binford and Jim Ebert (both from the University of New Mexico).
100
Sites < 1000 m2

90
Sites > 1000 m2
80
70
% of All New Sites by Year
60
50
40
30
20
10
0
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
Year
Fig. 10.6. Comparison of the frequency of sites < 1000 sq meters in size with those > 1000
sq meters in Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1971–95.
This research by both Binford and Ebert (for example, Binford 1976, 1978,
1980, 1982; Ebert 1981) clearly had a significant influence on work undertaken
in Rio Arriba County and in other areas in the Southwest at this time (Anschuetz
et al. 1990; Camilli et al. 1988; Doleman et al. 1991, 1992; Seaman et al. 1988;
Wandsnider and Camilli 1992).
Although the precise reasons for this patterning are not yet clear and are being
investigated currently, two possibilities are that archaeologists conducting work
in Rio Arriba county were (a) lumping sites together to make them more likely to
be classed as NR eligible (a “safety in numbers” approach) or (b) lumping to-
gether small sites to minimize the amount of field recording time (that is, com-
pleting one site record form instead of multiple forms).
Two contrasting site definition strategies, “lumping” versus “splitting,” are
represented schematically in figure 10.7.
Whatever the reason or combination of reasons for the patterns of site size and
discovery displayed in figure 10.6, it is clear that assessments of site significance
and approaches to heritage management need to monitor, and be sensitive to,
changes in archaeological practice. Without such awareness, we could be making
Site Definition Strategies
Splitting Lumping
(4 sites) (1 site)
Fig. 10.7. Idealized site definition strategies.
assumptions about the nature of the archaeological record that are independent
of the choices and strategies being adopted by archaeologists themselves. In this
case, it is unknown whether the trend visible in figure 10.6 is a genuine increase
in the proportion of large sites being found, or if it simply represents a major
change in how archaeological sites were being defined. Which of these two alter-
natives is correct has important implications for managing and preserving ar-
chaeological sites in New Mexico and elsewhere.
Matching analytical tools and archaeological concepts
There is a clear need for archaeologists, and others, to match the relative and
dynamic nature of the significance concept with appropriate analytical tools and
approaches, particularly ones that are capable of keeping pace with rapid
changes in society, scientific knowledge, and values.
Although many traditional approaches to archaeological significance are lim-
ited in scope, logistical support for more holistic analyses have also been lacking
until recently. In the face of major pulses in commercial development and ar-
chaeological research, traditional paper and pen approaches, which include
aspatial databases and variable recording procedures, have fallen well short of
the best practice objectives outlined more than twenty years ago in the literature.
Since that time, however, a wide variety of analytical tools have emerged with the
potential to expand considerably the size, depth, and breadth of the data set used
to evaluate significance (Aldenderfer and Maschner 1996; Allen et al. 1990;
Clark 1990; Behrens and Sever 1991; Gaffney et al. 1991; Conyers and
Goodman 1997; Lock and Stancic 1995; Maschner 1996; Scollar et al. 1990;
UNESCO 1996).
The dynamic character of the archaeological record is clear from our study of
Rio Arriba County, for example, where more than several hundred sites (on
average) are found each year. In the state of New Mexico as a whole, the total
number of new sites averages more than 5000 annually. While archaeologists are
increasingly aware of the contingent and relative nature of archaeological signifi-
cance and the criteria used to evaluate it (Leone and Potter 1992; Darvill 1995;
Pearson and Sullivan 1995; Carman 1996; Carver 1996; Smith and Clarke
1996), we should not overlook the fact that our data are highly dynamic, too,
from the details relating to individual sites to information collated at an interna-
tional scale. Although we may agree that our concepts and assessments of signifi-
cance need to be flexible and sensitive to change, in general, the tools and ap-
proaches we are using currently to evaluate significance are not.
Clearly, GIS, remote sensing, geophysical techniques, and other more recent
additions to our analytical toolkit are simply tools to be used, abused, or ne-
glected. Nevertheless, their prudent and more widespread use has the potential to
significantly increase our flexibility and opportunities for addressing the dy-
namic nature of archaeological significance (Groenewoudt 1994; Wheatley
1995). Modern tools and regional geospatial databases, however, are not
enough. While they represent steps toward a wider and more informed view of
archaeological value and significance, we need to have the wisdom, foresight,
and analytical rigor to use these tools more creatively.
Vandalism in context
With good reason, archaeological discussions of significance and value have his-
torically tended to focus on the proactive and positive steps we as a profession
can take in our role as stewards of cultural resources and our collective patri-
mony. No discussion of archaeological significance would be complete in our
view, however, without examining those forces that work in precisely the oppo-
site direction, that is, to damage and destroy sites, intentionally, by accident, or
through neglect. Vandalism, or the deliberate targeting of cultural resources for
profit or malicious destruction, is the most insidious and pernicious of these, and
has long been the bane of archaeologists and other heritage professionals. It is
somewhat surprising therefore that vandalism has often been left out of discus-
sions regarding significance.
With only a few notable exceptions (Schiffer and Gumerman 1977; Nickens et
al. 1981; Christensen et al. 1988; Spoerl 1988; Nickens 1991; Ahlstrom et al.
1992; Lentz et al. 1996), discussions of vandalism and other major impacts to
cultural resources seem to devote considerably more attention to the description
and legal framework of preservation than to the systematic analysis of the phe-
nomenon itself. Vandalism clearly has complex roots and manifests in a variety of
25000
N = 10,365
N = 59
20000
Mean Site Size (sq. m.)
15000
N = 345
10000
N = 9,961
5000
0
National Register Site Vandalized Sites Nonvandalized Sites
Fig. 10.8. Mean size data for National Register, vandalized, and nonvandalized sites in Rio
Arriba County, New Mexico, 1900–1995.
different guises. Although there is a spectrum of activities, from the relatively

random defacement of rock art to the systematic looting of cemeteries, assump-
tions about the targets and perpetrators of vandalism seem to be more common
than attempts to understand this form of human behavior in a more comprehen-
sive fashion through analysis.
Our Rio Arriba data provide a number of insights into vandalism, signifi-
cance, and monitoring strategies that are worth pursuing in more detail. Only a
few of these are reported here as illustrations of the potential value of investigat-
ing these subjects further. First, it is clear that vandalized sites fit into a very
specific size cohort with respect to other site types, with large National Register
resources at one end and smaller, nonvandalized sites at the other (figure 10.8).
The targets of vandalism in Rio Arriba County, at least, appear to occupy a type
of Goldilocks position; that is, they are not too large and not too small either.
One possible explanation for this patterning is that large sites might attract too
much attention and too many visitors to be attractive targets for systematic van-
dalism, whereas smaller sites might be insufficiently interesting or productive.
Since the sites that constitute the preferred targets of vandalism here fall within a
rather specific size range, this information (in combination with other variables)
can help us predict not only what areas need regular monitoring but also where
the next focus of vandalism is likely to be. If we are interested in long-term
Navajo City - Gobernador Cluster
Gallina Cluster
Fig. 10.9. Distribution of vandalized sites in Rio Arriba County, New Mexico.
assessments of significance and effective heritage management, details of this

type will be of considerable importance.
Another valuable result from our analysis of data from Rio Arriba suggests
that the spatial concentration of vandalism on a regional scale is rather pro-
nounced. Figure 10.9 illustrates the overall number and distribution of vandal-
ized sites in the county and highlights two major clusters: (1) focused on the
Gallina area, a region known for a rich series of Pueblo III and Pueblo IV defen-
sive settlements (Cordell 1989); and (2) the Navajo City–Gobernador area,
which is characterized by a very high density of prehistoric sites, including occu-
pation contemporary with the main Chacoan expansion (Powers and Johnson
1987; Vivian 1990). The ring buffers surrounding the main concentration of sites
within each cluster form only 4 percent of the surface area of Rio Arriba County.
As of 1995, however, these buffers contained some 39 percent of the total num-
ber of vandalized sites from this region.
Taken together, these data suggest that specific geographic areas, site size
ranges, and chronological periods are the consistent focus of vandalism in Rio
Arriba County. Because of the quality of information recorded by the Archaeo-
logical Records Management Section (ARMS), which maintains a geospatial

database at the New Mexico SHPO, a great deal more discrimination and analy-
sis is possible by, for example, focusing on different types and levels of vandalism,
degrees of physical access, and regional site aggregation.
By attempting to understand some of the different dimensions of vandalism
and their manifestations at different scales, archaeologists will be in a much
better position to fashion educational, monitoring, and other more effective heri-
tage management strategies. If we are to have sufficient time to explore signifi-
cance at a local, regional, and inter-regional scale, the protection of known cul-
tural resources and resource areas is essential.
Conclusion: Looking forward
As interpreters of past societies and cultures, we have a responsibility to them, to

the communities we live in, and to successive generations; we owe all of these
constituencies, past, present and future, the best we can offer. We have argued
that best practice in the context of heritage management is difficult and problem-
atic to define if we do not take the measure of it (past and present) in a rigorous,
historical, and self-critical way. More innovative and responsible strategies for
managing heritage depend to a large degree on our humility, imagination, and
analytical rigor.
Work that is elsewhere referred to as the “Accounting School” of archaeologi-
cal significance evaluation (for example, Carman 1996, this volume, Carman et
al. 1999), for example, can be seen on the one hand as the rather mechanistic
application of selective assessment criteria. The use of shopping lists of variables
to define significance clearly results in evaluations that are neither comprehensive
nor definitive. The dynamic nature of significance, emphasized by much of the
past archaeological literature on the subject (for example, Tainter and Lucas
1983; Leone and Potter 1992), ensures that this is so and will continue to be in
the future. On the other hand, explicit trait lists designed to better delineate
significance, many of them purposefully tailored to the characteristic features
and issues of localized areas, continue to be used (for example, Whitelaw, this
volume). Whether these approaches are always as satisfying or holistic as they
should be, explicit statements of assessment criteria are amenable to scrutiny,
critique, and discussion. Implicit assumptions and criteria, on the other hand, are
not as easily teased out of contemporary archaeological practice. Future historio-
graphic analysis of archaeology and heritage management will find it no easier to
determine what bases we used for selectively preserving and destroying compo-
nents of our cultural patrimony.
The point we are emphasizing is that accounting and accountability have the
same roots, and that in our role as stewards of cultural heritage, we play an
important part in determining what survives of the extant archaeological and
historical record. At any one time, the choices and criteria used to manage our
heritage are no more divorced from the living, contemporary culture in which we
live than any other aspect of that culture. The dependent, culture- and class-
bound nature of significance criteria is clear, and is manifest in the altered priori-
ties of preservation management when seen from an historical perspective (for
example, witness the examples emphasized by Funari, Whitelaw, and Smith, this
volume).
In our efforts to fashion new approaches to significance, it is important that
we acknowledge our imperfect ability to corral this difficult and dynamic phe-
nomenon. From this perspective, debates about whether our significance check-
lists and evaluation criteria are definitive will never be conclusive. A more pro-
ductive strategy, however, (one that emphasizes accountability) is to ensure that
we provide more overt statements regarding what is (and is not) heritage of value,
and why. By making archaeological assumptions about significance more trans-
parent, we are attempting best practice, but at the same time recognizing that we
can do better. With theory and method more accessible, our ideas will be more
amenable to discussion, critique, public accountability, and, ultimately, change.
Such an approach has much to reveal about ourselves and how we work, and
about the history of archaeology, anthropology, and heritage management in
their wider cultural and historical context. There is already a great deal of mate-
rial for historiographers of archaeology and heritage management to work with
and to reveal about what we have done with the archaeological record in the past,
as well as the effects of our current practice. After all, what we as a society value
as heritage, or at least what certain influential members of a society value and
protect, has much to say about contemporary values (material and nonmaterial),
as well as power relations, diversity, and other key elements of culture in its broad
sense.
The potential value of this information will not be lost on future generations
of historians or historiographers, whether their interests lie in historically based
social sciences such as history, anthropology, and archaeology, or in cultural
dynamics generally. Rather than wait for retrospective analyses of what we have
done, we have the data, tools, and some of the approaches to begin using and
analyzing this information ourselves. Self-reflexive and self-critical historical
approaches have their place in archaeology and heritage management, as they
have had, profitably, elsewhere in allied disciplines such as history (Trouillot
1995), anthropology (Barrett 1984), and geography (Harvey 2000). Although a
number of general histories of archaeology and heritage practices have been of-
fered since the emergence of cultural resource management (for example, Lowen-
thal 1988, 1998; Trigger 1989; Stiebing 1993; Pinsky and Wylie 1995; Wallace
1996; Rosenzweig and Thelen 2000), few of these discuss the major contribution
of CRM to the development of American archaeology or heritage management
(however, see Kehoe 1998 and Kehoe and Emmerichs 2000).
When seen from a historical perspective, the data from Rio Arriba County
provide some insight into the practice of archaeology and heritage management
N = 10,452
15
% of Sites Overall
10
0
Surface Shovel-Tested Partially Completely
Collected Excavated Excavated
Fig. 10.10a. Methods used in archaeological site investigation in Rio Arriba County, New
Mexico, 1900–1995.
3000
N = 10,452
2000
Years Required
1000
120
0 10
0
Surface Collected Shovel-Tested Partially Excavated Completely

Excavated
Fig. 10.10b. Years required to achieve a 10 percent sample of sites using different site
investigation techniques, Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, 1900–1995.
specifically: where we have been, what we have selected to preserve, where we

have focused our investigations, and what fruit those choices have borne. In
figure 10.10a, we take stock of the different methods that were employed in the
past to investigate archaeological sites, and in figure 10.10b, we suggest how
long it will take (at this pace) to investigate a 10 percent sample of our sites using
these different methods.
While it may appear that the goal of achieving a 10 percent sample of com-
pletely excavated sites is an unachievable fantasy, these graphs do, nevertheless,
provide some insight into the scale and magnitude of the task before us. The more
realistic goal of achieving a 10 percent sample of partially excavated sites is 120
years away in Rio Arriba, given our current progress on this front. Importantly,
this figure assumes that no other archaeological sites will be found during this
period, and, equally, that none will be destroyed. Clearly, both of the latter as-
sumptions are unfounded, since damage to, and destruction of, our heritage will
continue, as will the recovery of large numbers of new sites. More humility and
analytical rigor in the face of such data seems appropriate.
Likewise, how much we know about existing sites is also an open question.
Work in the last decade at the famous Bronze Age site of Troy is one prominent
example of how even well-known sites still have significant surprises for us, even
after a century of major investigation. Recent excavations and geophysical work
at the Late Bronze Age site of Troy in western Turkey (Blindow et al. 2000;
Korfmann 2000) have revealed a causewayed ditch that appears to enclose a
previously unsuspected urban area below the well-known royal citadel. This for-
tified area covers approximately twenty hectares, expanding the size of the cita-
del excavated by Schliemann (1881) by a factor of ten.
Our purpose here is not to emphasize the difficulties of dealing with poorly
documented, inadequately sampled, or simply unknown data sets, since these
features of archaeology will be perpetual. Instead, we suggest it is critical for the
health of archaeology generally, and heritage management in particular, to ap-
proach the variability we see in the cultural record in a less normative way. In
particular, we suggest that there is a need to focus attention on the impacts ar-
chaeologists have had in choosing to investigate some geographic areas but not
others, and in preserving some types of sites while sanctioning the destruction of
others. Although considerable energy and attention has been focused on model-
ing both past and future conditions in archaeology (that is, predictive modeling
in forward and reverse gear) (for example, Kvamme 1983; Limp and Carr 1985;
Kohler and Parker 1986; Sebastian and Judge 1988; Warren 1990), there is a
pressing need to examine the impact of our assumptions, methods, and policies
on what remains of the archaeological record. While the choices we make and the
strategies we adopt will not be without flaws and problems, being accountable
for our actions (and their impacts) should help to improve the debate, dialogue,
and awareness about heritage management and archaeology, both within the
discipline and among the public at large.
By implementing these types of approaches, we believe that a more expansive

vision and understanding of archaeological significance will emerge, one that is
anchored solidly by an emphasis on multiscalar, self-critical, and historical analy-
ses. Such an approach has important implications for both basic research and
heritage management, and will make some progress toward dissolving the artifi-
cial dichotomy between them. The rapid rate of data accumulation and land-
scape alteration, as well as our growing community and legal, ethical, and educa-
tional responsibilities, make it imperative for archaeology to make progress in
closing this gap.
In addition, more broadly based analyses of context will considerably im-
prove not only our understanding of archaeological significance but also of our
general heritage, both cultural and ecological. In Rio Arriba County, for ex-
ample, we have tried in a very pragmatic way to see archaeological significance as
inextricably linked with other socially valued resources. In one case, we have
been investigating the overlap between archaeological sites and endangered spe-
cies habitats in order to provide a broader basis for evaluation, management, and
community decision making. Analyses of this kind are not only feasible but criti-
cal if as a society we are to balance the importance of archaeology alongside other
competing social values. The development of a more holistic approach to value
and significance, one that places archaeology in the context of other valued phe-
nomena (such as endangered plants/animals and fossil beds), is essential as the
nature of heritage management expands to include new issues and resources.
Acknowledgments
The authors would like to extend a special thanks to Tim Seaman, the database
manager for the Archaeological Records Management Section (ARMS) at the
New Mexico Office of Cultural Affairs. Tim and his colleagues have put forth
extraordinary efforts to create a comprehensive database of geospatial and other
data throughout New Mexico; this is a formidable achievement, for which gen-
erations of scholars will be grateful. The analyses we have reported here would
have been impossible without this career-long commitment, and we gratefully
acknowledge Tim’s help and contribution to our work.
Clay Mathers acknowledges the generous and valuable support of the Na-
tional Academy of Sciences, which awarded him a Senior Postdoctoral Research
Fellowship, making it possible for him to complete much of the preliminary data-
gathering work on which later analyses were based.
We also thank Susan Duhon, our copy editor, for her useful suggestions and
adjustments.
Any remaining errors or flaws in logic we will try to blame on one another.
The views expressed here are our own and are not intended to reflect the
policies, practices, or views of our employer, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.
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192 / Jeffrey H. Altschul
11
Significance in American cultural

resource management
Lost in the past
Jeffrey H. Altschul
Introduction
In the current practice of cultural resource management (CRM) in the United

States, the concept of significance has a precise legal meaning. Title 36, Part 60,
of the Code of Federal Regulations (36CFR60) establishes the criteria to assess a
property’s eligibility for listing in the National Register of Historic Places
(NRHP). The regulation states that it is the “quality of significance in American
history, architecture, archaeology, engineering, and culture is present” in a prop-
erty, along with its association with (a) an event; (b) a famous person; (c) a type
or master; or (d) information potential, that makes the property eligible for the
NRHP (36CFR60.4). The importance of this designation is that the National
Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) requires federal agencies to consider the ef-
fects of their undertakings on NRHP-listed and NRHP-eligible properties and, to
the extent possible, minimize adverse effects. It is under these auspices that most
historic preservation in the United States is performed.
The NHPA was passed in 1966, and in the intervening years the procedures
for determining the significance of archaeological sites have become well estab-
lished. A bureaucratic approach has emerged that incorporates archaeologists
working for federal, state, and municipal agencies as well as those employed as
consultants for private and public entities. The importance of an archaeological
site is evaluated in relation to specific research questions commonly phrased as
hypotheses. This framework, which emerged from the prevailing intellectual
milieu, worked well for many years. It is the thesis of this paper, however, that this
approach has increasingly stymied archaeological research, imparting a false
rigor to CRM work, which has become largely locked into culture history and
processual questions.
Significance in American cultural resource management / 193
Significance as defined by the National Register
Of the four NRHP criteria, the one most often used for archaeological sites is
criterion d, which states that a property is eligible for listing in the NRHP if it has
“yielded, or is likely to yield, information important in prehistory or history”
(36CFR60.d). Much of the discussion about significance among archaeologists
over the last thirty-five years has focused on what is important, how such values
are defined, and how one recognizes these values in an archaeological site (see
Briuer and Mathers 1997). Of central importance to this discussion is how this
criterion is interpreted by federal regulators. The National Register Branch of the
National Park Service (NPS) is charged with the responsibility of interpreting the
regulations. Its interpretation of criterion d (NPS 1990: 21) is as follows:
Criterion D most commonly applies to properties that contain or are likely
to contain information bearing on an important archaeological research
question. The property must have characteristics suggesting the likelihood
that it possesses configurations of artifacts, soil strata, structural remains,
or other natural or cultural features that make it possible to do the follow-
ing:
• Test a hypothesis or hypotheses about events, groups, or processes

in the past that bear on important research questions in the social
or natural sciences or the humanities; or
• Corroborate or amplify currently available information suggesting
that a hypothesis is either true or false; or
• Reconstruct the sequence of archeological cultures for the purpose
of identifying and explaining continuities and discontinuities in the
archeological record for a particular area.
The three features listed above are a curious mixture. Hypothesis testing is the
cornerstone in the experimental method as used by Western philosophy and sci-
ence. Placing past events in their correct sequence without necessarily explaining
the underlying social processes is the domain of humanistic history. The two
approaches seemingly have little in common; so why do both figure so promi-
nently in modern CRM? To answer this question, we must look at the history of
American archaeology.
The marriage of culture history and processualism in CRM
Although significance as practiced today in CRM was codified in historic preser-

vation law in the 1960s, the concept has long been used in American archaeology.
For most of the nineteenth century, American archaeology was the domain of
antiquarians, who were interested primarily in obtaining and studying artifacts
of museum quality. The adoption of scientific principles to guide archaeological
research, which began in the early twentieth century, marked a dramatic shift
from viewing sites as containers of objects to vessels of information (see Willey

and Sabloff 1993). Sites began to be excavated less to find things and more to
provide answers to questions.
For the first half of the twentieth century, American archaeologists focused
almost exclusively on culture history, the sequence and spatial extent of cultures
in a region (Lyman et al. 1997). This type of research may have reached its zenith
in the 1930s, when the United States went through its first major experience in
archaeological research sponsored by non-research-related government agencies.
At the height of the Great Depression, millions of dollars were spent on archae-
ology, mostly in the capacity of jobs programs sponsored by agencies such as the
Works Progress Administration (WPA), the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA)
and the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). In 1939 alone, the WPA sponsored
thirty-two archaeological projects at a cost of approximately $2,000,000 (Lyons
1996: 71).
Depression-era federal archaeological programs were generally supervised by
a board of archaeologists and administrators in Washington, D.C. Proposals
were evaluated on a variety of criteria: the unemployment rate in the targeted
county; the number of jobs that would be created; and, with perhaps not quite the
same weight, the importance of the archaeological research. The Louisiana
Project was typical of WPA archaeological programs. Created by James Ford in
1937, the Louisiana Project was designed to flesh out the culture history for the
lower Mississippi River valley. Ford, who had been working in Louisiana since
childhood, speculated that three prehistoric cultures, Marksville, Coles Creek,
and Mississippian, developed in the region (Ford 1936). He proposed to demon-
strate this sequence by peeling back key mound sites in the lower Mississippi
valley. Ford’s methods proved remarkably successful. By matching stratigraphic
sequences between sites he discerned more periods in prehistory than previously
anticipated. The WPA allowed Ford to follow these leads, with the result being
the discovery and temporal placement of the Tchefuncte, Marksville, Coles
Creek, Mississippian, and Plaquemine cultures (Ford and Willey 1941). In four
years, Ford created a cultural chronology for one of the world’s great river sys-
tems, a cultural framework that in broad outlines lasts to this day (Willey and
Phillips 1958).
The WPA and other depression-era programs did not use the term signifi-
cance, but it is clear that site selection was based on perceived importance to
regional culture history. Sites that filled gaps in the sequence were targeted for
investigation. These tended to be large, complex sites. Small, ephemeral sites
were ignored because archaeologists believed they had little to contribute; in
other words, they were not significant.
Culture history continued to dominate American archaeology throughout the
1950s, although new voices began to point out the school’s theoretical limitation
(Taylor 1948; Willey and Phillips 1958). The discipline was ripe for a new ap-
proach to the study of past. It came in the early 1960s.
The New Archaeology ushered in many changes in the conduct of American

archaeology. Interest shifted from regional culture history to explaining human
behavior. Although the debate over proper conduct of archaeological inquiry was
vigorous, one approach in particular had a dramatic influence. In a series of
papers, Lewis Binford advanced the hypothetico-deductive explanatory frame-
work as the most appropriate for archaeological research (for example, Binford
1962, 1968). The lasting influence of this line of thought has had less to do with
its philosophical underpinnings than with its emphasis on problem-oriented re-
search and the advocacy of formal hypothesis testing.
Archaeologists had been designing research programs to address “problems”
for most of the twentieth century. As described above, Ford led his team in Loui-
siana in a concerted effort to flesh out the culture history of the lower Mississippi
River valley. To the New Archaeologists, however, problems of culture history
were not scientific problems. As Binford (1972, 22) stated, “Specific ‘historical’
explanations, if they can be demonstrated, simply explicate mechanisms of cul-
tural process. They add nothing to the explanation of the process of cultural
change and evolution.” Problems of interest were understanding the underlying
principles governing human behavior. Individual archaeological studies were
useful not in the particulars of the artifacts or features, but only in light of how
these assemblages could test general principles of behavior.
The framework for scientific inquiry advanced by Binford and his colleagues
was a formal approach to hypothesis testing developed by philosophers of sci-
ence, particularly Carl Hempel (1965). Although two modes of scientific inquiry
were recognized—inductive and deductive—primacy was given to deductive rea-
soning. Inductively based research, by which the cumulative weight of many
scientific tests lead to the discovery of an underlying general principle, was
judged inferior to a deductive approach of starting with a general principle or
law, constructing a theory based on the law, and then formulating a hypothesis
that could be tested with empirical data (Watson et al. 1971).
Archaeologists struggled with putting the concepts of the New Archaeology
into practice. The Tehuacan Valley project exemplifies this struggle. Richard
MacNeish was interested in understanding the origin of agriculture in the New
World. After a number of attempts to pinpoint the likely center of domestication,
MacNeish settled on the highlands of central Mexico, and chose the Tehuacan
Valley to study (MacNeish 1967a, 1967b). Under his guidance, sites were se-
lected for excavation and analysis. Using these and other data, Michael Coe and
Kent Flannery (Coe and Flannery 1964; see also Flannery 1968) developed a
model of the origin of agriculture and presented it in a deductive framework.
Their use of systems theory was highly influential, focused on the processes in-
volved in culture change as opposed to events, and was part of a series of studies
that led to the processualist school that came to dominate American archaeology
in the 1970s.
MacNeish’s work melded together parts of new and old approaches to ar-
chaeological research. In the best tradition of Ford and his colleagues, MacNeish
doggedly and systematically zeroed in on his target by piecing together the results
of field research to select a region and sites in that region to study. He diverged
from his predecessors by focusing not on regional culture history, but on a prob-
lem of singular importance in cultural evolution. MacNeish and his colleagues
did their best to utilize aspects of the hypothetico-deductive explanatory frame-
work, although in hindsight, the theoretical structure of the argument seems
forced, and of little importance to their inferences.
The passage of the NHPA came during this intense and often contentious
period of intellectual discourse about the nature of American archaeology. Cul-
ture history and problem-oriented hypothesis testing stood side by side as domi-
nant and, apparently, mutually exclusive research frameworks. Significance pre-
scribed in the law became a reflection of the prevailing schools of thought. The
melding of research problems, hypothesis testing, and culture history was much
like a shotgun marriage. The law required archaeologists to define significance,
and these were the various approaches on the table.
Whereas academic archaeology in the United States has moved on to embrace
a variety of theoretical approaches, including post processualism, world systems
theory, landscape archaeology, and the archaeology of mind, CRM has remained
tethered to a concept of significance that embraces, but does not integrate,
problem-oriented research and culture history. To understand how this historical
artifact has affected CRM, I turn to a discussion of how significance is used in
practice.
Significance in practice
The significance of an archaeological site is taken into consideration at two

points in the process by which federal agencies comply with the NHPA. The first
occurs during the initial assessment of a site. For projects involving federal funds,
permits, or licenses, the area that will be affected is inventoried for historic prop-
erties. Generally, inventories involve an archaeological survey, but they may also
incorporate other techniques, such as remote sensing or shovel tests, as dictated
by local conditions. The archaeological sites documented through this process
are evaluated for potential listing in the NRHP. Only significant sites (that is, sites
with data that can address research problems or fill in cultural historical se-
quences) are eligible for the NRHP under criterion d. Defining pertinent research
issues, termed “historic contexts” by the NPS, should take place prior to the
survey, and certainly before the evaluation. In many regions of the United States,
historic contexts have been developed on regional scales, usually under the aus-
pices of State Historic Preservation Offices (SHPOs) or Tribal Historic Preserva-
tion Offices (THPOs). Sometimes it is possible to evaluate a site based solely on
surface observations, but in many cases a second phase of fieldwork involving
limited test excavations is needed.
The bar of significance is set relatively low at this juncture of the compliance
process. Historic contexts by nature are broad and imprecise. For example, one
historic context prepared by the Arizona SHPO involved prehistoric nonirri-
gation agriculture (Doyel 1993). The context defines a series of research topics
including the types of nonirrigated agriculture, the various crops, the origins of
Southwestern agriculture, and the evolution of regional agricultural traditions.
According to Doyel (1993: 39–42), property types that could inform on these
questions range from lithic scatters to villages. Most prehistoric sites with reason-
ably good integrity can easily be argued to potentially contain data that bear on
one or more of these questions. It is not surprising, then, that many archaeologi-
cal sites are considered significant.
The second time the significance of an archaeological site is considered in the
compliance process is during the development of treatment plans. Once a site has
been determined eligible for listing in the NRHP, the federal agency and the
SHPO/THPO evaluate the proposed impacts of the project. Usually, they come to
an agreement concerning how the site will be treated, which is formalized in a
document termed a Memorandum of Agreement. Significant archaeological sites
that cannot be avoided are generally subject to data recovery, which includes
excavation, analysis, a technical report, and curation of the artifacts and project
materials. The agency, often through a consultant, prepares a treatment plan that
commonly consists of a research design, plan of work, schedule, and level of
effort. In the research design, the agency forwards an argument that ties the site
to particular research problems. Often these are stated in a hypothesis testing
format, with theoretical propositions advanced, hypotheses developed, and test
implications for the particular site presented. Even cultural historical issues are
commonly presented in this format. The research questions are then linked to a
plan of work that presents appropriate field and analytical approaches. Compli-
ance is achieved by meeting the stipulations of the agreement document, which
includes executing the treatment plan.
Problems with significance
The compliance process described above has evolved over thirty-five years into a
familiar routine. Perhaps not surprising given that large federal and state agencies
are involved, compliance with the NHPA follows formal, bureaucratic proce-
dures. All parties, which include federal agencies, SHPOs/THPOs, Native Ameri-
can groups, and consultants, have roles that are consistent and predictable.
The effect is a stilted and rigid approach that is not conducive to creative and
innovative thinking. Historic contexts for prehistoric resources tend to be quite
similar, focusing on topics such as subsistence, settlement, and cultural affilia-
tion. The same types of resources are found significant, leading to the repeated
excavations of similar archaeological sites. In a review of the Bureau of Reclam-
ation’s Central Arizona Project, W. James Judge (personal communication 1992)
asked rhetorically how many more pit houses or unit pueblos archaeologists had
to dig before they recognized that little new was being learned. There was no
clear answer; yet, it is exactly these types of residential sites that continue to be
excavated by CRM archaeologists asking generally the same questions. The net
result is a small increase in our knowledge of culture history, but little, if any,
advance in social theory.
To change this situation, we must encourage more varied and diverse ap-
proaches to the study of the archaeological record. Significance as defined under
criterion d is not an inherent quality of an archaeological site, but instead is
based on what we can learn from it. Our evaluation of a site is shaped by theory.
It is the investigator’s role to define variables of theoretical concepts that can be
observed in the archaeological record. Archaeological manifestations that have
measurable attributes of these variables can then be used as test cases. It is this
logical argument that makes an archaeological site significant. There is nothing
inherent in the law that prescribes a particular theoretical approach, although in
practice culture history and processualism have dominated the stage. To change
this situation requires that we open the process to competing theoretical frame-
works.
I will illustrate how using a different theoretical framework might affect the
compliance process with an example from Arizona. I have chosen landscape
theory for this discussion. Because my focus is on significance, I only discuss the
theory in relation to its impact on the compliance process. The reader is referred
to more comprehensive treatments for a full discussion of landscape theory
(Crumley and Marquardt 1987; Whittlesey 1998a, 1998b; Zedeño 1997; Ze-
deño et al. 1997).
Patterns in the pavement: The cultural landscape

of the western Sonoran Deserts
In 1999, Statistical Research Inc. (SRI) surveyed just over 4,000 hectares of the
U.S. Army Yuma Proving Ground (Vanderpot and Altschul 1999) (figure 11.1).
Located in the western Sonoran Desert, the project area is characterized by a
series of Pleistocene ridge systems. The nearest permanent water source, the Gila
River, is located about fifteen kilometers to the south. The surface of each ridge
is covered with desert pavement, a fragile, but stable, rocky surface. In the ab-
sence of biological or geological events, the pavement will remain largely un-
changed for millennia. Yet even slight disturbances, such as the growth of a
creosote bush, the seasonal migration of bighorn sheep, or a solitary hunter clear-
ing a place to sleep, will mar the pavement, with the resulting displacement of
rocks visible for the ages.
The desert pavement, then, acts as a canvas for recording human activity
(Hayden 1965). Unlike midden sites, which require years of cumulative human
activities to form, sites on desert pavement reflect transitory, often singular,
Fig. 11.1. The Yuma Proving Ground, Arizona, showing the project area.
events, such as an overnight camp, an hour-long flaking event, or simply the

placement of an offering in a trail shrine. In the course of our survey, more than
650 prehistoric cultural resources were identified (figure 11.2). These were di-
vided into six categories: artifact scatters, cleared areas, rock rings, rock cairns,
trails, and sites with multiple feature types.
There is very little to the archaeology of the desert pavement. None of the
resources exhibit subsurface deposits. Artifact scatters ranged in size from one
artifact to at most a few hundred. No site contained more than twenty features.
Research questions in the area tend to focus first on establishing a culture
history and second on such topics as subsistence and settlement. Most archaeo-
Fig. 11.2. Location of cultural resources identified during 4,000 hectare survey of a por-
tion of the Yuma Proving Ground.
logical interest in the region has centered on larger sites along the Gila and Colo-
rado rivers or at seasonal water sources in the mountains. For the most part, the
interior of the western Sonoran Desert is viewed as a region to get through on the
way to somewhere else. The sites are interpreted as inconsequential stopping
places along the way. The sites may mark travel routes, but beyond their location
they have no research value. Most archaeologists have considered them insignifi-
cant, and therefore not eligible for listing in the NRHP. The sites are not pro-
tected, and federal agencies, such as the U.S. Army, have been free to destroy
them.
At the conclusion of our survey, we, too, faced the dilemma of documenting
hundreds of cultural resources, but not being in a position to argue that further
data recovery would produce new insights into prehistory. We could see no way
to use data recovered at the sites to inform on culture history or test models of
past social processes. Still we were unsettled by the logical conclusion that the
sites were not significant. What was needed was a different view of the archaeo-
logical record.
Over the last 12,000 years, the interior Sonoran Desert has been occupied by
a succession of cultures. The use of the desert by each one is encoded in the desert
pavement. By disentangling these features by time and cultural affiliation, we
should be able to inform on how past peoples used the area. It is not simply
activity sets, however, that must be uncovered. Human use is prescribed by a
cultural model of the region, which defines how the mountains, rivers, pave-
ments, and people interacted. Present day Yumans, for example, speak of a web
of spirituality and power that connects major landforms. According to Lorey
Cachora (2000: 105), an elder of the Quechan tribe, “although peaks are most
important, valleys between peaks, and the desert pavements, are also important
in that they are pathways for the web that must run through them from one peak
to another.”
Discerning a cultural landscape in the archaeological record requires a shift in
perspective from artifacts and features to attributes that were used as landmarks
by ancient people to define and partition their physical and spiritual universe.
Trail markers, for instance, consist of very simple features, such as three rocks
defining a triangular shape. Archaeologists often spend considerable effort de-
scribing the types of rocks and mapping their position. Rarely do these efforts led
to insight into the prehistory of the region. In a few studies, however, archaeolo-
gists have tied the markers to features of the landscape. Gregory (1988: 68), for
example, found flakes of a particular type of stone inside the triangle. He noted
that these flakes were made of the same stone quarried at outcrops located far-
ther down the trail. Gregory (1988: 71) pointed out that these markers were
commonly placed at junctures where a trail split into two paths, almost like road
signs on a modern thoroughfare.
Another common feature of the desert pavement is the power circle. These
features consist of small areas (1–2 meters in diameter) where the desert pave-
ment has been cleared away, leaving the sandy substrate exposed. Piles of quartz
shatter are commonly found just outside the cleared areas (Johnson 1985: 37).
Modern Yumans state that shattering quartz crystals releases spirits, and some
informants interpret power circles as remnants of vision quests, whereby an indi-
vidual goes into the desert to meditate and pray for spiritual guidance (see also
Woods 1986). Johnson (1985) noted that power circles are often oriented toward
particular peaks, suggesting a spiritual association. Plotting the location of
power circles as well as other ideological features, such as trail shrines and
geoglyphs, in relation to natural features might lead to the discovery of the key
landmarks of the prehistoric cosmological landscape.
Linking together the sites related to resource procurement, such as quarries,
flaking stations, trails, and trail markers, would yield an economic surface map,
or theme, of the region. A similar cosmological theme could be created by corre-

lating ritual and ideological landmarks, such as power circles, geoglyphs, dance
circles, and trail shrines, with natural features. Other themes, such as political
boundaries, could be similarly constructed by plotting the distribution of cultural
markers, such as particular rock art styles that have been associated with the
prehistoric Patayan and ethnographic Yuman cultures (Doolittle 2000). To-
gether, the various themes create a cultural landscape, a perception of the world.
From this theoretical stance, the markers of the various themes are the key
attributes that must be documented to define a cultural landscape. These are the
significant resources, even though they will not inform on the regional cultural
history and they will not provide critical data to test hypotheses of social pro-
cesses. Because it is the position of these landmarks vis-à-vis each other and
physical features, recovering information on the actual markers themselves adds
little to our understanding of the system. Instead of focusing archaeological in-
vestigation on the documentation of individual resources, a much more useful
approach would be to first define the parameters of the landscape by following
the trails to their logical ends. Additional work could then be used to better define
landmarks, be they natural or cultural.
One problem posed by this approach for CRM is that each project must be
considered individually. The U.S. Army is not concerned with the entire western
Sonoran Desert, only the 4,000-hectare project area. It is this area that must be
inventoried for cultural resources, and for significant resources, a satisfactory
treatment plan must be created and implemented.
Although large by many standards, the project area is too small to discern
patterns of desert dwellers that range over much larger regions. The trail system,
for example, traverses the entire north–south dimension of the project area, leav-
ing us guessing where these features start and stop (see figure 11.2). Without
knowing the full extent of the cultural landscape, can we use this theoretical
approach to understand the past, and ultimately to assign significance to indi-
vidual resources? The results of the Yuma Proving Ground survey suggest that
the answer is yes.
Two landscape themes can be identified in the project area: economic and
cosmological. Large numbers of flaking stations suggest that the procurement of
lithic material was an important activity. The creation of stone tools may indicate
that local plant resources were targeted as people traveled across the pavement.
Alternatively, people may have made stone tools and preforms to use elsewhere.
To determine how ancient people approached the use of stone resources, we must
discern how they perceived the area: as a barren zone to get through, or was it a
destination?
Often found near flaking stations were two other feature types: large cleared
areas (three meters or more in diameter) and rock rings. Both feature types are
commonly interpreted by archaeologists as temporary shelters. Rock rings in the
project area tended to be found as isolated resources or in pairs at some distance
from trails. Cleared areas, in contrast, were commonly found in groups of five or
more features immediately adjacent to well-traveled paths. There are several
possible explanations for the differing spatial patterns. The two feature types
could represent different approaches to camping in the desert by distinct cultures.
These cultures could be separated in time, or utilizing the same territory as con-
temporaries. Alternatively, the distinction between the methods of camping
could represent different group structures and/or lengths of stay, such as hunting
groups of single men creating cleared areas along the trail for overnight stays, in
contrast to domestic groups stopping for several days to exploit local plants and
moving off the trail for privacy and protection.
Features related to the economic landscape, such as rock rings, cleared areas,
trails, and flaking stations, are complexly related. Before we can discern an eco-
nomic theme, we must disentangle the various elements by time and culture. To
do so, we must define other regional economic landmarks, such as the riverine
villages along the Gila and Colorado rivers and the seasonal camps at natural
water tanks in the mountains as well as natural resources, including other lithic
resources. Comparing the attributes of the various elements should provide in-
sight into how ancient peoples constructed their economic landscape, and in so
doing provide us with answers to whether the lithic resources of the project area
were highly prized, if the plants of the project area were targeted, what cultures
used the region, and how they organized themselves to exploit the natural re-
sources.
A second theme pertinent to the project area involves cosmology. In two loca-
tions, broken ceramic bowls were found. This find is curious, for most ceramic
vessels found on the desert pavement are jars, which have an integral part in the
processing desert succulents and transporting water (Underhill 1939). Bowls, in
contrast, are generally used in the consumption of prepared foods. Cooking,
however, is an unlikely activity at these sites. The bowls in the project area were
found on exposed terraces largely devoid of plant life. Although the broken ves-
sels were located near major trails, no rock rings or cleared areas were found
nearby, and there is no indication that people stopped overnight at these locales.
An alternative explanation was suggested by a Quechan informant, who
stated that members of his tribe would take bowls into the desert and break them
as a means of communicating with the spirit world (Vanderpot and Altschul
1999: 161). The two sites are located on exposed, elevated landforms from which
one can see the surrounding mountain peaks. The topographic situation of the
sites certainly fits with settings of other ritual sites known for the region, such as
power circles and geoglyphs.
Although the use of these sites in performing rituals is plausible, we are a long
way from constructing a cosmological landscape. We do not know, for example,
where these sites fit in this theme. Are these the only ritual stops on the trails or
are there others? If more exist, are they found in similar settings? Do they offer
views of the same natural features?
A necessary first step in constructing a cosmological landscape would be to

follow the trails to their end points. We could then determine whether other,
similar sites are found along the trail, and in what setting. We could also ascertain
the mountain peak that was the destination of the travelers, and determine if
ritual pot-break sites were situated either individually or as a group to line up
with this natural feature. Perhaps most important from a compliance perspective,
we could specify additional attributes to record at these sites as part of a mitiga-
tive treatment. Before we pick up the potsherds, we want to ensure that in so
doing we do not preclude making critical observations.
The U.S. Army requires use of the project area now, not at some time in the
future when we have a better understanding of the cultural landscape. Decisions,
such as which, if any, of the 650 cultural resources are significant and which ones
should be subject to data recovery, have to be made. In providing recommenda-
tions, we had to conform to the prevailing compliance procedures. Although we
could have nominated the entire western Sonoran Desert as a rural landscape,
such an approach would not have prevailed. Landscapes that are eligible for
listing in the NRHP must have distinct boundaries, and the physical setting of the
various elements must be integrally related to the historic fabric (McClelland et
al. 1989; Collins 2000). By its nature, our project area could not be considered a
complete landscape; based on our work, we were not even in a position to suggest
spatial parameters (see also Gray 1999). More fundamentally, our use of land-
scape theory was not oriented to define a historic property, but to study the past.
We used landscapes as an analytical tool to explain past human behavior. As with
all scientific endeavors, our work is cumulative. Our understanding of desert
pavement archaeology will increase in time in relation to our ability to construct
and refine theoretical landscapes, which may not have any direct relationship
with rural landscapes as defined by the National Register.
We were, thus, limited to three choices for evaluating cultural resources dis-
covered at the Yuma Proving Ground. We could assess individual resources, de-
fine a historic district and evaluate each resource in terms of its ability to contrib-
ute to the scientific questions on which the district was formed, or consider the
significance of site types and then select representatives of significant classes for
treatment. We selected the last option, termed a multiple property evaluation
(NPS 1991). In a somewhat forced argument, we abstracted key findings of the
landscape approach and presented them as a series of settlement models of the
western Sonoran Desert. We then linked each site type, such as cleared areas, rock
rings, trial shrines, and artifact scatters, to the models, and developed a number
of research questions that data from each site class could potentially address. In
this way, we argued that each site class was significant.
The next step was deciding on a treatment plan. We recommended that in-
stead of performing data recovery at a sample of each site type, archaeological
reserves be created on each of the trail systems that preserved a set of each feature
type as well as their relationship to each other and to natural features. As more
surveys are conducted in the region, additional landmarks will be found and the
relationship between cultural and natural features more fully understood. Key
attributes of cultural features will be identified that will inform on landscape
themes. By preserving large contiguous blocks of land, we will retain the ability
to make these observations in the future. In all, about 25 percent of the cultural
resources were protected. The Arizona SHPO agreed with these recommenda-
tions, but initially concluded that treatment must also include data recovery con-
sisting of systematic collection and analysis of artifacts from a sample of sites not
located in the preserves.
I am sympathetic with the position that we should do something before a
significant site is destroyed, but I am less sanguine about the scientific import of
data recovery at desert pavement sites. In the past, reports of data recovery at
these sites have been uniformly descriptive, little more than butterfly collections
that are looked at but not helpful in interpreting the past. Much of the problem
lies in casting these archaeological programs as means of addressing culture his-
torical questions or models of desert subsistence (see Doelle 1980). These ques-
tions require absolute or relative dates and subsistence data, neither of which is
likely from desert pavement sites. These sites, however, do contain information in
their relationship to each other, and in their relationship to the natural features,
about how people perceived, interacted with, and modified their environment.
Investigating these relationships requires us to look beyond the confines of indi-
vidual project areas and to record attributes of both cultural and natural phe-
nomena. Significance is not attributed to individual resources or to their physical
attributes, but to cultural concepts that are embedded in their place in the land-
scape. Extracting those concepts requires us to first take a global perspective in
defining the parameters of the landscape, then establishing landmarks of various
themes, and finally comparing and contrasting salient characteristics of these
landmarks. Data recovery consists not so much of picking up artifacts as of
recording thematically related attributes of cultural and natural landmarks. In-
stead of focusing on sites and artifacts, we need to establish a data recovery plan
for the region that includes following trail systems to their logical ends, record-
ings cultural and natural features along the way, establishing the thematic uses of
the desert, and inferring the prehistoric cultural landscape. Once we establish an
overarching research program, then effort levels for particular projects can be
established based on the size and impact of the undertaking, with some of the
effort being placed on surveying the project area and the balance being used to
examine parts of the region that might never be impacted. Such an approach,
however, is incompatible with a process that focuses solely on areas to be im-
pacted and narrowly defines treatment in terms of avoidance or data recovery.
After considerable negotiation, the impasse was broken. The Arizona SHPO
and the Yuma Proving Ground agreed to mitigate the impact of military activities
in the project area through a combination of preservation and data recovery. The
agencies further agreed that the data recovery program should focus not on sites
but on an archaeological landscape to be defined through a study of the trail

systems. As stated in the Memorandum of Agreement (2002: 2), “With current
archaeological methods, the ‘potential to yield important information about pre-
history’ exhibited by the archaeological record of this area is at the scale of the
landscape, not at the scale of sites or features.” Accordingly, the treatment plan
“will focus on determining start and end points of trail systems present within the
. . . [project area] and on identifying possible connections to physical landmarks
and resource areas.” (Memorandum of Agreement 2002: 4). Thus, the objective
of studying past behavior as a regional process was achieved, although it was
only after we transformed our theoretical notion of landscapes into concepts
consonant with the NHPA.
Discussion
Often in preparing site evaluations or treatment plans, I have the feeling of trying
to push a square peg into a round hole. Whatever my theoretical conception of a
resource, I must frame the argument in a specific way, using particular terms.
Culture history and problem-oriented hypothesis testing remain the dominant
frameworks for American CRM. To use a different theoretical orientation re-
quires translating its elements into familiar terms and posing them as research
questions that meet a standard bureaucratic formula.
The Yuma Proving Ground example presented above is an all-too-frequent
experience. The archaeological features found on the desert pavements of the
western deserts of Arizona and southern California are related in a linear fashion,
with features along a trail created by the same people in a temporal sequence.
Much of the scientific importance of each feature lies not in its physical charac-
teristics, but in its spatial relationship with other cultural and natural features.
Landscape theory provides a powerful theoretical tool to discern and interpret
meaningful cultural patterns. The theory’s constituent elements, landmarks and
spaces, are not related in a one-to-one manner with individual cultural manifes-
tations (Whittlesey 1998a: 24; Zedeño 1997; Zedeño et al. 1997). Even though
we may argue that cultural space and landmarks may yield important data on
prehistory, it is difficult to transcribe that importance into historic contexts, re-
search questions, hypotheses which can be reduced to simple statements about
whether a particular resource is or is not significant.
Although the bureaucratic structure surrounding the attribution of signifi-
cance may be burdensome, one might argue that it has a largely benign effect on
the end result. After all, the Yuma Proving Ground resources were considered
significant, a considerable number were saved, and a data recovery program
focused on trail systems was initiated. This assessment disregards the fact that in
many undertakings the same types of resources have been determined to be non-
significant. More importantly, the process was unnecessarily complicated and
would be difficult to replicate. The survey initially recorded cultural resources as
archaeological sites and isolated finds following guidelines provided by regula-

tory agencies. These phenomena were then transformed into the theoretical con-
structs required by landscape theory (landmarks and spaces) only to be turned
back again into sites and isolated finds to determine significance and to develop
a treatment plan. One might argue that the flexibility offered by NHPA compli-
ance is a sign of a healthy process, and should be encouraged. I, in contrast, view
the required intellectual gymnastics and tortured arguments as telltale signs of a
jury-rigged, bureaucratic structure that is showing its age.
Conclusion
Significance is a key concept in American CRM. Impacts caused to archaeologi-

cal sites by federal projects are only taken into consideration if the resource is
significant. As codified in regulations, one of the key measures of the significance
of an archaeological site is its potential to yield important information on the
past. Importance is attributed to sites that can address issues of culture history or
social processes. I have argued that the focus on culture historical research and
problem-oriented hypothesis testing is not related to a logical link between the
two schools of research, but to the intellectual context that engulfed American
archaeology at the time the NHPA was passed. Over the last thirty-five years, this
relationship has been reified in a process with familiar and comfortable roles
through which compliance with the law is achieved.
Scientific significance is attributed to an entity if it has measurable attributes
that relate to theoretical propositions under study. As theory changes, so, too,
does the subject of inquiry. The science of archaeology is no different. One of the
major hurdles in conducting archaeological research within a CRM setting is
using a definition of significance that is fixed in a scientific field that is changing.
In this paper, I have shown how the use of a particular theory may change the way
we define important archaeological manifestations. The theory in question, land-
scape theory, is not important; it too may pass from the intellectual stage. What
is important is that we find ways to recognize the changing scientific nature of
significance of the archaeological record in a compliance process that begs for
routine. Meeting that challenge will allow American archaeologists conducting
CRM to play a vital role in the changing discourse of the field as opposed to
scientists forever condemned to a Dante-like hell, where they continually look at
their subject from one perspective, making the same discoveries over and over
again.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Clay Mathers for inviting me to participate in this volume. Bar-
bara Little provided references and insight into the National Park Service’s inter-
pretation of significance. SRI’s archaeological investigations at the Yuma Proving
Ground were conducted under Contract No. DAAD01-99-P-1011; Delores

Gauna oversaw the contract and provided valuable comments on this paper.
Comments received from Stephanie Whittlesey, Carla Van West, Terry Majewski,
and Lynne Sebastian also greatly improved the paper. I, alone, am responsible for
any errors.
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12
Archaeological deposits and value
Jane Grenville and Ian Ritchie
Introduction
Heritage management is often reduced to day-to-day regulatory decisions re-

garding the fate of archaeological deposits. These decisions are usually made in
response to development and resource extraction plans made by corporations or
government agencies. The decision makers are generally government officials or
local politicians, and their conclusions are usually made with the advice of pro-
fessional archaeologists. In arguing for the relevance of surviving material re-
mains of the past, archaeologists are often characterized as opposing the social,
economic, and political benefits of development. In this paper, we address the
issue of how archaeological and heritage matters may be seen more positively and
as inherently valuable.
It can be difficult to argue this case with the initiators of economic projects,
who often see archaeology as having little “real-world” (by which they generally
mean economic) value. If it were universally the case that economic factors are
always paramount, then archaeologists and their supporters among the lay pub-
lic would appear to be doomed to argue repeatedly for the financial value of the
archaeological resource as a visitor attraction and that of the historic built envi-
ronment as an enhancement to quality of life, and thus a positive attraction to a
workforce seeking congenial surroundings in which to live. In York, we are famil-
iar with both of these aspects of the economic argument. The Coppergate rescue
excavation of the late 1970s and early 1980s, for instance, was transformed into
one of northern England’s foremost tourist attractions with the opening of the
Jorvik Viking Center in 1984, and in many ways acts within the tourist economy
of York in a similar way to an “anchor” department store in a large retail park,
while both public and private bodies trade shamelessly on the historic character
of the city to attract less-transient populations (the Archaeology Department of
the university is housed in one of the most beautiful medieval buildings in En-
gland, and we make much of that fact in our publicity materials for prospective
212 / Jane Grenville and Ian Ritchie
students). But the very fact that these enterprises are successful suggests that
today’s sophisticated consumer sees something “worth buying” in the past and
its material manifestation in the present. And if they are prepared to buy it, they
are anxious to consume it in other, less financially defined ways: they want to
understand it, and its study and conservation are part of that process. Archaeolo-
gists should take heart and argue more boldly for the inherent interest of the
archaeological resource.
This, at heart, is the argument presented by Martin Carver, Professor of Ar-
chaeology at the University of York, United Kingdom, who proposed in 1996 a
way of thinking about archaeology that would provide archaeologists with
strong, socially relevant arguments for the value of research in a broader eco-
nomic and social arena. In this paper, by two of his colleagues, we review deci-
sions taken in two very different situations, one in York and the other in a fairly
remote and underpopulated area of Wyoming, and assess how far the Carver
model was successful. One might expect that in York, where the past forms such
a key component of the present, an opportunity for a major new archaeological
discovery would be seized with both hands. On the other hand, in the mineral
extraction industry of Wyoming, the potential for finding out more about past
inhabitants of the area would scarcely raise a blip on the developers’ Richter scale
of significant areas for investment. The outcomes were in fact the reverse. In this
paper, we revisit current methods employed for attributing value to archaeologi-
cal deposits and materials and assess the implications of the two cases. We apolo-
gize in advance for any misrepresentation of Carver’s views. The conclusions
reached are our own.
Background
Martin Carver has developed his views on evaluation over many years (Carver
1987, 1990, 1993). His paper “On archaeological value” (1996) arose partially
out of discussions with postgraduate students taking the master’s degree in Ar-
chaeological Heritage Management at York, a program then directed by Jane
Grenville, and attended by Ian Ritchie as mid-career development. Grenville’s
approach to the topic arises partly out of a skepticism born of a three-year stint
with the Council for British Archaeology in the late-1980s arguing the case for
archaeology in a plethora of public inquiries on planning issues. A British public
inquiry is akin to a court case. Each witness presents a formal case, is cross-
examined by the opposition, often employing high-performance lawyers for the
purpose, and is reexamined by his or her own lawyer or lay advocate. An in-
dependent inspector adjudicates and his/her decision is forwarded to the appro-
priate government minister for approval or rejection. Within the framework of
material considerations set by successive governments in a series of Planning
Policy Guidance notes (PPGs), the provisions to protect the archaeological re-
source of PPG16 (Archaeology and Planning) and PPG15 (Planning and the
Archaeological deposits and value / 213
Historic Environment) are helpful, but they are explicitly set against economic
imperatives, so strength of argument is paramount in winning a case. Unless it
can prove a high economic potential in its own right, as in the case of the Jorvik
Center, archaeology has to rely on other more subtle appeals to amenity value
and the general good. Later, in teaching the Archaeological Heritage Manage-
ment course, Grenville had the opportunity to reflect more generally on these
issues (Grenville 1993, 1994, forthcoming); more recent thinking is expressed
within this chapter. Ritchie bases his views on twelve years of work as a federal
agency archaeologist, advising and acting as advocate for archaeology within the
American legislative system, and on the year of reflection spent at York. We are
grateful to Martin Carver for his comments and to David Brinklow of the York
Archaeological Trust, who discussed the first case in some depth with Grenville,
but stress that the opinions expressed here are ours and not necessarily shared by
them.
This chapter is in three parts. First, we summarize Carver’s paper and high-
light major points we wish to return to. Then, we present two case studies, one
where the model entirely failed to deliver and another where it appears to have
been successfully applied. We will examine the reasons for these differing out-
comes with the benefit of several years’ hindsight. We end by trying to decide
whether the model is robust enough to survive in the real world, or whether it
should be quietly done away with. The chapter was written with the Atlantic
between us and therefore communication was entirely via e-mail. The division of
responsibility in authorship is that the original drafting of the first section was
Ritchie’s, with comments from Grenville, and the reverse was followed for the
last section. Each of us wrote up our own case study.
“On valuing archaeology”
And so to the main points of Carver’s 1996 argument. Archaeology in Britain has
been torn from the grasp of central government and placed in the arms of a
market that acknowledges no value in the subject itself (unless the results are so
spectacular as to underwrite an income-generating tourist attraction). This mar-
ket sees archaeology and its evaluation as a hurdle in the path of economic devel-
opment. Accepting as a fait accompli the fact that archaeology is no longer pro-
tected by the strong arm of the state, Carver has argued persuasively for the need
to develop an arsenal of intellectual weaponry to defend the archaeological re-
source against the marauding appetites of land-hungry developers. He states that
“the fate of archaeological sites is no longer the exclusive preserve of an inspec-
tor, but has come to depend on the outcome of a debate between several groups
of players: developers, planners, community taxpayers, and academics. This de-
bate is informed by the predictive value that each party can put on a piece of land.
. . . The purpose of this paper is to propose a definition of archaeological value
which can serve the debate on behalf of archaeologists” (Carver 1996: 45).
This definition eschews the traditional view of archaeological sites as “monu-

ments,” as enshrined in British legislation, and instead takes the line that it is
research value that provides the key to the debate. Carver notes that previous
commentators (in particular see Lipe 1984; Darvill 1993) have identified some of
the values attaching to archaeology, but have not defined how they compete with
one another, let alone with market and community values. Market values are
those of capital and production. Community values (the common good, the
rights of minorities, political value) are measured in cost and votes. Archaeologi-
cal value is defined as a global human value (along with environmental value),
whose measure is not to be had in money or votes, but perhaps in a “feel-good”
factor or sense of ontological security. Carver’s argument is that some of the
values assigned by other commentators (monetary, touristic, and associative)
ultimately derive from that informed interest in the past, which we might define
as basic archaeological value. This human interest in the past, and its spin-offs,
are what he perceives as lying at the core of archaeological activity.
In redefining the battlefield, Carver’s proposed strategy include the following
points of attack:
• Archaeology has to be shown to have a payoff for society at large (how-
ever that may be defined), and this seems to be in terms of sufficient
moral rewards and human benefits to allow the community to suspend,
temporarily, its normal desire to maximize profit and allow archaeolo-
gists access to the land instead;
• It must have a large and supportive clientele to sustain this noncommer-
cial value;
• It must be able to support its attribution of value convincingly outside
and inside the profession;
• It must be anticipatory rather than reactive; and
• It must insist on the global, not national, character, of its definition.
Carver goes on to review arguments between empiricists and idealists about
whether data have independent objective existence, or whether they are simply
those observations which we choose to accept as relevant at the moment of obser-
vation. He plumps firmly for the latter: “the heritage is essentially man-made and
membership of this illustrious and privileged archive depends entirely on contem-
porary knowledge and political will” (Carver 1996: 50). Furthermore, and at the
heart of his argument, is the notion that “monumentality” defines what is known
and that “research,” in contrast, favors the unknown. This is the nugget, the
punch line. Carver notes “here then is a paradox: the point of archaeology is to
know more; but the resource on which it depends is managed so as to favor what
is already known” (1996: 52).
Following on from this, one of Carver’s central propositions is that “archaeo-
logical value is ascertained by matching the deposit model to the research
agenda” (1996: 53–54), and that having established it, sites of high value should
be excavated and the rest conserved. Here the ideas run into direct conflict with
prevailing practice: given that value has, up to now, been identified in the United
Kingdom by using notions of monumentality, it is hardly surprising that deci-
sions about excavation adhere to the reverse principle. PPG 16, Archaeology and
Planning, recommends, in direct contradistinction to Carver’s principle, that sites
of national importance should be preserved and those of lesser importance exca-
vated or released for destruction. It is critically important to remember here that
Carver’s approach demands the excavation of sites for which there is a clear
research agenda (that is, those whose importance can be demonstrated in terms
of their potential to yield new and relevant knowledge). PPG16 demands their
preservation in situ. It is worth noting that the options, in this idealist view, are
either to excavate or conserve; nowhere does either camp admit that a frequent
outcome is the sacrifice of archaeological deposits unrecorded. This is an area we
shall return to at the close of the paper.
So Carver proposes a brave new world in which archaeological decision mak-
ing is on the basis of research interest, and exciting sites are excavated, not left to
those shadowy “archaeologists of the future,” who are going to have much better
facilities and techniques than we have. New stories will be woven, new research
directions suggested, and the whole profession will march forward with confi-
dence and intellectual vigor. This is very different to the current realities of a PPG-
led archaeology in the United Kingdom and a deregulated system in the United
States, but could it happen? In this paper, we look at two case studies, one where
the idea foundered and the other where it appears to have had some success.
Case study 1: A possible Roman amphitheater

and some medieval townhouses
York was founded as a Roman legionary fortress in a.d. 71 on a virgin site above
a crossing of the navigable River Ouse. It thrived mightily and spawned a major
civilian settlement or colonia on the southwest bank of the river in the second
century. Roman masonry survives to some height in the southwest wall of the
typically playing-card-shaped fortress, and much material from Roman times has
been excavated since the early sondages of the nineteenth century (see fascicules
in the Archaeology of York series published for York Archaeological Trust by the
Council for British Archaeology for more detail) but the location of the legionary
amphitheater, which would have been comparable to that at Chester, has never
been ascertained. Little is known of the settlement in the fifth and sixth centuries,
but by the seventh it was certainly an ecclesiastical center; for here, according to
Bede, King Edwin of Northumbria was baptized. Excavations have revealed the
continuing prosperity of the city from the eighth century onward, and York’s
post-Conquest importance as the second city of the kingdom, the seat of the
archbishop of the northern province of the English church, and an economic
power based on the textile industry and general trading, is observable in the
riches of its medieval architecture. As the textile industry migrated in the early
modern period to the West Riding, York lost its economic preeminence, and its
status sank to that of a typical English county town, although the presence of the
great cathedral always marked it out as one of particular social gentility.
Left behind by its near neighbor, Leeds, during the Industrial Revolution, York
made a modest industrial recovery in the later nineteenth century as a center for
the manufacture of railway rolling stock and chocolate, but it could never be
described as one of the great industrial centers of the north. Its poverty was
documented in minute detail by Seebohm Rowntree (a scion of one of the great
York chocolate dynasties) in his 1901 pioneering classic of social studies Poverty:
A Study of Town Life. York in the 1950s and 1960s had a decidedly down-at-heel
air, as Grenville can remember from childhood visits, and as Kate Atkinson bril-
liantly documents in her novel Behind the Scenes at the Museum (1995). Atkin-
son’s title is significant; by the 1960s, York was beginning actively to trade on the
fact that its glorious past and swift decline had left a legacy of historic buildings
that were never cleared in subsequent periods of prosperity. Additionally, its
riverine location preserved an archaeological resource of remarkable intactness,
with organic materials surviving exceptionally well in anaerobic conditions; the
Jorvik Center cleverly interprets and displays information from a particularly
rich ninth- and tenth-century site.
The redefinition of York as a prime tourist destination is now complete. Once
again, as in the late medieval period, it is second only to London, in one respect
at least. Direct revenues to historic buildings and sites, but perhaps more criti-
cally the secondary spending of tourists on accommodation, food, and souvenirs
now form a major aspect of the city’s economy. Its historicity is used as a magnet
for potential employers and their workforces, and white collar businesses such as
insurance, call centers, and indeed the university itself are now major employers,
with only chocolate manufacture surviving as large-scale industry (York is the
home of the international bestseller, the Kit Kat; although curiously enough,
Yorkies, made by the same firm, are manufactured in Norwich!).
So in a city that depends on the beauty and interest of its historic features for
a significant fraction of its annual income, how does Carver’s model fare? In the
center of town, there is a little side street called St. Andrewgate. Its line lies
directly outside the wall of the Roman fortress. To the southeast, a site lay vacant
from 1984 until the late 1990s. Recently, it has been built on with a series of bijou
townhouses of the type we have become wearisomely familiar with since York’s
economic renaissance began in the 1970s. But these have a singular feature; their
ground floors are all two to three feet above the road, and there are steps up to
the front doors. This is not a flood precaution, for we are well above the highest
of flood levels here. Rather, it is a precaution against the expense of an archaeo-
logical excavation, for this has been suggested as a likely site for the undiscovered
Roman amphitheater (Ottaway 1993). Archaeological evaluation by the York
Archaeological Trust had shown well-preserved medieval structures along the
street frontage and boreholes suggested a large, saucer-shaped limestone struc-

ture, at several meters depth, to the southeast of the site. Applying Carver’s
model, the clever and intellectually bold response would have been to undertake
a research project to excavate selected parts of the site over a two-year period,
with a funding package from various public and private sources, including the
developer. The research benefits for the Roman period were clear. Identification
of the site of the amphitheater would be a coup in itself, but its careful excavation
to understand its use and the process of decay could have revealed much that we
do not understand about Roman York and the period after the legions left. Fur-
thermore, the potential for careful excavation of medieval house plots would
have provided an opportunity to marry some of the evidence gleaned from the
standing buildings investigated by the Royal Commission on Historical Monu-
ments (1981) and latterly by Grenville and her students (Grenville 2000). Not
surprisingly, a consortium of the York Archaeological Trust and the York Univer-
sity Archaeology Department put together a proposal for a carefully targeted
research strategy to sample parts of the site. Public access to the excavation and
a clear information strategy were major components of the scheme: this was to be
archaeology in the public interest (in both the intellectual and commercial sense
of that word).
Here was the site par excellence on which to test our commitment to archae-
ology. There is nothing to grab the public’s archaeological imagination like an
active and well-interpreted excavation, as the reaction to the Coppergate dig
twenty years previously had shown, when thousands of visitors queued for a
chance to view the work in progress. Negotiations began. The developers were
reasonably agreeable to the prospect of a major research excavation. They were
prepared to provide some funding (mainly in kind, in the form of mechanical
diggers and the provision of a viewing platform). Other funding sources were
approached. The city archaeologist, an officer of local government charged with
negotiating archaeological mitigation under PPG16 and advising the elected
members of the city planning committee, was enthusiastic, and the politicians
themselves were amenable to the idea. All looked set fair. So what went wrong?
It would be inappropriate to enter into the details of the negotiations between the
developers and the council in a paper such as this, but broadly speaking, in a
disagreement over the fundamental planning issue of density of housing, the
developer threatened to withdraw support from the archaeological project. To
the city councilors, this was a very minor matter and they immediately acceded.
The archaeology was simply not important enough to either side to be worth
fighting over and was tossed out of contention without a second thought. The
debate over density raged on unabated. No amount of lobbying on the part of the
archaeologists could make any difference to this: without the economic and po-
litical support of either developer or council, this was a lost cause. To return to
Carver’s military analogy, the archaeology simply became “collateral damage,”
and nobody except the archaeological consortium cared much. Instead of the
great plans for a research excavation, a narrow trench was dug along the route of
a new service road, with predictably incoherent results, and the ground was
raised up by three feet on the advice of the developers’ independent archaeologi-
cal consultant, in order to avoid damaging the deposits. This was a perfectly
reasonable solution within the letter of PPG16, which enjoins the preservation of
nationally important sites, but one which sacrificed the research value for at least
another century and probably more.
If we apply Carver’s three sets of value and test his model, it seems that market
forces were strong, community value was interpreted only in terms of the plan-
ning issues of site density, and archaeological value, however huge it seemed to us
as professionals, was quite simply too puny to have any serious impact at all.
How could it have been different? We will return to this issue in the final section,
having considered a case with a more favorable outcome.
Case study 2: Stone circles and coal mining

We now turn from York to the wide, open spaces of the American West, to see
how archaeological deposits there are faring. Wyoming is big, has a relatively
small population, and is heavily reliant on mineral extraction for its economic
survival. Much of the land is held by the central (federal) government. The Pow-
der River Coal Company (PRC) holds leases on federal coal under federal land
managed as the Thunder Basin National Grassland, by the United States Depart-
ment of Agriculture (USDA) Forest Service. Coal mining is conducted on both
land belonging to the state of Wyoming and privately owned lands in Campbell
County. In order to operate in the most cost-effective way, PRC has been focusing
on recovering low-overburden coal along Porcupine Creek, where numerous
prehistoric sites on the first and second river terraces will be affected. The large
number, high density, and specific composition of the sites highlight the impor-
tance of the prehistoric and historic native peoples as well as homesteaders and
ranchers of the semiarid Powder River basin. The mediation of the interests of
coal mining versus those of the archaeological deposits in large part must follow
the processes outlined in two key pieces of federal legislation: the National His-
toric Preservation Act (NHPA) and the Archaeological Resources Protection Act
(ARPA).
Under various regulatory authorities of the Office of Surface Mining (OSM),
the USDA Forest Service, and the Department of Environmental Quality of the
State of Wyoming, PRC hired an archaeological contracting firm to complete any
outstanding survey and to conduct evaluations of the sites in affected areas along
Porcupine Creek. The evaluations included testing to determine the extent,
depth, and age of deposits with a goal of determining their eligibility for the
National Register of Historic Places. Sixteen sites were evaluated and of those,
six were added to the register. These included lithic scatters, stone circles, hearth
features, and buried cultural horizons, as well as two historic-period sites. The
ten ineligible sites (those with no research potential owing to the state of their
deposits) will no longer be managed. Their data are assumed to be fully recov-
ered, and coal extraction will destroy their physical remains.
Data recovery plans have been developed for the eligible sites, and three of
these have been implemented. There are two key areas of investigation: first, the
known stratified deposits on the banks of Porcupine Creek, and second, the
broad area exposure created with road graders to uncover activity areas and
features associated with the stone circles. The aim is to decipher the spatial orga-
nization of Plains people over time (and across different contemporaneous cul-
tures). The research questions being addressed include spatial analysis of hearths
and family and community activity at loci of late prehistoric stone circle (teepee
ring) sites. This spatial analysis is a major step forward in research in the Powder
River basin, after at least ten years on a research/knowledge plateau, which had
established chronologies, seasonality, and resourcing strategies fairly well but
had not tackled social organization.
So here is a case where the local curators have set up a research program and
persuaded the developers to implement it. Carver’s model has delivered precisely
the outcome that its creator intended. Superficially, it seems strange that in York,
an archaeological “honey-pot” that trades on its illustrious past and the fascina-
tion of its rediscovery (and has a density of archaeologists per thousand of popu-
lation higher than most places!), the model failed, while in the remote American
West, where one might expect the power of a strong economic lobby to triumph,
it was possible to align the public interest, the archaeological significance, and the
developers’ goodwill to produce a positive result. How can we analyze these two
outcomes to evaluate the efficacy of Carver’s model?
Conclusion and implications of the Carverian model

It is often said that it is easier to explain what went wrong when a project fails
than to analyze the elements of a successful outcome. In this case, however, we
will be taking the opposite view; it is reasonably easy to account for the success
of the Wyoming project, and once that is identified, the shortcomings of the York
scheme may be better understood. From this analysis, we hope to draw some
caveats to attach to Carver’s model and a prediction of situations in which it is
likely or unlikely to produce results. In Wyoming, two external factors under-
pinned the negotiations: first, public opinion, and second, the law.
Public opinion
Wyoming is a mainly rural state, and mineral extraction is one of the main en-
gines of its economy. Several sites have recently been “accidentally” destroyed or
damaged by expansion at the mines. The state newspaper picked up on the fact
that the fines imposed had been lower than the cost of the archaeological evalu-
ation and investigation would have been and made the obvious observation that
it is cheaper to destroy archaeology than to preserve/investigate it. So what incen-
tive is there to mining companies to look after the past? This provoked outrage
among the good citizens of Wyoming, and so great was the reaction that in order
to recover their public relations losses, the PRC and other companies have initi-
ated a more responsible program of archaeological investigation.
Is it then the case that in Wyoming, the argument turned on public opinion?
The community embraced the archaeological argument and made sufficient im-
pact in a newspaper campaign to persuade the developers that cooperation with
the archaeologists was the easier option. In York, there simply was no public
opinion. The negotiations over the St. Andrewgate development never hit the
local press. The fact that it did not is perhaps surprising. The local newspaper, the
York Evening Press, is widely read and well respected. It frequently takes up
populist causes. Local television and radio stations are also effective and reach a
wide audience. Archaeology has certainly played a prominent role in the media in
the past: in 1989 a controversy over the excavation in advance of the develop-
ment of a site known as the Queen’s Hotel hit the headlines. Archaeologists had
worked through very productive, waterlogged medieval deposits to reach the
upper levels of a major Roman building when the time allowed for research by
the regulations then in force was up. Massive public pressure ensued, with the
story leading the front page and reaching the regional and finally the national
television news bulletins. Although the site was never fully investigated, some
reprieve was won, and the case was instrumental in the major changes to the
administration of rescue archaeology ushered in with the new PPG16 advice in
1990.
Will most community values and archaeological values, as separately defined
by Carver, in fact, be congruent in practical terms if the model is to succeed?
Public opinion matters to politicians. Local politicians decide planning issues,
and developers face an uphill struggle if they seek to implement deeply unpopular
schemes. In many cases, the politicians and their paid officers will simply reject
those projects that arouse public indignation. But there are cases where a signifi-
cant sector of the local population is opposed to a scheme backed by the local
politicians on the grounds of economic or political expediency. An interesting
case of this was that of the excavations in advance of the construction of new city
council offices in Dublin in the 1970s. Direct action seemed the only course
available, so objectors to the project took to the streets in large numbers to
protest the early cessation of research to enable construction to begin. Indeed, in
York itself, a current controversy surrounds proposals for a major development
at the foot of Clifford’s Tower, the keep of the medieval royal castle and a major
tourist attraction in the city. Here again, it has been direct public action in the
form of a sustained press campaign, protest meetings, and even a street demon-
stration that has led to the holding of a public inquiry, whose outcome is not
known at the time of writing, to decide the fate of the development.
There are, of course, dangers in following this line of argument to its logical
conclusion. We should be aware of the risks involved in allowing broad public
opinion to dictate what should and what should not be excavated. Archaeolo-
gists will have to become extremely canny and effective communicators, and,
perhaps, formal training in public relations will become part of the undergradu-
ate syllabus sooner or later. This is a lesson that should be well taken from the
green lobby; yet archaeologists need to find very strong arguments to equal those
of the environmentalists that the planet itself is in danger if their concerns are not
heard and acted upon. Archaeologists can never claim that the world will end if
we do not pay attention to archaeology, nor is it a safe argument to follow the oft-
mooted suggestion that we must understand the past in order to avoid repeating
mistakes. But the formulation of really strong justifications for archaeological
research must be high on the agenda of heritage managers if Carver’s model is to
work.
This line of argument assumes that, logically, the case for archaeological re-
search is always a just one, and that all archaeologists have to do is cleverly
explain their case and all will fall into place. Yet this is manifestly not the case in
situations where different agendas, for instance, the rights of indigenous popula-
tions or minority groups, are paramount. In the United States, the Native Ameri-
can Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) demonstrates this argu-
ment very well. Here, the archaeological imperative has certainly not been seen as
inalienably justified, and archaeologists as a broad interest group have lost out,
whatever the positions of individuals within the various lobby groups (Thomas
2000). In York itself, the excavation of the putative Jewish medieval cemetery in
1983 was brought to a rapid halt by the legal action of some members of the
modern Jewish community (Addyman 1994). Archaeologists have to understand
that they form an interest group, and they must argue their case without the
assumption that they have a divine right to win (Smith 1993). Carver’s model
seems to us to imply that assumption, and we would caution that, as human
rights legislation begins to bite across the world, its legal implications will be
tested most rigorously.
Finally, in considering the importance of community values in shaping the
future of archaeological research, we would note that not every site is a Roman
amphitheater and that unmediated public opinion alone would tend to favor
such high-profile projects at the expense of less immediately engaging undertak-
ings. However, the reverse is also the case: Ritchie strongly believes that a major
reason for the success of the Wyoming case was the preparedness of the curatorial
archaeologists to sacrifice some sites of lesser importance, given their state of
preservation. Does such a willingness increase the confidence the developers need
to feel, that they are not being led down a primrose path to major, but ultimately
unproductive, expenditure on research? The balance between public opinion,

archaeological research, and economic imperative will require a mechanism for
ensuring that compromises are reasonable.
Legal apparatus
Our aim here is not to consider in detail the legislation and planning guidance
concerned in the two cases, but rather to point out, briefly, the centrality of
regulatory systems in the outcomes we have described and to consider the posi-
tion of the legal apparatus within Carver’s model.
All the Wyoming work took place under federal laws on a privately financed
project oriented to recovering coal leased from the federal government. If such a
project were to be done on private land, recovering private resources without
federal permits, then only state laws protecting archaeology would apply, and
these are weaker. Protection and research would be much less likely. The federal
system has proved relatively successful in using Carver’s model for developing
interesting research agendas and excavating sites of high research potential, but
the case highlights the importance of legal muscle in achieving a result acceptable
to the archaeologists. We argue that in a completely unregulated situation, ar-
chaeology is weak, relying entirely on the force of its arguments for the impor-
tance of the resource to win over public support and with it the acquiescence of
the developer.
In the United Kingdom, as Carver notes in his original paper, the wording of
the legislation privileges monumentality and the known over the unknown. Pro-
tection is offered to sites identified as being of national importance and scheduled
as ancient monuments through the mechanism of Scheduled Monument Consent
(SMC), which is administered on behalf of the government by English Heritage.
Until 1990, unscheduled sites had little formal apparatus for their consideration,
and archaeology tended to depend upon ad hoc decisions by local planners and
by English Heritage, or on the goodwill of developers for the opportunity to
investigate. Matters were formalized with the issue of Planning Policy Guidance
Note 16: Archaeology and Planning, which advised local authorities that ar-
chaeological significance and potential should form a material consideration in
the determination of planning consent. In other words, archaeology became a
part of the planning system. As mentioned above, there are two matters to note
here. First, the advice of PPG16 is strong, but does not carry the force of law.
Second, in contradistinction to Carver’s suggestion that the best, in terms of
research questions and deposit survival, should be excavated and the rest sacri-
ficed or preserved in situ, PPG16 recommends “where nationally important ar-
chaeological remains, whether scheduled or not, and their settings, are affected
by proposed development there should be a presumption in favor of their physi-
cal preservation. Cases involving archaeological remains of lesser importance
will not always be so clear cut” (PPG16, paragraph 8).
In the United Kingdom, then, research is in a relatively weak position, at least

as far as rescue or planning-led archaeology is concerned. There are understand-
able reasons for the tenor of PPG16: the 1970s and 1980s had seen a spate of
large-scale urban excavation, negotiated in advance of redevelopment, and al-
though much was learned, publication and popularization lagged behind, and
developers felt that the situation was unpredictable for them in terms of cost.
PPG16 has offered a breathing space to archaeology to tackle its publications
backlog and has made the excavation team a more familiar and understandable
sight to the construction team and their bosses. But there are real anxieties, not-
withstanding work being carried out to synthesize the disparate results of evalu-
ation exercises, that research has fallen behind and that the true raison d’être of
the discipline, to learn more about the past, is being lost in a welter of bureau-
cracy (Morris 1993, 1998; see Darvill and Russell 2002 for a more upbeat assess-
ment).
Nevertheless, history, and not least the history of our two case studies, shows
that without regulation, we are fighting a very tough battle. In order to get the
balance of that regulation right, effective lobbying at the highest levels must be
undertaken. We would argue that this requires taking research value and commu-
nity value to the heart of government to produce a regulatory framework that
will back up in general terms the particular arguments that are made, site by site,
in the planning process. Carver’s model assumes that his various value sets are
equal in power in any given situation. They are not. The model will work only
if research value wins over community sympathy to the extent that politicians
are prepared to introduce legislative apparatus that will provide an additional
weapon in the marketplace debate.
Conclusions
So what have we learned? First, that community values and archaeological value,
as defined by Carver, must be congruent, both generally and in individual cases,
in order for the model to work. That implies the need for a clear and acceptable
research agenda that the public understands and signs up to. Popularization,
while viewed with some anxiety within the profession, becomes an essential tool
of the trade, as the complete failure to engage public attention in the St. Andrew-
gate case and the centrality of the newspaper coverage in the Wyoming instance,
demonstrate.
Second, we must accept that legal provisions, notwithstanding their current
basis in the rhetoric of monumentality rather than research, are critical to the
success of the endeavor. If we wish successfully to challenge that rhetoric in the
redrafting of laws and advice (and the PPGs are currently under review in the
United Kingdom, so this is an apposite moment to comment), we must engage
with the political process at the national as well as local level.
Finally, even if we accept the broad precepts of the Carver model, there remain
further challenges. What do we do when community values are clearly at odds

with archaeological value? Do we justify, for example, the excavation of human
remains to which vocal sectors of society raise loud objections, or do we back off
and accept that our research agendas will be mediated by public opinion? One
answer to this may be to become more engaged in the rough and tumble of open
debate and to abandon the somewhat aloof “professional” stance that has served
us in the past. Archaeologists, too, are members of the public and could benefit
from arguing out their case from an experiential rather than an academic stand-
point.
Another significant challenge is that, if we sacrifice parts of the landscape to
development, how do we protect unknown sites or those “nonsites” which do
not conform to our current theories and knowledge base, but which may, one
day, be perceived as valuable. Do we even try? Archaeologists have to learn that
taking risks and gambling on our present state of knowledge is an activity that is
well understood by our partners/opponents in the business world. In learning to
be bolder in this respect, we will be moving closer to the thought processes of the
developers with whom we work, and we may well, therefore, find communica-
tions becoming easier. Ritchie found that the ability to “speak their language” in
terms of making major decisions to write off sites stood the Wyoming archaeolo-
gists in good stead for developing a clear research-led strategy with developers.
Conversely, we must dare to argue for excavation, even where preservation in
situ is ostensibly a preferred option, if the research gains are so great as to out-
weigh the future value of the deposits. To illustrate this, when we read the origi-
nal version of this paper in Bournemouth at the Theoretical Archaeology Group
(TAG) conference of 1997 and Seattle at the Society for American Archaeology
(SAA) conference in 1998, we were berated for our irresponsible attitudes to-
ward archaeology in a climate of restraint and conservation. We counter this by
asserting that we did not at any stage propose the total excavation of the St.
Andrewgate site, but rather a carefully targeted sampling strategy based on ex-
haustive preexcavation evaluation, and by arguing that this is in fact the only
responsible response to such an opportunity. If archaeology is to engage public
interest, it must not let slip major opportunities for research and hence new
stories to tell to an avid audience. Intellectual stagnation does not excite the
general public. If the high profile cases are lost, what hope for the lesser?
Carver’s model is full of assumptions about the inherent value of archaeology
to the community. We argue that this link is not implicit, but needs actively and
repeatedly to be demonstrated through tough negotiation over individual sites
and general legal and planning principles. Carver’s model seems to us to be de-
signed for an ideal world, where archaeologists are local heroes and Joe Public is
more motivated by interesting ideas than by the need to earn a living and the wish
to earn a fortune. We hope that, through our case studies and comments, we have
refashioned the model for a tougher future.
Acknowledgments
We would like to thank Martin Carver, from the Department of Archaeology,

University of York, U.K., and David Brinklow, from the York Archaeological
Trust, to whom we are both indebted.
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13
Archaeological and Indigenous significance

A view from Australia
Ian Lilley and Michael Williams
In Australia, archaeological activity focusing on Indigenous sites is controlled by

legislation that requires researchers and cultural heritage practitioners to get per-
mits to excavate or collect. In some jurisdictions, this requirement also applies to
site surveys and background studies that use recorded information about sites.
The specifics of such legislation, and the policies that flow from it, vary among
the six states and two mainland territories that make up the Commonwealth of
Australia (see Flood 1989 for a dated but accessible and indicative survey). Gen-
erally, it is now the case that documentary evidence of consultation with relevant
Indigenous groups and individuals, and quite commonly their formal written
permission, must be provided to state authorities before a permit will be issued.
Australian archaeologists must therefore convince Indigenous Australians of the
worth of their work on a case-by-case basis, as well as at a more general level, if
they are to continue to practice their craft. In this chapter, written collaboratively
by a non-Indigenous “prehistoric” archaeologist and an Aboriginal scholar who
is a senior member of the Gooreng Gooreng language group, we consider some of
the issues generated by Aboriginal control of access to the archaeological record,
with summary reference to the way in which concepts of archaeological and
Indigenous significance are playing out in a long-term, multidimensional re-
search project that we are conducting in Williams’s traditional country in north-
eastern Australia. It should be noted that the terms “Indigenous” and “Aborigi-
nal and Torres Strait Island” are used here interchangeably.
The scene
As in many other parts of the world, significant numbers of Indigenous people in

Australia remain profoundly skeptical of, if not openly hostile toward, archaeol-
ogy and anthropology (for example, Layton 1989a, 1989b). Indeed, they are
suspicious of any scholarly disciplines which involve study of their bodies, lives,
228 / Ian Lilley and Michael Williams
or histories, or the environments in which they live and upon which they depend
for physical or spiritual sustenance, owing to the perceived complicity of such
studies in their past and, some would say, continuing colonial subjugation. Pen-
etrating this skepticism and suspicion to establish equitable and mutually benefi-
cial working relationships is no easy task, even when Indigenous scholars are
involved in the research. One reason for this is that a standard archaeological
response to Indigenous people’s qualms has been that archaeology is ethically
unproblematical and of obvious benefit at the local community or individual
level because the knowledge it generates benefits all humanity (for example,
Mulvaney 1981, 1991). Born of the Enlightenment and rising with renewed vigor
from the ashes of the Nazi Holocaust, this universalizing, humanist response is
unquestionably honorable in its motivation. It sounds perfectly reasonable to
most Western and undoubtedly some non-Western ears, but it does not get much
of a sympathetic hearing from some, perhaps many, Indigenous Australians: not
in an era when Indigenous Australians are asserting wide-ranging cultural and
intellectual property rights (for example, Janke 1998), nor when a noticeable
proportion of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island people, as is the case among
Indigenous people elsewhere, assert that even the fight by non-Indigenous people
against racism and human rights abuses is a form of paternalism; it is help they
did not ask for and which they certainly should not have to be grateful for (for
example, Langford 1983 for a much-cited Aboriginal response to universalizing
humanism; also Bowdler 1988, 1992; Tasmanian Aboriginal Land Council
1996; Webb 1987; compare Langton and Megaw 1999).
Indeed, profound doubts have even been evident for some time in the Western
academy, the main redoubt of Enlightenment principle. In addition to question-
ing anthropological and archaeological approaches to “the Other” (examples
from a voluminous literature include Attwood and Arnold 1992; Kuper 1988;
Trigger 1980, 1985), and to interrogating processes such as the acquisition by
settler societies of a “deep past” through the appropriation of indigenous histo-
ries (for example, Allen 1988, Byrne 1996), parts of the academy have been
pursuing a closely related debate, which sees scholars ask questions as pro-
foundly challenging of post-Holocaust humanism as by “what principle short of
imperialism do we insist on the application of civil or human rights in societies
that have not come to these ideas through their own histories?” (Hammel 1994:
48; compare Handwerker 1997).
In this context, it does seem as if Australian archaeologists need Indigenous
Australians much more than Aboriginal or Torres Strait Island people need ar-
chaeologists. As Murray (1992, 1993, 1996a, 1996b, 1996c, 1996d, 1996e,
2000) has been arguing for some time, however, both pragmatism and principle
actually dictate otherwise in a postcolonial settler society such as Australia, with
its emergent but not yet strongly developed pluralist ethic. Our country officially
prides itself on being one of the most tolerant multicultural nations in the modern
world. It must be borne in mind, though, that pluralist tolerance took a long time
Archaeological and Indigenous significance / 229
to emerge in this country, despite a (not uncontroversial) leap in non-British

European immigration rates a decade or so following World War II. It was only
in the late 1960s and early 1970s that either the draconian policies which closely
governed the lives of Indigenous Australians or the infamous “White Australia
Policy” (that all but eliminated non-European and, indeed, non-British immigra-
tion) began to be dismantled in any significant way. Moreover, despite radical
changes in the 1990s concerning legal approaches to the recognition of Indig-
enous Australian land and sea rights, there remains in Australia, among Euro-
pean Australians of British and non-British stock alike, a stubborn streak of what
is at best indifference to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island people and at worst
is deeply rooted and sometimes violent racism.
In its less malignant form, this characteristic is evidenced by the fact that
Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island issues, broadly defined, never rate highly in
the lists of the public’s major concerns recorded in “state of the nation” polls in
the quality broadsheet press. At the time of writing, for instance, an article in the
national daily the Australian (Marris 1999) described how “behind-the-scenes
negotiations” were required to have a national summit on rural and regional
development accept “that indigenous people are stakeholders in regional Austra-
lia,” when delegates were principally concerned with health services, funding for
the Australian Broadcasting Commission (the “Aunty” of Marris’s title), and
investment in rural and regional infrastructure by pension-fund managers. Even
that paltry concession to cross-cultural reconciliation does not rate a mention in
the same day’s edition of the Australian Financial Review (Breusch 1999), which
presumably did not see it as pertinent to the “real business” of the summit or the
nation. In its more diabolical form, which is never far below the surface, the
negative attitude toward Indigenous Australians is exemplified by the emergence
and electoral success in the 1990s of One Nation, an overtly racist political party
on the Far Right, which among other things is opposed to the much-belated legal
and legislative recognition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island land and sea
rights that has flowed from the so-called “Mabo decision” of the Australian High
Court in 1993.
In this environment, the theorizing and practice of many non-Indigenous
Australian archaeologists and heritage managers have deliberately or less con-
sciously loaned support to Indigenous Australians’ battles for self-determination.
They have done so most effectively by demonstrating to the world at large, and
to the Australian community in particular, that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Is-
land people are not “unchanging people (with a very short history) in an un-
changing land,” as was commonly believed, and by making space for Indigenous
views and bodies in research and heritage management agencies (for example,
Moser 1995; also Murray 1996a). Bowdler’s and like-minded approaches to the
separation of archaeological and Indigenous significance and other interests, dis-
cussed further below, are a result of this general movement. So, too, are the views
(and actions) of Mulvaney, which, although couched in what is now often seen as
the paternalistic neocolonial language of postwar universalizing humanism, are

unquestionably motivated by a desire for mutual understanding and the need to
support Indigenous self-determination (see Bonhady and Griffiths 1996 for ex-
tended discussion of Mulvaney’s life and times).
It is against this background that Murray has developed a persuasive position
that seeks to promote mutuality in a difficult postcolonial milieu. His ideas share
the same general philosophical roots as all the other individual positions alluded
to, but the manner in which they are expressed indicates a self-conscious attempt
to steer between the rapids of radical separatism and the rocks of neocolonial
appropriation. Demonized by some for what they perceive as his role in an un-
usually difficult repatriation case (for background, see Ross 1996 and papers
following in that volume), Murray in fact readily concedes the primacy of Ab-
original and Torres Strait Island interests in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island
lives, cultures, and histories. At the same time, however, he steadfastly empha-
sizes the need:
to manage a non-[Indigenous] interest in the human history of Australia
. . . [and] to find ways of allowing non-[Indigenous] people to make mean-
ings and confer values on these things, be they “relics” or “cultural heri-
tage.” Thus, heritage should not simply “evolve from the society whose
heritage it seeks to preserve” (Sullivan, quoted in McBryde 1992: 265), but
also evolve from the society in which such policies are expected to be effec-
tive. Effective policies have to be meaningful to both [Indigenous] and non-
[Indigenous] people, a tall order if policy is developed on the assumption
that the interests of [Indigenous] and non-[Indigenous] society can be iso-
lated, and all the more difficult when ways of establishing the cultural
significance of [Indigenous] heritage for non-[Indigenous] people (such as
archaeology) are marginalized as “colonialist” or denigrated as subtle at-
tempts at appropriating [Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island] Australia into
a manufactured Australian identity. (Murray 1996b: 731)
Archaeological and Indigenous significance
In view of the foregoing, it might be surprising to learn that Australian archaeolo-

gists have not written much that explicitly concerns the relationship between
archaeological or Indigenous significance. It should be evident from the discus-
sion above that this is not because the matter is unimportant to them, or to the
Indigenous Australians with whom or upon whose sites they work. Rather, it is
because they have generally deferred to overseas and almost exclusively U.S.
thinking on the matter, which has allowed them to advance until now on a rea-
sonably sure footing owing to broad similarities between Australia and the
United States with regard to relations between archaeologists and indigenous
people (though see Lilley 2000a; Hammond 1981).
Two papers by Bowdler (1981, 1984) established the benchmark for the prac-
tical application of the concept of significance. As far as we are aware, that
standard has been critically revisited only once in the mainstream Australian
archaeological literature (Smith 1996), though the likes of Bowdler herself,
Byrne, McBryde, Mulvaney, and Murray, all cited earlier, as well as others in the
thick of it such as Pardoe (for example, 1990, 1992), have certainly continued to
explore directly related issues. Like the mainstream literature and the gray litera-
ture of contract/consulting reports, publications from organizations such as Aus-
tralia ICOMOS (International Council on Monuments and Sites) and the Austra-
lian Heritage Commission frequently mention significance, but very few deal
with the issues in an analytical rather than descriptive manner (for example,
Domicel and Marshall 1994; Johnston 1992). Because they are rooted in the
same sorts of philosophies as Bowdler’s perspective (see Kuper 1994 for a broad-
brush critique of the anthropological aspects of these philosophies), none of the
work to which we have just alluded materially alters the thrust of the position
articulated in her two papers, which derives quite explicitly from well-known
work from the late 1970s by U.S. scholars (for example, Raab and Klinger 1977;
Schiffer 1979; Schiffer and Gumerman 1977).
What is it that Bowdler wrote that seems so effectively to have obviated the
need for further critical discussion for so long? Her message in the two papers
was and remains straightforward. Archaeologists, professionally speaking,
should be concerned with “archaeological significance, which is to say, scientific
significance” (Bowdler 1984: 1; original emphasis), measured in relation to
timely research questions and representativeness. Precisely what can be consid-
ered a timely research question, or representative, she notes, varies through time
and space in relation to the breadth and depth of scientific archaeological knowl-
edge concerning specific issues, and thus significance is a “mutable quality”
(added emphasis), as proclaimed in the title of her 1984 paper. Indigenous signifi-
cance (a form of what is also called “ethnic significance” or “social value”), on
the other hand, is explicitly left solely to Indigenous people to assess in relation
to their own criteria, even if it is archaeological rather than other sorts of sites
that are in focus, or if it is archaeological values which underlie Indigenous sig-
nificance.
There is not a lot to argue with there, it might appear, but Bowdler’s proposi-
tions are as much a product of their times in the history of archaeology and
cultural heritage management in Australia, and of her central place in those
times, as they are the result of more general logical principles. For a relatively
brief period beginning in the 1980s, that history saw scientifically based, ar-
chaeological views of the past, rather than Aboriginal views of the past, posi-
tioned as a critical element of the national heritage. After that, demands for
Indigenous self-determination began to supplant archaeological authority by
emphasizing the needs and interests of living cultures rather than the need to
preserve the material remains of past human action (Murray 1996b: 730; also
Byrne 1996: 97–98; Moser 1995). Clearly, Bowdler’s position on the “separation
of the powers” accommodates the imperatives of both of these major currents of
thought in a dynamic environment. Nor, it has been pointed out, would anything
less than the separation of archaeological and Aboriginal significance in this way
make much sense in the Australian legal system. Hammond (1981: 56) draws
attention to the fact that Australian jurists enforce relatively strict “evidentiary
prohibitions against hearsay, opinion and concept.” This means that Australian
archaeologists are legally considered competent only to speak of archaeological
matters in archaeological terms on the basis of archaeological facts. In short, an
archaeologist’s view on Indigenous significance (or vice versa) would generally
not be legally admissible. This is no minor consideration when litigation is pur-
sued by proponents or opponents of development, including Aboriginal and
Torres Strait Island people, when the agenda of one of these parties has been
frustrated by the other or the other’s proxy (such as a consulting archaeologist).
Like Murray and an increasing number of other scholars in Australia and
elsewhere (see papers in Torrence and Clarke 2000; also Bedford 1996; Colley
and Bickford 1996; Lightfoot 1995; Lightfoot et al. 1998), we think the separa-
tion of archaeological and Indigenous interests in the past may be reaching the
end of its useful life, at least insofar as it prevents the development of mutuality
and shared understandings rather than reduces the appropriation of Indigenous
authority (Murray 1996b: 733, 1996e: 210–12). Some will undoubtedly argue
that archaeologists and Aborigines have been working together successfully for
some time (for example, Clarke 1993; Davidson et al. 1995; Greer 1989). That is
true, and we have no desire to diminish the accomplishments of those who have
gone before us. The headway they made (and continue to make) helped create the
situation which allows us to offer this paper. Nonetheless, we think it is fair to say
that for the most part such cooperation still advances on the basis of mostly one-
way compromises between more or less separate conventional archaeological
and Indigenous agendas. On occasion, archaeologists give over all responsibility
for deciding what happens and where to the Aboriginal community among
whom the study is being undertaken. Even in cases where scientifically acceptable
technical rigor is maintained in survey and excavation procedures, which may
not always be assured, such action can produce scientifically incoherent results
that may satisfy Indigenous curiosity about one or another matter, but that are
unlikely to advance scientific knowledge to any degree or to matter to anyone
outside of a small group of people. Much more commonly, and for that reason,
much more unpromising in its one-sidedness, archaeologists try to interest and
involve Indigenous Australians in the study of questions of almost exclusively
non-Indigenous origin through the application of quintessentially Western philo-
sophical and technical approaches (Murray 1992a). This means that generally
there is little or no distinctively Indigenous input at either the conceptual or
technical level. One simply winds up with Aborigines doing archaeology in pretty
much the same way as their non-Indigenous colleagues, for reasons that the In-
digenous people involved may not fully understand, let alone regard as valid
approaches to generating and managing knowledge about the past. Indigenous
people frequently cooperate with archaeologists in such endeavors, not because
they are particularly curious about, much less vocationally interested in, the ar-
chaeological past (although of course some are, on both counts). Rather, it is
often more the case that they wish to help non-Indigenous Australians (archae-
ologists and the wider community alike) better appreciate Aboriginal and Torres
Strait Island people, culture, and history in terms they, the non-Indigenous, can
grasp. Some probably also hope that archaeologists might accidentally find
something that bears on what many Indigenous Australians are usually much
more interested in, namely the recent and especially the remembered past. This is
why Pardoe (1990: 209), for instance, reports that a senior Aboriginal woman
found a 150-year-old skeleton much more important than the 25,000- to 30,000-
year-old Lake Mungo World Heritage Site skeletons, as the former “showed the
continuity of Aboriginal culture well into the late 1800s” (Pardoe 1990: 209). In
short, it is a case of two different groups of people having what each sees as a vital
stake in the same thing (the archaeological record) for overlapping but mainly
very different reasons, with the historically less-powerful group hoping that its
cooperation with the other group will produce knowledge can be put to essen-
tially nonarchaeological ends.
There must be a better way forward. There have been well-received Aborigi-
nal histories which included some very limited archaeology, if only because they
were undertaken by archaeologists (for example, Byrne 1984; Egloff 1990).
Moreover, an increasing amount of (usually heritage-oriented) archaeology now
exhibits explicitly community-based aspects, if only because it is mandated by
law. Again, at the risk of generalizing, the archaeology in most such projects
seems to have been directed not toward satisfying larger archaeological concerns
through the integration of Indigenous interests (though compare Clarke 1993;
Murray 1993; and papers in Torrence and Clarke 2000), so much as toward
satisfying Indigenous interests viewed as something essentially separate from
larger archaeological concerns. In other words, mutual interests are still rarely
explored. The ongoing and often still terse if not acrimonious debate between
archaeologists and Indigenous people in Australia and other parts of the world
(for example, Clark 1998; Watkins 1998) suggests that the conventional interests
of archaeologists in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island pasts will never sit easily
with the interests in those pasts of many, if not most, Indigenous Australians,
regardless of how hard archaeologists try to accommodate Indigenous concerns
within their own conventional interests, and regardless of how many Indigenous
people study or otherwise participate in conventionally oriented archaeological
activity. That some parts of the Australian archaeological community have not
fully grasped, or at least do not take seriously, the implications of the elemental
difference in perspectives that underlies this problem can be gauged by the fact
that while heritage managers and research archaeologists for some years ac-
knowledged the primacy of Indigenous interests in this arena, as exemplified in

the development by the Australian Archaeological Association of a code of ethics
based on the proposition that Indigenous Australians own their own heritage
(Australian Archaeological Association 1994: 129), members of the Australian
archaeological community continue to debate the relative merits of the term
“prehistory,” both among themselves and with Indigenous people (Australian
Archaeological Association 1999: 51–55). Like Bedford (1996: 432), we can do
no better in this context than to quote Kirch and Sahlins (1992: 26), who noted
“we believe that if archaeology is indeed to ‘seek to understand and/or explain
the processes by which cultural forms mediate social and ecological relationships
among human populations in the post-1500 world’ . . . , it cannot be hampered
by academic divisions between prehistoric and historic archaeologies.”
As Lightfoot (1995) argues for the United States, and the papers brought
together by Torrence and Clarke (2000) demonstrate in relation to Oceania,
clinging to a term such as “prehistory,” useful though it may be in particular
professional circumstances, as well as to vague, related concepts such as “con-
tact,” make it very hard to develop archaeological approaches to the past which
advance rather than hinder relations with Indigenous people in an era when those
Indigenous people have or are very rapidly developing the legal as well as the
moral upper hand in the control of their pasts. This is particularly the case in
Australia, where demonstrable relevance to land- or sea-rights claims is increas-
ingly a major criterion for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island approval of ar-
chaeological activity (see papers in Lilley 2000b). In short, increasing numbers of
scholars are realizing that it is past time to make archaeological and Indigenous
interests in the Indigenous past, and thus archaeological and Indigenous concepts
of significance, more congruent, rather than simply continuing to try to fit the
square peg of conventional “prehistory” into the round hole of Indigenous ap-
proaches to the past. Current thinking suggests ways this can be done without
doing any real violence to the useful flexibility of Bowdler’s general principle,
which, after all, pivots on the notion of significance as a mutable quality. More-
over, it is likely to be able to be done in ways which accord with Australian
jurisprudence, a useful thing, as we noted earlier, as we head into what will
almost certainly be an increasingly litigious future, as the limits of native title
(and archaeology’s contribution to its determination) are explored.
Mutuality
The key to developing equitable and mutually beneficial working relationships

between archaeologists and Indigenous people, and on that basis helping ad-
vance the development of a tolerant, just, and open society, is formulating an
approach which recognizes the need of all parties (or, in the jargon, “stakehold-
ers”) to come to grips with the past so they can make sense of the present and
head more confidently into the future. Thus, community-directed studies which
produce no discernible increase in archaeological understanding are of as little

use as archaeological studies which ignore Indigenous perspectives in underpin-
ning collaborative endeavors which allow all parties to develop and share their
own understanding. This is not to say that archaeologists must somehow incor-
porate beliefs about the Rainbow Serpent into their explanations (unless ac-
counting for Indigenous views of causality), or that Aboriginal or Torres Strait
Island people must replace their origin stories with archaeological models such as
the African Eve hypothesis. Rather, it is to say, as numbers of scholars have
already done, that archaeologists should begin to see that if they can work out
how they can bring their formidable analytical techniques to bear on matters of
importance to Indigenous people, they will be able to produce much more com-
prehensive and thus more powerful archaeological understandings of the past.
This is particularly the case with regard to the nature and extent of the cultural
continuities and discontinuities apparent in Indigenous cultures after European
colonization. It thus bears directly upon matters of considerable substantive,
methodological, and theoretical import in the archaeological study of culture
contact and culture change (for example, Lightfoot 1995; see Bedford 1996;
Colley and Bickford 1996; Murray 1993 for antipodean perspectives). Similarly,
Indigenous people’s understandings of their own past can be complemented or
augmented by those aspects of archaeological research they might find relevant
to their own interests, again perhaps especially in relation to links between the
distant and more recent past. This has been happening to varying extents for
some time now (for example, Pardoe 1990; Byrne 1998; Godwin et al. 1999), but
as we think the debate about “prehistory” in Australian archaeology demon-
strates, there is still a long way to go before mutuality replaces separatism as the
dominant principle guiding Australian archaeology and its relations with Indig-
enous people.
How might mutuality work in the legal situation described earlier, which
seemingly fosters the separate consideration of archaeological and Indigenous
interests? As indicated above, Hammond (1981) notes that Australian jurists
eschew hearsay, opinion, and concept, and thus generally would not tolerate an
archaeologist presuming to speak for Indigenous people or, we imagine, vice
versa. However, he also draws attention to the fact that
often a court will rely on an expert witness even when the precise basis of
his testimony cannot be determined. . . . [Thus, in an early land rights case,
it was] held that evidence from an anthropologist in the form of a proposi-
tion of anthropology—a conclusion having significance in that field of dis-
course—was not inadmissible on the grounds of (a) hearsay in that the
evidence was founded partly on statements made to the expert by Aborigi-
nal people—so called reputation evidence given to a specialist in the field;
(b) opinion founded on facts which were not apparent, since the facts were
ascertained by the methods and described in terms appropriate to the
expert’s field of knowledge or (c) being conceptual in terms rather than

factual, provided that the expert spoke in terms appropriate both to his
field of knowledge and the court’s understanding. (Hammond 1981: 55,
original emphasis)
Although we are not lawyers, we surmise that such a ruling could also apply to
an archaeologist discussing archaeological significance based on Indigenous sig-
nificance, as well as to an Indigenous person presenting evidence regarding Indig-
enous significance deriving partly or wholly from archaeological significance, in
cases where the evidence being tendered was based on demonstrably shared
rather than more obviously separated understandings. A difference such as the
last may be one reason why seemingly similar sets of archaeological evidence
were treated so differently by the courts in the successful Miriuwung Gajerrong
land rights case in remote northwestern Australia and the unsuccessful Yorta
Yorta land rights case in “settled” southeastern Australia (see Murray 2000;
Fullagar and Head 2000). In other words, shared understandings may have far-
reaching implications for the relationship between archaeologists and Indigenous
Australians before the law, and thus for the outcomes of legal action involving the
interests of both groups.
Principles in practice
We have attempted to put our money where our mouths are through a multidi-
mensional long-term study of Aboriginal archaeological and cultural heritage,
which we began in 1994 in Williams’s traditional country in northeastern Austra-
lia. The study, known as the Gooreng Gooreng Cultural Heritage Project, encom-
passes investigations of the Gooreng Gooreng language (Jolly 1994) and contem-
porary social landscapes (Clarkson et al. in prep.) as well as archaeological
research (for example, Lilley and Ulm 1995; Lilley et al. 1996, 1998, 1999),
cultural heritage management projects (for example, Lilley 1995a, 1995b), and
the repatriation of cultural property from the study area that is located at the
University of Queensland (Ulm and Lilley 1996).
The immediate origins of the project lie in Williams’s appointment of Lilley as
research coordinator, whom he charged with developing a research profile for the
university organization he directs. Lilley was happy to accept the challenge of
devising and managing the larger project in accordance with Williams’s strategic
visions for Indigenous involvement in university research and research in his
traditional country, both of which he sees as a central part of his cultural respon-
sibilities as a senior member of the Gooreng Gooreng and wider Aboriginal com-
munities. Lilley was also happy to examine the area’s archaeology as part of that
larger enterprise. It has to be said, though, that the conventional “prehistoric”
archaeologist in him was skeptical that there would be anything of particular
archaeological significance to reveal in the area, at least at the level required to
attract the substantial levels of research funding necessary to undertake the work
properly. This skepticism was because, although the archaeological detail of al-
most all of the Australian continent remains to be explored, most areas of obvi-
ous conventional research potential had already been assessed at least at a pre-
liminary level. Such assessments of the coastal part of the study area (for
example, Godwin 1990; Rowland 1987), where Lilley’s investigations were ini-
tially targeted, had not discovered anything of immediate note. The findings
sketched below rapidly proved that Lilley’s skepticism was misplaced on two
counts, the conventional and the more progressive, but that there were any find-
ings at all is only because the personal- and community-level Indigenous signifi-
cance of the area encouraged Williams to suggest his traditional country as a
suitable place for Lilley to begin to build the aforementioned research profile.
Williams provided an academic foundation for the project in the form of the
anthropological/ethnohistorical research he undertook as a postgraduate (Wil-
liams 1981). He maintains a keen academic interest in archaeology and the re-
lated disciplines included in the study, and sees the value for his people of building
a comprehensive scientific record of Indigenous activity. However, he has always
seen the Gooreng Gooreng project and the other research activities of the unit he
directs as fitting in with Indigenous interests in general and with those of his
family and language community in particular. During many stages of the project
and particularly during the fieldwork, he has encouraged family members to
involve themselves in the development of the growing body of knowledge being
built up. He encourages his children and their generation to participate, and sees
a definite role for himself culturally, as a senior man, to instruct them in their
knowledge. Even those of his relatives who are older (and sometimes, but not
always, some relatives of his children’s generation), recognize his status and right
to speak for certain tracts of country and defer to him when such matters are
being discussed or need to be included in negotiations with government or miners
and other developers. Those people, some whom have knowledge that he does
not have, see the process of accompanying him and the project team into the field
as a way to travel through the country with a man who has authority to speak. In
that way, they gain confidence to speak of their own knowledge appropriately, in
terms of being sanctioned to speak in particular forums.
This last sees Williams filling a role of a sort that is becoming increasingly
important in Indigenous Australia. There is an Indigenous agenda that operates
in tandem with the work of archaeologists, anthropologists, and other research-
ers in the current climate of assertion of Indigenous cultural and intellectual
heritage rights. It sees Aboriginal and Torres Strait people who for one reason or
another are in a position to articulate such rights seeking to assist others to build
their knowledge of Indigenous life, culture, and history and to develop the skills
and confidence to conceptualize and articulate their concerns and proposals con-
cerning heritage, intellectual property, and other matters which affect their lives.
In short, this agenda provides pivotal support for the larger project of Indigenous
self-determination. It is based on a simple premise. As prominent Aboriginal

spokesperson Patrick Dodson (1985 cited in Keefe 1988: 77) stated in a newspa-
per article:
There are difficulties in areas of Australia where Aboriginal people are
absolutely surrounded in a sea of white people and do not have the oppor-
tunity to move or relate to the country that is theirs, but by the same token
there is a fierce sense of Aboriginality that comes from knowing that across
this country no one Aboriginal person stands in isolation.
Certain senior Aboriginal men from more remote communities in central and
northern Australia have taken a particular interest in this phenomenon. They
have actively sought to listen to the position of Aboriginal people from southern,
“settled” Australia and, through their deep spiritual, religious, and other cultural
knowledge, have assisted the latter in the interpretation of their country and their
important places, and with their cultural expression. Senior man Wenten
Rubuntja (1988 cited in Keefe 1988: 78) pointed out in Land Rights News that
for Aboriginal people living along the coast where the white people took
over first, they will be able to see that they are still part of the Aboriginal
family. People down there might not know their language any more, but the
emu story and the snake story goes all over Australia. When they see us
dance, we can celebrate that we all belong to the songs that go across the
whole of this country.
In recent years, Williams himself has been involved as pupil rather than teacher
with Pitjantjatjara people from central Australia, who in the spirit of oneness
have given him secret ceremonial knowledge. This situation arose from a visit of
Pitjantjatjara people to the University of Queensland, where they, while interact-
ing with Williams, said “your old people went before they could teach you prop-
erly” and expressed their intent to “help you [Williams] find your way again.” In
Williams’s view, this presents him with heightened responsibilities to look after
his traditional country and has added a dimension to the ethical responsibilities
of non-Indigenous and Indigenous members of the Gooreng Gooreng project
team. When conducting the business of the project and in determining how its
findings contribute to the scientific record and to the capability of Indigenous
people to enhance their understanding of country and claims to country, there are
ceremonial, cultural, spiritual, and religious connections to an Aboriginal group
(the Pitjantjatjara) many hundreds of kilometers away in Central Australia that
now have to be considered. At the time of writing, just how Williams’s connec-
tions with Central Australia may manifest themselves in relation to the responsi-
bilities just mentioned had yet to become clear, though hints were discernible in
preliminary discussions regarding ceremonial activity surrounding the repatria-
tion of Gooreng Gooreng cultural property held in trust by the University of
Queensland and the dedication of a piece of university land for Indigenous use.
Beyond such hints, the effects of colonization mean that there is an extremely
tenuous understanding of the activities of Creation Ancestors, who may have
linked groups of communities such as Gooreng Gooreng and Pitjantjatjara
speakers. Regardless of current academic perspectives on the recent creation of
“pan-Aboriginal” social identity (for example, Tonkinson 1990), in Williams’s
view there is no reason why present-day expressions of oneness and resulting
gestures of ceremonial, religious, and spiritual support should necessarily be seen
as anything but a contemporary expression of what has been in place in Indig-
enous Australia for millennia. The broader lesson in this is that researchers work-
ing with ideas of country and place or on issues which impinge upon such matters
need to explore the ways in which these notions are conceptualized by Indigenous
people, who may well appreciate them from perspectives and for reasons which
do not differentiate between contemporary and “traditional” patterns of interac-
tion and association.
It is for the foregoing reasons that, unlike many, if not most, cooperative
projects undertaken in Australia to date (see Colley and Bickford 1996: 16),
where community involvement and a shift from “prehistoric” toward “contact”
archaeology emerged after the studies progressed (and, in some cases, at least
partly because no material of significant antiquity was found), the present project
was devised from the start as a multidimensional endeavor integrating Western
archaeological/cultural heritage interests with Aboriginal interests. Thus, explor-
atory linguistic, social historical, and archaeological components of the enter-
prise all began more or less at once. Most importantly here, the concern to pursue
issues of mutual interest and significance meant that as far as the archaeological
record would allow, “prehistoric” and “contact” archaeology would both be
integral to the study from the beginning.
The archaeological study focused on site survey and test excavation, first on
the coast and very soon afterward in a gorge system at the western edge of
Gooreng Gooreng country, more than a hundred kilometers inland. Owing to the
nature of the evidence that has been located, the emphasis, until about 1998, was
largely on the pre-European archaeology of the area, which on the coast extends
back at least 4,000 years and in the gorge system at least to the last glacial
maximum some 18,000 years ago. Critically, for attracting funding from sources
focused primarily on conventional questions, the project is thus able to encom-
pass many of the conventional “big” issues in Australian archaeology, such as the
nature of human adaptation to the extreme aridity which characterized glacial
periods in Australia, as well as post-Pleistocene developments, such as the (?non-)
appearance of the so-called broad-spectrum revolution, which elsewhere led to
agriculture and urbanism and, in at least parts of Australia, may have led to
increasing regionalization and some degree of sociopolitical and economic inten-
sification (see Allen and O’Connell 1995; Lourandos 1997; White and O’Con-
nell 1982).
As work progressed, data relating to the post-European past began to be dis-
covered, linking the archaeology directly with contemporary Gooreng Gooreng

social landscapes and the remembered past of living Gooreng Gooreng people.
Ulm, who at the time of writing was pursuing his doctoral research on the coast,
has thus been able to craft an archaeological sequence beginning some 4,000
years ago and ending only when virtually all Gooreng Gooreng people were
removed from their traditional country by government decree early in the twen-
tieth century. Of particular interest has been the discovery of evidence for post-
contact cultural continuity in the form of flaked bottle-glass artifacts at sites
which are located in places known to have been frequented by Aboriginal people
in the historical period but which also have pre-European components of some
antiquity (Ulm et al. 1999). Also fascinating is evidence for increasing region-
alization and perhaps variations in patterns of social identity through time. This
evidence is presently in the form of increasing use of local stone sources for
artifact manufacture and the geographical restriction of edge ground stone axes
of a specific, distinctive lithology to the area historically recorded as the tradi-
tional territory of Gooreng Gooreng speakers. While work in the inland has
established occupation of Pleistocene antiquity, at the time of writing, we were
yet to find much evidence in the gorge system relating unambiguously to the post-
European period. A doctoral project, begun in 1999, will remedy that situation
if appropriate data can be found. Preliminary analyses of the sparse rock art in
the gorge has, however, provided some evidence to support emergent hypotheses
concerning regionalization and social identity that have been generated by the
coastal finds.
We also intend to undertake an archaeological and oral historical study of the
Williams’s family farm, which was acquired in a land ballot by his grandfather,
in the coastal part of the study area. The aim is to build upon the other work of
the Gooreng Gooreng project to determine the nature of continuities and dis-
continuities in Aboriginal life and behavior patterns between the pre- and post-
European periods. This project is expressly designed to pick up where Ulm’s
sequence ends, and thus to more firmly integrate Indigenous interests in the re-
cent, remembered past and archaeological concerns with culture contact and
cultural change. In essence, we want to explore the archaeological dimensions of
Williams’s conviction that, although Indigenous groups and communities such
as his own have experienced long and sustained intrusion by non-Indigenous
people, to the point where the apparent lifestyle and behavior of those Indigenous
people seem to be little different from “mainstream Australian culture,” his fam-
ily and a great many like it remain passionately Aboriginal in their identity and
cultural expression.
Conclusion
In this paper, we have proposed that the separation of archaeological and Indig-
enous interests in the archaeological record of Indigenous life in Australia has, for
the most part, outlived its usefulness. It unquestionably played an important role
in empowering Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island people, but Indigenous Aus-
tralians have now achieved substantial levels of control over the Australian ar-
chaeological record through legislation and their efforts in helping develop pro-
fessional codes of ethics and government regulations. In this context, it makes
sense to us that archaeologists and Indigenous people develop ways to explore
questions of mutual rather than separate significance. Our project in northeast-
ern Australia is one of a small but increasing number of methodologically similar
studies motivated by the conviction that Australian archaeology can only be
strengthened by such an approach, which seeks to add depth, richness, and com-
plexity to the relationship between archaeology and Indigenous interests in a way
that can only help to improve our understanding of the variegated nature of
significance and cultural heritage.
The critical issues in implementing such approaches are to have Indigenous
people and archaeologists
• acknowledge that the other has sets of legitimate interests in the archaeo-
logical record which may not overlap to any great degree with their own;
• understand explicitly and in detail what those different sets of interests
entail;
• accept that the questions of interest and approaches to their examination
of one side should not dominate or diminish the interests and approaches
of the other; and
• together determine areas of mutual interest, the investigation of which
can contribute in nontrivial ways both to archaeological and nonarchae-
ological ends and thus help bridge the gap between the nonoverlapping
sets of interests.
It seems clear from our own and others’ experience that the only way this can be
done is for archaeologists and Indigenous people to be involved together from the
start in planning research projects of mutual benefit, rather than of primary
benefit to one or the other party, with the benefits to the other tacked on as an
afterthought. Archaeologists should not treat Indigenous people as just gate-
keepers, who need to be convinced to let researchers past so that they can get on
with their scientific work, but are then effectively forgotten until permit renewal
time. Nor should archaeologists treat Indigenous people as if they were just vol-
unteers, like any others on the field crew or in the sorting lab, to whom the
universal benefits of rigorous archaeological research should be self-evident.
Archaeologists should not turn to matters of “contact” archaeology, which may
be of interest to Indigenous people, only when a search for material of more
substantial antiquity and more obvious applicability to conventional archaeo-
logical questions proves fruitless. They should seek out and discuss with Indig-
enous people what archaeology does; what they, the archaeologists, want from
the study; what the study might offer Indigenous people in relation to conven-
tional archaeological results; and, most importantly, what Aboriginal people

think the archaeology might be able to do for them from a purely Indigenous,
nonarchaeological perspective at the same time as it contributes to science in the
way the archaeologists claim it will (such as Williams’s concerns about caring for
traditional country). Aboriginal people need to insist on this last matter even
when it is not raised by archaeologists. Archaeologists should resist any urge to
promise more than their methods and theories can deliver in such circumstances,
but they should not be timid in exploring the boundaries of those methods and
theories in determining just what it is they can offer.
Increasing numbers of Australian archaeologists have been doing some or
even many of these things, in some cases for upwards of two decades. We argue,
though, that they have not as a rule been imaginative enough in exploring how
archaeology can contribute to nonarchaeological questions of Indigenous signifi-
cance in ways that can also enrich archaeological method and theory. In other
words, people have not explored matters of mutual significance with as much
vigor as they might have done. This situation must change. The challenges to
archaeology and its relationship with Aboriginal people, which are being raised
with increasingly frequency and complexity as the discipline tries to keep its feet
in the era of land and intellectual and cultural property rights, will make or break
Australian archaeology in the new millennium. A whole raft of questions of
concern to Indigenous people, encompassing ethnicity/social identity, and issues
of colonization, culture contact, and cultural change, are being raised with a new
urgency. None of these issues is new to archaeology by any means, but the social
and political context in which they are being raised demands that archaeologists
return to them in innovative ways. Australian archaeologists not yet awake to
this reality, or not imaginative enough to explore new ways to carry archaeologi-
cal approaches to such issues forward, will surely not survive very far into the
future. Fortune favors the brave.
Acknowledgments
We wish to thank the Gooreng Gooreng Aboriginal people for the support they
have given us over the years. We are grateful, too, to the University of Queens-
land for being flexible enough in its attitude to Indigenous student support to
recognize the central importance of the role models provided by Indigenous in-
volvement in research with a national profile of the sort our work has attained.
We also thank the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander
Studies, the Australian Heritage Commission, and the Australian Research
Council and Australian Institute of Nuclear Science and Engineering for their
generous funding, and the Queensland Environmental Protection Agency and
private landowners for their help and encouragement since 1994. Clay Mathers
is responsible for asking us to contribute to this volume, but we are responsible
for any errors of omission or commission, which may have slipped through.
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248 / Sherene Baugher
14
Sacredness, sensitivity, and significance

The controversy over Native American sacred sites
Sherene Baugher
Introduction
Throughout the world native peoples are facing challenges to protect and pre-
serve their sacred places. For example, the Aborigines in Australia; the Crees in
James Bay, Canada; the Maoris in New Zealand; the Native Hawaiians; and the
Saamis in Scandinavia have all faced the destruction of some of their sacred sites
(LaDuke 1999; Matunga 1994; Mulk 1994; and Ritchie 1994). In Australia, for
instance, the question of intellectual property rights and copyright issues has also
been raised because of the wide commercial use of Aboriginal sacred symbols
from sacred sites or from the people themselves (Johnson 1996). In urban areas,
native sacred sites are threatened or destroyed as cities expand. In rural areas,
traditional landscapes are altered by new highways, expanded suburbs, dams
that flood the lands behind them, and the quest for resources such as timber,
uranium, coal, and oil. Because none of these activities are likely to diminish in
the near future, what can be done to preserve sacred sites?
In many countries, new construction can take place only after environmental
assessments are made to determine the impact on both the natural and cultural
environments. But who determines the significance of a sacred site? Usually it is
the person or firm contracted to undertake the environmental assessment. Do
native peoples have a voice in determining a site’s significance? The answer de-
pends on a country’s laws, but more importantly, it often depends on who is
implementing the laws. For example, within the same country a law can be inter-
preted differently by different agencies, with one agency interpreting the law in its
most narrow and restrictive sense and another viewing the same law in its broad-
est meaning. If a site has been deemed significant, who determines whether the
sacred site will be destroyed immediately, excavated by archaeologists and then
destroyed, or preserved completely or, at least, partially? What voice do native
The controversy over Native American sacred sites / 249
peoples, archaeologists, and preservationists have in these decisions? Are they

working in tandem for the same goals or are they on a collision course? The
answers are diverse and complex. In this chapter, I examine these issues only in
terms of American Indian nations within the territorial boundaries of the United
States. Selected case studies will illustrate the diversity of problems involved in
addressing sacred sites and the range of potential solutions.
I use case studies to review two major issues: (1) the controversy over the
excavation or preservation of sacred sites that are exclusively burial grounds or
include burials within their boundaries and (2) the preservation of sacred sites
that do not contain any burial grounds. This chapter is a greatly expanded ver-
sion of a paper that I presented at a conference sponsored jointly by the National
Park Service and the National Council for Preservation Education at Goucher
College in March 1997. My conference paper focused primarily on who deter-
mines the significance of Native American burial grounds (see Baugher 1998)
For all nations, including American Indian nations, places set aside for the
dead are regarded as sacred. Over the last fifteen years, much has been written
about the reburial issue and the controversy over who determines the fate of
Native American burial grounds (Jemison 1997; Price 1991; Swidler et al. 1997;
Venables 1984; Vitelli 1996). While the controversies over burial sites may in-
volve more intense beliefs, controversies over burial grounds are similar to and
even components of the larger question: how should any indigenous sacred site
be reviewed? This question in turn has a corollary: in any review of a sacred site,
is there a role for an “ideal solution” in an increasingly pragmatic and material-
istic global economy? The answers to all of these questions regarding sacred sites
depend upon our understanding of “sacredness, sensitivity, and significance.”
Sacredness
There is tremendous diversity in the Native American views of sacred sites be-
cause there are over three hundred different American Indian religions and cul-
tures. That said, a “list” of categories that describe sacred sites would have to
include the following (Deloria 1994; Kelley and Francis 1994; and Swan 1991:
68–72):
• any burial ground;
• places where spiritual powers are believed to reside;
• the specific locations where religious ceremonies are carried out, includ-
ing healing ceremonies;
• the specific locations for rites of passage, purification, and spiritual re-
newal;
• sites for vision quests;
• shrines;
• astronomical observatories;
Fig. 14.1. U.S. map showing the locations of archaeological sites. Drafted by Daniel Costura and Jason Thompson.
• sites of important historic events; and

• sites where Indians go to obtain materials for use in religious practices:
animals such as otters; fish such as salmon; plants such as yucca; rocks
such as catlinite; water; and soil.
Some of the categories in the list above illustrate how some sacred sites are not
identified by the presence of human-made materials such as pottery sherds or the
outlines of homes. Archaeologists, developers, or federal government officials
would err if they regarded such a site as having little or no sacred significance.
The absence of human-made objects may actually be one of the reasons the site
has remained sacred. Because the fates of American Indian sacred sites are most
often made by people who are not followers of an American Indian religion, the
ethical sensitivity of such decision makers should be encouraged so that Native
perspectives are included.
Sensitivity
Whether or not a site contains burials, Native Americans and archaeologists may
all agree that a site is significant but may arrive at this conclusion for different
reasons. Recognizing these different perspectives is essential if a cooperative,
common plan is to emerge. An example of different perspectives has been defined
by archaeologists Roger Anyon and Kurt Dongoske. Anyon worked for the Zuni
tribal government in New Mexico and Dongoske worked for the Hopi tribal
government in Arizona. These two scholars note how archaeologists, whose
frames of reference are primarily scientific, consider a site significant if it has “a
primary importance for yielding quantifiable data vital to the scientific under-
standing of past human lifeways and adaptation” (Dongoske and Anyon 1997:
189). But they also recognize that the Indians perceive sites in ways that are
beyond these academic frames of reference:
[T]he Hopi and Zuni view ancestral archaeological sites as being imbued
with life; they are inhabited by the spirits of their ancestors who once occu-
pied the site. Moreover, these archaeological sites are not conceptually dif-
ferentiated from the present, but are viewed as important living spiritual
places that maintain an intrinsic and vital role in the continuance of the
Hopi and Zuni cultures and lifeways. (Dongoske and Anyon 1997: 189)
Furthermore, the question of significance is perceived differently by different

Indian individuals. Some individual Indians have focused primarily on their
nation’s traditional culture and religion. Other individual Indians may have cho-
sen to emphasize assimilation into the American mainstream, including an adher-
ence to a Christian religion that may challenge what that Indian individual
should properly regard as “sacred.” Different perspectives regarding a site’s sig-
nificance can therefore exist within an Indian community as well as between an
Indian community and outsiders such as archaeologists. Any of these differences

can lead to a controversy over whether a site should be excavated by archaeolo-
gists or preserved completely intact.
Significance
The process that may eventually lead to the preservation of a sacred site begins
with an analysis of a site’s significance. But who determines this significance?
Who determines the fate of each Native American sacred site? Are Native Ameri-
cans consulted? Do Indians simply have a voice, as does any concerned group, or
do they have a direct and substantial vote in determining the fate of their sacred
sites? Once a determination of significance is made, who decides how the site will
be preserved? Are Indians given access to their site? If the site is on government
property and is being interpreted to the public, do the Indians have a deciding
vote or even a voice in what is being presented to the public?
In terms of historic preservation, the United States government ultimately
determines the significance of a site. However, as part of the process of reaching
that determination “interested parties” are allowed to have a “voice” and speak
at public hearings or submit documents to aid personnel in government agencies
in reaching their determinations. In sacred sites controversies, it is clear who has
the authority to speak for the government agencies, professional organizations,
or lobbyist groups. In addition, academic criteria can be used to determine if
someone is a professional archaeologist. But who determines who represents the
Indians? There are over 300 different American Indian cultures and religions in
North America. Archaeologists and preservationists who are reluctant to deal
with Indians often claim that they do not know which Indians should be con-
tacted. They ask, “Who really speaks for the Indians?”
Who represents the Indians?
Federal and state laws recognize the actions of tribal councils. For example, the
National Park Service may consult with many people, including Indian religious
leaders, but is required by law to work with the “legally empowered entity,” that
is, the tribal governments. Because the federally sanctioned tribal governments
are still likely to be in business for years to come, it is important to understand
why these governments were created and why there are internal conflicts within
Indian nations. Tribal councils, exemplified by the one imposed by the federal
government on the Navajos in 1923, were put in place so that non-Indians could
define groups of Indians who could sign oil leases and other contracts, allegedly
on behalf of all their people (Butler 1996: 380; Taylor 1980: 71). This process
went on gradually until 1934, when the Roosevelt administration devised, in the
Indian Reorganization Act, what it believed was a reasonable compromise: Indi-
ans would be allowed to continue their customs in exchange for adopting govern-
ments modeled after the federal government (Hauptman 1992). The new tribal
governments were run by majority rule rather than by consensus and were often
forms of government that were alien to the traditional cultures (Philip 1977;
Taylor 1980). At the time, this seemed benevolent, but it was not until 1934 that
the United States extended the right to freedom of religion to Indian nations.
Prior to 1934, federal officials on Indian reservations, eager to see the Indians
Christianized, harassed Indian religious leaders and often forced Indian religious
ceremonies underground (Deloria 1994). Ironically, a major reason these govern-
ments created tensions within reservations was because the Indian Reorganiza-
tion Act separated church and state, whereas traditional Indian governments
almost always integrated religion and politics (Tullberg 1982). As Indians com-
plied with the Indian Reorganization Act, a division occurred on many reserva-
tions, with the assimilated Indians running the tribal government and the tradi-
tional Indians left out of the tribal decision-making process (Tullberg 1982;
Deloria and Lytle 1984). This division between traditional and assimilated Indi-
ans does effect the issue of sacred sites and the protection of these sites.
While there is not a pan-Indian response in the case of the treatment of the
dead, most traditionalists are in fact preservationists, and they support the pres-
ervation of burial grounds and sacred sites. The traditionalists are also usually
opposed to the removal of human remains and grave goods to museums (Echo-
Hawk and Echo-Hawk 1991; Mihesuah 2000). However, there are some excep-
tions. Sometimes, but not often, Indian nations do not want the bodies returned.
In contrast, some assimilated Indians see museums as viable alternatives for the
preservation of human remains and burial goods. These disputes within Native
communities reflect a pervasive split throughout all of “Indian Country,” affect-
ing virtually every aspect of Indian life, including the issues of preservation. This
split is in part a consequence of federal policy. Throughout most of the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries, federal policy imposed assimilation through federally
funded schools in which Indian customs were downplayed and even denigrated.
This policy was redirected in 1978, when Congress asserted that the Bureau of
Indian Affairs should “facilitate Indian control of Indian affairs in all matters
relating to education” (United States Congress 1990: 292; Prucha 1984: 1103–6;
Trennert 1988: 206–13). Another major reason for this division within tribes is
that, in the twentieth century, federal policies and laws replaced traditional In-
dian governments, imposing in their place tribal governments patterned after
Euro-American models. Often shunned by traditionalists, these tribal govern-
ments are staffed primarily by those Indians who are more assimilated into main-
stream America. If you ask the opinion of these two groups regarding the preser-
vation of burial grounds and sacred sites, you are likely to get different answers.
Because these divisions remain today, archaeologists and preservationists
need to be very clear about who we are contacting regarding religious issues; is it
the political leaders of federally sanctioned tribal governments or the religious
leaders or both? Are the leaders we are working with Christians or traditionalists
or both? To mitigate problems, we should apply the same approach we use when
contacting religious leaders of a Euro-American community. For example, if we
were dealing with the preservation of an Orthodox Jewish cemetery in New York
City, we would contact the religious leaders of an Orthodox community, not
members of “Jews for Jesus” or Christian politicians. With Native American
sites, we should also contact the traditional religious leaders, even though the law
requires us simply to contact the legally recognized tribal governments. In any
discussion regarding Native American sacred sites, many controversies could be
avoided if archaeologists, preservationists, and government officials talked to
traditional religious leaders as well as to the federally recognized tribal leaders.
However, some archaeologists and preservationists have tried to avoid dealing
with traditionalists by declaring that they cannot be sure who the religious lead-
ers are, because from their Western perspective they believe that “any Indian can
claim to be a religious leader.” Of course, the Indian leaders in any tribal govern-
ment, no matter what their beliefs, are members of their community, and they
know who are and who are not the traditional religious leaders. Skeptical non-
Indians could begin to sort this out by asking the tribal government leaders.
Today, these same reluctant archaeologists and preservationists also claim that
they do not have to meet with traditional religious leaders because the revised
preservation regulations, the 36 CRR 800 Regulations for Section 106 of the
National Historic Preservation Act (see Advisory Council on Historic Preserva-
tion, no date), only require meetings with each Indian nation’s Tribal Historic
Preservation Officers, who may or may not be members of the reservation’s tra-
ditional religion. However, the revised preservation regulations do not state that
government personnel should meet only with tribal preservation officers, nor do
the revised regulations forbid meetings with traditional religious leaders. Since
the input of religious leaders will increase the knowledge base, the religious lead-
ers’ participation will enhance the preservation of sacred sites.
Burial grounds
In 1990, the federal government enacted the Native American Graves Protection
and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA). This act only applies to federal lands and to
institutions receiving federal funding. Legal scholar H. Marcus Price III noted
that prior to this definitive federal law, the primary goal of federal laws was to
preserve any human remains or burial goods in a museum or university, and not
to keep burial sites intact or to return human remains and burial goods to an
Indian nation (Price 1991: 118). Some states are now enacting laws in the wake
of NAGPRA, but the consistency of these laws varies (Price 1991: 43–115). And
even though laws that are more sensitive to Indians now exist, that does not mean
that the spirit of the laws will be followed or that American Indian religious views
will be respected. Attorney Price summarizes the roles of both non-Indians and
Indians in the failures to enforce legal protections as “factionalization among
residential aboriginal communities, inadequate funding of preservation pro-

grams on the part of the state legislatures, and a lack of support given to enforce-
ment of the laws by the resident professional community” (Price 1991: 118). As
Price notes, while some of this failure is due to pressures from non-Indians, some
failures are due to factions within Indian communities. These factions can divide
clans and families as well as the community as a whole. For example, this faction-
alism is based at least in part on the different interests and viewpoints held by
those Indians who are assimilated and who often adhere to a Christian faith in
contrast to those held by Indians who maintain traditional native religions and
customs.
Native Americans, archaeologists, and preservationists all are in agreement:
burial sites are significant. However, the disagreement is in how these sites will be
handled; will they be excavated or preserved undisturbed? Some archaeologists
believe that before an Indian community is included in the decision-making pro-
cess, Indian leaders need to demonstrate direct genealogical descent from the
people buried in the ground to the contemporary Indian community. However,
that same standard of genealogical affiliation was not applied to African Ameri-
can communities in 1991 with the discovery of an African burial ground on the
property of a proposed site for a new federal office building in New York City.
Members of the African American community, including New York City’s first
black mayor, David Dinkins, were active and vocal participants in two-year-long
discussions which determined the fate of the colonial burial ground and the bod-
ies and the footprint of the office building (Harrington 1993). However, no one
dared to demand that the diverse groups of black leaders, which included the
outspoken Reverend Al Sharpton, had to demonstrate their direct descent from
those individuals buried in this eighteenth century graveyard. The reason was
clear: the African American community in New York is a powerful voting block.
United States preservation laws allow interested parties to have a voice, but
these laws assert that the final decisions are the sole responsibility of the govern-
ment. While this is a logical and legal assertion of federal sovereignty, in actual
practice powerful lobbying groups can and do exert a de facto veto, as demon-
strated by the African Americans who forced the federal government to alter its
building plans in order to protect New York City’s colonial African Burial
Ground. Such a de facto veto is not an option for Native Americans because they
only comprise 3 percent of the population (divided up among more than three
hundred tribes). Because Indians are not a powerful voting block or lobbying
force, their opinions can be ignored both legally and politically. Whether this is
“just” or “ethical” is another matter. In this context, the only recourse Indians
seem to have is militant publicity. As former New York State Department of
Transportation Commissioner Raymond Schuler succinctly put it: “State Offi-
cials only seem to take Indians seriously when the Indians have rifles in their
hands” (Hauptman 1988: 102).
Another way some officials have ignored Indians is to meet only with mem-
bers of “federally recognized tribes.” The reason given is to avoid “New Age”
groups claiming to be Indians, such as the non-Indian followers of Sun Bear.
However, in the Midwest and the Far West, including California, legitimate In-
dian nations, through no fault of their own, were “terminated” as “federally
recognized tribes” in the 1950s. At that time, the federal administration believed
that all Indians should be assimilated into mainstream American culture and that
the existence of their reservations and their treaty-protected legal status was an
impediment to the goal of forced assimilation (Hauptman 1992: 329). While
most Indian nations maneuvered to avoid termination, historian Laurence
Hauptman (1986: 45) notes that “the ‘termination laws’ of the Truman and
Eisenhower administrations ended federally recognized status for 109 Indian
groups.” In addition, Hauptman (1986: 45) notes that the laws removed the
restrictions on 1,265,801 acres of Indian land, thus allowing for easier leasing
and sale of this land. Today, members of these terminated tribes cannot fight
effectively for the protection of their sacred sites because they lack legal status.
Therefore, it is important to determine if a local Indian nation was terminated
and to allow their religious representatives to be part of the discussions regarding
the significance and preservation of their sacred sites.
The professional archaeological community is still divided on the burial issue.
Two federally funded journals, CRM and Common Ground (formerly known as
the Federal Archaeologist) have published positive examples of cooperation be-
tween Native communities and archaeologists. In addition, the newsletter for the
Society for American Archaeology (SAA), the SAA Archaeological Record (for-
merly known as the SAA Bulletin), has been publishing articles and news briefs
about examples of cooperation between archaeologists and Native Americans.
The SAA has also published a book, Native Americans and Archaeologists: Step-
ping Stones to Common Ground (Swidler et al. 1997), containing case studies of
cooperation. While I am happy to see a growing number of culturally sensitive
archaeologists, my experience in the northeast has been that there are still many
field archaeologists who do not agree with the new legislation and reluctantly
comply with the law. Anthropologist Carol Abatelli (1993) notes that because
reluctant archaeologists notify American Indian communities of the discovery of
burial grounds at the last possible moment the law allows, the work takes on
crisis management proportions. Many of these confrontational situations could
be avoided if Native communities were treated with respect and were informed at
the beginning rather than the end of the process.
Case study: Archaeologists and Native Americans working together

in New York City
From 1980 to 1990, I was the city archaeologist for New York City. Along with
my staff in the City Archaeology Program, I excavated sites that were endangered
but did not trigger any legally mandated archaeology. I also evaluated all of the
legally mandated contract archaeology projects within New York City. If I

thought that a site might contain a Native burial ground, then I met with the
leaders of New York City’s American Indian Community House, which repre-
sents Indians living in the city; some 14,000 in 1980 and over 30,000 by 2000. I
also met with each site’s developer, the developer’s architect, and the officials of
any city agencies which were involved. Together, we planned how the discovery
of a burial would be handled. Because these projects were being undertaken early
enough in the planning process, in situ preservation of a burial ground was pos-
sible. If necessary, the redesign or the resiting of a new building could be under-
taken without financial hardship (New York City Landmarks Preservation Com-
mission 1982).
Some archaeologists believe that problems with an Indian community are
bound to occur whenever human remains are discovered during the excavation
or construction phase. The Iroquois and Algonkin people that I have worked
with have not been “either/or” in their approach, and there has been a middle
ground reached which was not in violation of their traditional religious beliefs. If
archaeological excavations are undertaken, the site for reinternment and a rea-
sonable length of time for the scientific study of the bones must be negotiated
with leaders of the Indian community before the archaeological excavation con-
tinues. In 1986, human remains were found by construction workers during the
renovation of the interior basement of a building, the John Street Methodist
Church, a landmark in the Wall Street area of lower Manhattan (New York City
Landmarks Preservation Commission 1986) (figure 14.2). The construction
project was being undertaken “as of right,” meaning it was not a discretionary
action and did not trigger any federal, state, or New York City environmental or
preservation laws, which would have required an archaeological assessment
prior to construction. Nevertheless, the minister contacted me because he wished
to be ethical, and he was also genuinely interested in the history of his church
grounds. The bones uncovered could have been associated with a white Method-
ist from the eighteenth century or with an Indian buried prior to European con-
tact (Baugher et al. 1991). I met with leaders of the American Indian Community
House as well as with the minister of the John Street Methodist Church and his
superiors. Religious leaders from both the white and Indian communities agreed
that they wanted the bones reburied, but they were willing to have physical
anthropologists study the bones as long as none of the bones were destroyed or
treated in a disrespectful manner. Also, they wanted the City Archaeology Pro-
gram to undertake an emergency excavation to determine if any other bones or
intact bodies were on the site. Members of the American Indian Community
House volunteered to participate in the excavation with us. No other bones were
unearthed. Because of the limited number of bones and types of bones found, the
physical anthropologists were unable to determine the racial background of the
individuals. Therefore, the bones were reburied on the Methodist church prop-
erty in a joint Native American and Methodist reburial ceremony. All parties
Fig. 14.2. Map showing the location of the African Burial Ground and the John Street Methodist
Church site in New York City, Borough of Manhattan. Drafted by Daniel Costura and Jason
Thompson.
involved, including the archaeologists and physical anthropologists, felt this was
a win–win situation. It worked because all religious views were heard and re-
spected.
Case study: Native American participation in the proactive preservation

of an upstate New York burial ground and town site
The approach of working cooperatively with the local Indian community can
succeed in large urban areas, small cities, or even in rural counties as long as all
parties are committed to working together at the start of the project and all have
agreed to the same ground rules. An example of proactive preservation is the Inlet
Valley site in Ithaca, a small city in the Finger Lakes area of central New York
state (Baugher and Frantz 1998). The 200-acre parcel of farmland had been
rezoned for residential development. The Town of Ithaca asked archaeologists
from Cornell University to evaluate the area (through documentary research and
field-testing) and determine if the parcel contained any archaeological sites
(Baugher and Quinn 1995). This was not legally mandated archaeological work
and was in advance of any proposals for development. It was proactive planning
by the Town of Ithaca, plus cooperation and participation by a university in its
local archaeology.
Because the Inlet Valley project was situated on traditional Cayuga land, ar-
chaeologists and planners met with a chief of the Cayugas (who also represented
the wishes of the traditional religious leaders) before the start of the excavation.
The Cayugas wanted their cemeteries preserved and protected, not excavated.
The Cayuga leaders, the town planners and the Ithaca Town Board, the archae-
ologists, and the landowners all agreed that, if an Indian burial ground was
found, it would not be excavated but would be preserved. Because all parties
agreed on how a burial ground was to be treated if one was discovered, there was
no eleventh-hour crisis. Today, a burial site remains preserved on private prop-
erty. In addition, archaeologists identified an eighteenth century Tutelo village,
Coreorgonal, and its surrounding farmland. In September 2002, Tutelo, Seneca,
and other Iroquois leaders gathered with town officials and members of the
Ithaca community to commemorate the establishment of Tutelo Park to preserve
some of the Tutelo land. Cooperation can work even in towns and small cities.
Sacred sites that are not burial grounds

Burial grounds are sacred sites, but not all sacred sites are burial grounds. How-
ever, as with burial grounds, archaeologists may be called in to evaluate and
excavate property containing a sacred site. Too often, developers and govern-
ment agencies see archaeological excavation as a simple, quick way to mitigate
the impact of the proposed development and thus remove any preservation prob-
lem. However, determining the significance of a sacred site is not as simple and
straightforward as determining the presence or absence of a burial ground.
Preservationists must now evaluate American Indian sacred sites as part of the
general federal category “traditional cultural properties.” (For more information

on traditional cultural properties, see Parker and King 1990). These sites are
diverse. Most Indian nations do not separate spirituality from historical events;
thus sacred sites can reflect a wide range of sites. The site of a Huron village,
Tkahaanaye near Kingston, Ontario, holds sacred meaning to the Iroquois of the
northeast because this is believed to be the birthplace of Deganawidah, the great
Peacemaker, who founded the Iroquois Confederacy (Wallace 1994: 33). The site
where Deganawidah met a powerful woman named Jigonhsasee and instructed
her regarding the future roles of the clan mothers within the new confederacy is
believed to be at Ganondagan, near Victor, New York (G. P. Jemison, personal
communication; Wallace 1994: 34–41). Ganondagan is New York’s first and
only state-supported Indian heritage site (Hauptman 1988: 120). And at the
Onondaga territory near Syracuse, New York, the Iroquois’ nineteenth-century
religious leader Handsome Lake lies buried (Parker 1968: Plate 9).
To an outsider, sacred sites often do not look different from the surrounding
secular landscape. Developers and government officials often view the sacred
land as simply undeveloped, and numerous justifications are put forward for
development. Because some sacred lands do not contain religious buildings, it is
often difficult for non-Indians to understand why this one location is so impor-
tant and why the negative impacts of the proposed development cannot be miti-
gated by simply giving the Indians access to other land nearby. However, that is
like saying to an American that you are going to bulldoze the Civil War battlefield
Gettysburg. After all, it, too, is open land; but in exchange you are going to set
aside another property nearby. In both cases, an exchange of land is not accept-
able because the other land is not hallowed ground.
Case study: What are sacred sites? Mount Graham, Arizona

Since it is often difficult for non-Indians to determine the location of sacred sites,
Native Americans should be consulted. However, this is easier said than done.
Some Indians are still hesitant and reluctant to work with non-Indians in reveal-
ing the locations of sacred sites. They fear that the sacred sites will not be pro-
tected or that any information that is published will guide looters to the area.
Some Indians are especially distrustful of archaeologists and preservationists
because of the long-term controversy over the excavation or preservation of
burial grounds. The controversy over Mount Graham is an example of what can
happen if Indians do not become involved in a project when a determination of
significance is being made.
Mount Graham is located in the Coronado National Forest in southeastern
Arizona, about seventy-five miles northeast of Tucson, Arizona (as the crow flies,
but there is no direct roadway between Tucson and Mount Graham, so the ve-
hicular route is approximately 140 miles). The traditional Apaches believe that
this mountain is home to the Ga’an spirit dancers, a place to gather medicinal
plants, and a place for religious ceremonies, including healing and puberty cer-
emonies (Martin 1993: 47). Apaches and anthropologists have noted that the
mountain also contains burial grounds and ancient shrines (Martin 1993: 47).
Unfortunately, the mountain became the proposed site for a cluster of seven
telescopes known as the University of Arizona’s Mount Graham Observatories.
In the late 1990s, the erection of three of the seven telescopes began, one by one.
Sometime in the early twenty-first century, despite funding difficulties, the first
three telescopes and their associated buildings will be completed, all on the reli-
gious sites of the San Carlos Apache Indians, whose reservation borders the
mountain. Many complex reasons explain, if they do not justify, how all this
came to be.
The University of Arizona’s partners in the project are the Vatican and Ger-
many’s Max Planck Institute. The role of the Vatican is ironic at several levels.
When Pope John Paul II visited the American Southwest in 1986, he urged Indi-
ans to fight for their land rights (Martin 1991: 2). Later, however, Jesuit priests,
who officially represented the Vatican, denied that Mount Graham is a sacred
site. Although there was ample evidence from the Apache and from anthropolo-
gists to the contrary, Father George Coyne stated, “there is to the best of our
knowledge no religious or cultural significance to the specific observatory site”
(Martin 1993: 47). Father Coyne stated that the Apache beliefs (regarding
Mount Graham) represent a “religiosity to which I cannot subscribe and which
must be suppressed with all the force we can muster” (Salerno 1993a: 9).
However controversial the role of the Vatican and its representatives may be,
the advocates of the observatories succeeded, at least in part, because of the
Apaches themselves. Indeed, the entire story is one of irony and paradox. In
1985, the United States Forest Service sent out notifications regarding the period
for public commentary on the environmental review reports for the project (Mar-
tin 1993: 47). In 1985, within the required commentary period, the San Carlos
Apache Tribal Council (the federally recognized tribal government) responded
regarding their concern over mineral rights on Mount Graham. But the tribal
council did not register any concerns regarding cultural or religious issues (Cus-
anovich 1996: 4). The Apaches’ religious leaders and traditionalists, who were
not part of the tribal council, did not protest until four years later (Martin 1993:
4). In 1990, the Apache Tribal Council finally voted to oppose the Mount Gra-
ham project (Cusanovich 1996: 4). In 1991, a lawsuit was filed against the Forest
Service for issuing the permit to build the observatories on a sacred site. This
lawsuit was brought by the Apache Survival Coalition, an alliance that included
Apaches, anthropologists, and environmentalists, but did not include the Apache
Tribal Council (Cusanovich 1996: 4). In 1992, the district court ruled against the
Apaches, stating that the Forest Service had complied with all the pertinent laws
(Martin 1993: 54). In 1993, the Tribal Council withdrew its opposition to the
Mount Graham telescope project and instead voted to take a neutral position
(Salerno 1993b: 9). In 1994, an appeals court ruled against the Apaches, saying
that the Indians had “forfeited their claim” because of an “inexcusable delay”:
the Apaches had submitted critical information a year after a building permit was
issued (Giblin 1994: 52A). The only hope left to stop the project was to try to
protect Mount Graham as the habitat of the endangered Mount Graham red
squirrel. However, in 1996, President Clinton signed into law a waiver of the
Endangered Species Act. Clinton’s action allowed the University of Arizona to
begin building the telescopes and destroy the Apaches’ sacred site (Meadows
1996: 4A). By 2002, two telescopes had been built, and a third one is under
construction.
A final irony is the fact that the Apaches can gain access to what is left of their
sacred site, but only with written permission from the University of Arizona.
“Prayer permits” must be obtained at least forty-eight hours prior to an indi-
vidual coming to worship on Mount Graham (Indian Country Today 1998:
B10). The lack of comment by the Tribal Council during the initial commentary
period, their unwillingness to join in the lawsuit, and later their neutral position
may have undermined the traditional Apaches’ position in court and in the press.
Unfortunately, the internal divisions within the San Carlos Apache tribe plus the
Apaches’ initial reluctance to discuss and reveal the locations of their sacred sites
on Mount Graham all caused untimely delays and undermined their case. If the
University of Arizona and its partners decide to move to phase two (the construc-
tion of four additional new telescopes), then the new project will require a full
environmental review (Rotstein 2001: 1). Perhaps in this next phase of the
Mount Graham project, the Apaches will be united in their response.
Should sacred sites offer equal access to everyone?
Case study: The Bighorn Medicine Wheel controversy, Wyoming

Medicine wheels are wheel-shaped arrangements of stones that are places of
spiritual power where religious ceremonies and mediation occur (Gill and
Sullivan 1992: 187). About 150 “medicine wheels” survive north of Mexico
(Cox 1999: F1). Most of them are in southern Alberta and Saskatchewan, but the
largest is Bighorn Medicine Wheel (Nikiforuk 1992: 52–53). Bighorn Medicine
Wheel is located in Bighorn National Forest in northern Wyoming, about 130
miles east of Yellowstone National Park. Archaeologist David Hurst Thomas
describes Bighorn Medicine Wheel:
a stone circle (or “wheel”) nearly 90 feet in diameter, built atop an isolated
peak 9,640 feet above sea level. Inside are 28 unevenly spaced “spokes”
each radiating out from the central “hub,” a central stone cairn about 15
feet across. Five smaller cairns dot the periphery. (Thomas 1994: 237)
Bighorn Medicine Wheel is one of the most sacred sites in the northern Plains and
is used by many tribes for various religious purposes (Walker 1991: 109). For
example, William Tallbull, elder of the Northern Cheyenne tribe notes that the
site was and still is used as a place for vision quests (Thomas 1994: 238).
Archaeologists, while agreeing that Bighorn Medicine Wheel is significant,
have debated about the function and symbolism of the site. Bighorn Medicine
Wheel has been called an American Stonehenge because some scientists believe it
has an astronomical alignment. Astronomer John Eddy claimed that it aligned
with sunrise on the summer solstice (Eddy 1974). However, while some scholars
have supported Eddy’s claims, other scholars have questioned this astronomical
interpretation of the site (Williamson 1984: 201–11; Aveni 1997: 73). Some ar-
chaeologists believe the site may be linked to the Sun Dance and that the “wheel”
may even be the remains of an actual Sun Dance lodge (Snow 1976: 97–99).
Other interpretations as to why it was built include, the rock cairns are grave
markers; it is a directional aid for travelers; it marks a boundary; and it is a
depiction of a stone turtle (Thomas 1994: 237–41). Regardless of the interpreta-
tions of the site, everyone agrees that Bighorn Medicine Wheel is significant, and
the site has been designated as a National Historic Site.
The controversy surrounding Bighorn Medicine Wheel is not in its designa-
tion but in its preservation. Because of the astronomical association, Bighorn
Medicine Wheel has become a mecca for New Age followers. In the 1970s, the
influx of visitors became so great that the Forest Service had to erect a tall barbed-
wire fence around the site in order to protect it from desecration by tourists (Cox
1999: F1). For years, the controversy has been over access to this sacred site.
Native Americans, who come to Bighorn Medicine Wheel for religious ceremo-
nies, formed the Medicine Wheel Alliance to challenge the government over who
should have access to this site (Nikiforuk 1992: 60). They questioned whether
Indian nations have to file the same permits as non-Indians for access to the site.
Should a tribal request to hold a religious ceremony at their own sacred site be
put through the same layers of bureaucracy and the same waiting periods as
nonreligious requests? Also in response to the tribal requests for access to the site
on the days before and after the summer solstice, the Forest Service has told the
tribes to conduct their religious ceremonies after 9:00 p.m. and to finish by 6:00
a.m. (Hirschfelder and Molin 1992: 178).
Because of the influx of New Age tourists, the Forest Service developed a plan
(without any discussion with Native Americans) for improved access to the site
(Dawson 1994). The Forest Service’s scheduled “improvements” included a new
parking lot for thirty cars, an improved two-lane road, which would end just
thirty feet from the edge of the wheel, and a 2,000-square-foot visitor center near
the wheel (Price 1994: 262). In reaction to this plan, the Medicine Wheel Alliance
suggested that a zone around the wheel, two and a quarter miles wide, should be
established as a preserve, the visitor center (with a replica of the wheel) should be
located at least a mile and a half from the site, and the only access to the site
should be a walking trail a mile and a half long (Price 1994: 263). Perhaps the
most controversial “improvement” was the Forest Service’s plan to build a

ninety-foot-long viewing platform next to the wheel (Price 1994: 262). These
proposals raised the following questions, which were seriously debated by gov-
ernment officials: Will Indian religious ceremonies become tourist attractions as
the “price” of freedom to practice their religion at a government-owned sacred
site? Should the Forest Service erect a comfortable viewing platform so that non-
Indians can watch the religious ceremonies? While these questions may at first
appear “sensitive” to Indian needs, the greater issue is whether these questions
and the perspectives they represent should even have been considered. After all,
if St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City were a government property and the
Catholic clergy and Catholic laymen had to apply for permits to hold a mass at
the site, would they be treated in the same way that Native Americans have been
treated at Medicine Wheel? Would the idea of a viewing platform or bleachers at
St. Patrick’s seem bizarre? Native Americans have questioned whether the gov-
ernment is applying the same standard for the preservation and protection of all
sacred sites, or whether Indians sites are being treated differently.
The Forest Service, by trying to provide access to everyone, seemed to have
forgotten that Medicine Wheel has been and still is a Native American religious
site. Medicine Wheel, like Stonehenge in England, has attracted crowds of New
Age adherents. At Stonehenge, both Druids and New Agers would like more
access to the site (Bender 1992). With multiple groups interested in these sites,
government managers at both Medicine Wheel and Stonehenge continue to de-
bate how to interpret these sites to the public. At Medicine Wheel, should the site
be interpreted as just a Native American sacred site? Or should there also be an
interpretation that includes beliefs by non-Indians that this site has “earth ener-
gies” and other powerful forces? Even if both interpretations of the site’s impor-
tance are presented, should they be given equal weight? Is the original religious
significance of Medicine Wheel and its archaeological importance demeaned or
undermined if all voices are given equal weight at Medicine Wheel?
Northern Cheyenne elder, William Tallbull notes, “if you go to see a Sacred
Site, remember you are walking on ‘holy ground,’ and we ask that you respect
our culture and traditions” (Thomas 1994: 239). The Medicine Wheel Alliance
has tried hard to convince the Forest Service to be sensitive to Native American
religious needs and not give equal weight to all other interested parties. The
Medicine Wheel controversy is not over, but some agreements have been reached.
By 1994, the Forest Service had closed the last segment of the road to the wheel
so that visitors now have to hike a mile and a half along a trail to reach the site
(Thomas 1994: 237). The viewing platform was never built. And in 1999, a new
visitors’ center was opened about fifteen miles east of the site (Cox 1999: F1).
In 1996, the Forest Service approved a new management plan for Bighorn
National Forest, which created an 18,000-acre “area of consultation” around
the Medicine Wheel; the plan requires that the Forest Service consult with Native
Americans before approving any activity within the protected zone (Arrillaga
2000: E01). This move is certainly supportive of Indian religious rights. How-
ever, the logging industry sees this plan as too restrictive and as hampering its
profits (Arrillaga 2000: E01). Consequently, lawsuits have been filed by the log-
ging industry, and the issue of protecting Indian sacred sites will again be decided
in the courts.
Should the preservation of sacred sites be at the whim of politicians?
Case study: Petroglyph National Monument, New Mexico

Petroglyphs are engravings on stone, sometimes called “Rock Art” (figure 14.3).
Petroglyphs are created by “pecking, incising, carving, scratching, or abrading”
the stone (Thomas 1994: 66). Native Americans often regard petroglyph sites as
sacred. In 1990, the United States Congress established Petroglyph National
Monument in order to protect over 15,000 petroglyphs plus more than 300 other
archaeological sites, including building remains, cave dwellings, and Indian
campsites (National Park Service 1996). Some of the petroglyphs were created as
long ago as 1000 b.c. but most appear to have been made between a.d. 1300 and
1680 (Noble 1991: 186). The monument encompasses about 7,000 acres in Al-
buquerque, New Mexico (Galvin 1997).
The dramatic array of petroglyphs which make up the site was once on the
western border of Albuquerque, but it is now a part of the ever-expanding met-
Fig. 14.3. Petroglyphs at Petroglyph National Monument, Albuquerque, New Mexico.

ropolitan area. Unfortunately, local, state, and federal politicians would like to
reclaim some of the land from the new national monument. Senator Peter
Domenici (Republican, New Mexico), one of the original supporters of the cre-
ation of Petroglyph National Monument, ironically introduced legislation to re-
move eight and a half acres from the monument so that an extension of a six-lane
highway, called Paseo del Norte, could be built through the site (Wehrman 1997:
A6). The debate has been intense. Archaeologists and Native Americans agree
that the Petroglyph National Monument is significant, and they are working to
protect it. A coalition of archaeologists, preservationists, and environmentalist,
including the Society for American Archaeology, the National Trust for Historic
Preservation, the National Parks and Conservation Association, and Friends of
Albuquerque Petroglyphs, have opposed the legislation (Craib 1997). Develop-
ers and the former Albuquerque Mayor Martin Chavez (1994–98) support the
highway extension and view the highway as critical to proposed new residential
developments west of the monument (Wehrman 1997: A6). Representative Bill
Richardson (Democrat, New Mexico) even suggested a land exchange with the
Indians, an exchange that would give them land elsewhere in exchange for the
loss of land at the sacred site (Hartranft 1996: A1). The land-exchange idea
demonstrated a clear lack of understanding regarding the significance of this site
and the importance of this cultural landscape to Pueblo Indians. However, an-
other former mayor of Albuquerque, Jim Baca (1998–2002), is on record as op-
posing the highway. Baca opposed the highway because it won’t solve the traffic
problems, “it has few direct beneficiaries,” the cost will divert funds from exist-
ing transportation needs, and the highway will undermine attempts to create
progressive approaches to growth management (Baca 1997).
Environmentalists and preservationists are concerned about the precedence
this bill would set for carving up national monuments, national parks, and fed-
erally protected sacred sites. Denis Galvin the deputy director of the National
Park Service, in his 1997 statement to the U.S. Senate regarding the proposed
highway, summed up the problem of a legal precedent:
Removing land from an area that has been recognized as important to this
nation’s heritage for the construction of a freeway or other use to accom-
modate strictly local needs creates a precedent that could become costly
within the context of our National Park System. It sets us at odds with the
original intent for establishing these areas—the determination that these
resources are nationally significant. (Galvin 1997)
Interior Secretary Bruce Babbitt opposed building the proposed road (Paseo del
Norte) through Petroglyph National Monument (Wehrman 1997: A6). How-
ever, similar to the Mount Graham case, a rider was added to a larger bill, and
President Clinton did not veto the rider. In 1998, Clinton signed into law an
amended bill that took the contested eight and a half miles out of the national
monument and gave it to the City of Albuquerque (ABC News 1998). By signing
the enabling legislation to allow the project to go forward, President Clinton

created a legal precedent, and any federally protected sacred site is now poten-
tially at risk.
And what about the religious needs of the Native Americans who still worship
at Petroglyph National Monument? Why are the short-term-investment interests
of developers taking precedent over the cultural and religious use of a site that has
been ongoing for hundreds of years? Where is the land ethic for culturally and
religiously sensitive land-use planning and growth management? Despite the fed-
eral legislation, the issue is unresolved. Even though the Albuquerque City Coun-
cil voted 7 to 2 to build the highway extension, the road was not built because the
city lacked the funds (the Sacred Alliance for Grassroots Equality, formerly the
Petroglyph Monument Protection Coalition, personal communication, June 9,
2000). From 1998 to 2002, Albuquerque Mayor Jim Baca supported the protec-
tion of the petroglyphs and opposed the highway extension (Paseo del Norte),
but unfortunately he lost the November election to former Mayor Martin
Chavez, who enthusiastically supports the construction of road (Salem 2002: 1).
In this post–September 11 recession economy, will the new mayor be able to raise
the funds for this expensive highway extension? The Petroglyph National Monu-
ment has been temporarily protected by economic circumstances, but the fight to
save the sacred site still continues, as does the threat to destroy it.
Politics, economics, preservationists, and Indians
Case study: Mount Shasta, California

Mount Shasta, in northern California, is considered a sacred site by many tribes,
including the Wintu (DuBois 1935). The Wintu believe that Mount Shasta is
home to supernatural animal beings, who possess benevolent spiritual power
(Theodoratus and LaPena 1994: 27–29). However, a proposed ski resort threat-
ened the sacred site. Many Native Americans protested this desecration, but,
unfortunately, their voices carried little weight because there were no federally
recognized tribes involved in the dispute. During the 1950s, these California
Indian nations were “terminated,” meaning that their status as legally recognized
tribes was ended by the federal government, and the Indians were expected to
assimilate. In spite of a lack of federal recognition, Native Americans, together
with preservationists, anthropologists, and environmentalists, worked to try to
save Mount Shasta.
After an avalanche in 1978 destroyed the ski resort on Mount Shasta, the
Forest Service took bids for a new resort and in 1984 awarded the rights to build
a new, larger ski resort to a former Forest Service employee (Barnum 1998: A21).
After years of protests, lawsuits in 1991 halted the development plans (Philip
1994a). In March 1994, Mount Shasta was determined eligible for the National
Register because of its Native American cultural and religious significance (Silver
1994: E1). It appeared that the sacred site might be protected by this preservation
designation. However, National Register designation cannot totally stop devel-
opment, but it may slow it down. A landowner can sell or destroy a designated
property if no federal funding or special permits are involved. If the owner is
requesting discretionary permits or accepting federal funding, then the owner
may have to deal with numerous layers of state and federal bureaucracy in order
to comply with preservation laws before legal permission is given to destroy a
designated property. This process can be very time-consuming. Unfortunately for
Mount Shasta, the protection was short-lived. Economic and political groups
successfully lobbied to have the designation rescinded. In November 1994, Jerry
Rogers, the official in charge of the National Register, reversed the March 1994
decision, which had listed the whole mountain (Philip 1994b: A1). The listing
was changed to include only a site known as Panther Meadows and everything
above 8,000 ft. Rogers justified his action because he believed that the rest of
Mount Shasta “is now a highly manipulated environment whose historic appear-
ance has been altered again and again” (Philip 1994b: A1). While the mountain
has indeed been altered from a Western perspective, Native Americans still view
it as a sacred site. This is a prime example of what happens when the question of
Native American significance is weighed against non-Indian economic and politi-
cal interests.
The sacred sites on Mount Shasta were not doomed. Native Americans and
allied groups continued their protests. In February 1998, the federal supervisor of
Shasta Trinity National Forest recommended to the Forest Service that they reject
the controversial twenty-two million dollar proposal to build a ski resort on the
sacred sites (Barnum 1998: A21). In August 1998, the Forest Service revoked the
permits for the proposed ski resort (Hubert 1998). Bob Roberts of the California
Ski Industry Association said that the association agreed with the Forest Service
decision to revoke the permit, noting that “the demand for another ski resort in
this part of the world is pretty thin” (Hubert 1998: A28). Economics has always
played a primary role at Mount Shasta. Economic considerations were a major
reason to grant the original permit in 1984, to rescind the National Register
designation in 1994, and finally to revoke the permit in 1998. But by constantly
protesting and keeping the outcome in question, the combined efforts of Native
Americans, environmentalists, and anthropologists also may have played a role
in saving this sacred site.
Archaeologists, preservationists, and Native Americans

work together and win
Case study: Battle to save Serpent Mound, Ohio

Serpent Mound is a religious “effigy mound” built by Indians at least 1,000 years
ago. No artifacts have been found within the mound, so it is difficult to date.
Adena sites have been found nearby, but “the scale and complexity of the monu-
ment seem more consistent with the Hopewell culture” (Coe, et al 1986: 48). In
1996, two samples of wood from Serpent mound were radiocarbon-dated and
yielded a date of ca. a.d. 1070, which suggests that the mound was built by
people from the Fort Ancient culture (a.d. 900–1600), and not by the earlier
Adena or Hopewell peoples (Archaeology Magazine 1996: 16). However, more
wood samples are needed from diverse locations in the mound, especially from
the base of the mound, before a new date can confidently be assigned.
Serpent Mound, which is in western Ohio sixty-five miles east of Cincinnati,
is in the shape of an undulating snake. Although the specific purpose of this effigy
figure is unknown, the snake appears to be trying to swallow an oval mound near
the snake’s mouth, which many scholars have interpreted to be an egg. In a.d.
1066, Halley’s comet was visible around the world. Some archaeologists have
suggested that if the Serpent Mound was built by the Fort Ancient people ca. a.d.
1070, then the “egg” might be a representation of Halley’s comet, and the
serpent’s body might be the fiery tail of the comet (Thomas 1994: 133). However,
most archaeologists still view the mound as a representation of a serpent.
In the early 1990s, Serpent Mound was endangered by a proposed upscale
residential development. The developer’s proposal called for damming Ohio
Brush Creek in order to create a lake for a housing development (Cedar Lake
Resort). However, the proposed dam would flood numerous archaeological sites,
and the artificial lake would potentially erode the bluff on which Serpent Mound
is located (Albrecht 1993: 1A). In 1993, the National Trust for Historic Preserva-
tion listed Serpent Mound as one of America’s most endangered sites and pro-
vided national visibility for this threatened site (Lafferty 1993: 1B). Local and
county politicians and businessmen supported the residential development be-
cause they believed the project would be an economic asset to their county, which
in 1993 had the highest jobless rate in Ohio (Albrecht 1993: 1A). The Ohio
Council for Native American Burial Rights/Ohio Indian Movement as well as
various state and national archaeological, historical, and environmental groups
protested the project (Lafferty 1994a: 1C). In February 1994, the Ohio Environ-
mental Protection Agency refused to issue a permit to build the dam, adding
“there are no modifications that would make a dam proposal on this stretch of
the Ohio Brush Creek acceptable” (Lafferty 1994b: 1A). The project, which was
supported by local businessmen and politicians, was defeated through a combi-
nation of local, state, and national partnerships that included Native Americans
and archaeologists as active participants.
Conclusion
Preservationists, archaeologists, and planners within state and federal agencies

should meet with American Indian religious leaders to discuss how to preserve or
to develop sympathetic joint use of sacred lands. They should also meet with
representatives of tribal governments, understanding that these political leaders
may not always agree with the traditional religious leaders. This is not unlike
observing a Republican-controlled Congress and a Democrat-controlled White
House, for all societies have their factions.
Some Indian nations have established Tribal Historic Preservation Offices.
These tribal agencies may include both Indians and non-Indians, and they fre-
quently evaluate applications and other inquiries regarding archaeological sites
and sacred sites. In some cases, they play a vital role as liaisons between govern-
ment agencies and the tribal government. However, as with any government
agency (Indian or non-Indian), they are answerable to the political leaders. Non-
Indian archaeologists Kurt Dongoske and Roger Anyon have experienced first-
hand some of the difficulties and complexities of the relationship between the
Tribal Historic Preservation Office and the Tribal Council. Dongoske and Anyon
note that in the case of the Zuni and Hopi nations, the final say on any issue
ultimately belongs to the Tribal Council, not the Tribal Historic Preservation
Office or the traditional members of either nation (Dongoske and Anyon 1997).
Indian nations sometimes designate religious leaders to handle all inquiries
regarding sacred sites, and some archaeologists work closely with these religious
leaders. For example, the Onondaga nation, located near Syracuse, New York,
had a specific religious leader who dealt with issues of sacred sites. Chief Paul
Waterman of the Onondagas often consulted with archaeologists at Binghamton
University and Cornell University, and the archaeologists from these two univer-
sities volunteer their services to help the Onondagas.
As discussed in the case studies on Mount Shasta and Medicine Wheel, a
sacred site is sometimes important to more than one Indian nation. In both of
these examples, the religious leaders and traditionalists from these separate na-
tions worked together for a common goal: saving and protecting sites that were
sacred to all of them. This cooperation is also evident in New Mexico. There,
cultural resource managers at the state and federal level have addressed the prob-
able impacts to sacred sites by the proposed Fence Lake coal-mining project by
involving Indians at every stage of development. The project is located fifteen
miles from Zuni Salt Lake, a sacred site for the Zuni, Acoma, Hopi, and Navajo
peoples, who all consider the site the home of a spiritual being known as Salt
Mother (Kelley and Francis 1994: 174; Zuni People 1972: 205–6; Tedlock 1992:
76–93). Leading to the sacred site are pilgrimage trails. These sacred trails have
been used for centuries. The company’s proposed transportation corridor to the
coal mine could impact the religious paths and shrines (Pacek 1993). There are
also numerous environmental issues regarding this strip-mining project. The
major environmental concern, though, is the utility company’s proposal to pump
groundwater for dust suppression at a proposed strip mine twelve miles from
Zuni Salt Lake. Two hydrology reports, one by the Bureau of Indian affairs and
one by the Zuni Tribe have shown that the proposed pumping could seriously
harm and drain the sacred lake itself, but the utility company’s hydrology study
shows no negative impact on the lake (Neary 2001: A-1). In this ongoing preser-
vation battle, the Indians are united; traditionalists and assimilationists are
working together to preserve Zuni Salt Lake. Four separate Indian nations have
put aside their long-term differences to work together to protect their sacred lake.
The Zuni have also formed a coalition with various environmental groups, in-
cluding the Southwest Center for Biological Diversity, Water Information Net-
work, Citizens Coal Council, and the Sierra Club (Berry 2001: 1). This example
demonstrates tremendous positive cooperation between Indians and non-Indians
in uniting to protect a sacred site. Perhaps this project can be a model for other
Indian nations.
In conclusion, the direct and immediate involvement of American Indians in
decisions regarding their sacred sites should be an ethical goal as well as a legal
obligation for non-Indians. Such an interaction also enables Indians to carry out
their own ethical obligations. Furthermore, such an involvement is practical,
because it diminishes the possibilities of confrontations, court battles, and nega-
tive publicity. Such procedures are more than politically correct. The Bill of
Rights in the U.S. Constitution guarantees freedom of religion and a diversity of
thought. Ironically, we willingly fight battles on foreign shores to ensure the
survival of these ideas. However, to ensure freedom of religion at home, we must
encourage its survival in all its manifestations on this continent. Finally, we need
to ask these questions: Why are we preserving these sacred sites? Who are we
preserving them for? And ultimately, whose culture is it?
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank Clay Mathers for encouraging me to participate in this book. I

appreciate the helpful editorial comments provided by Clay Mathers, Barbara
Little, and Vanessa Constant. I thank Michael Tomlan of Cornell University for
his kind permission to use materials from my article in his 1998 edited book,
Preservation of What, For Whom? A Critical Look at Historical Significance. I
greatly appreciate all of the insightful comments and suggestions on the various
drafts of this article that were made by my husband, Robert W. Venables, Cornell
University (see figure 14.1 for the location of sites discussed).
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276 / Nina Swidler and Michael Yeatts
15
Traditional cultural properties and the national

preservation program in the United States
Nina Swidler and Michael Yeatts
Introduction
Preservation of places important in history is common to all cultures throughout

the world. In 1906, the United States first legislated the preservation of historic
and prehistoric places under federal jurisdiction through the passage of the An-
tiquities Act (16 USC 431–33). The federal government substantially amplified
this goal in 1966 through the enactment of the National Historic Preservation
Act (NHPA). The NHPA specifically acknowledged that “the spirit and direction
of the Nation are founded upon and reflected in its historic heritage,” and that
“the historical and cultural foundations of the Nation should be preserved as a
living part of our community life and development in order to give a sense of
orientation to the American people” (16 USC 470 §1(b)(1–2). Among other
things, this Act led to the development of a set of four criteria by which places or
properties are evaluated for their historic importance to the American public. If
a property or place meets the requirements, the property may be regarded as a
significant historic resource and listed on the National Register of Historic Places
(NRHP). Until recently, the national preservation program almost exclusively
reflected the position of the dominant culture as to what was significant in
American history. This has begun to change as individual cultural groups, par-
ticularly Native American tribes, have sought to have places significant within
their own history formally recognized within the national context. This move-
ment has increased recognition of the class of historic property called traditional
cultural properties (TCPs).
In the following discussion, we first examine the concept of TCPs. Next, we
look at some approaches for identifying and evaluating the significance of TCPs
as historic properties, the relationship between concepts of significance and pres-
ervation, and why standard mitigation approaches may be inappropriate. Fi-
The national preservation program in the United States / 277
nally, we provide some general recommendations for incorporating the concept

of TCPs into historic preservation programs. This work focuses solely on the
concept of the TCP as an entity that must be considered within the framework of
cultural preservation driven by the legal requirements of federal legislation. It
draws on our experience working for Native American tribes (the Hopi Tribe and
the Navajo Nation), and, therefore, the focus is on Native American (tribal)
TCPs.
The national historic preservation program
The philosophical basis presented in the NHPA for preserving historic places is
broad and can be applied across cultures. However, the specific criteria used to
evaluate places as important are biased toward a Euro-American view of history.
In order to be considered a historic property, the federal regulations state:
The quality of significance in American history, architecture, archeology,
engineering, and culture is present in districts, sites, buildings, structures,
and objects that possess integrity of location, design, setting, materials,
workmanship, feeling, and association and
a) that are associated with events that have made a significant contri-
bution to the broad patterns of our history; or
b) that are associated with the lives of persons significant in our past;
or
c) that embody the distinctive characteristics of a type, period, or
method of construction, or that represent the work of a master, or
that possess high artistic values, or that represent a significant and
distinguishable entity whose components may lack individual dis-
tinction; or
d) that have yielded, or may be likely to yield, information important
in prehistory or history. (36 CFR §60.4)
Clearly, the preservation of buildings and places associated with Euro-American
persons and events is, relatively speaking, easily accommodated within the crite-
ria of eligibility. Less easily conciliated are the types of places important to Native
Americans. Other than archaeological sites, very few Native American historic
places are formally recognized and listed on the NRHP. Notably, these archaeo-
logical sites are included because they are of interest to archaeologists as scientific
resources and not because of their historic and cultural value to the descendant
communities. This points to a general concern that nonstructural, yet culturally
important places to Native Americans or other traditional communities are
rarely considered under the criteria of eligibility or listed on the NRHP.
It was not until 1990 that the federal government formally acknowledged that
traditional cultures have decidedly different views regarding historic importance
than those embraced by the dominant Euro-American historical paradigm

(Parker and King 1990). In 1992, twenty-six years after its initial passage, the
NHPA was amended to recognize that “properties of traditional religious and
cultural importance to an Indian tribe or Native Hawaiian organization may
be determined to be eligible for inclusion on the NRHP (16 USC 470a §101(d)
(6)(A)).” This recognition greatly expands the scope of the national preservation
program.
Much of the archaeological work undertaken in the United States today is
done in response to Section 106 of the NHPA. This section of the law requires
that federal agencies consider the effects of their actions on historic properties
that are eligible for listing on the NRHP (16 USC 470f). Compliance with Section
106 is routinely accomplished through the identification of cultural resources,
evaluation of whether the resources meet the criteria of eligibility (as defined
above), and subsequent mitigation of project effects on historic properties result-
ing from the federal action. Because the amended act acknowledged a broader
definition of historic properties, it has become necessary to consider and afford
TCPs the same level of consideration as routinely given to other historic proper-
ties such as structures and archaeological sites.
Identification of TCPs
Definitions
Before you can locate TCPs, you need to understand what you are looking for.
The lack of understanding and agreement on what constitutes a TCP can result in
poorly designed methods for their location and evaluation. Although federal
guidelines recognize that the traditional culture concept can apply to any cultural
group, and not to just Native Americans, in practice the TCP concept has become
nearly synonymous with Native Americans. This is reflected in the explicit lan-
guage in the amended act recognizing that places of traditional religious or cul-
tural importance to tribes can be eligible for inclusion on the NRHP.
Tribal participation in cultural resource management activities increased once
tribes realized that the TCP concept and the NHPA could be employed to help
preserve places of concern. From the outset, however, tribal participation was
strongly focused on the protection of religious sites, for which other avenues of
protection were, and still are, inadequate. The unintentional outcome of this
focus has been a perceived narrowing of the classification of resources defined
and accepted as TCPs. Rather than referring to a potentially broad class of sites
that are important because of the role they play in cultural continuity, or in
defining and maintaining the history of a culture, TCPs have become viewed
almost exclusively as in-use Native American religious sites. While most in-use
religious sites are very important precisely because of their cultural role, rarely
are their historical aspects brought to the forefront. Further, this narrow view of
TCPs has led federal agencies to categorically dismiss or ignore historical sites
that do not exhibit an overt religious component. Obviously, examples of TCPs
will vary from tribe to tribe, but some more commonly reported properties in-
clude resource-gathering areas, places where important events occurred, petro-
glyphs and pictographs, ceremonial activity areas, shrines, trails, ancestral clan
locations, springs, and landscape features that figure prominently in tribal tradi-
tion.
Participants
With recognition that a range of properties can be considered to be TCPs, the
next challenge is identification. The first step is to determine if tribal groups
maintain historical ties to the project area. A variety of sources are available that
can guide efforts to identify which tribes to contact to determine ancestral or
modern ties to the landscape. In the United States, these include
• The findings of the Indian Land Claims Commission;
• Government Land Office plats;
• Government documents such as treaties or land adjudication records;
• Mission or church records;
• Military histories;
• Offices of the Bureau of Indian Affairs;
• The American Indian Liaison Office;
• Tribal Preservation Program of the U.S. National Park Service;
• State Historic Preservation Office;
• Tribal Historic Preservation Office;
• Census records;
• County records;
• Local or regional museums;
• Tribal governments;
• National Archives;
• College or university anthropology, history, or native studies depart-
ments; and
• Published sources such as the Handbook of North American Indians
published by the Smithsonian Institution.
In the United States, some tribes have been recognized by the federal government,
others are only state-recognized, and some are neither. While the greater implica-
tions of this status are beyond the scope of this discussion, suffice it to say that
federal recognition status is not a prerequisite for tribal involvement in the TCP
identification process. The important point here is that although federal recogni-
tion may afford a tribe greater visibility to the outside world, and, thus, discern-
ing the concerns of a federally recognized tribe may be easier, nonrecognized
groups may have an equally valid role in the process.
Once the appropriate tribal groups are identified, the most obvious way to
locate TCPs is to ask each tribe if they have places of concern within the project
area. While identification may seem simple in principle, it can be much more
complex in practice. Individuals or tribal organizations that possess relevant his-
torical information need to be identified, contacted, and asked to participate in
the study. Existing data sources must be consulted and compiled. Data may be
sought from religious, ceremonial, and clan leaders, tribal historians, tribal or
community preservation organizations, scholars, publications, academic institu-
tions and museums, or the records of management agencies. But, no matter
where the information originates, once collected, it needs to be critically evalu-
ated and presented back to the primary source; that is, the appropriate individu-
als or group within the tribe, to ascertain its ongoing accuracy and relevancy.
After all, the associated culture needs to acknowledge the historical value of the
resource to give it validity.
A parallel to the TCP identification process is found in the approaches that
historic archaeologists and architectural historians follow. While physical re-
mains may be found and interpreted by an archaeologist, a much richer and
relevant understanding of the past and the historical values that may figure into
later preservation or mitigation strategies will be obtained from the original oc-
cupants or users and their descendants. Rarely are historical sites or structures
considered adequately documented without review of historical records, inter-
views, and other methods of identifying the broader value or context of the
resources. Documenting the physical remains is only part of the process. Simi-
larly, the values that make a TCP historically significant are those held by the
group(s) to whose history they relate. Because these values are often embedded in
oral tradition and history rather than in the physical remains, they can be ob-
tained only from group members.
Identification approaches
There are various approaches to structuring the TCP identification process. As
we point out, varying rates of success can be anticipated based upon the method
used. Common to all these approaches is the involvement of the tribe. However,
realizing that the tribe does not necessarily have a monolithic view that all mem-
bers subscribe to, on all subjects and in all contexts, is important. Like the United
States as a whole, it is not at all unusual for central and local governments to be
at odds. Further, differences of opinion between political and traditional/reli-
gious leaders are common. This disagreement can be acute, for example, if the
discussion focuses on the preservation of a traditional place versus the approval
of a modern economic or social improvement project. Therefore, ascertaining
and selecting individuals or groups to be involved must be undertaken carefully
in order to achieve a holistic perspective.
The most commonly used approach is to send a letter to the tribal government
describing the project’s purpose and location, and requesting information regard-
ing the location of TCPs within the project’s area of potential effect. The identi-
fication efforts are then considered complete. Predictably, the results of this type
of investigation are, at best, marginal. Often, the tribe does not respond or simply
issues a generic response letter. This approach cannot really be considered a rea-
sonable effort to identify TCPs; it is more in the realm of notification. Without
direct interaction between the agency, project sponsor, or researcher and poten-
tial cultural advisors, and without visits to the project area, little specific informa-
tion regarding TCPs will be obtained. It is similar to quizzing archaeologists
about resources in a project area without letting them set foot in it: some edu-
cated guesses can be made, but the specifics are unknown. The fallacy underlying
this approach is the belief that TCPs are synonymous with in-use religious sites
and therefore will be known a priori. While this assumption may hold true for in-
use religious sites, the broader range of cultural resources or historic properties
will remain unidentified.
A more effective approach to identification begins with a notification letter,
but takes the additional step of scheduling face-to-face meetings with tribal offi-
cials and cultural advisors. Presentations regarding the project, including known
or previously identified locations of archaeological sites, are made to a group of
tribal members who serve as cultural advisors. The advisors are then expected to
provide informed responses about the value or significance of the project area or
specific places within the area. While better than the first approach, it still suffers
from some of the same flaws. Direct interaction with the project area is still
lacking, and the people present at the meeting may not be the appropriate,
knowledgeable individuals. Like the previous example, it is likely that the
broader range of cultural resources or historic properties will remain unidenti-
fied. Again, this approach is more in the realm of notification rather than a
reasonable attempt at identification.
The most pragmatic approach to TCP identification begins with the notifica-
tion letters and consultation meetings, but follows up with project visits by cul-
tural advisors and interactive meetings between the project sponsor or researcher
and the advisors. This allows for an initial assessment of the project area and,
through repeated interaction, the potential for participation by appropriate,
knowledgeable individuals. The information collected will be more inclusive of
places and properties that retain historical value and, importantly, may also help
researchers put the findings of the archaeological survey into a broader cultural
context.
Best practices
Building upon this strategy, the approach to TCP identification that has been
most successful with both the Hopi and Navajo tribes has been tribal assumption
of the lead role in the identification process. Again, this approach can be struc-
tured in several ways, depending largely upon land jurisdiction, distance tribal
consultants must travel to the project area, time, money, and the extent of tribal
interest.
Both the Hopi and Navajo tribes advocate a team approach to TCP identifica-
tion, whether the project is on or off tribal lands. The most basic component of
the team is tribal members, who are considered cultural specialists or experts by
the tribe. Another common component and often essential addition to the re-
search team are professional ethnographers or ethnohistorians, who act as liai-
sons between the project proponent and the cultural experts. While the cultural
experts provide pertinent information, ethnographers are more likely to have the
technical skills to present the information in a format that is usable in a legal–
bureaucratic compliance context. The ethnographers may or may not be tribal
members, but, importantly, should be individuals with whom the tribe and cul-
tural experts have established a trust relationship. An archaeologist who can
provide technical information regarding physical remains and address issues re-
garding the scientific approach to understanding the past is the final component
of the team. Although we describe the team approach as a triad of operational
roles, it is conceivable that one individual, usually a tribal member, may carry out
all these functions.
Our experience with the Navajo and Hopi tribes indicates that conducting a
thorough survey of the project area is not uncommon for the TCP research team.
Sometimes, this can be accomplished simultaneously with the archaeological as-
sessment, but other times it is done separately. It is critical, however, that all
participants maintain regular communication with each other on findings, inter-
pretation, and evaluation. The probability of conducting meaningful research is
greatly increased once the tribe controls the identification and interpretation of
its own historic properties.
The team approach works well with tribes, such as the Hopi and Navajo,
which have organized historic preservation offices and cultural advisory teams.
However, if you are working with a tribe that is not as organized, it is important
to find out in the initial consultation meeting if there are cultural advisors or
knowledgeable elders that may be contacted for information. Ask if the tribe has
worked with an ethnographer or historian whom they trust. We cannot overem-
phasize the importance of involving appropriate, knowledgeable individuals.
Information about tribal history is often deeply intertwined in the ceremonial
knowledge base, and this information is not uniformly distributed among tribal
members. In fact, this type of information is often highly guarded because of its
esoteric and valued nature, and it may be known only by a single member whose
duty is to maintain that information and knowledge of associated places. With-
out the participation of these knowledgeable individuals, there is no hope of
identifying locations. Importantly, this also means that a process to safeguard
information from inappropriate uses needs to be developed and mutually agreed
upon before any information is given. Sometimes, however, disclosure of infor-
mation necessary to identify or evaluate a property may be as culturally destruc-
tive as physical destruction of the property itself. In these cases, it is highly un-
likely that any information will be revealed. In the end, this interactive approach
to identification may take a bigger investment of time and money, but the results
will reflect a more holistic appreciation of history.
Evaluation of significance
It bears repeating that when evaluating the significance of a place or property as

a TCP, it must be from the standpoint of the culture to which it is integral and
done with direct involvement of knowledgeable members of the culture. Without
an emic perspective, the full historic significance of the property may not be
understood. In addition, because the property still needs to meet at least one
criterion of eligibility in order to be considered a historic property by the federal
government, knowledge of its historic role in the culture and whether this role is
still important is crucial.
Evaluating the significance of a property as a TCP is a more complex endeavor
than the common convention used in assessing the significance of an archaeologi-
cal site. Without consideration of other values, archaeological sites are routinely
evaluated as eligible for listing on the NRHP solely for their potential to yield
information important in history or prehistory. This cookie-cutter approach can
be applied because the quest for knowledge is so broad: virtually any archaeo-
logical site can be considered valuable for some scientific pursuit. Thus, later
mitigation of effects to archaeological sites can be accomplished using standard
archaeological methods for data collection.
The significance that makes a property a TCP, however, derives from the
unique role it plays within the context of the culture. An analogy from American
history illustrates this concept. While both the Little Bighorn and Appomattox
are national battlefields, unique events occurred at each place, and their nomina-
tion to the NRHP was based on their individual merits, not just because they
were battlefields. TCPs should be similarly considered: their importance is usu-
ally associated with a specific cultural or historic role.
For many Native American groups, important events and the players in these
events concern deities and spiritual personages. Whether or not these events and
players can be proven in a physical sense is unimportant if they have fundamen-
tally shaped the culture; from this standpoint, they are real. Often, important
places are linked together, and their significance can be understood only within
the broader context of tribal history. Furthermore, they are often associated with
landforms and features that may not manifest any outward human modification
and therefore cannot be identified without the participation of someone knowl-
edgeable about cultural traditions. In one sense, this is not dissimilar to some
Civil War battlefields that likewise rarely show outward manifestations of their
importance in history, but nonetheless are considered NRHP eligible.
Finally, the ability of a property to yield information must also be examined
within the context of how the culture maintains its history. For instance, the Hopi
Tribe recognizes that the information that archaeologists recover when excavat-
ing an ancestral site may be of value in supporting or validating their traditional

views of history. This information gain, however, needs to be weighed against the
value of the site within the belief system of the Hopi culture and the role(s) the site
plays within traditional knowledge systems such as ceremonial teaching and
storytelling. As with identification, the crucial point in evaluating the significance
of a property is to involve closely the individuals or groups that value the prop-
erty.
Can project effects to TCPs be mitigated?
This is an area of historic preservation that is relatively uncharted. There is a

common misconception that if a TCP is within a project’s area of potential effect,
there is nothing that can be done other than to cancel the project or destroy the
TCP. This is predicated on the idea that TCPs are synonymous with religious
sites. Sometimes, this may be true, but in other cases, compromises may be
worked out. Unfortunately, no one-approach-fits-all method can be proposed
because so many variables are involved. Effects to TCPs can only be assessed on
the basis of the types and extent of impacts to their historical role, and measures
for mitigating effects can only be developed in concert with the people for whom
the role is important. Further, impacts have the potential to include aspects be-
yond just physical harm and include such things as impaired viewsheds or
soundscapes and changes to the local ecology.
The relationship between the effects of the project and the reason that the
location is significant must be taken into consideration. Assessment of these fac-
tors may result in vastly different outcomes for seemingly similar situations.
Take, for instance, a construction trench being dug through an area considered a
TCP. If the location is an area used ceremonially only once a year, it may be
possible that construction at a nonsensitive time of year and reclamation of the
area to its previous appearance will not affect the site’s significance. If instead, the
area is a traditional mineral- or plant-resource gathering location, another form
of remediation, such as stockpiling the minerals or revegetation of the area with
the native plants, may be appropriate. In the case where an archaeological site is
also a TCP, following the standard approach of excavating the site to mitigate
project impacts may suffice to recover scientific value. However, this strategy is
probably not appropriate to mitigate impacts if the site is valued as a marker on
a cultural landscape. If the significance is intrinsic to a specific location, such as
the home of a deity or a landmark, there may be no way to mitigate physical
impacts; thus, the area needs to be avoided. As with all other aspects of working
with TCPs, involving the culture that values the property is vitally important.
Establishing an early and trusted dialogue with the affected community will often
allow for creative approaches to resolving what otherwise may become show-
stoppers.
Recommendations
So what do we recommend for those who need to identify, evaluate, and manage
TCPs within a project area? First and foremost is early involvement of the groups
who may have ties to the area under study. Suggestions for timing include initial
scoping meetings for compliance with the National Environmental Policy Act or
during Class I archaeological overviews. Because many Section 106 projects are
small in scale, the economics of conducting a meaningful TCP inventory are
usually not feasible. Alternatively, by conducting large-area ethnohistorical work
in conjunction with large, better-funded development projects, a more useful
database can be developed from which the small projects can draw. Thus, lead
agencies might consider conducting ethnohistorical research in partnership with
tribes for the lands that they manage as part of their Section 110 responsibilities
(16 USC 470h-2 §110(a)(2)(A)), or equivalent state and municipal ordinances.
(Section 110 (a)(2)(A) of the NHPA directs federal agencies to establish a preser-
vation program for the identification, evaluation, and nomination of historic
properties to the NRHP, for the protection of historic properties, and to ensure
that historic properties under the jurisdiction or control of the agency are identi-
fied, evaluated, and nominated to the NRHP.) The call for participation needs to
be actively pursued by the lead agency, as many tribes lack the resources and
personnel to be proactive. Actually talking to people will likely be the only way
to ascertain fully whether a tribe has concerns.
If it is determined that a tribe has ties and concerns in an area, allowing active
research directed by the tribe has proven most effective. However, project spon-
sors and researchers should be aware that not all tribes are organized or prepared
to get involved in assessment activities to this extent. Another consideration is
whether the tribe resides within or near its aboriginal lands. Understandably,
distance may result in faded memories of specific locations. However, casually
ignoring or discounting historical land-based ties because the tribe no longer
resides in the area is an unreasonable approach to consultation. It must also be
recognized up front that this strategy is often time-consuming and cannot be
initiated near the end of a project. It generally takes time to develop the trust
necessary to establish successful working relationships. An important part of
building honest relationships with tribes involves establishing mutually agreed
upon means to protect the confidentiality of information from inappropriate
uses. It is equally important to ensure that critical data is allowed to be fully
integrated into all other cultural resource management and interpretive activities
in order for the gained knowledge to play a meaningful role.
When beginning a TCP inventory, be aware that properties can be grouped
into two, very general categories: those whose location will be known a priori
by a cultural expert and those that need to be relocated through field research.
This division may relate to the current use of the site. The specific location of
places that are regularly visited, such as shrines, offering locations, and resource-
collecting areas, or places remembered through ceremonial practices will obvi-

ously be known. Other places, such as locations of events described in traditional
histories and prayers, may be known only generally. In such cases, fieldwork will
be needed to pinpoint locations.
When evaluating the significance of a TCP, identifying the role the TCP plays
in traditional history is vital. Simply because a site is identified as religious by a
Native American group does not automatically make it eligible to the NRHP; its
role in the history or maintenance of the culture needs to be asserted. A TCP, like
any other historic property, needs to meet one or more of the NRHP criteria for
eligibility. It should be pointed out that the 1992 amendments to the NHPA gave
tribes the authority to substitute more culturally appropriate cultural resource
management regulations on their lands, including revision to the criteria of eligi-
bility. Some tribes are already taking advantage of this option. Thus, following
the lead of tribes, development of criteria more appropriate for the evaluation of
TCPs may be in the future of the national preservation program. Finally, remem-
ber that a resource that may be of scientific interest to archaeologists can play an
even more important role in the history and cultural maintenance of a tribe or
descendant community.
Bibliography
Parker, P. L., and T. F. King. 1990 Guidelines for Evaluating and Documenting Traditional
Cultural Properties. National Register Bulletin No. 38. U.S. Department of the Interior,
National Park Service.
IV
Managing valued places

16
Handling the unknown

The expanding role of predictive modeling in
archaeological heritage management in the Netherlands
Jos Deeben and Bert Groenewoudt
Introduction
In this paper, we focus on two central themes that are of major importance to
archaeologists and heritage managers both in the Netherlands and further afield.
The first deals with the Dutch government’s views on archaeological significance,
valuation, and selection, and how these views are put into practice. The second
theme, reflected in the title of our paper, concerns some approaches to assessing
what we do not yet know about the nature, distribution, and significance of the
archaeological record; that is, sites that are currently unknown. Predictive mod-
eling plays an important role in both of these contexts.
The availability of distribution maps, and an overall understanding of the
archaeological record, is a precondition for significance evaluation and for select-
ing sites and archaeological landscapes for preservation. The ARCHIS (Archaeo-
logical Information System) center of expertise, established in Amersfoort in
1989, marked the beginning of systematic work to provide these frames of refer-
ence in the Netherlands (Roorda and Wiemer 1992). Since that time, a number of
new projects have been implemented to provide continued support for these
initiatives, both at a regional and national level.
Owing to a variety of factors, the documented distribution of archaeological
sites in the Netherlands is still characterized by a number of misrepresentations
and continues to conceal major gaps in our knowledge, gaps that exist in time as
well as space (Brandt et al. 1992, Groenewoudt and Lauwerier 1997). The rapid
reorganization of the Dutch landscape in recent years poses a particularly acute
threat, especially to the unknown (and probably best-preserved) portion of our
archaeological heritage.
The discussion below will illustrate how subsoil sampling and predictive mod-
290 / Jos Deeben and Bert Groenewoudt
eling can be used to make the unknown archaeological resources more manage-
able and, a more prominent consideration, in the development of our environ-
mental planning policies. One pragmatic example of such an approach is the
Indicative Map of Archaeological Values (IKAW) for the Netherlands, presented
by Deeben et al. (1997, 2002). This article describes the state of affairs in 1997.
The text was updated slightly in 2002.
Dutch archaeology: A subsoil heritage
In a densely populated country like the Netherlands, the archaeological heritage

is subjected to major and ever-increasing impacts. It has been estimated that one
third of the Dutch soil “archive” has been destroyed since 1950 (Groenewoudt
and Bloemers 1997: 119). Land has become such a rare and valuable commodity
in the Netherlands that it is difficult to adequately protect and maintain archaeo-
logical sites. In many cases, economic interests far outweigh archaeological ones,
and attempts to protect and conserve heritage. As a result, choices are being made
continuously with respect to both archaeological protection and research.
A major obstacle to adequate archaeological valuation and selection is the
considerable lack of knowledge about individual sites, as well as of the archaeo-
logical heritage as a whole. In areas where major sedimentation has occurred,
such as in the western and northern parts of the Netherlands, the tasks of under-
standing the existing cultural record and developing responsible strategies for
protecting it are made that much more difficult. To a large extent, Dutch archae-
ology is subsoil archaeology. One of the major, and at the same time the best-
preserved, parts of the archaeological heritage is buried under natural deposits or
anthropogenic soils, such as the plaggen soils associated with Pleistocene upland
areas.
However, when mapping buried sites in the Netherlands, various methods of
subsoil sampling have been applied successfully and on a large scale. For various
reasons, simple techniques such as coring have proven to be more effective than,
for example, more sophisticated geophysical and geochemical methods. Never-
theless, it is clear that the systematic mapping of all subsoil sites and relic land-
scapes would be prohibitively labor-intensive and expensive. Furthermore, the
question must be asked whether finding hidden archaeological sites is the most
efficient way to protect them. The answer is, probably not. It seems to make more
sense to outline a management policy that not only takes into account known
cultural resources but also, and perhaps even particularly, considers the un-
known portion of the archaeological heritage (16.1). To do this, predictive mod-
eling is essential. In the discussion below, we outline a number of examples of
how this type of modeling can be employed successfully. One precondition, of
course, is that we are able to define what is valuable and what is not. For this
reason, we shall briefly discuss the concept of “significance” and the way in
which the process of valuation and selection is organized in the Netherlands (for
more detailed information, see Deeben et al. 1999).
Predictive modeling in the Netherlands / 291
Fig. 16.1. Predictive modeling integrated into the process of valuation and selection.
Value and valuation
The concept of “value” and the qualifiers “valuable” and “valueless” derived
from it are by definition clearly relative. Archaeological value does not exist
independently; it must be assigned to something. A significance statement is a
social construction and can never be absolute or objective. These determinations
depend on the way in which the concept of significance is applied, so the dividing
line between “valuable” and “valueless” is arbitrary.
Two factors have an important influence on significance statements concern-
ing a site or a relic archaeological landscape, that is, the criteria used and the
frame of reference applied to measure the results. Rarity, for instance, greatly
depends on the geographical scale within which it is assessed. Using criteria of
this kind also makes valuation a dynamic process because new research results
influence our ideas about rarity.
To decide whether something is rare or significant, one needs standards, but
each quantitative standard is debatable and should be regarded first of all as
something of a heuristic device to facilitate dealing with a certain problem at
policy level. As mentioned before, an objective assessment of “significance” is
unthinkable. What is possible, however, is to base significance determinations on
the application of standardized data-collection strategies and a set of explicitly
described and verifiable criteria. In this way, valuation at least becomes transpar-
ent.
The valuation and selection process
A phased system of valuation is used when sites and relic landscapes are consid-
ered important enough to merit protective measures or excavation (Deeben et al.
1999). This iterative system is discussed in more detail below.
In the first place, a site is judged on a basic level, that is, with respect to its
“physical quality.” To a great extent, the physical characteristics of archaeologi-
cal remains determine the amount of information that can be extracted from
them. It is important that this part of the evaluation be independent of trends to
which both scientific perspectives and public perceptions of the cultural land-
scape are subject. Because the Dutch landscape is highly cultivated, field mon-
uments are scarce; therefore, it has been decided that all clearly visible field
monuments are worth preserving as they stimulate the public appreciation of
archaeology and archaeological heritage management. The selection of high-
quality sites requires information, and in order to acquire this information, a
fixed procedure is followed.
The starting point is an overview of all known archaeological resources within
the area covered by a specific development, the Standaard Archeologische In-
ventarisatie (Standard Archaeological Survey, SAI). The basis for this overview
is the national database of archaeological sites (ARCHIS and the Centraal
Archeologische Archief; National Archaeological Database, CAA). Linked to

this overview is a prediction concerning the presence of as yet undiscovered sites;
expert judgments, as well as predictive modeling, play a part in this process (see
below). A field survey, the Aanvullende Archeologische Inventarisatie (Addi-
tional Archaeological Survey, AAI), follows if it appears that the available data
are in some way distorted. In general, this fieldwork consists of a combination of
field-walking and coring.
The next step is to select sites that are expected to be well preserved. If doubts
remain, a field evaluation, Aanvullend Archeologisch Onderzoek (Additional
Field Evaluation, AAO), is carried out to verify the physical quality of the site and
to judge its management needs. A field evaluation may consist of intensive coring,
digging trial pits, and specialist research, into, for example, the preservation of
organic materials.
During the AAO phase, a standardized checklist is completed. It consists of a
large number of parameters: conditions and phenomena which make it possible
to assess the physical quality of the archaeological remains. Subsequently, an
assessment is made in terms of a number of criteria. At this stage, sites are evalu-
ated on the basis of their “scientific importance.” The valuation criteria used are
rarity, research potential, context or group value, and representativity.
The final result is a valuation: a judgment that makes clear whether or not a
site is classified as “worth preserving.” Underlying this judgment is the applica-
tion of a quantitative valuation system (see Deeben et al. 1999, table 2). This
quantitative assessment subsequently lays the foundation for a selection proposal
that allows the responsible authorities to decide which sites qualify for legal
protection or excavation.
The last phase of the selection process involves two main steps: “policy con-
siderations” and choices in the form of “priorities.” At this stage, explicitly for-
mulated objectives are the principal aim. This process attempts to take account of
not only scientific interests but also the social basis for archaeological heritage
management. On a national level, four major categories of heritage have been
established (Groenewoudt and Bloemers 1997). These are
• wetlands: areas with well-preserved archaeology in the wet coastal areas;

• limes: the Roman frontier in the central Netherlands river area;
• essen: old, archaeologically rich, arable lands on sandy soils; and
• ships: a coherent analysis of the large number of ships that have been
excavated in the past.
Predictive modeling
This far we have focused on problems of prospection, as well as the valuation and
selection of what little we know. In the next part of this paper, we deal with the
unknown part of the archaeological heritage. In “handling the unknown,” pre-
dictive modeling has a key role to play. To rural planners, predictive maps make
more sense, and have proven to be more useful, than the traditional archaeologi-
cal distribution maps. In addition, the use of these maps illustrates the parallel
development of academic archaeology and archaeological heritage management.
In both fields, more landscape-based approaches have gained favor. Maps pre-
dicting the unknown part of the archaeological resource are constructed on sev-
eral spatial levels, including municipal and regional levels, and for the country as
whole. Examples illustrating the importance of these predictive maps are pro-
vided below. Before discussing them, however, we would like to address a few
issues pertaining to theory.
Predictive modeling in archaeology has been defined as a “simplified set of
testable hypotheses, based either on behavioral assumptions or on empirical cor-
relations, which at a minimum attempts to predict the loci of past human activi-
ties resulting in the deposition of artifacts or alteration of the landscape” (Kohler
1988: 33).
Predictive models are mainly expected to map data which are in fact not yet
available, from as yet undiscovered archaeological sites and relic landscapes.
Predictive modeling can be carried out in a deductive, as well as in an inductive,
way. In the Netherlands, most predictive modeling is undertaken in an inductive
way, so models are based primarily on analyses of known site locations within an
area. The established correlations between these locations and aspects of the
physical landscape, such as soil type, geology, geomorphology, and distance to
water, are then extrapolated to areas where no or few sites have been discovered
to date. In the western or Holocene portion of the Netherlands, the inductive
approach is combined with paleogeographic analyses, that is, reconstructions of
the landscape carried out with the help of geological data. One example of this
type of approach would be to define an area that could have been occupied
during a specific period, but where archaeological remains have yet to be found.
The national level

In 1997, the first generation of a national archaeological “sensitivity” map,
known as the Indicative Map of Archaeological Values (Indicatieve Kaart van
Archeologische Waarden, IKAW), was completed (Deeben et al. 1997) (16.2).
This map was produced to obtain a systematic synthesis of all known archaeo-
logical site locations, and to thereby assist Dutch archaeologists to participate in
cultural–historical policy making and environmental planning as a fully compe-
tent participant. The starting points for producing the map were the so called
“archaeo-regions,” archaeological regions defined on the basis of landscape-
genetic and environmental features as well as by their occupational history
(Groenewoudt 1994, see also Deeben et al. 1997, 1, Groenewoudt and Bloemers
1997, 12). For each archaeological region, a geographical information system
(GIS) (Geographical Information Systems) was used to check whether or not
relationships existed between site locations on the one hand and soil types and
Fig. 16.2. Section of the Indicative Map of Archaeological Values (Indicatieve Kaart van Archeologische Waarden, IKAW).
1 = low values, 2 = medium values, 3 = high values.
groundwater classes on the other. On the basis of the total area with a specific
combination of soil type and groundwater class, the expected number of sites was
established. In addition, the observed distribution of sites was calculated. On the
basis of the ratio of the observed to the expected number of sites, “indicative”
archaeological values were grouped into three classes: low, medium, and high. In
general, in areas with low values, the ratio is 0.5 or less, and in those with me-
dium values, the ratio is between 0.6 and 1.5. In areas with the highest values, the
observed number of sites will always be greater than 1.5 times the expected
number of sites.
This rather physically deterministic approach provides an indication of the
relative density of archaeological resources in a relatively simple and quick man-
ner. Soil maps (at a scale of 1:50,000) were chosen mainly for practical reasons,
principally because they cover the whole country and are available in digital
form. Since soil maps of the Netherlands are based on corings no deeper than 1.2
meters, the IKAW refers only to the top 1.2 meters of the soil. Clearly, to evaluate
the presence of more deeply buried archaeological remains, sources other than
pedological data will have to be taken into consideration.
Testing predictive models like the IKAW is essential. Therefore, the results of
large-scale excavations and trial trenching are used to validate it. This is espe-
cially important in areas where scarcely any archaeological data are available. In
addition, specialist knowledge is used to improve the map.
In 2001 a second-generation IKAW was completed (Deeben et al. 2002). This
map also includes underwater archaeology. Especially, the parts of the map cov-
ering the Holocene western Netherlands and the central river area were im-
proved. Because most of the archaeological remains within these areas are buried
under thick layers of sediments, geological data were used. Although the IKAW
is essentially quantitative, no distinction is made at present between periods and
site types. Nevertheless, distinctions of this type will be made in the near future
with respect to major gaps in geographical knowledge (see below).
Our ultimate goal is to transform the IKAW into an advisory map, which
clearly is something quite different. Advisory maps reflect not only (expected)
archaeological resources, but also can highlight areas where archaeological heri-
tage management might concentrate its efforts. Policy-based choices are inevi-
table if the map is to be used successfully in environmental planning.
The regional level

At a regional level, predictive maps are based not only on soil characteristics but
also on topographic, historical, and geological maps. Because the scale of these
maps is often larger, parts of the IKAW may be particularly detailed. Further-
more, it is possible to include small-scale disturbances. To select and delimit
archaeologically important zones as precisely as possible, research into the ar-
chaeological characteristics of specific landscapes is essential. On a regional
scale, predictive modeling is used, for example, to assess the archaeological con-
Fig. 16.3. Predictive model of the iron slag distribution surrounding a Roman period
settlement near Heeten, the Netherlands. The rectangle marks the excavated area and
diamonds represent coring sites.
sequences of the construction of a new motorways and railways as well as nature

development and water management activities.
The local level

On a local level, predictive modeling is used, for example, to discover and map
sites. Particular emphasis is placed on the anthropogenic plaggen soils (essen) in
the sandy Pleistocene deposits of the Netherlands. As the result of centuries of
manuring, the well-preserved archeological remains in these old plots of arable
land are covered by a thick cultivated layer. This situation hampers the discovery
of sites, but adequately protects buried sites and relic landscapes in essen. On the
IKAW, nearly all plots of plaggen soil have a high indicative value and are there-
fore systematically investigated during field surveys. Debris related to settlement
activities preceding the formation of the plaggen soils is easily detectable by core
sampling. Recent research near the village of Heeten may serve as an example,
and also illustrates how fruitful it can be to integrate core sampling, excavation,
and predictive modeling within the framework of scientific research (Groene-
woudt and van Nie 1995). Using a twenty-centimeter auger, the area surrounding
a partly excavated Roman-period settlement was investigated. The lowest part of

the plaggen soil was sampled and sieved, and the distribution of finds plotted.
The distribution maps relating to each category of finds were subsequently devel-
oped into predictive models (for the method used, see Wiemer 1995). The results
have proven to be essential for the interpretation of the site. Without the combi-
nation of core sampling and predictive modeling, the special characteristics and
the size of the site (including large-scale iron production activities) would never
have come to light (16.3).
Future directions: Improving our frames of reference
Knowledge and knowledge management are indispensable for optimum preser-

vation of the soil as a unique source of knowledge about the past. They are also
a precondition for the further development of an archaeological selection and
valuation policy. Knowledge and insight (as well as our information gaps) pro-
vide the archaeological frame of reference for these selection and assessment
policies. Within the cyclical process of archaeological heritage management, new
knowledge continually leads to the redefinition of questions and of the way cri-
teria such as rarity and context value should be applied.
As we indicated earlier, the availability of distribution maps and a sense of
scientific and intellectual context is an important prerequisite for significance
evaluation and selection. Without such frames of reference, it is impossible to
effectively conserve our existing soil archive and the cultural remains contained
within it. Acquiring general insight into both quantitative and qualitative aspects
of the Dutch soil archive is one of the focal points of government policy concern-
ing archaeological heritage management. At the moment this overview is far
from complete. Pieces of the puzzle are in the minds of a large number of special-
ists, and if the general trend towards specialization continues, those pieces will
become increasingly smaller and dispersed.
The creation of ARCHIS in 1989 marked an important beginning with respect
to a national archaeological record in the Netherlands, as well as a more compre-
hensive, national understanding of that record. Over the next few years, consid-
erable work will be directed toward building on these efforts, particularly with
respect to the provision of better data, valuation criteria, and selection policies.
Some of the most important contributions towards this goal are likely to be
undertaken by means of the Kennisatlas Projekt (Atlas of Archaeological Knowl-
edge). As part of this program, our present knowledge and the current state of
affairs regarding the protection of archaeological sites will be “mapped” system-
atically. The aim of this project is to produce national and regional frames of
reference in the form of overviews, that is, a series of formalized reviews created
in conjunction with their future users. These future users include anyone who is
involved professionally in the management of the archaeological heritage, in-

cluding those who are primarily decision makers in the field of policy develop-
ment involving archaeology as well as decision makers involved in environmental
planning. These products resulting from Kennisatlas Projekt may take the form
of maps or of summaries consisting of text or statistics, or a combination of these.
One noteworthy addition to ARCHIS in this context is a new set of data
concerning all archaeological excavations that have been carried out in the Neth-
erlands in the past. This record is meant to improve our understanding of the
availability of archaeological information in different areas. Excavation data, for
example, will be linked to specialized archaeobotanical (RADAR) and archaeo-
zoological (BONE-INFO) databases, which will include both unpublished work
and publications that are normally not easily accessible.
Recently a comprehensive inventory of our current knowledge was com-
pleted, both at a national level and for each archaeological region (Groenewoudt
and Lauwerier 1997). Within this context, knowledge was defined as the avail-
ability of published or unpublished research data. These data have been brought
together in three different ways: chronologically, thematically, and geographi-
cally. The follow-up to the general inventory will consist of describing existing
information sources for each archaeological region and further analysis of the
research potential within these regions. The IKAW will play an important part in
this exercise. By comparing the national map with distribution maps of sites and
overviews of systematically surveyed areas, this national review can also contrib-
ute to isolating geographical lacunae in our knowledge and focus efforts at filling
in these gaps. Afterwards, steps will be taken to consider what options exist for
knowledge acquisition within these gaps. In the final analysis, this exercise will
help to define future priorities, both in terms of protection and research. It is our
view that this information will be translated into research recommendations,
such as the compilation of a national research agenda, for all the parties involved
in the management of archaeological heritage and archaeological research in the
Netherlands.
As we have stated before, neither “knowledge” nor “significance” are objec-
tive and invariable. The society of which we are a part clearly guides our thoughts
and actions, and therefore the choices we make. It should be emphasized again
that today’s decisions determine tomorrow’s options for research and knowledge
acquisition, and therefore also the way in which people will be able to “create”
their past in the future. Although we do not know what the questions of the
future will be, we must try to make sure that all potential avenues of research
remain open. To achieve this, we must learn to handle the unknown. In this
context, predictive modeling may have some particularly valuable contributions
to make.
Bibliography
Brandt, R. W., B. J. Groenewoudt, and K. L. Kvamme. 1992. An experiment in archaeo-
logical site location modeling in the Netherlands using GIS techniques. World Archae-
ology 24:268–82.
Deeben, J., B. J. Groenewoudt, D. P. Hallewas, and W. J. H. Willems. 1999. Proposals for
Deeben, J., D. P. Hallewas, J. Koolen, and R. Wiemer. 1997. Beyond the crystal ball.
Predictive modelling as a tool in archaeological heritage management and occupation
history. In W. J. H. Willems, H. Kars, and D. P. Hallewas, eds., Archaeological heritage
management in the Netherlands. Fifty years of state service for archaeological investi-
gations. Assen: Amersfoort. 76–118.
Deeben, J., D. P. Hallewas, and T. Maarleveld. 2002. Predictive modeling in archaeological
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Archeologische Rapporten 17. Assen: Amersfoort.
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strategies, and priorities for archaeological heritage management in the Netherlands. In
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Perspective: London: Taylor and Francis. 301–11.
17
Assessing the cultural significance

of World Heritage Sites
A case study from Avebury, Wiltshire, England
Melanie C. Pomeroy
Under the terms of the Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cul-
tural and Natural Heritage, adopted by the General Conference of UNESCO in
1972, it was decided that a World Heritage List should be established of sites
considered to have outstanding universal value. It is now twenty-two years since
the first sites and monuments of universal cultural significance were inscribed
onto the list. As of April 2001, the list included 690 World Heritage Sites (WHS),
529 of which are cultural sites. The list contains some of the most significant
archaeological sites in the world, such as the Pyramids of Giza, Stonehenge and
Avebury, the Parthenon, and the Great Wall of China. The sites are even more
significant in that they are potent symbols of national identity. The intention of
the list was to provide a means of recognition, protection, and management of
these unique sites and monuments.
Many of the World Heritage Sites are now major cultural tourism destina-
tions, and there is a complex relationship between conservation and the public
access obligated by the World Heritage status. Visitor management has become a
major issue at the majority of the archaeological sites, whose fragile remains are
under threat from increasing numbers of visitors. For example, the sites of
Avebury and Stonehenge together attract just over a million visitors annually.
Visitors are largely motivated by interests in archaeology and cultural heritage.
As pointed out in a recent study of World Heritage tourism (Shackley 1998: 1),
their significance is such that a visit to a World Heritage Site should be a major
intellectual experience, unlike a visit to any kind of entertainment center or theme
park.
Attempting to define the significance of archeological sites on the World Heri-
tage List is not a simple exercise and has major implications for the conservation,
planning, management, and targeting of limited resources. It is a serious task,
302 / Melanie C. Pomeroy
which needs to be approached with a considerable degree of academic rigor.

While there is little doubt that most of these World Heritage Sites are of great
significance, it is difficult to define archaeological values in isolation. Moreover,
assessments of significance are reflections of modern perceptions and the rela-
tionship between the past and present, rather than the embodiment of values
assigned to those monuments by their builders.
Until relatively recently the significance of World Heritage Sites was ill de-
fined, other than to consider such sites nominally as having “outstanding univer-
sal value.” There has been a tendency to assume that the sites and monuments are
significant because they are on the list, with little attempt to assess their “inherent
value.” However, over the last ten years or so, the development of management
plans and statements of significance have helped to define archaeological and
associated values at an international, national, regional, and local level. This
trend is illustrated by a case study from the Avebury WHS in Wiltshire, England.
The concept of outstanding universal value
The principle criterion for placing a site or monument on the World Heritage List
is that it have “outstanding universal value,” as defined by the 1972 UNESCO
World Heritage Convention (UNESCO 1992). Theoretically, inclusion on the list
is the ultimate distinction that can be bestowed on archaeological remains. The
concept of “outstanding universal value” is described in Articles 1 and 2 of the
convention, but no real definition of this term is provided other than to indicate
the types of site that can be included within this category of heritage. Instead, the
concept is interpreted by reference to six supplementary criteria that are used in
defining “outstanding universal value” presented in the Operational Guidelines
for the Implementation of the World Heritage Convention (UNESCO 1992). The
wording of the criteria, first used in 1976, has changed several times since that
date; those currently used (see below) were adopted in 1985. The focus of both
the convention and the guidelines is that the process of nomination to the list
must be very selective.
Criteria for inclusion of cultural properties on the World Heritage List
Under Article 1. The convention, the following are considered as “cultural heri-
tage”:
• Monuments: architectural works, works of monumental sculpture and
painting, elements or structures of an archaeological nature, inscriptions,
cave dwellings, and combinations of features, which are of outstanding
universal value from the point of view of history, art, or science;
• Groups of buildings: groups of separate or connected buildings which,
because of their architecture, their homogeneity, or their place in the
Assessing the cultural significance of World Heritage Sites / 303
landscape, are of outstanding universal value from the point of view of

history, art, or science; and
• Sites: works of man or the combined works of nature and of man, and
areas including archaeological sites that are of outstanding universal
value from the historical, aesthetic, ethnological, or anthropological
points of view.
A monument or group of buildings or site that is nominated for inclusion in the
World Heritage List is considered to be of outstanding universal value for the
purposes of the convention if it meets one or more of the following criteria and
the test of authenticity. Each property nominated should therefore
• represent a masterpiece of human creative genius; or
• exhibit an important interchange of human values, over a span of time or
within a cultural area of the world, on developments in monumental arts
or town planning and landscape design; or
• bear a unique or at least exceptional testimony to a cultural tradition or
to a civilization which is living or which has disappeared; or
• be an outstanding example of a type of building or architectural en-
semble or landscape which illustrates (a) significant stage(s) in human
history; or
• be an outstanding example of a traditional human settlement or land use
which is representative of a culture (or cultures) especially when it has
become vulnerable under the impact of irreversible change; or
• be directly or tangibly associated with events or living traditions, with
ideas or with beliefs, or with artistic and literary works of outstanding
universal significance.
As defined in the convention, these criteria are too vague, and they do little to
promote an objective and precise definition of the terms “outstanding or univer-
sal” value. These criteria fail to distinguish types and levels of significance that
would identify categories of archaeological and other heritage appropriate for
World Heritage status. The lack of definition for the term “outstanding universal
value” has led to a significant degree of ambiguity and lack of clarity concerning
the significance of sites assigned to the list in the early years, and consequently
has generated a group of sites that are not representative (see Cleere 1996). The
distribution of cultural properties has grown uneven, both culturally and geo-
graphically, since 1978, resulting in a sample that is skewed toward the monu-
mental heritage and religious architecture of Western Europe.
In more recent years, steps have been taken to remedy this imbalance, and a
better system of assessment using carefully selected criteria is being developed for
nominations to the list. In 1994, the World Heritage Committee adopted a “glo-
bal strategy” for a balanced and representative World Heritage List. Its aim is to
ensure that the list reflects the world’s cultural and natural diversity of universal
value. Conferences and studies aimed at implementing the global strategy have
been held in different parts of the world since 1994. This strategy introduces a
common set of criteria and conditions for interpreting cultural heritage. The
World Heritage Committee now also requires each nation state to submit a ten-
tative list of proposals likely to be submitted over the next five to ten years and to
consider which aspects of their cultural heritage are already well represented.
This should enable the committee to assess a site’s “outstanding universal value”
in the widest possible context.
In Britain, a working agenda for future site nominations is set out in the
government’s tentative list (Department for Culture, Media and Sport, June
1999). This document focuses on adding industrial sites and cultural landscapes
to the existing inventory of World Heritage sites in the United Kingdom. More-
over, the inclusion of cultural landscapes of international significance since 1995
has widened the definition of heritage to include the associative values of heritage
and recognizes the interaction of humans with their natural environment.
Management plans and assessments of significance
With approximately forty cultural sites being submitted every year for inclusion
on the list, it has become increasingly important for World Heritage nominations
to demonstrate a site’s significance in a more sophisticated manner. The situation
has vastly improved over the last ten years, since the World Heritage Committee
now requires management plans to be prepared for all sites and submitted at the
time of nomination. Plans are also required for all sites already included on the
list. Moreover, plans need to be in place to meet the strict mandatory require-
ments that UNESCO is currently introducing. Detailed monitoring reports on the
condition of all World Heritage sites in Western Europe are required to be pre-
sented to UNESCO by 2004; in Britain, this monitoring is likely to be undertaken
by the International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS), which is the
official advisor to UNESCO on cultural World Heritage sites.
The development of management plans and their all-important statements of
significance have been part of a wider, worldwide pattern of conservation plan-
ning for more than a decade. More specifically, a management plan provides a
comprehensive approach to understanding and managing the heritage signifi-
cance of a site. It is a document that explains in a detailed and explicit fashion
why the site or monument is significant or has special merit; how that signifi-
cance is vulnerable or sensitive to change; and which policies will be adopted for
retaining its significance given any future use or development.
All of these issues are closely linked with the concept of sustainability and the
long-term preservation of sites of historic and cultural significance. The concept
of sustainability is now central to planning and environmental policy at both
national and local levels in the United Kingdom. One key element in the develop-
ment of the concept of sustainability is the ability to define and assess the signifi-
cance of the site. The importance of this approach to archaeological sites and the
historic environment in general has been stressed by English Heritage (the

government’s statutory advisor on the conservation of England’s built heritage,
including archaeology) in a recent discussion paper (English Heritage 1997).
An assessment of significance is viewed as the major part of a management
plan. This point is emphasized in the UNESCO guidelines for the production of
plans (Feilden and Jokilehto 1993). Assessments should identify the significance
of the site or monument both generally and in detail for each of its main compo-
nents. Similarly, assessments should make value judgments about the degree of
historical, biological, geological, cultural, aesthetic, archaeological, technologi-
cal, social (recreational, public), and other types of significance. A table or grad-
ing system to establish the special interest of each area of the site can be used.
Since it is difficult to separate out a specific or exclusive archaeological value
from associated values such as those listed above, adopting an integrated ap-
proach is essential.
In the author’s view, the most clearly defined account of the concept of cultural
significance and the methods used to undertake World Heritage significance as-
sessments has been developed in Australian documents, such as the Australian
National Trust’s guide to the development of conservation plans (Kerr 1996). In
particular, the Australian ICOMOS Charter for the Conservation of Places of
Cultural Significance, known as the Burra Charter, (ICOMOS Australia 1979)
has been influential. Together, these documents have influenced constructively
the format and context of the Avebury WHS management plan.
The ability to demonstrate the significance of a site via a management plan is
becoming increasingly important to the range of agencies involved with the pro-
tection and management of cultural sites in the United Kingdom. For example,
the National Trust’s (largest conservation charity in the United Kingdom) strate-
gic plan emphasizes the goal of ensuring that every property has a statement of
significance prepared by 2001. The trust’s management plan guidelines (National
Trust 1994) take the preparation of a statement of significance as their starting
point. Moreover, the Heritage Lottery Fund (HFL) in the United Kingdom, now
one of the major funding bodies for the conservation of archaeological sites,
requires applicants to demonstrate the heritage importance of a site in the form
of a conservation plan (HFL 1998). Applicants for grants are advised that a
conservation plan should focus on the significance of a heritage asset; therefore,
policies need to be in place to maintain these characteristics. In the context of
World Heritage sites, ICOMOS and UNESCO have produced guidance for the
production of management plans (Feilden and Jokilehto 1993).
Avebury: A case study
The Avebury WHS is situated on the edge of the Marlborough Downs in north-
east Wiltshire, England (figures 17.1 and 17.2). The particularly rich assemblage
of archaeological sites there, both visible and buried, provide a vivid record of
Fig. 17.1. Avebury World Heritage Site general location map.
past cultural landscapes and activities. The monuments and features located
within this area have exerted considerable visual and cultural influence on the
surrounding landscape for almost 5,000 years. Its inclusion on the World Heri-
tage List in 1987 recognized the international importance of Avebury, together
with Stonehenge. Although Avebury is part of the single WHS of Stonehenge and
Avebury, it is physically distant from Stonehenge, and most of the issues concern-
ing it are separate.
The Avebury WHS has clearly been designed to include six key Neolithic
monuments (Avebury Henge and Stone Circle, the Avenue, Silbury Hill, the Sanc-
tuary, Windmill Hill, and West Kennet Long Barrow) (figure 17.3). In this way,
the Avebury WHS comprises an archaeological landscape rather than a series of
individual sites. As such, Avebury constitutes a relic landscape preserving evi-
dence of a long history of our ancestors’ interactions with their environment. In
1994, the World Heritage Committee adopted “cultural landscape” as a subcat-
egory of cultural sites. If Avebury were to be nominated today, it would certainly
be classed as an outstanding example of a cultural landscape under category ii (a)
of cultural landscapes as defined by the World Heritage Committee at its six-
Fig. 17.2. Avebury World Heritage Site boundary.
teenth session (UNESCO 1992): “A relic (or fossil) landscape is one in which an
evolutionary process came to an end at some time in the past, either abruptly or
over a period. Its significant distinguishing features are, however, still visible in
material form.”
In response to requirements outlined by UNESCO, English Heritage funded a
collaborative project between September 1996 and August 1998 that developed
a WHS management plan for Avebury. The WHS management plan has been
prepared in consultation with local people and all those with an interest in the
management of the area. The preparation of this plan for Avebury was a signifi-
cant move forward in assessing the character and quality of the WHS cultural
landscape as a whole, which is locally cherished and internationally recognized.
The plan provides a framework for the holistic and proactive management of the
landscape and helps to ensure that the special qualities of the WHS are sustained
and preserved for future generations.
Thamesdown
North District
Wiltshire
District
Kennet
District
West
Wiltshire
District
Salisbury
District
Fig. 17.3. Location of Avebury

within Wiltshire, United King-
dom.
Research at Avebury WHS

One of the prominent themes that emerged from the management plan is the
value of archaeological research in the area and the necessity for a research
framework. Here, the value of a site for research is defined by its potential to
contribute to our understanding of past cultures.
Clearly, the state of our knowledge concerning the Avebury cultural landscape
is incomplete. There is, for example, enormous potential for discovering new
sites and for enhancing our understanding of previously known ones. Although
the importance of many key archaeological features has been recognized and
studied, the cultural landscape of the Avebury WHS is not particularly well un-
derstood or documented. The extant earthworks are easily recognized and can be
planned for and managed. However, a wide range of archaeological features and
sites exist in the area for which the evidence is less tangible and visually arresting.
Consequently, there is considerable potential for discovering or rediscovering
sites and features within the Avebury cultural landscape. The appearance of sev-
eral new sites such as Beckhampton Avenue in and around the Avebury WHS has
highlighted the opportunities for further discoveries here. In addition, a recent
compilation of a research agenda by the Avebury Archaeological and Historical

Research Group (AAHRG 2001) for the WHS has revealed numerous gaps, cov-
ering all periods, in our current state of knowledge. It has also revealed vast
archaeological potential for contributing to the resolution of important new and
long-standing research questions. This research agenda has also served to inform
the development of the management plan. Although the ICOMOS guidelines for
the contents of WHS management plans recommend that research programs
should be included (Fielden and Jokilehto 1993: 28 and 39), at the time of writ-
ing, it appears that Avebury may be the only WHS to have a comprehensive,
published research agenda.
Assessment of cultural significance at the Avebury WHS

The assessment section of the plan identifies the attributes that make the Avebury
WHS of value to society both today and in the future. The assessment process
improves our understanding of the site, enables informed management decisions
to be made, and helps preserve the site’s significance. Places or sites that are
culturally significant are those that promote an understanding of the past and
enrich the present, and which will, therefore, be of value to future generations.
The assessment of the cultural significance of Avebury is in many ways the most
important and the most subjective section of the plan, as it involves making value
judgments that both reflect on contemporary society and affect the information
available to future generations for interpreting and understanding the site. These
judgments concern the relationship between the past and present, rather than any
intrinsic value that the monuments may have had for their builders. Despite the
subjective nature of this exercise, it is hoped that the assessment of cultural sig-
nificance nevertheless reflects a consensus among all individuals and groups in-
volved in drafting the management plan and that, like the plan, it will be valid for
at least a generation.
The identification of the cultural significance of the Avebury WHS forms the
basis of, and underpins, the whole management plan. This approach should help
to ensure that the values that make Avebury important, especially its “outstand-
ing universal value,” are not diminished. Avebury’s management plan also takes
account of a wide range of different values in attempting to assess the site’s
importance. Sites and monuments may be culturally significant at different levels;
some are of World Heritage or international status, others are of regional or local
importance. The values of the Avebury WHS have been defined broadly “as
archaeological; landscape and conservation; social; economic; and research”
(AAHRG 2001: 23). It is recognized that these values overlap considerably, but
together they cover the full range of the site’s cultural significance. A detailed
description of these values, extracted from the Avebury WHS management plan,
is presented in the appendix.
Taking it further: The environmental capital approach
The statement of significance for Avebury describes a range of values other than
simply World Heritage values; consequently, values of local and regional impor-
tance are taken into account. This detailed description of the site’s significance
also allows associated values to considered. One of the weaknesses of this ap-
proach, however, is perhaps the reliance on a series of subjective judgments. A
table or grading system to establish the special interests of each area of the site
would make the approach more “explicit and holistic,” as would an approach
using the idea of “environmental capital.”
The concept of “environmental capital” has become increasingly popular
during the last decade among many organizations, principally in the context of
development planning. The underlying premise is that the historic environment
consists of assets (including archaeological sites and monuments) that provide
constant benefits as long as those assets are preserved. The division into critical,
constant, and tradable environmental capital reflects the notion that some com-
ponents of our collective heritage are more important than others. In this sense,
the idea of “environmental capital” provides useful insights into other important
concepts such as “sustainability.” This approach has been further developed and
refined by pragmatic application in the United Kingdom. For example, in Envi-
ronmental Capital: A New Approach (CAG Consultants 1997), the Countryside
Commission, English Heritage, English Nature, and the Environment Agency
have developed an innovative methodology. This approach does not so much
consider heritage assets, but rather the services or environmental functions they
perform. Essentially, this approach involves asking some basic questions about
heritage management. For example, which characteristics or attributes of the site
are the most critical in ensuring its sustainability? How important is each of these
and to whom and why? Explicit attention to these issues can lead to the develop-
ment of management decisions to protect and enhance each of these identified
values. Recognizing that most assessments of significance are subjective, the new
approach integrates qualitative indicators and subjective judgments.
For the production of WHS management plans and assessments of signifi-
cance, a simplified version can be adopted that corresponds to the first four steps
of the “environmental capital” approach. These are (1) to identify the site or
landscape of interest; (2) to determine the physical features and characteristic
areas of the site/landscape; (3) for each of these features identify their attributes;
and, finally, (4) to evaluate the importance of each attribute (for example, high,
medium, and low). In the United Kingdom, this method is currently being devel-
oped for use in the management of the Yorkshire Dales National Park and in the
emerging WHS management plan for Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal Park
(National Trust 2001).
Although this procedure was not used in the preparation of the WHS manage-
ment plan for Avebury, there are many advantages to the approach. The author
feels that any revisions or amendments to the statement of significance in the

Avebury management plan should incorporate an “environmental capital” of
approach.
Conclusion
The sites of Avebury and Stonehenge, two of Britain’s best-known prehistoric

monuments, were nominated to the World Heritage List as a joint World Heri-
tage Site in 1986. The sites, located in Wiltshire and separated by a distance of
some forty kilometers, were clearly the foci of ritual and ceremonial activities in
the Neolithic and Bronze Age periods. The excellent preservation of archaeologi-
cal remains in these two areas into modern times has led to their designation as
monuments of “international significance.” Avebury and Stonehenge between
them attract over a million visitors annually; therefore, achieving the balance
between public access and the greatest possible preservation of the monuments is
increasingly a challenge for site managers. The World Heritage Site management
plan for Avebury (English Heritage 1998) and the more recently published man-
agement plan for Stonehenge (English Heritage April 2000) incorporate assess-
ments of significance upon which sustainable management objectives are
founded. However, these assessments are not as detailed or effective as they might
have been had an “environmental capital” approach been employed. Certainly at
Avebury, the existence of the management plan has helped managers to focus on
a wide range of values associated with the cultural landscape (that is, not just on
archaeological values), allowing for a more holistic and sustainable approach to
the management of the area. The management plan for Avebury has been de-
signed as an evolving document, and it is to be updated and amended as its
various objectives are achieved and as new management and conservation phi-
losophies emerge. The future of the plan may well lie with the more detailed
assessment of significance using the eighteen characteristic landscape areas iden-
tified in the document and through the use of an “environmental capital” ap-
proach.
Appendix
Statement of significance for Avebury: Extract from the Avebury WHS manage-
ment plan (English Heritage 1998, 23–29).
World Heritage Values

The international importance of Avebury, together with Stonehenge, was recog-
nized by its inscription onto the WH List as site C373 (Stonehenge, Avebury and
associated sites) in 1987 on the nomination of the U.K. Government. The nomi-
nating document describes Stonehenge and Avebury as the two most important
prehistoric monuments in Britain. In form and structure Avebury is quite differ-
ent from Stonehenge, although the period of use during the third and earlier
second millennia b.c. is comparable. The Avebury part of the WHS encloses some
22.5 sq km and has clearly been designed to include the six key Neolithic monu-
ments: Avebury Henge and Stone Circle, the Avenue, Silbury Hill, West Kennett
Long Barrow, Windmill Hill and the Sanctuary. For a site to be included on the
World Heritage List it must meet at least one of six criteria set out in the conven-
tion (see above). The inscription of Avebury and Stonehenge onto the List recog-
nizes that together they fulfill the following three criteria:
• Represent a masterpiece of human creative genius;
• Exhibit an important interchange of human values, over a span of time or
within a cultural area of the world, on developments in monumental arts
or town planning and landscape design; and
• Bear a unique or at least exceptional testimony to a cultural tradition or
to a civilization that is living or which has disappeared.
Areas of significance
Archaeological Values
Uniquely Surviving Complex of Neolithic Monuments. The previous discussion

has already outlined the “outstanding universal value” of the six key Neolithic
monuments that comprise the core of the WHS designation. The discovery and
study of these monuments have given testimony to the mortuary ritual and cer-
emonial life of the earliest farmers in Britain, their physical appearance, lifestyle,
society, culture and achievements.
Rich Archaeological Record Spanning more than 10,000 years. The WHS
contains an outstanding archaeological record demonstrating continuous human
activity in the area for more than 10,000 years. The archaeological sites are not
all of outstanding universal value but together they make up the entity that is now
the Avebury WHS. As a whole, this rich cultural complex provides a vivid picture
of past land use.
Palaeoenvironmental Deposits. Previous studies have identified the critical
importance of biological and sedimentary evidence in understanding the devel-
opment of the Avebury landscape and the interaction between humans and their
natural environment throughout the prehistoric period. Excavation work has
indicated the very high potential for this evidence in the buried soils and land
surfaces preserved underneath the extant prehistoric earthworks, especially at
sites such as Windmill Hill, Silbury Hill, Overton and Fyfield Down and the
Kennett valley.
The Built Heritage. The built heritage is of great historical interest and con-
tributes to the quality and appeal of the WHS environment. Features of built
heritage interest occur in numerous places in the WHS, but predominantly in
Avebury Village and West Kennett that are both designated as Conservation Ar-
eas. Many of the historic buildings have been acquired for preservation by the
National Trust. In Avebury the buildings, parkland and associated archaeologi-
cal features which comprise the village form an exceptional and important
grouping, and within the triangle of the Manor, Church and Great Barn there are
many buildings of considerable visual and historical interest.
Landscape and Conservation Values

Aesthetic and Visual Influence. The six key Neolithic monuments, together with
the Overton Hill barrows, the Ridgeway barrows and Waden Hill, are important
features that make up the core of the WHS and have exerted considerable cul-
tural and visual influence over the landscape for the past 5,000 years. The WHS
can be considered as an outstanding example of a cultural landscape: exhibiting
a long and a well-preserved record of human exploitation and interaction with
the natural environment.
The Marlborough Downs, and more specifically the Avebury monuments,
have been a focus of attention for antiquarians, authors and artists for several
hundred years. This attention reflects the major focus on Avebury for the devel-
opment of Archaeology as a discipline, and also the creative inspiration derived
from the area and its landscape. Moreover, the attractiveness of the downland
and water meadows are valued greatly by local people as well as tourists. The
natural beauty of the area and its importance at a national level has been recog-
nized in its inclusion as part of the North Wessex Downs Area of Outstanding
Natural Beauty (AONB).
Ecological and Nature Conservation Value. Ecological interests are well rep-
resented in the Avebury WHS with a mosaic of sites of ecological value that are
important at a variety of levels from local to international. The area contains
nationally important nature conservation and geological interests, reflected in
various designations. The remains of lowland calcareous grassland are also con-
sidered part of an internationally important ecological resource, as are the several
species of bat that inhabit some of the buildings in Avebury. The River Kennett,
which rises just west of Avebury, supports an extremely species rich and diverse
flora, and has important historic, visual and landscape characteristics.
Social Values
Amenity/Tourism Resource. Avebury has become increasingly popular as an
amenity and tourism resource. Current estimates indicate that the site attracts
just under 350,000 visitors annually. For visitors in general, the Avebury WHS
landscape is viewed in a variety of ways such as: a leisure resource with educa-
tional overtones; a sacred or mystical site; a heritage tourism attraction or as a
pleasant day out for the family in the countryside. Its national importance as an
amenity conservation resource is reflected in its designation as part of the North
Wessex Downs AONB; the presence of National Trust permitted routes and a
network of public rights of way (including the Ridgeway National Trail); land
managed for open space access by the National Trust; and Guardianship monu-
ments open for public access, co-managed by English Heritage and the National
Trust.
Spiritual Value. Spiritually, Avebury is still a “temple” for many people who
visit. The site has much symbolic importance to different groups and individuals,
perhaps as an icon of continuity in our fast-moving modern world. Paganism
may well be the fastest growing religion in Britain, and this is linked with an
increasing interest in sites like Avebury as “sacred” places having mystical signifi-
cance. Pagan religions hold festivals to celebrate nature, as well as the patterns
and rhythms of the seasons, and Avebury attracts visitors for such pagan events
such as at the Solstice (mid-winter and summer), Beltane (Mayday), Lammas
(early August). Although it is currently difficult to quantify, a growing propor-
tion of visitors do visit Avebury for spiritual reasons, as is apparent from the large
assembly of people at the site every year at the Summer Solstice.
Local Community Value. Avebury is a living community and working land-
scape, not a fossilized archaeological park. This is acknowledged as an important
value that should not be diminished. The village, in some ways an archetypal
English village, has its own characteristic values to its inhabitants and to the
district, with its aesthetic appeal, amenities and social centers.
Avebury is very unusual for an archaeological site, with a modern village
nested into the prehistoric earthworks. The juxtaposition of the village (with its
complex components spanning from Saxon to modern), and wide range of earlier
prehistoric features, adds to its attraction and appeal, and gives the site a rich,
multi-dimensional focus. The symbiosis of the modern community and the an-
cient remains is unusual and of great interest: a small English Village, a large
prehistoric monument, and a public community of international visitors.
Economic Values
Agricultural Resource. Agriculture is the dominant land use within the WHS and
the most formative influence on the landscape we see today. The agricultural land
is predominantly classified as grade 2 and 3 (very good to good/moderate qual-
ity). The land is mostly used for arable crops, although there is some grazing of
sheep and cattle. In addition, some areas of permanent pasture are used as gallops
for racehorse training. Some of the areas of farmland are used for game.
Tourism. The revenue generated from tourism at Avebury is an important
contributor to the local, district and regional economy. The natural and historic
environment of Avebury are key elements to the County and District Councils
tourism resource, and an important aspect of economic development as outlined
in the local plans. At a local level, tourism provides income and employment for
members of the local community and businesses (a pub, restaurant, bookshop
and general store). The site raises relatively little revenue, as parking and access
to the monuments are free of charge. Some revenue is raised by the National
Trust through its gift shop and access to the museum, rents and tenancies. How-
ever, this is used to offset the considerable costs of managing and conserving the
monuments.
Research Values
Educational Resource. The unique nature of the monuments and landscape of-
fers excellent visual and recreational opportunities, assisting in education and
interpretation within a regional, national and international context. Over the last
fifty years Avebury has been visited by a wide range of educational groups, in-
cluding parties from all over the world. As well as the monuments themselves, the
wide range of artefactual evidence from the excavations, housed in the Alexander
Keiller Museum, is an invaluable educational resource for a wide spectrum of
students and scholars. Both the National Trust and English Heritage are commit-
ted to enhancing the value of the site as a formal and informal learning resource
and to the better educational use of the (pre) historic environment in general.
Research Potential. The research value of a site depends on the importance of
the data, its rarity and potential to contribute to a further understanding of past
cultures. For some periods in the past, the Avebury landscape has very high re-
search potential which has been presented in the Avebury WHS Research Agenda
(AAHRG 2001). It is acknowledged that our understanding of prehistoric
Avebury and its landscape is incomplete and could include the potential for major
new discoveries and for sites recorded by antiquarians to be “rediscovered.”
There is also much scope for improved understanding of the known sites and
monuments and enhancing our knowledge of past human behavior in the area.
The integrity of the area holds valuable opportunities for obtaining informa-
tion in many fields of investigation: archaeology; historical geography; history;
biology; ecology and geology. The archaeological sites and landscape also pro-
vide outstanding scope for developing research into scientific dating and ar-
chaeological prospection.
Bibliography
AAHRG [Avebury Archaeological and Historical Research Group]. 2001. Archaeological
Research Agenda for the Avebury World Heritage Site. Salisbury: Wessex Archaeology/
Oxbow.
CAG Consultants. 1997. Environmental Capital: A New Approach. Report commis-
sioned by Countryside Commission, English Heritage, English Nature and the Environ-
ment Agency. [Unpublished Report].
Cleere, H. 1996. The Concept of “Outstanding Universal Value” in the World Heritage
Convention. Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites 1:227–33.
Department for Culture, Media and Sport. 1999. World Heritage Sites. The Tentative list
of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. London: DCMS.
English Heritage. 1997. Sustaining the Historic Environment: New Perspectives on the
Future. London, English Heritage.
———. 1998. Avebury World Heritage Site: Management plan. London: English Heritage.
———. 2000. Stonehenge World Heritage Site: Management plan. London: English Heri-
tage.
Feilden, B. M., and J. Jokilehto. 1993. Management guidelines for World Cultural Heri-
tage Sites. Rome: ICCROM.
HLF [Heritage Lottery Fund]. 1998. Conservation plans for historic places. London: Heri-
tage Lottery Fund.
ICOMOS Australia. 1979. Charter for the conservation of places of cultural significance:
the Burra Charter. Canberra: Australia ICOMOS.
Kerr, J. S. 1996. The conservation plan. A guide to the preparation of conservation plans
for places of European cultural significance. Sydney: National Trust, Australia.
National Trust. 1994. Guidance on property management planning. [internally circulated
document].
———1998. Guidelines on the preparation of a statement of significance [internally circu-
lated document].
———. 2001. Fountain’s Abbey and Studley Royal. World Heritage Site management
plan. London: English Heritage.
Shackley, M., ed. 1998. Visitor management: Case Studies from World Heritage Sites.
London: Butterworth-Heineman.
UNESCO. 1972. Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natu-
ral Heritage. Paris: UNESCO.
———. 1992. Operational Guidelines for the Implementation of the World Heritage
Convention. Paris: UNESCO.
18
The bigger picture

Archaeology and values in long-term cultural resource management
Kate Clark
Introduction
In this article, I want to show how an analysis of value or significance underpins

not just designation but every aspect of cultural heritage management. In
Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the United Kingdom, there are now well-
established methodologies for incorporating value into different stages of cul-
tural resource management (CRM), and it is important to be aware of these.
In the second part of the article, I want to make a case for the importance of
understanding fabric or physical evidence—in other words, good old-fashioned
archaeology—in establishing significance. An understanding of what is there is
often neglected in value-based decision-making methods, with two conse-
quences. The first is that judgments about significance may be flawed, but the
second is that as a result, the “values” can come to be more important that the
fabric itself, thus ensuring that there is nothing there for future generations to
understand and to value in their own way.
Most of the discussion relating to significance that takes place within the
archaeological community emphasizes the role of value in protection, that is, in
whether or not a site is included in a register, list, or schedule, or whichever
national mechanism exists to identify archaeological sites of importance. In other
words, attention focuses on defining what is or is not to some degree “outstand-
ing” or worthy of special attention or preservation: What should be set apart for
special treatment, funding, or legislation? Where archaeologists have discussed
the role of values in cultural resource management, it is in the context of manag-
ing archaeologists and archaeological projects. For example, the papers in Man-
aging Archaeology (Cooper et al. 1995) do look at values and management, but
also focus on designation (see papers by Carman, Darvill, and Startin in that
volume) or managing archaeology (see those by Cooper, Brooke, Darvill,
318 / Kate Clark
Andrews and Thomas, Locock, and Nixon in that volume), only touching on the
management of places. Most of the papers cited in the very useful literature
survey done by Bruier and Mathers (1996) are ultimately concerned with initial
protection or site selection, with a few touching on mitigation strategies and
impact assessment.
There are two problems with this emphasis on using value only to establish
what to protect: First, the separation of cultural resources into what is worth
protecting and what is not is based on an assumption that what is not designated
is not of interest. If we only protect what is designated, then future generations
will inherit a heritage consisting of significant dots separated by acres of nonsig-
nificant wasteland where the malls or new housing estates can be built. Drawing
hard lines around heritage is equivalent to protecting species but not their habi-
tats. A narrow focus on designation precludes discussion of the wider historic
environment.
More importantly, confining the discussion of value to protection assumes
that once significance has been identified, then that is the end of the role of
discussions about it. Yet Pomeroy has shown in her study of Avebury (this vol-
ume) that our understanding of a place and its value continues to be a critical
factor in how it is managed well after it has been designated. In an example
similar to Avebury, Stonehenge was scheduled as an ancient monument in 1882,
and nobody questions its designation today, but controversy over its value rages
in the context of a need to decide which type of construction is most appropriate
for a new tunnel and where best to locate new visitor facilities. Such decisions will
depend upon our understanding of the values of the site as a whole and in its
parts, but will hardly be satisfied by reference to the original protection docu-
ment.
The use of values in cultural resource management
In 1979, a group of members of Australia ICOMOS came together in a small

town in South Australia to discuss conservation practice. In particular, they were
concerned that the European cultural heritage charters, which governed so much
heritage practice, were not necessarily useful in a country where the significance
of places was neither obvious nor universally accepted, either because the places
were relatively recent or because white practitioners had had their assumptions
about significance challenged by Indigenous communities.
The result of their deliberations was the Burra Charter, a set of Australia
ICOMOS principles for conservation, based largely on the Venice Charter,
which, unlike the original, talks about the idea of place rather than buildings or
sites, puts cultural significance at the heart of decision making, and sets out a
logical sequence of investigations and decisions which use significance to estab-
lish policy and set management frameworks.
Since then, the Burra Charter has been much debated. It was revised in 2000
Long-term cultural resource management / 319
in order to broaden the definition of significance, and clarify the sequence of

decisions, to include social values and multiple values (Truscott and Young 2000:
104–5; ICOMOS Australia 2000). It has now become the basis for much Austra-
lian cultural heritage practice (Pearson and Sullivan 1995: 44), and similar prin-
ciples have been adopted in New Zealand, Scotland, and China (ICOMOS New
Zealand 1992; Historic Scotland 2000). The promotion and use of the Burra
Charter has stimulated interest in the role of significance in the conservation of
buildings and landscapes, and even where a version has not been formally
adopted, it has influenced thinking about cultural heritage practice, mainly
through the use of conservation plans.
In 1982, the first edition of The Conservation Plan, by James Semple Kerr
(2000) was published. Jim Kerr was a historian who had been involved in draft-
ing the first version of the Burra Charter. His guidance on conservation planning
showed how the understanding of the physical nature of a site could be used to
establish its significance, and from there how it could inform policies for retain-
ing significance. Although this original publication was largely based on the
analysis of buildings and industrial sites, and did not then include consideration
of the wide range of values which we might now look at in a site (particularly
social ones), his achievement in creating that link between understanding and
management should not be underestimated.
The process of conservation planning is touched on in the first Burra Charter,
but is given far greater emphasis in the revision of 2000. Called here the “Burra
Charter Process,” it stresses the need to make decisions about places in a logical
fashion, starting from the understanding of significance.
In Canada, too, the Cultural Resource Management Policy for Parks Canada
(Parks Canada no date) includes value as one of the principles for CRM, and
stresses the consideration of historic value in actions affecting cultural resources.
The obligation created by the National Historic Sites policy is, “to ensure the
commemorative integrity of national historic sites . . . by protecting and present-
ing them for the benefit, education and enjoyment of this and future generations,
in a manner that respects the significant and irreplaceable legacy represented by
these places and their associated resources” (quoted in Bennett 1995: 1).
The mandate of Parks Canada as an agency is not just to protect sites, but to
“ensure their commemorative integrity for present and future generations”
(Parks Canada 2000: 5). The service has therefore established a formal mecha-
nism for ensuring commemorative integrity, called commemorative integrity as-
sessments or statements (Bennett 1995: 1–8). The principle is based on the idea of
“ecological integrity,” which has always underpinned the management of parks,
emphasizing not just condition, but a wider idea of health and wholeness. A
national site possesses commemorative integrity when
• the resources that symbolize or represent its importance are not impaired
or under threat;
320 / Kate Clark
• the reasons for the site’s national historic significance are effectively com-
municated to the public; and
• when the site’s heritage values are respected by all whose decisions or
actions affect the site.
Commemorative integrity is therefore a way by which significance is explicitly

used in monitoring the effectiveness of cultural resource management. The em-
phasis on recognizing value in both interpretation and decision making takes the
process of monitoring one step beyond physical condition. Of course it is essen-
tial that historic resources are in good physical condition, but this approach
recognizes that physical condition is not the only measure of successful cultural
resource management. If the values of the site are not effectively communicated
or taken into account in decision making, then it is possible that the site can be
put at risk or damaged.
England provides a case study of how the Burra Charter principles of signifi-
cance have spread. In 1997, the Heritage Lottery Fund (HLF) was set up in the
United Kingdom to dispense money from a new national lottery. The remit of the
HLF to cover a very broad definition of heritage (including archaeology, build-
ings, landscapes, ecology, museums, libraries, archives, and a range of other types
of heritage), combined with the need to “not disturb the quiet equilibrium of our
national heritage treasures” (Johnson 1999: 25), meant that HLF needed a
mechanism for ensuring that their money would benefit heritage assets. General
approaches to managing sites had been developed for World Heritage Sites
(Feilden and Jokilehto 1993). However, for other sites, no single existing evalu-
ation technique, whether archaeological assessments, museum collections poli-
cies, landscape restoration plans, or feasibility studies (to name but a few of the
techniques in use), was appropriate, as many cases involved grant-aiding and it
made no sense to have separate approaches from separate professionals (Clark
1999: 27–28). The model of the Australian conservation plan (see table 18.1 for
stages involved in conservation planning) was adopted, but modified for U.K.
circumstances to reflect the variety of different types of heritage asset being con-
sidered, and also the complexity which sites of a greater time depth generated
(HLF 1998).
The guidance was introduced at a conference held in Oxford in 1998, which
Kerr attended and which brought together practitioners from many different
disciplines and professions, ranging from the Dean of Hereford Cathedral to a
professional forester. Many people expressed disquiet about conservation plan-
ning, arguing that it did not differ from existing practice, or that it introduced an
additional bureaucratic requirement into resource management (Clark 1999:
153).
Despite the many initial misgivings expressed at the Oxford conference, con-
servation planning spread rapidly; initially, it was applied to sites for which
money was being sought from the HLF, but other organizations, for example,
Table 18.1. The stages involved in conservation planning
A conservation plan is a document which sets out the significance of a site, and how
that significance will be retained in any future use, alteration, management, or repair.
The process includes the following stages:

1) Identify stakeholders;
2) Understand the site—an understanding of the development of the site through
time and its survival today, which includes current uses;
3) Assess significance—identifies the multiple values associated with the site,
including the cultural values—archaeological, historical, social, community,
aesthetic, as well as any ecological or environmental values;
4) Identify how significance is vulnerable—an analysis of what factors have
affected the values of the site now, in the past, and may do so in the future;
5) Set aims and objectives for retaining significance—policies for how
significance will be retained, including repair or maintenance, to the conduct
of archaeology, to appropriate uses, or to the management of the organization;
and
6) Implement the plan and use it in decision making.
English Heritage, adopted conservation plans as part of the strategy for caring
for their own sites. The National Trust had been independently developing state-
ments of significance for its sites (Russell 1999: 7), but was also adapting its
traditional site management techniques to take better account of significance.
Stakeholder values
One of the biggest boosts to the adoption of value-led management has been the
dawning realization that you need to involve stakeholders in decision making
about cultural heritage resource management. As McManamon and Hatton note
(2000: 10), communities residing near or among the locations of cultural re-
sources have important, sometimes critical, influences on the protection and
preservation of these resources. For many heritage practitioners, involving stake-
holders means telling local people about what matters. Phrases such as “must be
told,” “must be aware,” or “must be educated” imply that stakeholders are there
to be told about what matters and why. Yet as Pearson and Sullivan note, “It must
always be borne in mind that ultimately there can only be one valid reason for
conserving heritage places: They are valued by elements of a community, by a
whole community or by society as a whole” (Pearson and Sullivan 1995: 17). The
articulation of the values of stakeholders, and involving them in site manage-
ment, is increasingly being recognized as an essential rather than an optional part
of heritage management (Clark 2001a).
322 / Kate Clark
Site management planning itself is, of course, nothing new; it has been in
existence since at least 1910, when there was a call for complete and comprehen-
sive plans for U.S. National Parks (Sellars 1997: 21). In the United States, the
National Park Service has long been committed to management planning as a
means of creating a documented, logical, trackable rationale for decisions, which
should “follow an analysis of how proposals might affect the values that make
resources significant, and the consideration of alternatives that might avoid or
mitigate potential adverse effects” (NPS 2001: 50). The need to consult people on
site management was recognized in the 1970 Environment Act, which introduced
it as a legal requirement of planning, and the NPS is committed to “open and
meaningful exchange of knowledge and ideas to enhance the public’s under-
standing of park resources and values and the policies and plans that affect them,
and the service’s ability to plan and manage the parks by learning from others.
Open exchange requires that the Service seek and employ ways to reach out to
and consult with all those who have an interest in parks” (NPS 2001: 51).
Methodologies such as REAP (Rapid Ethnographic Assessment Project) have
emerged as ways of exploring the complex relationship between people and park
resources, and to feed that information into management planning (Low 2002).
One reason why it is necessary to engage stakeholders in site management is
that the basic documents, which set out why the site is protected (for example,
entry into a register or schedule), often do not (and by definition probably can
not) contain all the information needed to make decisions about a site. For ex-
ample, at Chaco Canyon, a variety of different stakeholder values have to be
taken into consideration: those of the Navajo groups associated with the site; the
different values of the Pueblo groups, who retain strong affiliations; and the New
Age spiritualists, who have their own perception of what matters. Any manage-
ment strategy has to be sensitive to these values, whatever is set out in the initial
park mandate. Even if written planning documents do not reflect these issues,
such values do have to be taken into account in practice (GCI 2003).
This distinction between the relatively narrow range of values which justify
inscription or designation (for example, as a park) and the wider penumbra of
values which successful site management must address is commonplace. Those
wider values include the value of other types of heritage asset (for example,
ecology, geology, and buildings) or the values of the huge variety of stakeholders.
The various different value-led approaches recognize this need for multiple val-
ues by ensuring that the management process includes an exploration of the
wider values needed to manage a site in addition to the core values for which it is
designated. The distinction between the two is precisely why the management
process often requires a greater and more explicit exploration of significance
than is defined at the point of protection.
Not only do site managers need to deal with a wider range of values than those
for which the site has been protected, they also have to face up to the fact that
much of site management is about managing conflicting values. In the example of
Chaco Canyon, there is a desire by New Agers to have their ashes scattered at the
site, which in turn can offend the sensibilities of traditional groups. The site
manager has to find a way or reconciling values, which in this case has meant
closing areas of the site. Almost every decision a heritage site manager faces
involves some element of conflicting or at least different values.
Access for wheel-chair users is a particularly good example of this; it is entirely
reasonable that heritage sites protected through public subsidy are accessible to
as many people as possible, and yet the provision of some forms of access can be
detrimental to those values for which the site was originally protected. No heri-
tage manager wants to prevent access, but their job is to provide it in a way which
ideally respects both the need for access and the other qualities of the site.
The value-led planning process can be used to anticipate this type of conflict
and to begin to help resolve it. By articulating the full range of values for the site,
potential conflicts can be identified, and the assessment of vulnerability is a useful
opportunity to explore how, for example, respecting one value can make another
vulnerable. The policies can be used to find ways of reconciling different values.
Value-led planning which takes into account multiple values (including those
of stakeholders and the value of noncultural assets) is now becoming an accept-
able part of CRM in several countries and has been the subject of an important
project by the Getty Conservation Institute (GCI 2000). It is forcing cultural
heritage practitioners to work more closely on other types of cultural heritage
(such as buildings, objects, and landscapes) and with other conservation practi-
tioners (for example, in ecology). More importantly, practitioners are having to
learn to work more closely with stakeholders who have an interest in sites if sites
are to be managed sustainably.
There is some controversy within professional CRM practice over whether
value-led management planning approaches such as the Burra Charter process,
conservation management plans, or the commemorative integrity assessment
offer anything different to long-established traditional management plans. A
reading of older style plans suggests that many take the significance of the site at
face value or assume that it is too well known to need more than a brief reitera-
tion. They usually proceed from a restatement of the organizational objectives
into a series of management actions, again on the assumption that significance is
known. It is my own view that this is not value-led planning in the sense that there
is an explicit articulation of significance within (and driving) the planning pro-
cess.
The role of archaeology in value-based management
The question for archaeologists is, what, if any, role should they be playing in this
whole process of conservation planning or value-led management? Value-led
planning methods are used on all sorts of sites, including urban areas, buildings,
and collections. Is there any reason why archaeologists should be involved in
324 / Kate Clark
conservation management planning on sites which do not involve buried re-

mains?
While I was writing this article, debate was raging over the future of Mount
Orgueil Castle in Jersey. The significance of the castle as a whole was not in
question; the site dates back to prehistoric times and was the location of a thir-
teenth century castle, which was occupied and rebuilt in various phases from then
until the present day. The question was one of whether it is appropriate to roof a
central area of the castle. Archaeological analysis suggested that the hall and
associated buildings were constructed during a campaign of building between ca.
1540 and the 1560s, and that they became dilapidated during the eighteenth
century (Dixon and Kennedy 2001: 22). One view was, therefore, that there had
been an earlier hall, and it was appropriate to reroof the space. Another archaeo-
logical view held that there had not been an earlier hall and that reroofing was
not appropriate. The example is used simply to demonstrate how views of what
happened in the past can affect assessment of significance and, in turn, decisions
about the future of a site.
The Mount Orgueil plan was relatively unusual in that it was written jointly
by an archaeologist and an architect, and, therefore, archaeological issues were
identified as part of the planning process. Experience in England suggests that the
majority of conservation plans for buildings or landscapes are written by firms of
conservation architects or planners with little or no access to archaeological ex-
pertise, and when such expertise is called upon, it is usually in order to interpret
prehistoric aspects of the site.
Yet the whole process of conserving or caring for objects or places should be
founded upon an understanding of what is there, in other words the archaeology
of the site. Most conservation texts begin with a basic injunction to understand
what is to be conserved. For example, “the first operation in any conservation
process is to assess accurately the substance of the object to be safeguarded. This
may seem obvious, but alas it is not, and by ignoring this operation by consider-
ing it to be obvious may result in irreparable mistakes.” The author goes on to
explain what is involved in that understanding: “What is to be considered the
whole of the object to which all operations must be referred? What is the context
of the object? What is the history of the object?” (Philippot 1996: 271).
Philippot is not a practicing archaeologist, but an art historian, university
administrator, and teacher, and his writings are largely addressed to conservators
of art and of historical objects. And yet the questions he asks summarize very
neatly the process by which a good field archaeologist might set about under-
standing a landscape, a building, or a buried site. In other words, the principles
of field archaeology, which involve the understanding of time and space and of
stratigraphic and contextual analysis, are those which can and should underpin
any conservation undertaking.
In the conservation of buildings, at least, a strong link between the role of
archaeology and that of architecture had been established by the middle of the
nineteenth century. The work of John Britton, Thomas Rickman, and Robert
Willis, who pioneered the understanding of buildings and structures (Pearson
2001: 3), was instrumental in the establishment of organizations such as the
French Commission des Monuments Historiques, whose task of classifying his-
toric buildings as well as supervising and funding their restoration was in part
generated by the outrage at the damage done to ancient buildings after the French
Revolution (Watkin 1986: 386).
Richard Morris, in an important article entitled “Buildings Archaeology” asks
how and why it was that, “somewhere between the Wars archaeology and archi-
tecture diverged. Like snooker balls clustered and then struck into separate pock-
ets, archaeology, architectural history, art history and associated legislation
parted company” (Morris 1994: 16). The mid-Victorian tradition of understand-
ing buildings as a basis for conserving them was rejected, perhaps as a result of
the reaction against restoration (with which archaeology is often associated). At
the same time, the growing understanding of the performance and behavior of
historical materials meant that conservation moved from a humanist to what was
seen as largely a techno-scientific pursuit.
Today, an understanding of the archaeology and evolution of a site has be-
come something which, while useful, plays a fairly passive role in management.
Caple (2000: 75), for example, notes (emphasis added), “For the purposes of
conservation there is a need to focus on the information which can be obtained
from studying the object directly, both as a historic document and as an aesthetic
entity. This is particularly important in order that no information is lost or de-
stroyed without record during the conservation process.”
Archaeologists themselves may be complicit in relegating understanding to a
minor role in conservation. Too many practice in a sort of “mitigation ghetto,”
where often the only role for archaeology in site management or decision making
lies in “preservation by record” (DoE 1990: PPG 16 para 13), and the under-
standing of a site is something to be undertaken as a consequence of threat or
loss, “mitigated by data recovery excavation” (Little, this volume). Thus, sites
are understood only because they are about to be destroyed. Archaeologists
themselves may therefore be responsible for the passive rather than the active
view of what archaeology can contribute to conservation.
Another barrier to the better use of understanding in conservation is the lack
of genuine interdisciplinary working or communication. In most countries, ar-
chaeologists, architects, landscape professionals, ecologists, and planners gener-
ally adopt different terminology, methods, and areas of concern, often in caring
for the same place. The idea that archaeological approaches to understanding
places might form a basis for a common understanding of what matters and why,
would be, to many professionals, anathema. Yet where archaeological ap-
proaches have informed conservation projects, the results have been beneficial to
the quality of the work (Clark 2001b: 4)
Yet there remains a significant problem with the quality and nature of the
326 / Kate Clark
information basis on which most conservation decisions are taken. For example,
in England, local authority conservation officers deal with applications to alter
listed buildings. In a survey of such officers (Oxford Brookes 1999), it was estab-
lished that over 50 percent of applications did not contain sufficient information
to determine the merit of the application, and that searching for further informa-
tion was a significant cause of delay. It has become normal practice in England to
undertake archaeological evaluations prior to making decisions about new devel-
opments, but not to undertake such work before changing buildings. The rel-
evance of archaeological approaches to the work of other professions is not ap-
parent.
As a result of this survey, a more positive blueprint for the role of archaeologi-
cal understanding in the conservation of buildings and landscapes was set out in
“Informed Conservation” (Clark 2001a). This publication was designed to ad-
dress the lack of explicit guidance on the role of understanding in conservation
and the continuing poor quality of information on the basis of which conserva-
tion professionals were expected to make decisions. It shows how an archaeo-
logical understanding of a building or landscape can be used to inform different
aspects of cultural resource management, from site management to impact as-
sessment.
Is fabric a dirty word?
The lack of involvement by archaeologists in the wider process of heritage man-

agement has another, more sinister implication. This is the spread of the idea that
a record provides an acceptable alternative to retaining the object or site itself. As
Price notes, “some people go so far as to argue that it is more responsible to create
a permanent record of vulnerable sculpture than to waste resources in a fruitless
attempt to make the sculpture last forever” (Price 2000: 228). Some of this
emerges in the now fashionable discussions of intangible values.
Archaeologists see the physical fabric of a site as the document. Buildings,
sites, landscapes, and objects contain stories embodied in their physical evidence
which are not to be found in written documents or elsewhere. Those narratives
encompass past social processes, events, individuals, and technologies. They tell
us of power relations, aspirations, and disasters. A quick glance at the recent
history of archaeology shows how our interpretations of those remains will
change through time, as our own perceptions and techniques change. This does
not invalidate past work; it simply reminds us that there is always more to learn
about the past.
If physical evidence or sites are lost, then so is the potential for us to learn more
about the past. Of course, archaeology in the form of excavation is itself destruc-
tive (although there are now so many more ways of doing archaeology), in the
same way as keeping a great painting on display or using a historic locomotive is
ultimately destructive. It is part of the price society pays for learning and enjoy-
ment. But the loss of a significant site or object on the grounds that the value can
be retained through a record is a poor substitute for keeping the original. This
does not mean that sites and places cannot and do not change, or that everything
should be preserved for all time. It simply means that in making conservation
decisions, we should respect not just the values, but the fabric to which they are
attached, and that if we decide to demolish a building, or excavate a site, or not
conserve a landscape for other reasons, we do not use specious arguments about
keeping the value as a sop to our conscience.
Conclusions
Consideration of the role of value in conservation or cultural resource manage-

ment is not new, nor is it confined to archaeology. Indeed, the discussion of values
is as old as the protection of heritage itself, because the concept of value must
underpin or justify the interference with rights or property that heritage protec-
tion involves. In a.d. 648, for example, the emperors Leo and Marjorian the
August wrote to the prefect of the city of Rome urging them to protect public
buildings from destruction as they, “form part of the city’s splendor and one
should therefore preserve them out of civic conscience” (quoted in Moatti 1993:
148), and because in many cases they were part of the public property. Moatti’s
overview of the tussles over the remains and treasures of ancient Rome shows
how in each new generation, regimes, whether the Christian church, Napoleon,
or a Fascist regime, have sought to appropriate or reinstate the physical remains
of the past to justify or legitimize their power. Then, as now, each regime sought
a contemporary value for the remains of the past.
The literature review by Bruier and Mathers on significance might also have
included the work of Alois Reigl, who, writing in 1903 of the modern cult of
monuments, asked “What is artistic and what is historical value?” (quoted in
Stanley Price et al. 1996: 70–72), noting that it is essential to clarify what we
mean by different types of value since that influences the direction of all historic
preservation in a decisive way. Reigl is well aware of the subjective nature of
values, “It is modern viewers, rather than the works themselves by their original
purpose that assign meaning and significance to a monument” (1996: 72).
Yet William Morris, one of the most influential figures in British conservation
thought, was less interested in the significance of historic buildings than in what
was happening to them in the present and their long-term management. He saw
that the biggest threat to historic buildings lay in the very enthusiasm for them,
and argued that “those last fifty years of knowledge and attention have done
more for their destruction than all the foregoing centuries of revolution, violence
and contempt” (Miele 1996: 53).
The debate about significance and value in archaeology in this volume is an
important one. It is not a new debate, and some archaeologists feel that perhaps
now is the time to move on. Meanwhile, other heritage disciplines are just warm-
328 / Kate Clark
ing up to the subject. The Getty Conservation Institute has challenged buildings
and landscape conservators to think about the role of value in conservation
through the publication of a number of papers (GCI 2000) and through an inter-
national project comparing different approaches to the management of stake-
holder values in conservation. A recent paper by Byrne et al. (2001), emerging
from their experience of working with Indigenous communities, is a refreshing
and challenging piece of work that analyzes the attitudes of experts and consult-
ants to significance and poses new and more fluid models for managing and
assessing significance. Conservation discourse is moving away from its tradi-
tional fixation on the morality of restoration into wider questions about ethical,
social, and economic responsibilities.
In this paper, I hope to have shown that rather than moving on, archaeologists
need to develop their thinking about value further, and in new directions. It is
vital that archaeologists become more aware of value-led planning as a powerful
tool for sustaining cultural heritage in the long term. If we are to pass sites on to
future generations, we need to recognize that management involves multiple val-
ues, different perspectives to our own, and genuine engagement with stakehold-
ers and their concerns.
In coming to terms with the wider debate on value, I also hope that archaeolo-
gists will begin to assert their role in sustaining cultural heritage resources of all
types. The achievement, particularly of Kerr (1982, 2000) and conservation
planning, has been to rebuild the bridge between understanding and manage-
ment that was shattered in the last century. All cultural resource management
must begin with an understanding of what is there, and that in turn, depends
upon good archaeology. Archaeologists themselves have to press harder for an
active role for understanding and archaeology in all decision making, whether at
them time of designation or at other points in the heritage management process.
We should not allow ourselves to be relegated to the role of the hyenas of cultural
resource management, picking over the bones after the decisions have been made.
The future of cultural heritage management lies in the lessons that ecologists
have learned about sustainability: bottom-up as well as top-down approaches, a
more constructive dialogue between development and conservation, and a more
proactive engagement with wider social and economic concerns. All of this will
require a clear understanding of value.
But if archaeologists do not engage with the theory and process of cultural
resource management, decisions will continue to be based on what is often a
limited understanding of what is there, and as a result will damage the resource
needlessly. We will hand on to future generations a historic environment which is
the poorer if, despite talking about value, we fail to understand “what” it was
that we were valuing.
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Contributors
Jeffrey H. Altschul is president of Statistical Research, Inc. and founder of the SRI
Foundation. He has been involved in more than 500 projects throughout North
America. Research interests center on spatial analysis and predictive modeling
and historic preservation and cultural resources management.
Bonnie Bagley is an archaeologist at Corrales, New Mexico, with the Cultural

Resources Management program of Los Alamos National Laboratory. Research
interests include the theory and evolution of economies and social manifestations
in peripheral areas in Europe, the U.S. Southwest, and the southern High Plains,
the complexity of past and contemporary systems, public archaeology, contem-
porary political economies, and science poetry.
Sherene Baugher is associate professor of archaeology in the Department of

Landscape Architecture at Cornell University, Ithaca, New York, and a member
of Cornell’s InterCollege Programs in both archaeology and historic preserva-
tion. She is the pro bono archaeologist for the Onondaga Nation. Publications
focus on status, class, and ethnicity in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century
America.
W. E. Boyd is associate professor in the School of Environmental Science and

Management at Southern Cross University, New South Wales, Australia. He is a
geographer and archaeologist with special research interests in long-term envi-
ronmental change, the history of landscapes, and cultural heritage management,
particularly in southeast Asia and Papua New Guinea.
John Carman is affiliated lecturer in the Department of Archaeology, University

of Cambridge, Cambridge, U.K. Current research interests include the relations
between archaeological heritage management and archaeological theory, to-
gether with archaeologies of violence and war. He is co-director with Patricia
Carman of the “Bloody Meadows” project on historic battlefields worldwide.
Kate Clark is head of Historic Environment Management at English Heritage,

U.K., and is currently working with the Getty Conservation Institute on the role
of value in heritage site management. Current interests include the role of heri-
tage in sustainability and the need for strategic research in resource management.
332 / Contributors
Maria M. Cotter is currently working on several major archaeological projects in

eastern Australia, with a strong focus on Indigenous archaeology and heritage
management. Other interests include cultural and historical values and their ar-
ticulation in contemporary environments and landscapes.
Timothy Darvill is professor of archaeology in the Archaeology and Historic

Environment Group of the School of Conservation Sciences, Bournemouth Uni-
versity, Bournemouth, U.K. Current research interests include the Neolithic of
northwestern Europe, the values placed by society on archaeological materials,
prehistoric rock art, and the theory and practice of archaeological resource man-
agement.
Jos Deeben is head of the department archaeological values of the State Service of
Archaeological Investigations (ROB) in the Netherlands. His special research
interests include predictive modeling and the transition from the Late Palaeo-
lithic to the Mesolithic in the southern Netherlands.
Pedro Paulo A. Funari is professor of historical archaeology, Campinas State

University, Brazil. He is currently World Archaeological Congress Secretary.
Current research interests broadly include archaeological theory, public archae-
ology, and historical archaeology.
Jane Gardiner is a research assistant and tutor in the School of Environmental

Science and Management at Southern Cross University, New South Wales, Aus-
tralia, and an independent Local Government Heritage Advisor. Her major inter-
ests lie in historical heritage in Australia, with a special focus on community
engagement and consultation and the role of cultural heritage management in
local government.
Jane Grenville is head of the Department of Archaeology at the University of

York, York, U.K., and has been a Commissioner of English Heritage since 2001.
Her current research interests include English and Japanese vernacular architec-
ture, the importance of the material remains of the past to the present and future
society, and the mechanisms of policy making for the historic environment
Bert Groenewoudt is senior researcher at the National Service for Archaeological

Heritage in the Netherlands. He has been working on the valuation and selection
of archaeological sites, the archaeological potential of buried landscapes, predic-
tive modeling, and the relation between archaeological heritage management and
nature conservation.
Ronald Kneebone is a Native American liaison for the Albuquerque District of

the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Research interests include, in particular,
Contributors / 333
Middle Classic MesoAmerican spatial organization on the south Gulf coast of

Mexico. He is currently responsible for developing multidisciplinary resource
management partnerships between the Corps of Engineers and Native American
tribes in west Texas, New Mexico, and southern Colorado.
Ian Lilley is a reader in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies at the Uni-
versity of Queensland, Australia. He is currently developing a program of basic
archaeological research in the eastern islands of the Torres Strait in northern
Australia and is also working on theoretical issues surrounding archaeology and
Native Title, and diaspora and identity.
Barbara J. Little is an archaeologist with the U.S. National Park Service (NPS)
Archaeology and Ethnography program in the National Center for Cultural Re-
sources. Current research interests include public archaeology, evaluation of ar-
chaeological places, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century America, and feminist
archaeology.
Clay Mathers is a GIS Coordinator for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Albu-
querque District, New Mexico. His current interests comprise concepts of space
and regional analysis in archaeology, ethnohistory, technological changes in
prehistory, theory and practice in heritage management, and the Neolithic–
Bronze Age in the Mediterranean.
Melanie C. Pomeroy is an archaeologist, lecturer, and heritage management spe-

cialist. Research interests include prehistoric and environmental archaeology,
with specific reference to the Greek Neolithic. She has been responsible for the
creation a management plan for the Avebury WHS, with English Heritage, U.K.,
as the Avebury WHS Officer.
Ian Ritchie is an archaeologist for the USDA Forest Service since 1986. He has
worked in cultural resource management in five National Forests and one Na-
tional Grassland in the states of Washington, Oregon, and Wyoming. Research
interests include the monitoring of the condition of archaeological sites over time
as well as the practical application of heritage resource laws and regulations.
John Schelberg is district archaeologist for the Albuquerque District, U.S. Army
Corps of Engineers. Current research interests include settlement systems, low-
density lithic scatters, and ground-stone analysis.
Laurajane Smith is lecturer in heritage studies and archaeology at the University

of York. Research interests include the intersection of archaeological and man-
agement practices with areas of public policy and the cultural politics of identity,
community involvement in heritage management and research, heritage tourism,
334 / Contributors
archaeological ethics, archaeological theory in general, and feminist archaeology

in particular.
Nina Swidler has been involved in archaeological investigations in the western

United States since 1975 and been employed by the Navajo Nation since 1989.
For the past fourteen years, she has worked to facilitate meaningful tribal and
community involvement into historic preservation practices and policies.
Joseph A. Tainter is project leader of cultural heritage research, Rocky Mountain

Research Station, Albuquerque, New Mexico. His book The Collapse of Com-
plex Societies develops a long-standing interest in the evolution of socioeconomic
complexity, which led to his current research on sustainability and resource tran-
sitions in both the ancient and contemporary worlds.
Gai Taylor is an environmental tour guide in New South Wales, Australia, and
Outward Bound instructor. Her work described in the chapter was completed as
a final-year undergraduate research project for her Bachelor of Environmental
Science degree at Southern Cross University.
Gavin Whitelaw is head of archaeology and anthropology at the Natal Museum,

South Africa, and honorary senior lecturer in the School of Human and Social
Studies, University of KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa. Current interests include
the archaeology of African agriculturists in southern Africa and the depiction of
archaeological information in museum exhibits.
Michael Williams is director of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies
Unit at the University of Queensland, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. An Ab-
original man from the Goorang Goorang people of South East Queensland, his
academic background is in history and anthropology and his research interests
are in the areas of cross-cultural communication, cultural heritage management,
and Indigenous knowledge traditions.
Michael Yeatts is archaeologist of the Hopi Tribe and adjunct faculty at Northern
Arizona University, Flagstaff, Arizona. In addition to pursuing methodological
and theoretical approaches to the better integration of tribal concerns into ar-
chaeology, he maintains research interests in prehistoric technologies, ethno-
botany/ethnobiology, and cultural resource management.
Index / 335
Index
Page numbers in bold refer to figures and tables.
Aanvullend Archeologisch Onderzoek Avebury, Wiltshire, U.K., 302, 305, 307

(Additional Field Evaluation, AAO), Avebury World Heritage Site (WHS),
the Netherlands, 293 Wiltshire, U.K., 301, 306, 308, 309, 311–
Aanvullende Archeologische Inventarisatie 12, 314–15, 318
(Additional Archaeological Survey, AAI),
the Netherlands, 293 Babbitt, Bruce, 266
Abatelli, Carol, 256 Baca, Jim, 266–67
Abiquiu Reservoir, Rio Arriba, New Mexico, Bagley, Bonnie, 68
U.S., 170 Bahn, Paul, 7
Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island people, Barnes, T., 94–95
Australia, 228–30, 232–33, 235, 237, 241 Baudrillard, Jean, 51–52
Adena culture, U.S., 268 Beachmere, Moreton Bay, southeast
Albuquerque, New Mexico, U.S., 162, 265, Queensland, Australia, 95–96, 98, 103–5
266 Bedford, S., 234
Alexander Keiller Museum, Avebury, Bhabha, H. K., 108, 110
Wiltshire, U.K., 315 Bighorn Medicine Wheel, Wyoming, U.S.,
Algonkin, U.S., 257 262–65, 270
Alstonville, New South Wales, Australia, Binford, Lewis, 63, 174–75, 195
101–3 Bockerley Dyke, Dorset, U.K., 32
Amafa aKwaZulu-Natali (Heritage KwaZulu- Bowdler, S., 229, 231–32, 234
Natal), South Africa, 151–52, 154 Boyd, W. E., 93
Antelope Creek Focus, 68 Britton, John, 325
Anyon, Roger, 251, 270 Brown, Baldwin, 5
Apache, U.S., 68, 260, 261, 262 Bruier, F. L., 318, 327
Apishapa Focus, 68 Bureau of Reclamation’s Central Arizona
Appomattox, Virginia, U.S., 283 Project, U.S., 197
Archaeological and Historic Preservation Act, Burra Charter, Australia, 318–20, 323
U.S., 3 Bushman-Relics Protection Act, South Africa,
Archaeological Resources Protection Act 137, 138
(ARPA), U.S., 3, 218 Byrne, Denis, 9
Archeologische Archief (National Archaeo- Byron Bay, New South Wales, Australia, 96–
logical Database, CAA), the Netherlands, 97, 99–100
293
ARCHIS (Archaeological Information Sys- Cáceres, Ivan, 132
tems), the Netherlands, 289, 298–99 Cachora, Lorey, 201
Arnold, Bettina, 7 Camata, Rita, 127
Athabascan, the, U.S., 68 Caple, C., 325
Atkinson, Kate, 216 Carman, John, 22, 36
336 / Index
Carr, Karen, 65 Environment Conservation Act, South Africa,

Carson National Forest, New Mexico, U.S., 141
168 Evans, Clifford, 129
Carver, Martin, 22, 30, 36, 38, 50, 52, 141– Evans, Max, 68
43, 150, 212, 220–21, 222–24
Cayuga, U.S., 259 Fagan, Brian, 7
Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, U.S., 162, 323 Federal Land Policy and Management Act,
Charter for the Conservation of Places of Cul- U.S., 3
tural Significance. See Burra Charter, Aus- Fiske, J., 108, 110
tralia Flannery, Kent, 195
Chavez, Martin, 267 Ford, James, 194–96
Childe, Alberto, 128 Fort Ancient culture, U.S., 269
Cirencester, Gloucestershire, U.K., 35 Foucault, M., 82
Clark, Grahame, 46 Fowler, Peter, 121
Clarke, A., 234 Fried, Morton, 66
Clean Water Act, U.S., 3 Fuery, P., 95–96
Clegg, S., 99–100
Clinton, Bill, 262, 266–67 Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 25
Coe, Michael, 195 Galbraith, John, 39
Coles Creek culture, U.S., 194 Galvin, Denis, 266
Contingent Valuation Method (CVM), 31 Ganondagan, New York, U.S., 260
Coppergate, York, Yorkshire, U.K., 211, 217 Garnsey, Peter, 65
Cotter, Maria M., 93 Gates, Henry Louis, Jr., 67
Coyne, Father George, 261 Getty Conservation Institute, California, U.S.,
Cranbourne Chase, Dorset, U.K., 32 323, 328
Giddens, Anthony, 23, 25, 27
Daniels, S., 94 Giza Pyramids, Egypt, 301
Darvill, Timothy, 30, 50, 52 Gonzaga 1, Qudeni, KwaZulu-Natal, South
Deacon, J., 145 Africa, 146, 149
de Andrade, Mário, 128 Gooreng Gooreng, Australia, 239, 240
Deganawidah (Iroquois Confederacy founder), Gooreng Gooreng Cultural Heritage Project,
260 Australia, 236–38, 240
Demeritt, D., 94 Grand Canyon, Arizona, U.S., 62
Dinkins, David, 255 Great Basin, Nevada, U.S., 64
Dodson, Patrick, 238 Great Wall of China, 301
Domenici, Peter, 266 Gregory, D., 94–95, 201
Dongoske, Kurt, 251, 270 Grenville, Jane, 212–13
Doyel, D., 197 Groube, Les, 32–33
Drakensberg, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa, Guadalquivir Valley, Spain, 65
153 Gumbooya, Sydney, New South Wales, Aus-
Duarte, Paulo, 128–29, 132 tralia, 95–96, 98, 105–7
Dunnell, R. C., 80 Gumerman, George, 5
Ebert, Jim, 174, 175 Habermas, J., 128

Eddy, John, 263 Haddon, A. C., 137
Endangered Species Act, U.S., 3, 262 Hall, A., 144
English Heritage, U.K., 7, 31, 305, 307, 310, Hambledon Hill, Dorset, U.K., 32
314, 315, 321, 331–33 Hatton, A., 321
Index / 337
Hauptman, Laurence, 256 K2-Mapungubwe, Limpopo Valley, South

Hedonic Pricing Method (HPM), 31 Africa, 153
Heeten, the Netherlands, 297, 16.3 Koch, Ed, 15
Heidegger, Martin, 24 Kristiansen, K., 6
Hempel, Carl, 195 Kropotkin, Peter, 45, 46
Hengistbury Head, Dorset, U.K., 32 KwaZulu-Natal Heritage Act, South Africa,
Heritage Lottery Fund (HFL), U.K., 305, 320 151
hermeneutic model, 22, 24–25, 25, 26, 27,
27–28, 38–39 Lake, Handsome, 260
Herrmann, J., 130 Lambrick, George, 36
Hirth, H. G., 169 Lavine, S. D., 89
Historical Monuments Commission (HMC), Lees, W. B., 117
South Africa, 138–39, 141, 144–45 Lightfoot, K., 234
Historic Sites Act, U.S., 114 Lipe, William, 29, 30
Hitchens, Christopher, 70 Little Bighorn, Montana, U.S., 283
Hopewell culture, U.S., 269 Louisiana Project, U.S., 194, 195
Hopi, U.S., 251, 270, 281–84, 334 Lubbock, John, 44, 45
Hufford, Mary, 9
Hunt, A., 77 MacNeish, Richard, 195, 196
Maiden Castle, Dorset, U.K., 32
Indian Reorganization Act, U.S., 252, 253 Mamba, Thukela Valley, KwaZulu-Natal,
Indicatieve Kaart van Archeologische Waar- South Africa, 151
den (IKAW), the Netherlands, 290, 294, Mansfield, N., 95–96
296, 297, 299 Marksville culture, U.S., 194
Inlet Valley project. See Ithaca, Finger Lakes, Martin Heidegger, 25
New York, U.S. Mathers, Clay, 318
Inskeep, R., 145 Mbeki, President, 153
International Council on Monuments and Sites McManamon, F. P., 321
(ICOMOS), 165, 231, 304–5, 309, 318 Meggers, Betty, 129
Iroquois, U.S., 257, 259, 260 Middle Woodland period, 68
Ithaca, Finger Lakes, New York, U.S., 259 Miriuwung Gajerrong land rights, Australia,
236
Jigonhsasee, 260 Mississippian culture, U.S., 68, 194
John Dube House, Durban, KwaZulu-Natal, Moratto, Michael, 6
South Africa, 140 Morris, Richard, 325
Johnson, B., 201 Morris, William, 327
Joinville, Santa Catarina, Brazil, 129 Mountainair, New Mexico, U.S., 174
Jorvik Viking Center, York, Yorkshire, U.K., Mount Graham, Arizona, U.S., 260–62
211, 213, 216 Mount Orgueil Castle, Jersey, Channel Is-
Judge, W. James, 197 lands, 324
Mount Pleasant, Dorset, U.K., 32
Karp, I., 89 Mount Shasta, California, U.S., 267–68, 270
Kelly, Roger, 6 Murray, T., 228, 230, 232
Kennisatlas Projekt (Atlas of Archaeological Museum of Brazilian Coffee, São Paulo,
Knowledge), the Netherlands, 298 Brazil, 131
Kerr, James Semple, 319–20, 328
King, Tom, 118–19 National Archeological Database (NADB),
Kirch, P., 234 U.S., 116
338 / Index
National Environmental Policy Act, U.S., 285 Porcupine Creek, Campbell County, Wyo-
National Heritage Resources Act, South Af- ming, U.S., 218–20
rica, 139, 149, 150 Porteous, J. D., 96
National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA), Preservation of Natural and Historical Monu-
U.S., 3, 4, 60, 114–16, 192, 196, 197, 206, ments, Relics and Antiques Act, South Af-
207, 218, 254, 276, 277, 278, 285, 286 rica, 138
National Monuments Act, South Africa, 139– Price, C. A., 326
40, 141, 151 Price, H. Marcus, III, 254, 255
National Monuments Council (NMC), South Pronapa (National Program of Archaeological
Africa, 139–41, 144–46, 149–50, 154 Research), Brazil, 129
National Park Service (NPS), U.S., 193, 196, Pueblo, U.S., 67, 164, 179, 266, 322
322 pueblos, 62–63, 67, 198
National Register of Historic Places (NRHP), Purvis, T., 77
U.S., 12, 60, 61, 61, 114–22, 160–61, 162,
163, 164, 170, 175, 178, 192–93, 196, Rapid Ethnographic Assessment Project
200, 204, 218, 276, 278, 283 (REAP), U.S., 322
National Trust, U.K., 46, 305, 313–15, 321 Richardson, Bill, 266
National Wildlife Refuge System Administra- Rickman, Thomas, 325
tion Act, U.S., 3 Rio Arriba County, New Mexico, U.S., 4, 4,
Native American Graves Protection and Re- 160–62, 162, 163, 164–66, 167, 169, 171,
patriation Act (NAGPRA), U.S., 221, 254 175, 178, 178–79, 179, 181, 182, 184
Natural and Historical Monuments Act, Ritchie, Ian, 212–13
South Africa, 138 Roberts, Bob, 268
Navajo, U.S., 252, 281, 282 Rogers, Jerry, 268
New York City, New York, U.S., 255, 256– Rubbish Theory, Thompson’s, 52
59, 14.2 Rubuntja, Wenten, 238
Noble, W. E., 117
Nunamiut, northern Alaska, 64 Sahlins, M., 234
Nunamiut Eskimo, 63–64 Saller, Richard, 65
Santa Fe Trail, U.S., 68
Pardoe, C., 231, 233 Schiffer, Michael, 5
Parthenon, Athens, Greece, 301 Schliemann, Heinrich, 183
Passive Resistance Site, Durban, KwaZulu- Schuler, Raymond, 255
Natal, South Africa, 140 Seneca, U.S., 259
Paulista Museum, São Paulo, Brazil, 131 Serpent Mound, Ohio, U.S., 269
Peacock, E., 119 Service, Elman, 66
Pearson, M., 321 Sharpton, Reverend Al, 255
Peck, John Mason, 64 Sherratt, Andrew, 23
Petroglyph National Monument, New Short, J. R., 96
Mexico, U.S., 265, 265–67 Shoshone, Wyoming, U.S., 64
phenomenology, 24–27 South African Heritage Resources Agency
Philippot, P., 324 (SAHRA), South Africa, 149, 150, 152, 153
Pitjantjatjara, Australia, 238, 239 South African National Society (SANS),
Planning Policy Guidance notes (PPGs) 137–38
(PPG15 and PPG16), U.K., 212, 215, 217– Southern African Association of Archaeolo-
18, 220, 222–23 gists (SAAA), South Africa, 141–43, 145
Plaquemine culture, U.S., 194 Stahl, Ann, 66–67
Ponsich, Michel, 65 Standaard Archeologische Inventarisatie,
Index / 339
(Standard Archaeological Survey, SAI), the Troy, western Turkey, 183

Netherlands, 292 Tuan, Y-F., 89
State Historic Preservation Office (SHPO), Tutelo, U.S., 259
U.S., 161, 164, 180, 197, 205
Sterkfontein Valley, South Africa, 153 Ulm, S. T., 240
Steward, Julian, 64 UNESCO (United Nations Educational Scien-
Stonehenge, Wiltshire, U.K., 35, 264 tific and Cultural Organization), 47, 67,
Stonehenge World Heritage Site (WHS), 126, 301–2, 304–5, 307
Wiltshire, U.K., 301, 306, 311–12, 318 USDA Forest Service, U.S., 168, 218, 333
Stukeley, William, 23
Suffolk Park, New South Wales, Australia, van Riet Lowe, C., 144
97, 99 Vargas, Getúlio (Brazilian president), 128
Sullivan, Alan, 62, 63 Vogel, S., 90
Sullivan, S., 321
Wilderness Act, U.S., 3
Tallbull, William, 264 Willis, Robert, 325
Tassie II shipwreck. See Byron Bay, New Wintu, U.S., 267
South Wales, Australia Wollongbar shipwreck. See Bryon Bay, New
Taylor, Walter, 58 South Wales, Australia
Tchefuncte culture, U.S., 194 Woody Head, New South Wales, Australia,
Tehuacan Valley project, Puebla, Mexico, 195 100–101
Texas Panhandle, 68 World Heritage Site (WHS), defined, 301–3
Thomas, David, 64, 262 Wylie, A., 92
Thompson, Michael, 51–52 Wyoming, U.S., 212, 218
Thrift, N., 94
Tierra Amarilla, Rio Arriba, New Mexico, Yaegl, Australia, 100
U.S., 168 York, Yorkshire, U.K., 36, 38, 211–12, 215–
Tkahaanaye, Ontario, Canada, 260 16, 217, 219, 220–21
Torrence, Robin, 234 Yorta Yorta land rights, Australia, 236
Travel Cost Method (TCM), 31 Yuma Proving Ground survey, U.S., 198, 199,
Tribal Historic Preservation Offices (THPOs), 199, 200, 200, 202, 204–6
U.S., 164, 196–97
Trouillot, Michel-Rolph, 121 Zuni, U.S., 251, 270, 271

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HERITAGE

Cultural Heritage Studies

Florida A&M University, Tallahassee

Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Archaeological Assessment

Edited by Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little

University Press of Florida

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

University Press of Florida

In memory of Dorothy A. Humpf

1. Introduction: Archaeological value in a world context 1

I. Archaeology and heritage

II. Archaeology in context

IV. Managing valued places

List of Contributors 331

I am delighted that Heritage of Value, Archaeology of Renown: Reshaping Ar-

community’s self identity, as practitioners we need to be careful about how the

AAHRG Avebury Archaeological and Historical Research Group

OAS Organization of American States

Clay Mathers, Timothy Darvill, and Barbara J. Little

We intend this book to be a call to action. Our essential purpose is to enjoin

Concepts of value and importance have been influenced by numerous factors

woodlands, battlefields, trails, and hedgerows. The multiplication of categories

Federal Legislation Year passed by U.S. Congress

Wilderness Act 1964

have influenced archaeology in a profound way as descendent and local commu-

legislation is to be interpreted and implemented and, more recently, new direc-

Addressing and changing practice

In practical terms, addressing and changing practice means thinking differently,

tice is referred to as cultural resource management (CRM), cultural heritage

Heritage of value: An outline

vocal approach to determining significance. The public nature of archaeology

Theory and practice

Politics and representativeness

Heritage and accountability

Critical and reflective historiography

Glassow, M. A. 1977. Issues in evaluating the significance of archaeological resources.

Archaeology and heritage

“Sorted for ease and whiz”?

Archaeological resource management is not what it used to be. Increasing com-

in the development of archaeological resource management. In Britain, it is

A hermeneutic model of value and importance systems

In essence, the problem faced by archaeologists in justifying their work, or mak-

Heiddegger’s work was later developed by Hans-Georg Gadamer (1975) to

Metalanguage & Specialist Preknowledge

Applying the hermeneutic model

That the process of valuation in archaeological resource management is histori-

Value systems in archaeology

Economic Economic potential

Source: Based on Lipe 1984, Figure 1.

Value system Application

Use value Archaeological research

Source: Based on Darvill 1993 and 1995.

Importance systems in archaeology

In thinking about importance, attention focuses not on the place of archaeology

Quantitative systems and scoring schemes

a) the physical characteristics of the site type (for example, whether an

Combining these scores allowed different strategies to be ranked. As a result, a

Threat scale Physical characteristics (natural decay trajectory)

Source: Based on Groube 1978.

Importance scale Criteria