Lectura Obligatoria 3

Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, Vol. 11, No.
2, June 2004 (
C 2004)
Landscapes, Houses, Bodies, Things: “Place”

and the Archaeology of Inuit Imaginaries
Peter Whitridge1
Although the dichotomization of space and place has spawned a lively archaeolog-
ical discussion, it threatens to devolve into a troublesome binary like sex/gender.
Local place-making and universalizing spatial science are not so neatly segre-
gated. Rather than dividing and bounding the notion of an investment of locations
with meaning, it can be extended to describe the intricate topologies of bodies and
things, as well as landscapes. Places emerge as sites of the hybrid articulation of
representations, practices, and things, as spatialized imaginaries. The notion of
imaginaries and the rethinking of place are illustrated with Inuit archaeological
and ethnographic examples.
KEY WORDS: place; landscape; imaginaries; Thule Inuit.
INTRODUCTION
With the emergence of a landscape archaeology focused on practical, mean-

ingful, and sociopolitical aspects of people’s relationship to the natural and built
environment, place has increasingly acquired a specialized sense opposed to space,
as the local and the meaningful are opposed to the universal and the objective. Like
the sex/gender dichotomy before it, this problematically reifies a nature/culture di-
vide, while limiting the discursive potential of an interesting and useful concept.
The inadequacy of the space/place dichotomy is illustrated below through a con-
sideration of Inuit geographic knowledge practices. Although these embody many
of the features considered hallmarks of a socially embedded, place-based relation
to landscape, they also embrace instrumental navigational concepts and a variety
of material technologies for mapping, traveling through, and physically inscribing
the environment. Western spatial sciences, on the other hand, are not limited to
1 Archaeology
Unit, Department of Anthropology, Memorial University of Newfoundland, St. John’s,
Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada A1C 5S7; e-mail: [email protected].
213
1072-5369/04/0600-0213/0
C 2004 Springer Science+Business Media, Inc.
214 Whitridge
such technical knowledges, things, and practices; they are equally socially embed-
ded, imaginative, and place-making, not to mention thoroughly entwined with the
indigenous knowledges they purportedly trumped. Human spatialities are every-
where complex and heterogeneous, at each historical moment articulating embod-
ied actors with a simultaneously symbolic, social, and biophysical world.
Place is regarded here as the effect of a general movement of thought and
practice that imbricates the real and the representational at complexly layered
sites, and along heterogeneous seams. The investment of particular locations with
meaning (place-making) is a ubiquitous social and cognitive process. Looking
more closely at the archaeologically and ethnographically well-described Inuit
case, networks of places and paths can be discerned at a host of spatial scales, from
the vast expanses of the arctic landscape and sea ice to the intricate topologies
of houses, bodies, and tools. Homologies, however fragmentary, between these
toposemantic arenas point to a field of circulation of representations that can be
labelled “the imaginary,” and its regional networks “imaginaries.” A place can
be thought of as a spatialized imaginary, a nexus of imaginary significations at
the site of its intersection with the real. The notion of imaginaries opened up by
this rethinking of place usefully orients us to hybrid past realities constituted by
historically emergent networks of representations, embodied practices, and things.
The archaeological implications of the notion of hybrid imaginaries are developed
further below through a prehistoric Inuit (Classic Thule, ca. A.D. 1200–1450) case
study of place-based imaginaries from the central Canadian Arctic.
SPACE AND PLACE
In an increasingly common usage that first crystallized in phenomenological

geography (Relph, 1976; Tuan, 1977; and see Heidegger, 1977, for the roots of
this formulation), space is taken to refer to the universal, abstract, quantifiable
quality of spatial extension, especially as conceived and deployed by objectifying
sciences like physics or urban planning or, for that matter, archaeology. Place, on
the other hand, is taken to refer to a qualitative, historically emergent, experien-
tially grounded mode of inhabiting or dwelling in the world that invests particular
locations with personal and collective significance. Tilley (1994) employs such a
dichotomous characterization as the foundational premise of a new phenomenolog-
ical landscape archaeology. Although the terminology varies (de Certeau’s [1984]
usage, for example, more or less reverses the above senses of space and place, and
Lefebvre [1991] defines varieties of “space” that include the experiential dimen-
sion frequently designated “place” by others), similarly dualistic conceptions of
spatiality are frequently encountered in the social sciences and humanities.
The sundering of space and place, the global and the local, has proved to be
an extremely fruitful move for archaeology. Together with Foucault’s (1977, 1980)
“Place” and the Archaeology of Imaginaries 215
influential analyses of the spatial modalities of surveillance and domination, it has

helped open up important avenues of critical discourse on the oppressive power
relations embedded in Western scientific, bureaucratic, political, and commercial
representations and manipulations of human spatial practices. These have been
explored by historical archaeologists (e.g., Delle, 1999; various contributors to
Delle et al., 2000), adding an archaeological voice to the interdisciplinary dialogue
on capitalism, postcoloniality, and the state (see also Gosden, 2001; Johnson, 1996;
McGuire and Paynter, 1991).
Tilley (1994), Barrett (1994), and others have pursued the complementary
path, emphasizing the construction and meaningful experience of places, and of
landscapes knit together by paths of movement among networks of places. This
approach has been widely criticized and emulated by prehistoric archaeologists,
as part of the expanding discourse around the notion of landscape archaeology of
which this special issue is a part (for overviews, see, e.g., Anschuetz et al., 2001;
Knapp and Ashmore, 1999). Bender (1998) combines a bit of both approaches
in an innovative analysis of Stonehenge that explores the continual reworking of
meanings and social practices around the stones, from their creation, modification,
and reappropriations in the remote past, to contemporary struggles between coun-
tercultural groups and heritage authorities over rights of access to the stones for
festivals.
While Bender successfully evokes the creative place-making of the free-
festivallers (and see especially Morris and Goodwin, 1996), she is somewhat less
sympathetic to the archaeologists, bureaucrats, and others who opposed them, but
who are likewise engaged in a creative and socioculturally explicable appropriation
of the site. Indeed, the officials’ relations to the stones could often be characterized
as a central part of their life projects, insofar as they have pursued university
degrees and careers in archaeology or heritage management. Surely ringing the
stones in barbed wire and a phalanx of riot police, or probing the soil beneath them
to analyze and exhibit the finds, are as much varieties of creative place-making
as holding a rave among them, or erecting the stones in the first place. In each
case, certain meanings surrounding the site are actively stabilized, reworked, or
created, and given social substance through being drawn into networks of people
and practices, and linked to other places and things. The meaningful, cultural,
and phenomenological are not on the side of individuals and collectives, and the
dominating, objectifying, and universalizing on the side of government, industry,
and technoscience. Scientists and technocrats are also individuals and members
of society, and everyone’s place-making articulates with a common (and limited)
material reality that is the object of perpetual social, political, economic, and
symbolic struggles.
The space/place distinction comes to bear a suspicious resemblance to another
categorical divide that likewise proved useful at a certain moment of theoretical
debate and then began to get in the way, namely that between sex, understood as
216 Whitridge
a stable, biological, precultural ground of bodily difference between women and

men, and gender, understood as a culturally and historically specific elaboration
of women’s and men’s roles and statuses that somehow eludes the materiality
of the body. The criticism eventually leveled at the sex/gender dichotomy is that
there is no universal category of phenomena that is everywhere labeled bodily
nature or biology, but rather socially negotiated and endlessly variable cultural
constructions of what counts as nature or bodily essence (e.g., Butler, 1993; Fausto-
Sterling, 2000). The individual bodies that are the ultimate referent of any general
understanding of corporeality have always already been given unique shape by
history, environment, culture, and biography, as bioarchaeology readily attests, and
so cannot be a neutral ground for gender. Not only “gender” but “sex” is historically
and cross-culturally unstable. Striving to imagine a precultural, ahistoric body
leads to fantasies of wild men and children raised by animals, and to genetic
determinisms. Bodies cannot be disentangled from the cultural ways of knowing
and the social practices that have shaped them, and on which they in turn impinge.
It is precisely this local, historical imbrication of the real and the representational
that body studies must seek to elucidate. As Butler (1993) put it:
For surely bodies live and die; eat and sleep; feel pain, pleasure; endure illness and violence;
and these “facts,” one might skeptically proclaim, cannot be dismissed as mere construction.
Surely there must be some kind of necessity that accompanies these primary and irrefutable
experiences. And surely there is. But their irrefutability in no way implies what it might
mean to affirm them and through what discursive means. (p. xi)
For similar reasons, we need to avoid the tendency to split the objectifica-
tion of space from its meaningful elaboration, abandoning one to technoscience
and claiming the other for culturalist interpretation. Spatial science does not exact
a wholesale abstraction, alienation, and devaluation of space, but rather partic-
ular, historically and culturally intelligible kinds of valuation of it, no less than
do indigenous occupants of “places.” Although particular spatial representations
or practices are open to political economic critique, to suggest that all modern or
Western or capitalist spatialities mark such a profound break with traditional place-
based ones that they cannot even be described with the same words and concepts is
to reinscribe the essentialist divide between the West and the rest that anthropolo-
gists have finally come to contest. There is no imaginative place-world wholly apart
from quantifiably real landscapes, bodies, and things, but neither is there a material
world that is not thoroughly invested with significance as a precondition of human
thought and action. Neither one nor the other has ontological autonomy or pri-
ority. Rather than argue over the explanatory precedence of spatio-environmental
or socio-symbolic phenomena, we need to build new conceptual frameworks that
acknowledge the mutually generative importance of each, as the notion of embod-
iment has done for sex and gender (Csordas, 1999), and developmental systems
theory for genetics and developmental context (Oyama, 2000).
There are various ways to move beyond the space/place impasse. A symmet-
ric pair of approaches would unveil Western spatialities as “soft” and cultural, and
non-Western place-based knowledges as “hard” and objective, redistributing and

balancing the putative properties of each. Science studies (e.g., Franklin, 1995;
Hess, 1997; Latour, 1999) tackles the former, exploring the discursive possibil-
ities opened up by the recognition that scientists and bureaucrats are also social
and cultural creatures, and their practices and conceptions historically constituted.
Latour (1987, 1990) and others (Law, 1986) have considered the production of
bureaucratic and scientific spatialities historically and ethnographically, in terms
of their local cultural logics, technologies, and social conditions. Sociologists and
geographers have also produced increasingly sophisticated self-critical analyses
of the production of spatial knowledges (e.g., Crang and Thrift, 1999; Harley,
1992; Lefebvre, 1991), a move mirrored by the turn towards greater methodologi-
cal reflexivity in archaeology (Chadwick, 2003; Gero, 1996; Hodder, 1999; Lucas,
2001).
These sorts of analyses draw back the curtain to expose the mechanisms by
which authoritative discourses on space (and other things) are produced. Western
spatial sciences (e.g., topology, cosmology, geography, sociology, engineering,
architecture, planning) and the technologies that actualize them (statistics, carto-
graphic projection, CAD, GIS, total stations, GPS, etc.) turn out to be analytically
pliable social, cultural, and historical objects. Putatively universal spatial scien-
tific discourses are themselves place-based and place-making practices, rooted in
labs, field sites, classrooms, archives, factories, and offices, and helping to con-
stitute particular spatial technologies, practices, and representations as part of the
world-making projects of individuals and factions within society. A cartographer
employing the most elaborate technoscientific approaches to precisely quantify
spatial relationships (e.g., analyzing satellite images) is not less engaged with
the locations she manipulates than the native elder who presences a mythic time
in telling a story about some of the same locations. Rather, the two are differ-
ently engaged in imaginative projects of practically and discursively realizing a
complexly textured reality. In each case, the location has been invested with sig-
nificance, drawn into other networks of meaning, and articulated within the logic
of a culturally distinctive way of knowing.
The effects the cartographer and the storyteller are capable of producing may
be of different orders of magnitude, but they are ultimately intelligible only within
the discursive parameters within which each operates. They cannot be arrayed
along a simple continuum of either objectivity or authenticity, but are merely
different, addressed to different ends, making different knowledge claims, and
employing different material and symbolic and social resources along the way.
As Latour (1987, 1999) would say, neither science nor storytelling escapes from
the network of its own production. As long as the cartographer can draw on the
resources of labs, libraries, universities, and a military–industrial–bureaucratic in-
frastructure to produce and guarantee the accuracy of the instruments and images—
in other words, to the extent that the cartographer’s analyses and interpretations
circulate along the filaments of a technoscientific network that guarantees their
218 Whitridge
intelligibility—they are capable of being assessed as more or less true and accu-
rate. The same holds for the social networks and cultural logic that guarantee the
intelligibility of the elder’s stories and their efficacy in transmitting knowledge of
water sources, hunting locations, clan identities, or moral precepts.
The cartographer who immerses herself in maps and landscapes, who draws
her professional and personal identities from these things, is no more deeply and
essentially embedded in an alienated pursuit of instrumental power/knowledge
than the elder is incapable of realizing his knowledge in a positive, instrumental,
or political fashion. There is not an alienated technocrat on the one hand and an
authentic human subject on the other, but only hybrid mixes of reason and emo-
tion, person and culture, technique and meaning, observation and interpretation.
Space, it might be argued, is merely a particular (Western, capitalist, modern) case
of place, differing from other cultural modes of place-making not in the funda-
mental character of its representations, but in its vast material proliferation and
practical insinuation in the lives of so many people (see Latour, 1993, for a fuller
development of this antiessentialist critique of the modern/nonmodern divide). The
triumph of Western spatialities is a consequence not of their transcendent objectiv-
ity, but of their close historical articulation with states, corporations, and various
fields of technoscience over the course of the emergence of a hegemonic global
capitalism.
The complementary tack would be to explore the materiality, coherence, and
objectivity of place-based knowledge practices. Arguably, this has been part of
the anthropological project all along. In his pioneering ethnographic research on
Baffin Island, Boas (1964 [1888]) attended closely to Inuit spatial models and
practices, reproducing accurate hand-drawn maps of the convoluted Cumberland
Sound coastline, and documenting the correspondence between Inuit settlement
systems and patterns of sea ice formation. For later cultural and human ecologists,
Inuit spatiality expressed a social and economic accommodation to environmental
necessity (Kemp, 1971; Wenzel, 1981), or what evolutionary ecologists regard
in a Darwinian idiom as the behavioral outcome of adaptive–selective processes
(Smith, 1991). From an ethnoecological and ethnolinguistic perspective, Inuit spa-
tiality expresses a coherent, if idiosyncratic, symbolic framework for modeling
reality (Fortescue, 1988). From the perspective of indigenous or traditional eco-
logical knowledge (TEK) studies, the relationship of Inuit to their environment
represents something else again: the achievement of a culturally distinctive Inuit
science, based on socially appropriate and objectively verifiable ways of knowing
and appropriating critical resources (Freeman and Carbyn, 1988; Stevenson, 1996).
A difficulty with some early TEK approaches was a tendency to essentialize
indigenous knowledge in the effort to contrast it, however favorably, with Western
science, setting up a series of categorical oppositions in much the same terms as
Tilley distinguishes space and place (e.g., Berkes, 1993). In the recent enthusiasm
for TEK there is a danger that local knowledge will be reduced to its positive,
science-like content as it is mobilized in state-sponsored resource co-management
regimes, a trend mirrored by the exploitation of indigenous (e.g., ethnobotanical)

knowledge by Western commercial interests. In turn, this has set in motion efforts
to secure intellectual property protection for TEK (Brush, 1993), potentially fur-
ther circumscribing and co-opting socially complex networks of knowledge and
practices of local cultural reproduction. An emerging political ecological critique
of such processes takes the ontological status of “nature” or “the environment” as a
key field of political, economic, social, and symbolic struggle in the negotiation of
notions of place, modernity, development, indigeneity, gender, class, etc. (Braun
and Castree, 1998; Castree and Braun, 2001; Descola and Pálsson, 1996; Escobar,
1999; Jones and Cloke, 2002). These various strands of ecological anthropology
(and close equivalents in geography and sociology) all recognize the obstinate ma-
teriality of the environment and the real efficacy of indigenous engagements with
it. Recent approaches go further, equally addressing the conceptual systematicity,
social embeddedness, and practical utility of non-Western knowledge practices,
without discriminating a priori against either the scientist or the native. Place-
based knowledges are revealed to be as rigorous (and as socially mediated and
conceptually idiosyncratic) as technoscientific ones; place is merely a particular
(non-Western, communal, local) case of space.
A middle way through the space/place dilemma would be to hold the two
terms in a constructive analytical tension, for example, by looking at the dialec-
tic between global (space-related) political economic processes and local (place-
based) stratagems of cultural resistance (Escobar, 2001), or exploring the novel
(and proliferating) hybrid spatial formations that defy scale and locality, like those
addressed by the neologism “glocal.” Alternatively, the space/place dyad could
be seen as merely a complementary set of generalizing and particularizing discur-
sive moves, like the centripetal movement of formalization and purification and
the centrifugal movement of fragmentation and hybridization identified by Bakhtin
(1981) as basic historical features of all discourse. The angle pursued further below
is to return to the germ of the notion of place (as any meaningful site) and pick up
alternative discursive threads, effectively abandoning the premise that place is fun-
damentally opposed to certain modern spatial knowledges and practices. Rather
than restricting its usage by opposing it to technical thought and practice, or by
confining it to the scale of sites on a landscape, the notions of place and place-
ness are radically extended to embrace the meaningful constitution of sites and
surfaces of thought and action at any interesting scale, from cosmos, landscape,
and community down to individual buildings, bodies, and things.
INUIT GEOGRAPHIES
Inuit toponymic, ethnographic, and ethnoarchaeological studies disclose the

vast amount of cultural information tied to the land at particular places (Correll,
1976; Fossett, 1996; Müller-Wille, 1987; Nuttal, 1992, 2001; Spink and Moodie,
220 Whitridge
1972; Stewart et al., 2004). Inuit place names variously consist of categorically
or visually descriptive labels (e.g., nuvuk = “point of land” vs. tikiraq = “index
finger,” as names for points of land), or references to things or activities associated
with the locale, including economically useful (or environmentally prominent)
animal, plant, or mineral resources; particular harvesting or processing activities;
suitability of a location for camping or travel at various seasons; a mythic or
magical occurrence or being; a memorable historical event or person (see Burch,
1998; Rasmussen, 1930a, 1931; Wheeler, 1953, for illustrative lists of place names
and their meanings). Not only does the descriptive content of place names facilitate
wayfinding in a sometimes unfamiliar landscape (Rasmussen, 1930b, p. 26), but as
Burch notes for the regional groups (“nations”) of northwest Alaska: “Simply by
learning the place names, one acquired considerable knowledge of one’s national
heritage” (1998, pp. 12–13).
Such knowledge was acquired through deliberate instruction and recitation
in both communal and intimate social settings. Many settlements had one or more
buildings used as community festival houses (in North Alaska, qariyit, sing.qargi,
following Larson, 1995) in which myths, histories, and personal experiences ref-
erencing places were regularly transmitted in the form of stories, songs, rites,
and dances. Songs often evoke intense emotional longings regarding the land,
especially nostalgia for places visited in youth (e.g., Arima, 1976; Rasmussen,
1929, 1930b, 1931; Roberts and Jenness, 1925), while conveying real biographi-
cal and biophysical detail. Similarly, Minc (1986) has shown that positive technical
knowledge was embedded in Inuit myths and other seemingly unrelated discursive
genres. Place names and the historical and environmental information associated
with them were recited at length as travel directions (Fossett, 1996; Rasmussen,
1930b), and in a “running narrative” while travelling on the land with elders (Burch,
1998). Correll (1976, p. 178) reports that at Unalakleet place names are strung to-
gether into rhymes or tongue-twisters that children play at reciting at top speed.
Each rhyme was a mnemonic consisting of the sequence of places encountered
along a conventional travel route that began at or intersected the home village.
Together, they constituted a web of intersecting paths and nodal places perfectly
congruent with the territory of the Unaalirmiut (i.e., the people of Unalakleet, sing.
Unaalirmiuk).
Place names index a huge corpus of myths, legends, proverbs, history, and
tales of encounters with people, animals, and other beings while living and trav-
eling on the land. The centrality of place names to Inuit spatiality is reflected in
their capacity to simultaneously archive a diverse array of cultural knowledge in
a tangible, geographically anchored idiom, impart cultural and personal meanings
to this same topography, and provide individuals with mnemonic devices for nav-
igating an often trackless arctic landscape. Topography is made intelligible and
mapped into memory through its articulation with a store of cultural knowledge,
and at the same time the community comes into being through the enculturation
of individuals to a local history embedded in places (Nuttal, 1992). Nuttal refers

to the culturally idiosyncratic, historically sedimented, community-constituting
landscape of Greenlandic Inuit as “memoryscape,” with much the same sense that
Basso (1996) gives to the term “place-world,” or with which Ingold (1993), Bender
(1998), Tilley (1994), Thomas (2001), and many others inflect “landscape.”
It follows that place and landscape are closely bound up with personal and
collective identity. Throughout the Inuit and Yupik (together, formerly, “Eskimo”)
world, individual societies were conventionally named by appending the suffix
-miut (people of, inhabitants of) to the name of a place within their territory, such
as a principal village or geographic feature. Some speakers make a terminological
distinction between places that are part of their -miut inheritance, and those that
properly belong to neighboring -miut groups, through a suffix marking a place as
one of which one has only heard reports, and the retention of nonlocal dialectical
variants for nonlocal places (Correll, 1976, p. 176). Social identity is mediated
by toponymy (and see Müller-Wille, 2001, on Inuit use of toponymy and modern
spatial technologies to mold new political identities in arctic Quebec).
Individual personhood is also tied to the land, as expressed in the genre of the
autobiographical song (see above). Correll (ibid, p. 178) cites an Unaalirmiuk’s
contention that every personal name in use corresponded to a place name within
Unaalirmiut territory. While such personal place names were not ubiquitous across
the Arctic, the notion that names represent a constituent essence of the entities that
possess them does occur widely. One’s name (ateq) is a kind of soul—a name
soul—that combines with a body, breath, and personal soul to form a heteroge-
neous, composite person (Correll, 1976; Nuttal, 1992). The ateq transmits many
of the social relations and obligations of its previous possessors; individuals are
addressed using the kin term appropriate to the person from whom the name soul
was most recently inherited. Like place names, personal names evoke images and
memories, rights and obligations, beyond their immediate referent (Nuttal, 1992,
p. 67). People and places share the significant quality of being named.
By means of names, an Eskimo has access to the universe of things that have been named:
taijaujat = the named things. Empirical and non-empirical entities have names. Animate
and inanimate things have names. Human and non-human beings have names. In fact, these
dichotomies are not definitive of the Eskimo view of things. Men have names and the nuna
[land] has names. Man and land are related. (Correll, 1976, p. 178)
Traditional Inuit spatiality was not, however, limited to inventories of place

names and place-based knowledge practices. It also consisted of elaborate navi-
gational concepts, skills, and technologies for moving through space along tens
of thousands of kilometres of traditional travel routes (Ross, 1976), including
spatial nomenclatures designating cardinal points and directions of movement
(Fortescue, 1988; Gagné, 1968), and way-finding techniques such as determining
direction from the orientation of snow drifts (which record prevailing winds), dis-
cerning the configuration of distant land, ice, and water in the “sky map” reflected
222 Whitridge
in low-lying clouds (Spink and Moodie, 1972), and orienting oneself to named
stars and constellations (MacDonald, 1998). It included explicit ecological, geo-
graphical, and technical knowledges imparted pedagogically, as well as practical,
embodied knowledges acquired experientially and embedded in the skills of mak-
ing and handling boats, sleds, harvesting equipment, and temporary shelters while
travelling on the land at all seasons. The profoundly embodied character of these
habitual spatial practices is registered in the musculoskeletal stress markers and
other osteological pathologies they produced. “Kayaker’s clavicle” and compres-
sion fractures of the vertebrae related to sled travel are among the most common
pathologies in prehistoric and historic Inuit skeletal series (Hawkey, 1988; Hawkey
and Merbs, 1995; Merbs, 1983; Steen and Lane, 1998).
Navigational competence, and the practical means to move oneself, one’s
family, and accumulated stores and equipment across the landscape, varied be-
tween individuals according to such things as age, gender, health, wealth, kinship
networks, and life history (Peterson, 2003). For example, skins for umiak (open
skin boat) covers and wood for boat frames or sleds were strategically limited re-
sources in many areas, and required ingenuity and effort to acquire (Bogojavlensky,
1969; Rasmussen, 1931). These technologies also exacted high maintenance costs.
Umiak skins required constant oiling and dog teams constant feeding, hence inten-
sified harvesting effort to procure dog food and sea mammal oil. Spatial mobility
was not merely a function of geographical knowledge and navigational skill, but
demanded substantial production and expenditure of social and economic capital
in raw material procurement, equipment manufacture and maintenance, cooper-
ative harvesting, exchange, and householding. Such material constraints on, and
expressions of, mobility mean that frequencies of boat parts and sled gear, as well
as the scarce or exotic commodities to which they gave access, provide archaeo-
logical indexes of interhousehold variability in spatial practices (Whitridge, 1999,
2002a).
But perhaps the most striking feature of Inuit ethnogeography was the uti-
lization of material maps and navigational markers to depict topography and travel
routes abstractly. Alongside a rich and culturally distinctive body of place-based
spatial conceptions were technical practices that reified space in a manner hardly
distinguishable from Western scientific spatialities. The traditional genre of the
Inuit map consisted of schematic representations of major topographic features
(coastline, rivers, lakes, relief) drawn in outline or sculpted in relief in snow
or sand, or occasionally sketched in the air (Fossett, 1996; Rasmussen, 1930b;
Spencer, 1955; Spink and Moodie, 1972). Maps were typically created as vi-
sual aids when providing travel directions, and were accompanied by detailed
descriptions of such things as wind and sea conditions, landmarks, available
resources, travel routes, travel times, and the all important place names. Since
maps were normally not portable they had to be memorized as they were pro-
duced, along with the accompanying information so essential to Inuit travel.
The physical map served primarily as a memory aid for the mapmaker and the
observer:
The map served as a mnemonic device during the relating of stories or the description of
intended routes, for the outline drawn in the sand or snow was unimportant when compared
with the names and stories given as various locations were reached in the drawing process.
The progressive drawing of the map recalled the features in the mind of the narrator, and
the naming fixed them in the memory of his observer. (Spink and Moodie, 1972, p. 27)
The map and the recitation of place names together traced a path through a hybrid
socionatural landscape (see below, and Castree and Braun, 2001; Escobar, 1999;
Latour, 1993, 1999, on hybrid socionatures), a simultaneously real and imaginary
geography. The distributed, social character of imaginary geography is reflected in
the participation of whole communities in the production of detailed map dioramas,
as recorded by several nineteenth-century explorers (Fossett, 1996).
Spencer (1955, p. 47) notes that small maps were sometimes incised on
pieces of ivory although these were apparently not used for navigation, and several
specimens of maps carved from wood that were employed by Inuit travellers
were collected in the late nineteenth century in the Ammassalik area (Peterson,
1984). Most of the latter depict the deeply indented, island-studded coast of East
Greenland in sculptural relief (Fig. 1), but at least one example incised on a flat
piece of wood shows a large section of coastline in stylized two-dimensional plan
(Franceschi et al., 2001, plate 26). The nearest prehistoric analogues to such objects
are the eye-level depictions of villages and landscape sometimes incised on bow
drills or other tools, such as a Classic Thule example from northern Baffin Island
(Fig. 2) depicting villages and hunting scenes, among other things. Although no
archaeological examples of Inuit or Yupik maps have been identified (having not,
apparently, been sought systematically), the consistent ethnographic reports of
ephemeral snow and sand maps from the entire area of Inuit and Yupik settlement
suggest that these, at least, were in widespread use prehistorically. In effect, the
objectification of spatial relationships in the form of a physical map, however
temporary, was a traditional mode of the Inuit relationship to place.
The best documented expression of Inuit mapping abilities was the produc-
tion of two dimensional sketch maps with paper and pencil for European explorers
and ethnographers in the early contact period, of which some 150–200 examples
are reported to exist (Fossett, 1996, p. 76). Despite the apparently great chasm
between European cartography and Inuit memoryscape, from at least the early
nineteenth century Inuit from Bering Strait to Labrador produced detailed ren-
derings of convoluted coastlines and interior bodies of water (Fig. 3), or extended
and annotated existing European charts. Observers consistently remarked upon the
ability of their Inuit guides and informants to produce accurate and highly intel-
ligible maps with no or little tutoring in Western cartographic conventions (Boas,
1964 [1888]; Rasmussen, 1931; and see discussions in Correll, 1976; Fossett, 1996;
Lewis, 1997; Ross, 1976; Spink and Moodie, 1972). The strictly two-dimensional
224 Whitridge
Fig. 1. Ammassalingmiut wooden maps of the East Greenland coast (Peterson 1984:624).
cartographic projection was not so alien to the indigenous mapping idiom that
Inuit women and men could not readily execute one with consummate skill.
Indeed, Inuit maps frequently incorporated a convention widespread in native
North America (Harley, 1992; Lewis, 1997, 1998; Warhus, 1998) that could be
considered a refinement and improvement of the bird’s eye projection. Scale was
often transformed on these maps, and likely also on the sand and snow maps on
which they were based, to reflect typical seasonal travel times, with the marking of
daily campsites imposing a kind of temporal grid on the schematized topography.
Spink and Moodie (1972, p. 8) calculate that the scale on an Iglulingmiut map of
northern Foxe Basin varies between 1:2,000,000 and 1:10,000,000, while holding
the relationship between distance on the map and travel time relatively constant.
Fig. 2. Thule drill bow from Arctic Bay (after Maxwell, 1983, p. 84).
Rather than an erroneous distortion of space, this manipulation of scale represents

a correction of the deficiencies of a two (or three) dimensional representation of a
four-dimensional object (a journey). This is a sophisticated form of cartographic
projection analogous to those based on the space-time of latitude and longitude
employed by the Europeans, but aiming at different practical ends and assuming
different technological means for moving through space and reckoning position.
A final illustration of the complex and hybrid (mixing the real and ideal,
the natural and cultural) character of Inuit geographic knowledge practices is the
widespread use of permanent navigational markers and temporary route indicators.
Fig. 3. Netsilingmiut map of western Boothia Isthmus (Rasmussen, 1931, p. 92).

226 Whitridge
Complementing the translation of landscape into abstract inscriptions on snow or

paper, Inuit also inscribed the landscape itself with abstract spatial signs (Hallendy,
1994; Heyes, 2002). Inuksuit (sing.inuksuk) are features consisting of standing
stones, stacked and balanced stones, or substantial stone cairns, occurring singly
or in rows or clusters in a wide variety of landscape settings throughout Inuit-
occupied lands. Ethnographically documented examples served a wide variety of
purposes: as drive fences and blinds for caribou hunting; markers of campsites,
harvesting locales, ceremonial gathering places, or territorial boundaries; memori-
als to an event or person; navigational markers; and ritual objects in their own right.
Hallendy (1994) has collected Inuktitut terms for 20 distinct categories of inuksuk,
recorded dozens of specific functions, and mapped out semantic fields centered on
inuksuit that relate to navigation, harvesting, and spirituality. In their navigational
version, inuksuit were erected on heights of land or coastal promontories to serve as
artificial landmarks or specific directional indicators. Some inuksuit took the form
of stone windows aligned with sighting stones to visually frame the route towards
a distant destination, such as a point or island at or below the horizon (ibid; Heyes,
2002). Although oral historic evidence and associations with Paleoeskimo and
Thule settlement systems suggest that many have great antiquity, there has been
relatively little archaeological attention to inuksuit other than well-defined caribou
drive systems closely associated with settlements (e.g., Grønnow et al., 1983; but
see Plumet, 1985, for an investigation of potential navigational inuksuit). Recent
GPS-based off-site surveys of features (Stewart et al., 2000) and place names and
travel routes (Aporta, 2003) provide useful models for documenting inuksuit in
the interstices between settlement systems that reflect the physical imposition of
large-scale navigational grids across the arctic landscape in the past.
Inuksuit marked many of the locations that were also designated by place
names, and could be considered their material homologs: elements of a nonverbal
discourse on human–animal–land relations, and tools for the practical mediation
of those relations. Given the early-nineteenth-century explorer George Lyon’s ref-
erence to “certain piles of stones” having names (cited in Fossett, 1996, p. 87),
and Hallendy’s documentation of their spiritual importance, inuksuit would also
appear to belong to the universe of quasi-animate named entities. In the Eastern
Arctic some inuksuit are regarded as ancient constructions of the pre-Inuit Tunit
(likely Dorset Paleoskimo) who had “prepared the land” for the Inuit (Hallendy,
1994, p. 406; Rasmussen, 1931), hence the legacy of a long-term social historical
process of appropriation of the arctic landscape. Less permanent variants of the
inuksuk include signposts made of wood, sometimes incised with a pictographic
message (Hoffman, 1895, p. 897), and rows of animal skulls, both of which were
used to indicate the direction recently taken by a travel party or a community on its
seasonal migration. Land and sea were not perceived as a wilderness, a “nature”
opposed to society, but as a socialized and enculturated field of human and nonhu-
man activity, as were the even more profoundly anthropogenic landscapes found
in other parts of the Americas (Denneven, 1992).
EUROPEAN ETHNOGEOGRAPHIES
Early European explorers and colonists in the Arctic likewise made maps,
erected cairns and benchmarks, and assigned place names that reflected or insti-
tuted an imaginary geography. Norse sagas, medieval mappaemundi, and early
Renaissance atlases populated the northwest reaches of the Atlantic Ocean with
fabulous beings inhabiting legendary places like Hy-Brasil and the Isles of the
Blessed (Allen, 1992; Harley, 1992; McGovern, 1994; McPherson, 1997). The
great dissemination of printed maps and books led eventually to the collectivization
and rationalization of these imagined geographies, but nineteenth-century explo-
ration was still driven by fantasies surrounding a northwest passage to Asia, such
as a vast inland sea, or an ice-free polar ocean (Quinn, 1997; Ross, 1997). Tabloids
(some of which sponsored arctic expeditions) and popular novelists supplied these
fantasies with a Gothic visual vocabulary of impossibly rugged mountains and
icescapes (Riffenburg, 1991a,b; Steedman 1995).
Even as coastal charts attained increasing congruence with topographic real-
ity, shedding their marginalia of chimeras and unipeds, the arctic landscape was
mapped into Euro-American consciousness through the assignment of new place
names that evoked the archetypes of Victorian naval geography: royalty, ship’s cap-
tains and officers, wealthy patrons, scientific societies, the home counties. Ships
themselves provided toponyms for numerous coastal features, projecting the rich
body of anxious imagery their names incorporated onto the land and sea: Fury,
Hecla, Erebus, Terror, Alert, Investigator, Resolute, Intrepid. The renaming pro-
cess helped conceal a great irony of the Western geographic project, namely the
extent to which the purported triumph of objective, spatial science over native irra-
tionality and superstition was accomplished though a wholesale assimilation and
appropriation of indigenous geographic knowledge (Harley, 1992; Lewis, 1997,
1998). Although European cartographers possessed the strategic ability to assem-
ble a host of local observations into comprehensive maps, many of these data were
generated by Inuit, in the form of testimony, hand-drawn maps, and chart annota-
tions collected by explorers, whalers, missionaries, and other Western agents. Inuit
frequently guided and supplied these same exploratory and scientific expeditions,
even piloting ships in unfamiliar waters (Fossett, 1996), and provided the labor
and expertise for commercial enterprises (e.g., Cassell, 1992).
The encapsulation and domestication of arctic space for which explorers
claimed credit was the effect of centuries of social, cultural, and economic exchange
and hybridization, and the northern extension of Euro-American sovereignty as
much a project of spatial–scientific conquest as of imaginative place-making. Inuit
spatiality likewise comprehended culturally distinctive variants of many of the
sorts of technologies and knowledge practices commonly reserved to Western
geographic science (maps, navigational landmarks, directional signs, pedagogy),
in addition to an elaborate ethnogeography built around place-names. The theory
and practice of Inuit spatiality were historically emergent within conflicted social
228 Whitridge
fields (Whitridge, 1999), and shaped by centuries of intercultural negotiation of

landscape and territory along thousands of kilometres of frontier with Yupik, Dene,
Cree, Innu, Paleoeskimo, Chukchi, Norse, and others. The cognized landscape of
the Inuit was not less precise or rational for the immense cultural burden it bore,
nor Western geographies devoid of fantasy, emotion, and other subtexts. Space and
place are merely analytically circumscribed moments of a complex, hybrid human
spatiality.
THE UBIQUITY OF PLACENESS
While the dichotomization of space and place now appears overly simplis-
tic, the dialogue it initiated has enriched archaeology by forcing us to attend as
much to the social, discursive, and phenomenological qualities of locations as the
behavioral economies and ecologies that have dominated spatial interpretation in
the past. The notion of a “toposemantic” process of investment of locations with
cultural meanings gives rise not only to an archaeology of landscape, but to an
archaeology of the imagination, insofar as places are in part constructed from and
attached to biophysical reality, material culture, and embodied practices and social
interactions, and in part constituted within the imagination and endowed with a
semiotic omnipotence that defies location, scale, and time. To take a mundane
example, Nuttal (1992) notes that places are not confined to land; seascapes and
icescapes are also encompassed within Inuit ethnogeography. A seasonal icescape
unavoidably confronts us with the imaginative dimensions of place. On the open
waters of Davis Strait, several kilometers from Clyde River on Baffin Island, enor-
mous icebergs often ground in an area of shallow water, becoming fast in late fall
when the sea ice forms. Breathing hole sealing is particularly productive near here,
so as the days lengthen in late winter the area becomes busy with men, boys, and
snow machines, particularly on weekends. Close to lunchtime, people will gather
where someone has just caught a seal to joke, snack on the liver, and share tea and
bannock. The grounded icebergs, and the flaws in the ice along which seals most
often make their breathing holes, annually take shape in slightly different but not
unpredictable ways. This creates the conditions for the recurrent emergence of a
network of hunting and camping places, key nodes in the social and economic life
of the village and in the biographies of hunters (Whitridge, 1991). Across much
of the central Canadian Arctic in the not too distant past, entire Inuit societies
camped for much of the winter in a sequence of communal snow house villages on
seasonal sea ice that crystallized each fall and disintegrated each summer. These
groups returned year after year to make places that survived only in memories,
stories, and songs.
Places can be sited anywhere. The mind can zoom to any scale, from the mi-
croscopic to the cosmological, and find each level richly detailed and inexhaustible
to thought. There is a fractal quality to conceptualized reality—a preservation of
complexity at ever-diminishing scales—and an aesthetic delight to be taken in the

slippage between levels, as in the logo on a letterhead that becomes a window
into endlessly unfolding worlds in the writings of the naive surrealist Raymond
Roussel (Foucault, 1986). While it is difficult or impossible to hold numerous scales
in thought at once, it is easy to move from level to level; there is a limited and ap-
propriate breadth to the cognitive arena that can be conceptualized richly and com-
pletely at any moment, but virtually no end to the number of such arenas that can
be imagined in succession. Indeed, archaeologists routinely move between levels
in this way, from something as detailed as microwear on a tool edge, to the distribu-
tion of features across a landscape, to the great sweep of millennia over the course
of deep human prehistory, at each interval framing discourse with a concise set of
synoptic devices: maps, photographs, tables of numbers, statistical graphs, texts.
A profuse quality of placeness or topicality manifests itself at every spatial
scale-out there, in the world, and within every cognitive fold in here, in the mind
(e.g., Shamma, 2004). It is shadowed by the mathematical field of topology, which
explores geometric properties unaffected by changes in shape or size, in other
words, the relations among sites and surfaces irrespective of scale. In its utter dis-
regard for scale the notion of place, of a meaningful location, assumes a remarkable
discursive richness, and need not remain tethered to the archaeology of landscape.
An archaeology of placeness can analytically isolate any number of toposemantic
arenas, each punctuated by sites and patches of practical significance, and dissected
by seams and paths.
THULE PLACES
Landscapes, Seascapes, and Icescapes
With regard to the Inuit archaeological record the wider toposemantic lev-
els or fields might include landscapes, settlements, architectural features, bodies
(both animal and human), and things. Each of these encompasses numerous cat-
egorical varieties and a vast number of unique instances. For example, we could
consider the semantic and practical regionalizations of the human body in general,
but also the bodies of women, men, elders, children, etc., as well as individual
bodies. Some of the potentially significant regions within the Thule (prehistoric
Inuit) cosmos have already been touched upon, including the land, sea, and ice
as important fields of travel, settlement, and harvesting activity. Although land-
based activities leave the most obvious material trace, in the form of settlements,
kill/butchery sites, isolated features, etc., varying patterns of use and perception
of sea and ice can be interpolated from material culture (technical equipment for
hunting and travelling on ice and water, occasional figurative depictions of ani-
mals or seascapes), activity-induced skeletal pathologies, faunal remains, naviga-
tional and place-marking inuksuit, and missing portions of the seasonal settlement
230 Whitridge
round. Networks of contextual meanings can be derived for generic settings and
for specific places based on such things as biophysical features of the environ-
ment, settlement types, season of use, feature types, harvesting and processing
activities, ritual associations, and depictions, working with the ethnographic and
ethnohistoric records for more recent time periods.
During the Classic Thule period land-based winter settlement in the central
Canadian Arctic was associated with much more durable, deeply sedimented places
than the snow house villages of Modified Thule and historic times (Whitridge,
2001). Classic Thule settlement systems consist of dense, regionalized networks
of diverse feature types, strung out along paths of seasonal travel and clustered
at strategic harvesting and caching loci. The networks themselves were bounded
and systematically spaced along productive stretches of coastline (Savelle and
McCartney, 1988), or across complementary inland and coastal harvesting areas
(Stenton, 1989), with sparse scatters of harvesting features, caches, temporary
campsites, and navigational inuksuit in peripheral and interstitial zones.
Settlements
Individual camps and villages were themselves regionalized, and crisscrossed

by footpaths that are sometimes still archaeologically visible (e.g., Savelle and
Wenzel, 2003). Sod houses and tent platforms were reoccupied year after year,
acquiring the associations of the things that occurred there and the family histories
of their occupants—“the dust of events,” in Foucault’s (1977, p. 213) phrase. Festi-
val houses, or qariyit, acquired stories of great feasts and shamanic performances,
the bones from celebrated whale hunts accumulated on flensing (sea mammal
butchering) beaches, burial grounds acquired their ghosts, and the land grew lush
from refuse and excrement. The Netsilingmiut had a word—nunatorleq—for the
manured soil and vegetation associated with Thule winter villages (Rasmussen,
1931, p. 459). The large winter village of Qariaraqyuk (Fig. 4) on Somerset Island
was made up not only of dozens of long-occupied winter houses sunk into great
mounds of refuse, but also of several qariyit, summer tent neighborhoods, rows
of underground food caches, household and community middens, paths, a bone-
working area, a great commons free of features onto which all the houses faced
(like the festival ground or ball field [manigzuk] of large North Alaskan villages;
Burch, 1981; Spencer, 1959), and a corresponding swath of burials, a common
space for the dead, to their backs (Whitridge, 1999).
Each of these regions represented a site or zone or pathway of practical activity
amplified in the community’s imagination over the course of a history of use. In
similar historic North Alaskan winter villages, the placeness of such locations was
recognized by the conferral of unique toponyms on particular qariyit and house
clusters (Burch, 1981). Such “great places” pass into what Bakhtin (1986) called
“great time,” converted into culturally generic place-times or chronotopes (Bakhtin,
Fig. 4. Qariaraqyuk (PaJs-2) site structure.
1981) that recur as conventional settings in myth and poetry. An echo of the Thule
winter village chronotope can be heard in a tradition of the Netsilingmiut, likely
descendants of Somerset Island Thule groups. The Netsilingmiut wintered in a
series of ephemeral snow house villages on the sea ice while living from breathing
hole sealing, rather than passing a relatively leisurely winter on land in large sod
house villages (like Qariaraqyuk) while living off stores of whale meat and oil
put up in fall, as did Classic Thule groups. Houses in snow house villages are
typically tightly clustered, abutting each other and often sharing walls, vestibules,
or entrance tunnels (see illustrations in Lee and Reinhardt, 2003). Nevertheless,
Netsilingmiut spoke of an afterworld where ”the houses stand in long rows . . . and
round about the houses the snow is trampled hard with the many footprints of
happy, ball-playing people” (Rasmussen, 1931, p. 315).
Houses
Just as village space can be decomposed into its constituent places and
paths, so too can individual features, especially ones as complex as the house.
Houses represent great condensations or localizations of meaning and demand
their own spatial phenomenology, or “topoanalysis” as Bachelard called it. He
unfolds the dense webs of personal associations—periods of joy or drudgery,
232 Whitridge
Fig. 5. House 38 at Qariaraqyuk and some of its significant places.
emotional watersheds—that are anchored to remembered architectural spaces in

the dwelling of one’s childhood, the housing of history and memory in houses: “In
its countless alveoli space contains compressed time. That is what space is for.”
(Bachelard, 1994 [1964], p. 8). The Thule winter house (Fig. 5) can be seen to have
consisted of a network of such intimate sites of everyday practice or communal
activity (sewing, cooking, eating, woodworking, playing), variously including an
entrance porch, tunnel, tunnel alcoves, kitchen, paved floor, storage bins, sleeping
platforms, subplatform compartments, shelves, wall niches, and exterior storage
platforms. Even the passages and thresholds between these delimited spaces were
themselves sometimes named locations ethnographically, such as the kataq, the
threshold between the entrance tunnel and main compartment, from which orphans,
murderers, spirits, or whales issue in stories.
Besides such linguistic and literary clues to their identities, the practical and
meaningful investments of these places can be teased out through spatial anal-
yses of architecture and floor assemblages. A correspondence analysis (CA) of
artifact distributions at Qariaraqyuk revealed spatial associations of artifact types
interpretable in terms of a gendered segregation of refuse-generating activities,
and a separation of domestic maintenance tasks from community gaming and rit-
ual (Fig. 6) (Table I) (Whitridge, 1999, 2000). The spatial structure elucidated by
Fig. 6. Results of correspondence analysis reflecting spatial associations of 44 functional

artifact categories.
artifact associations can be used as an analytical template, without letting prior

assumptions about the use of specific architectural locations constrain the analysis,
by reinserting architectural context as a supplementary variable in the CA (Fig. 7).
The results reveal the pattern of articulation of the network of settings that consti-
tuted the built environment with the major dimensions of practical activity (Fig. 8).
This model can be put to work in various ways. For example, it can be treated as a
kind of conceptual map of the spatiotemporal rhythms of Thule community life at
the scale of architectural space, part of Ingold’s (1993) taskscape. The degree of as-
sociation of men’s and women’s tools and refuse with particular places reflects the
degree of redundancy of paths of movement and sites of activity, a time geography
(Giddens, 1985) that can be superimposed on house and community plan maps as
the first step in an exploration of the phenomenological experiences of women and
men and children going about their routines according to the conventions of their
habitus (Bourdieu, 1977). We could also focus in on particular places, examining
them in finer spatial detail or tracing the web of associations that pass through that
place outwards, into other realms of meaning and practice (see below).
Things
The umiak, or open skin boat, was the supreme accomplishment of Neoeskimo
technology and social economy and represents another topologically complex sur-
face that ethnographically was differentiated not only by an elaborate terminology
234 Whitridge
Table I. Artifact Categories Used as Variables in the Correspondence Analysis (CA)

Abbreviation Category Constituent types
Amulet Amulet Quartz crystal, composite hide

object, amulet box, figurine, bear
claw, fossil
Antler deb Antler debitage Antler manufacturing refuse
Archery Archery Arrowhead, arrow shaft, feather
setter, feather cutting board, sinew
twister, bow, bow brace, bow
backing, bow cable stop, wrist
guard
Bird Bird/small game hunting Bird dart prong, bird dart shaft, gull
hook, bola weight, bird arrowhead,
snare, wolf killer, sling handle
Castoff—dep Castoff—depilated Scrap of cut hide, hair/fur removed
Castoff—fur Castoff—fur Scrap of cut hide, long hair/fur
Castoff—gut Castoff—-gut Scrap of cut gut
Castoff—undep Castoff—undepilated Scarp of cut hide, shaved hair/fur
Clay Clay Lump of unfired clay
Clothing Clothing Clothing fragment, leather/hide
patch, stitched birdskin
Community Community games and Ajagaq, ajagaq pin, gaming piece,
performance drum handle, drum rim
Cord/fastener Cordage/fastener Thong, braided sinew cord, baleen
line, toggle, buckle
Dom maint Domestic maintenance Lamp, lamp stand, pottery, pyrite,
fire drill, wick trimmer, drying
rack, snow beater, tinder, tinder
bag, grass, sphagnum, whisk,
“vessel,” bag/bucket handle, bag,
unstitched birdskin, “excelsior”
Dorset lithic Dorset lithic Tool, utilized flake, unmodified flake,
debitage, core
Feather Feather Isolated feather
Fem manuf Female manufacturing Awl, scraper, needle, threading
needle, burnisher, utilized
pebble/block, needle case, thimble
holder, thimble, needle case
toggle, ulu, cutting board
Fem toy Female toy Doll, lamp
Fishing Fishing Fish lure, fish lure tinkler, fish
arrowhead, fish arrow shaft, fish
harpoon head, fish needle, fish
spear prong, leister prong, leister
barb, gorge/barb
Flesh Flesh Animal muscle tissue
Food cons Food consumption Meat dish, serving tray, composite
baleen/wood vessel, marrow
spatula, dipper, ladle, spoon
Food prep Food preparation Blubber pounder, maul head/handle,
hammerstone, pot, meat/pot hook,
pot tripod
Fur Fur Clump of fur/animalhair
Heath Heather Clump of heather
Table I. Continued
Abbreviation Category Constituent types
Heavy manuf Heavy manufacturing Adze head, adze blade, adze handle,
diabase pick, wedge
House maint House maintenance Pick head/handle, mattock head/handle,
snow shovel, misc. structural element
of house
Ivory deb Ivory debitage Ivory manufacturing refuse
Knot baleen Knotted baleen Knotted baleen fragment
Light manuf Light manufacturing Baleen shave, end/side/composite knife,
knife blade, engraving tool/bit, drill
mouthpiece, drill bow, drill spindle,
drill chuck, drill bit, hand drill,
graver/bit, marlinspike, punch
Male toy Male toy Arrow, bow, dart, foreshaft, harpoon
head, harpoon shaft, kayak, umiak,
leister prong, paddle, sling, lance
Mica Mica Mica fragment, mirror
Misc animal tissue Miscellaneous animal Unidentified animal tissue
tissue
Misc pendant Other pendant Drop pendant, pierced mollusc shell,
ground stone pendant, chain pendant,
zoomorphic pendant
Neut toy Gender neutral toy Bullroarer, top, top spindle, inserted
bones, Norse draughstman
Orn Ornament Bracelet, brow band, bead, comb, hair
stick, button, labret, ceremonial knife
Prov ref Provisional manufactu- Whale bone/antler/ivory core, preform,
ring refuse blank, diabase core, metal debitage,
peg/dowl, reinforcement piece, rivet,
misc shafts, shim, plug
Sea hunt Sea mammal hunting Misc foreshaft, moveable foreshaft,
finger rest, tension piece, seal drag,
seal indicator, cord fastener, sealing
stool, seal scratcher, wound pin,
socket piece, harpoon end blade,
harpoon head, harpoon shaft, ice pick,
line stopper, atlatl hook, dart butt
Sinew Sinew Sinew strand, sinew coil
Tool maint Tool maintenance Abrader, utilized bear canine, utilized
muskox postcanine
Tooth pendant Tooth pendant Drilled/grooved dog, muskox, caribou,
fox tooth
Transp Transportation Trace buckle, swivel, harness, whip
handle, sled shoe, sled runner, sled
cross-piece, snow knife, snow
probe/ferrule, toboggan
wb prim Whale bone debitage - Whale bone manufacturing refuse—tool
primary marks but no completely worked facet
wb sec Whale bone debitage - Whale bone manufacturing refuse—one
secondary worked facet
wb shav Whale bone shaving Whale bone manufacturing refuse—thin
shaving
wb tert Whale bone debitage - Whale bone manufacturing
tertiary refuse—more than one worked facet
236 Whitridge
Fig. 7. Clusters of spatially associated artifact categories, with context types plotted as
supplementary variables.
Fig. 8. Architectural places and paths in the Thule winter village.

for its parts (Braund, 1988; Petersen, 1986), but by the designation of places
within it (Fortescue, 1988) that had functional, symbolic, and sociopolitical sig-
nificance related to the hierarchical organization of whaling. These included the
seat at the rear for the boat steerer, who was typically also the boat captain and
owner, the umialik who not only coordinated the activities of the crew and the
movement of the boat on the water, but whose gift-giving and alliance-building
constituted the crew in the first place and ensured the continuance of the whal-
ing enterprise, thus governing the social, political, economic, and ritual life of
the community as a whole. At the front of the umiak was a place for the kapukti
(Burch, 2003), the talented harpooner recruited by the umialik on whom rested
the responsibility of fixing a harpoon head and float in the whale, and then lanc-
ing the exhausted animal. Between them lay seats for (typically) three pairs of
paddlers. Crew members had a designated place in the boat and role in the hunt,
which was recognized with a designated share of the whale carcass, varying by
seniority, and corresponding to a distinctive social role and spatial situation within
the whaling community (Whitridge, 2002b, in press). The boat’s differentiated
place world is manifested in depictions of boats and their crews, often engaged in
whaling, on decorated Thule artifacts (Fig. 2; see also Holtved, 1944; McCartney,
1980; McGhee, 1984; Maxwell, 1983; Schledermann, 1975). Its importance in the
socialization and enculturation of children is reflected in the high proportion of
miniature boats, paddles, and harpoons in Thule toy assemblages (Park, 1998).
Other items of material culture reveal equally intricate topologies or
“thingscapes” (indeed, the Arctic Bay drill bow is an exceptionally complex
thingscape). The sled was a moving network of places, with the woman of the
family up ahead breaking trail and leading the fan of dogs, children riding on loads
or tucked under skins, the man pushing behind or driving the dogs on, and others
following in their wake. The amauti, or women’s parka, had an oversized hood
for an infant to ride in, and women’s oversized boots had room to carry infants or
tools. Women’s, men’s, and children’s clothing was distinctively regionalized mo-
saics of skins of various mammals and birds onto which were mapped additional
meaningful signs in the form of fringes, beads, pendants, and amulets that pos-
sessed intrinsic aesthetic value and magical agency, while housing and enhancing
particular parts of the body and referencing animals, people, things, and places
(Issenman, 1997; Oakes, 1991; and see Hansen et al., 1991; McCullough, 1989,
for archaeological examples of well-preserved clothing).
Harpoon heads undergo relatively little change in gross functional morphol-
ogy over 1500 years of Neoeskimo prehistory, but particular locations on them
(spur, end blade, line hole, lashing arrangement, etc.) are the sites of an obsessive
stylistic intervention and microfunctional adjustment (Whitridge, in press). The
history of harpoon head forms reveals these zones of contact with seal or line or
harpoon foreshaft as significant nodes on what must have been cognitively com-
plex surfaces. Considering also traces of use, breakage, and repair, such places
238 Whitridge
Fig. 9. Traditional bowhead carcass divisions at Tikiraq (after Foote, 1992, p. 31; Whitridge, 2002b,
p. 67).
on tools were likely the topics of hunting stories, lessons to novice tool makers,
and magical injunctions. The nature of the materials and decoration allows sym-
bolic connections to be drawn from such sites to other cultural arenas (Whitridge,
2002a). For example, the inverted Y motif that occurs frequently on Classic Thule
sealing harpoon heads is also found on brow bands, needle cases, and combs
associated with women, suggesting symbolic linkages between seal hunting and
women.
Bodies
The topology of an animal carcass was registered not only in an economic

anatomy but in the social and political anatomies that inhered in the codes of game
sharing (Fig. 9). The partitioning of a whale carcass was a perilous political act
with tons of food and oil at stake (Spencer, 1959), forcing the butchers to attend
carefully to conventional anatomical features and contours (Whitridge, 2002b). For
historic Central Arctic groups, complex networks of social relations were mediated
by the allocation of an elaborately partitioned carcass among seal-sharing partners
(Damas, 1972; van de Velde, 1976). Dogs, which were important as hunting and
draft animals, embodied patterns of human labor and violence that are preserved in
the distribution of pathologies across the skeleton, such as frequent cranial trauma
related to disciplinary practices (Morrison, 1984) and osteoarthritic exostoses re-
lated to lifetimes of load bearing. The regionalization of animal bodies can be
assessed through the frequency, spatial distribution, and contextual attributes of
skeletal elements and larger carcass portions, patterning in cut marks, and repre-
sentations in figurative art (like the stylized skeletons incised on Dorset animal
figurines; see, e.g., Taylor and Swinton, 1967). Marean et al.’s (2001) use of GIS
to map patterns of element survival illustrates the archaeological accessibility of

a topologized animal body.
The human body constitutes a topological field still more densely imbri-
cated with personal history, cultural significations, and political disciplines, what
Adrienne Rich (1984) called “the geography closest in.” Depictions of human fig-
ures in art (Fig. 2) point to a corpus of bodily techniques (Mauss, 1979) or hexis
(Bourdieu, 1977) to which bioarchaeology also provides access. Musculoskeletal
stress markers, osteoarthritis, tooth loss, and other activity-induced pathologies,
like the grooves on the occlusal surface of women’s teeth exacted by a lifetime
of smoothing sinew for thread (Hansen et al., 1991), map out the sites and zones
of women’s and men’s bodies rendered significant by habitual practice. Indeed,
the practical body extends, cyborg-like, beyond the skin to include the ergonomic
tools and architecture with which practices are thoroughly articulated (Whitridge,
2003). The meaningful elaboration of particular bodily regions and sites can be
approached through the material culture of bodily adornment well represented in
the Thule record (see above), its forms, materials, and decorative tropes providing
links between sites and regions on the body and other discursive domains. This
includes elaborate clothing systems, jewelry, labrets, hairstyles, and tattooing, all
associated with various paraphernalia and the by-products of production processes,
and some with depictions in figurative art or actual modified bodies (Hansen et al.,
1991).
The idea of place can thus be made to illuminate substantial new worlds of
archaeological interpretation. Significantly, in the Inuit case, linguistic analyses
reveal these worlds to be connected through semantic homologies between their re-
spective lexicons. The Inuktitut and Yuit terms for cardinal directions, key concepts
for enabling navigation on the landscape, are frequently derived from sets of terms
for the walls of the winter house (Fortescue, 1988). The same words or word stems
were also employed for referring to regions of bodies and boats. There is a repre-
sentational economy at work here, an efficiency of meaning achieved through the
partial reduplication of topological schemata between semantic domains. This is
manifested archaeologically in practical and symbolic homologies between Thule
settlements and dwellings (Fig. 10), and in the meaningful juxtaposition of motifs
in figurative art. An axis of semantic equivalency of houses and bodies and boats
expressed in the Inuit word ilumiulerpaa, which can mean impregnating a woman,
entering a house, or loading a boat (Nuttal, 1992), neatly parallels the preference
for images of bodies, boats, and dwellings in Thule engravings (Fig. 2). These ho-
mologies are not precise and complete, like systematic structural transformations,
but fragmentary, local, and historically transient. Tangled networks of meanings,
practices, and things interpenetrate at significant sites of resemblance, conceptual
resonance, or practical overlap, resulting in the bridging of semantic fields which
in their hybrid conjunction release metaphorical equivalences that are then taken
up in art, ritual, myth, song, and speech.
240 Whitridge
Fig. 10. Practical and symbolic homologies between settlement and dwelling
space.
THE NOTION OF THE IMAGINARY
Places are thus significant not merely in and of themselves, but as the sites
of attachment of the real to a space of circulation of socially intelligible significa-
tions, in which entities that are incommensurate with respect to their materialities—
landscapes, houses, bodies, things—freely exchange properties in the form of con-
ceptual attributes and symbolic associations. This representational space is what
I refer to here as “the imaginary.” In fields such as sociocultural anthropology,
geography, history, psychoanlaysis, and cultural studies, imaginaries are thought
of as simulacra that tend towards their own materialization, for example, a national
imaginary that constitutes the unified state as an emergent political reality by set-
ting the terms of a culturally bounded historical understanding (Anderson, 1991;
Castoriadis, 1987), or a bodily imaginary that renders certain modes of embodiment
more intelligible and legitimate than others (which it suppresses or marginalizes)
(Butler, 1993; Gatens, 1996). These usages are indebted to Lacan’s (1977) model
of the formation of the human subject through the child’s originary projection of
the perceived wholeness and autonomy of the body (such as glimpsed in a mirror)
onto the thinking self, thus concealing the true fragmentation and incoherence of
subjective experience behind the imaginary, but serviceable, notion of a singular
ego. Imaginaries have the important property of defining the possibilities of future
states of the real by underwriting particular logics of practice—what is thinkable
and doable—in the present. This overlaps with Bourdieu’s notion of habitus, un-
derstood as a local, historically sedimented network of embodied meanings and
practices that reproduces the social and material conditions of its own necessity
and intelligibility, like a train laying its own tracks (Bourdieu, 1990, p. 57).
From the perspective of an archaeology of place, it is essential to recognize
that imaginaries are nourished by their connections to the real and effectively
distributed across the representational and the material (see also Escobar, 2001,
on place-based imaginaries and Foucault, 1994, on heterotopias). Without flags,
anthems, monuments, and other national symbols (not least, the ones generated
by archaeology), a national imaginary would never become fixed in practical con-

sciousness, and neither would a particular bodily imaginary without the appropriate
clothing, images, gestural repertoires, architectural settings, etc. Imaginaries are
everywhere affixed to the real, but are not limited by it; they constitute a hetero-
geneous field of communication and translation between discursive arenas and
material things, a space of the production and ramification of hybrid cultural log-
ics. For example, the homology in Thule culture between sleeping platform and
grave (Fig. 10) does not remain at the semantic level of a play of signifiers, but was
materialized in practice through the use of heather (Cassiope tetragona) as both
a bedding material and a grave lining (Whitridge, 1999). Economic organization,
social relations, technical knowledge, ritual practice, the nonhuman environment,
or whatever can potentially achieve semantic connectivity within the realm of the
imaginary. A place could be thought of as a nexus of imaginary significations at
the site of its intersection with the real, at which point the imaginary achieves a
practical, and not merely a semantic, cohesion, and efficacy.
THULE IMAGINARIES
An archaeology of the imaginary attends to the hybrid conjunction of net-

works of representations and the materialities of practice, as place does with respect
to landscape. Places are topologically grounded or spatialized imaginaries: hetero-
geneous, emergent networks of matter and meaning, not nodes within completed,
hypercoherent lattices in the fashion of structuralist anthropology or economic
geography. Attending to the placeness of Thule settlements, houses, bodies, and
things brings their imaginary dimensions to light. The CA of artifact distributions
generated one version of an interpretive grid for exploring a field of practical and
semantic associations related to gendered labor and a household/community op-
position, but a differently constructed data matrix would have produced a different
grid, and brought different associations to light. Another approach would be to
start from a particular location and follow its tendrils of associations outwards.
For example, kitchens were linked to women and children (especially girls) by
the CA. Ethnographic hints as to the kitchen’s place in imaginaries of gender,
the family, the house, etc., can be played off against the architectural details and
contextual associations of real archaeological examples.
Thule kitchens are exterior to, in front of, below, and smaller than the main
living area, hence distinctively emplaced with respect to the topological schemas
noted previously. They are associated with lamps, hearths, wick trimmers, cooking
pots, serving vessels, sea mammal oil, fire, smoke, heat, blood, meat, butchering
and serving utensils, and the transformation of animals and clay into cultural prod-
ucts. Any or all of these could be taken up as discursive threads to be followed into
other places and semantic universes. For example, the lamp was usually made from
soapstone that was quarried from named places on the landscape (e.g., ukusiksalik
242 Whitridge
means “place with soapstone”; Wheeler, 1953) perhaps learned from Tunit prede-
cessors, exchanged over long distances through partnerships and trade fairs, and
used also to make pots, toy lamps and pots, beads, whale-tail amulets, and wick
trimmers. Lamps were installed not only in kitchens but at the edge of the sleeping
platform, bounding family space in multifamily houses. Lamp stands were some-
times situated at the focal center of the qargi, like the whale vertebrae column in
a qargi at PaJs-4 (Savelle, 2002), the summer whaling village occupied by winter
residents of Qariaraqyuk. Lamps rendered whale and seal blubber into oil that they
burned as fuel, lit and heated interior space, held burning wicks of cottongrass,
melted snow and ice for drinking water, boiled pots of food, dried wet snowy
clothing, and generated the soot that was mixed with oil and used as pigment for
tattooing with needle and thread. Merely by way of the lamp, the kitchen is linked
to a host of other things, meanings, places, animals, and practices.
To take up another thread, at Qariaraqyuk the kitchens of four out of five
excavated dwellings incorporated a whale skull in the wall (Fig. 5; Whitridge,
1999). The whale skull presences a large ethnographic body of symbolism related
to whales and women, such as the notions that the soul of the whale resides in the
skull, and that women attract the whale to the hunter (Bodenhorn, 1990; Lantis,
1938; Rainey, 1947; Taylor, 1985). The wife of the umialik gave the dead animal a
ceremonial drink of fresh water, and menstrual blood figured in esoteric whaling
rituals, although women were normally prohibited from handling whaling gear or
participating directly in the actual pursuit (Lowenstein, 1993; Spencer, 1959). In
a myth that is sufficiently widely distributed across the Inuit world that it likely
derives from a common Thule cultural base (Sheppard, 1998), a young woman is
abducted by a whale who makes a house for her out of his own bones at the bottom
of the sea. Women enter into relationships of affinity with whales, allowing them
to act as intermediaries between hunter and prey.
Archaeologically, whale skulls commonly occur as construction elements in
the qariyit that served as clubhouses for male whaling crews and sites of com-
munity ceremonial (Habu and Savelle, 1994; Sheehan, 1997; Whitridge, 2002b),
establishing an equivalency between the kitchen as a symbolically charged, do-
mestic, female space, and the qargi as a ritually prominent, communal, male space.
Bowhead crania also occur at the entrances of dwellings (Fig. 5; McCartney, 1980),
as the major construction element of specialized ceremonial structures (Savelle,
1997), and on flensing beaches, where they often exhibit a perforation that may be
related to releasing the soul (Savelle and McCartney, 1990). A significant juxtapo-
sition of sexual activity and whaling occurs on the Arctic Bay drill bow (Fig. 2),
recalling ethnographic reports of the umialik’s obligation to share his spouse with
crew members (Spencer, 1959, 1972), and a whale tail motif appears in the design
of women’s combs, needle cases, needle case toggles, and tattoos. While some
of these associations are occasional, hence perhaps idiosyncratic, others (like the
skulls in kitchen walls and qariyit at Qariaraqyuk) constitute recurrent patterns
that can be quantified and compared within and between sites. For example, the
presence of a kitchen niche (rather than a fully detached room) and lack of in-
tegral whale skulls in one of the excavated dwellings at Qariaraqyuk (House 29)
points to intracommunity variation in architectural practices and meanings, in this
case linked to other patterns of economic and ritual specialization that suggest
overlapping arenas of heterarchical social difference (Whitridge 1999).
There is thus a complex field of semantic articulation of women and whales
that is materialized at a major locus of domestic activity by the incorporation
of whale skulls in kitchen walls. Through the translations made possible by this
“gyno-cetacean imaginary” the whale skull attaches the kitchen, the people who
occupy it, the activities that occur there, the temporal cycles of its use, and the
things that are found there, to other times, places, activities, and things, including
the qargi, the summer whaling camp, the flensing beach, the entrances of houses,
communal ritual, care of the body, sewing, the bottom of the ocean, the society of
whales, the reincarnation of animal souls, and the mythic past. Places such as the
Thule kitchen are the inextricable sites of attachment and interpenetration of the
real and the imaginary.
CONCLUSION
Place seems to occupy a middle ground between culture and nature, the ideal
and the material, the individual and the social, and so helps us move between, and
ultimately beyond, such polarities, as long as we can avoid reinscribing them in new
distinctions, such as that between space and place. The constitution of meaningful
places is not a process opposed to the symbolic and practical mastery of space, but
an aspect of it. Space is a medium shaped by embodied experience, knowledge and
discourse, sociality, material culture, and the nonhuman phenomena out of which
these are constructed or with which they articulate. People do not move through
an abstract biophysical matrix, but through meaningful cultural landscapes, within
socially variable envelopes. Envelopes of mobility are molded by personal and
cultural knowledge, skill, technological means, and positions within larger social
networks. Landscapes are shaped by ongoing histories of place-making, the hy-
brid conjoining of heterogeneous semantic fields—imaginaries—with the material
world. Places defy scale. Thought everywhere topologizes its objects, constituting
seams, sites and surfaces on landscapes, houses, bodies, things, and creating the
conditions—points and fields of metaphorical resemblance, symbolic homology,
practical intersection—for the circulation of representations between objects. An
archaeology of place implies an archaeology of the imaginary.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A marvelous talk on bogs by Stuart McLean at UNC – Chapel Hill first made
me aware of imaginaries and their intersections with landscapes and archaeological
244 Whitridge
traces. Research at Qariaraqyuk was supported by the Polar Continental Shelf

Project (Energy, Mines and Resources Canada), National Science Foundation,
Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research, Social Sciences and
Humanities Research Council of Canada, and the Department of Anthropology,
Arizona State University. Many thanks to Colin Grier for comments on the initial
draft of this paper, and to Brenda Bowser, Catherine Cameron, James Skibo, and
three anonymous reviewers for comments on the expanded version. I am especially
grateful to Brenda Bowser for organizing the Denver SAA session that allowed
me to formulate these ideas, and for her limitless patience.
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Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, Vol. 11, No.

Landscapes, Houses, Bodies, Things: “Place”

With the emergence of a landscape archaeology focused on practical, mean-

SPACE AND PLACE

In an increasingly common usage that first crystallized in phenomenological

influential analyses of the spatial modalities of surveillance and domination, it has

a stable, biological, precultural ground of bodily difference between women and

non-Western place-based knowledges as “hard” and objective, redistributing and

regimes, a trend mirrored by the exploitation of indigenous (e.g., ethnobotanical)

Inuit toponymic, ethnographic, and ethnoarchaeological studies disclose the

of individuals to a local history embedded in places (Nuttal, 1992). Nuttal refers

Traditional Inuit spatiality was not, however, limited to inventories of place

Rather than an erroneous distortion of space, this manipulation of scale represents

Fig. 3. Netsilingmiut map of western Boothia Isthmus (Rasmussen, 1931, p. 92).

Complementing the translation of landscape into abstract inscriptions on snow or

fields (Whitridge, 1999), and shaped by centuries of intercultural negotiation of

THE UBIQUITY OF PLACENESS

complexity at ever-diminishing scales—and an aesthetic delight to be taken in the

Landscapes, Seascapes, and Icescapes

Individual camps and villages were themselves regionalized, and crisscrossed

Fig. 4. Qariaraqyuk (PaJs-2) site structure.

Fig. 5. House 38 at Qariaraqyuk and some of its significant places.

emotional watersheds—that are anchored to remembered architectural spaces in

Fig. 6. Results of correspondence analysis reflecting spatial associations of 44 functional

artifact associations can be used as an analytical template, without letting prior

Table I. Artifact Categories Used as Variables in the Correspondence Analysis (CA)

Amulet Amulet Quartz crystal, composite hide

Fig. 8. Architectural places and paths in the Thule winter village.

The topology of an animal carcass was registered not only in an economic

to map patterns of element survival illustrates the archaeological accessibility of

THE NOTION OF THE IMAGINARY

by archaeology), a national imaginary would never become fixed in practical con-

An archaeology of the imaginary attends to the hybrid conjunction of net-

traces. Research at Qariaraqyuk was supported by the Polar Continental Shelf

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