metaarchaeology

Acta Archaeologica vol. 72:1, 2001, pp. 1–150 Copyright C 2001

Printed in Denmark ¡ All rights reserved ACTA ARCHAEOLOGICAISSN 0065-001X

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTIONPART I. GENERAL1. Notions of theoretical archaeology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2

PART II. CONCERNS OF ARCHAEOLOGY2. Subject matter of archaeology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113. Archaeological sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

PART III. NATURE OF ARCHAEOLOGY4. Methodological nature of archaeology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325. Principles of archaeology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

PART IV. ARCHAEOLOGICAL THEORY6. Empiricism in archaeology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 577. What is archaeological theory? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 668. Structure and working of archaeological theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 729. Functions of archaeological theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87

PART V. ARCHAEOLOGICAL FACT AND RESEARCH DESIGN10. Archaeological fact . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10111. Archaeological research design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117

PART VI. CONCLUSION12. Panorama revisited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

APPENDIX:The ‘‘Commandments’’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132

BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134

2 Acta Archaeologica

PART I. GENERAL

1. Notions of theoretical archaeology

1. THEORETICIANS ANDPRACTICAL ARCHAEOLOGISTSIn archaeology there has long been a difference ofinterests. Some practitioners were devoted to field ar-chaeology and at the centre of their lives were theexpeditions, surveys and excavations. Others werecommitted to the possibility of substantiating an idea,such as Schliemann’s work to prove the reality ofHomer’s Troy, and some were museum curators,keen to sort through collections and systematise theirmaterial. Identifying artefacts, managing exhibitionsand the publication of catalogues of material all offer-ed them great delight. Happiness was to find an ana-logy, to place an artefact into a system.

There were also those who were drawn to ancientartefacts by their mystery and enigma, who wereinterested in ideas that might be obtained from theartefacts. From this type of enthusiast either emptydreamers originated, ideological speculators, or ‘his-torians with a spade’. But sometimes, if they were raptby the extraction of ideas as a process itself, they de-veloped as theoreticians. Gustaf Kossinna and Gor-don Childe, Walter Taylor and Mats Malmer, DavidClarke and Lewis Binford all undoubtedly belongedto this latter type, and developed theories. Less knowntheoreticians brought statements to more exact word-ings, added new arguments, and systematised theor-etical knowledge.

I am attracted to archaeology by its enigmas, butparticularly by its theory. It is generally said thattheory serves practice and that it is only problemsoriginating in practice which provide stimulus to the-oretical considerations. In ‘Archaeological Typology’(Klejn 1991a) I have also paid debt to this idea whendescribing the practical problems that stimulated meto turn to typological theory. I pointed out then thatmany students are not led to theory by the same dif-ficulties. However, the ‘demon tempter’ was probablyalways within me.

I began student life not in archaeology, but in

linguistics and folklore-studies, dealing with problemsof ethnogenesis and semiotic searches for originalsense, under the teaching of Vladimir Propp. Then Ibecame interested in archaeology and was taught byMikhail Artamonov, who also was interested in ethn-ogenesis. My first published work in archaeology ap-peared in 1955 in the form of a critical review articleon the origins of Slavs. Among my articles in the1960s were theoretical issues concerning questions oftypology and ethnogenesis, and since the 1970s I havecontinued to write theoretical papers.

In general, practice certainly does build a founda-tion for theory, but only with the help of theory canour knowledge grow in bounds. Scientific revolutionsactually occur through the process of theorizing.There would be no science and no scholarly studywithout theory. In archaeology this truth was ignoredfor longer than in other disciplines, and it is still notfully realised now. This raises the question: Arespecialists in theory needed? Is the demarcation ofsuch specialisation in archaeology justified? I knowfrom my own experience that to deal with theory onemust study many non-archaeological matters that arenot necessary for practical archaeologists, and in ar-chaeology itself a great deal is also brought to lightwhich is required knowledge. One might well com-bine theory with practical studies, and to some extentit is even necessary – otherwise theory risks becomingairy and without object – but few archaeologists areable to succeed in both fields.

The post-processualists, or post-modernists, areagainst isolating the theoretician. The opposition wasannounced at TAG 1992 by Julian Thomas (1995,351). He stated ironically that ‘‘each university de-partment [of archaeology] should have one theoryspecialist, just as it should have one lithic specialist,one ceramic specialist and one environmental special-ist’’. In his opinion the truth is ignored ‘‘that all ar-chaeology is theoretical’’. The theoretician MichaelShanks declares that, ‘‘I am ... very concerned that

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theoretical archaeology is being defined more now asanother expert field. It is argued that just as an exca-vation report or department must have its specialistsin techniques, environment evidence, pottery, dating,leather, bone, quantitative analysis, whatever, so toothey need an expert in theory – seen as a separatematter of explanation and interpretation’’ (A dialogue1994, 19). Shanks sets against this a view that every-one must know theories and everyone must be ableto apply them. ‘‘Must know’’, ‘‘must apply’’. Yet is itreasonable to insist that everyone must be able towork them out? Speaking against Thomas andShanks is their own experience; they have not carriedout very much practical work in archaeology as com-pared with their theoretical activity.

It is clear that for expeditions and for museum pro-cessing of materials many more people are neededthan for interpretation. However, there was alsosomething else being said here. First, in order to dealseriously with theory one needs another branch ofknowledge and another mind set than one does forpractical studies. A theoretician needs a sharp abilityto establish distant associations, a capability of sys-tematisation, a vivid imagination, a certain couragein thinking and good articulation of ideas too –thoughts must be put into very fitting words. It is de-sirable that he or she is trained in logic, mathematics,linguistics and philosophy. A possession of the mainlanguages would not go astray either. Since theseneeds were not realised, such a combination of traitsvery rarely occurred among archaeologists. Secondly,theory was not regarded with much respect for a longwhile, it was in fact equal to empty rhetorics. Forquite some time all theorising was regarded as specu-lation, and all speculative thinking (i.e. thinking ab-stracted from direct consideration of facts) was seenas unscientific and unscholarly.

Looking at other disciplines later convinced ar-chaeologists of the necessity and respectability of the-ories but it did not acquaint them with the complexit-ies of the business and did not impart them with greatprudence for theory. So, ‘‘a person having made anew guess on, for example, the chronological distinc-tion between charnieres of two fibulas or somethingelse of the same crucial importance, in a somewhatbombastic manner declares: ‘... according to mytheory ...’.’’ (Gjessing 1962, 504).

Another contributing factor that raised the status oftheoretical work was the connection of archaeologicaltheories with philosophy, methodology, and strategyof studies. However, strange as it is, this did notundermine the notion that practical experience andfactographical erudition is everything and the onlytools we need for successful theoretical work. This ledto the point that producing something theoretical be-gan to be thought of as a matter of prestige and privi-lege for renowned empirical workers. A similar situ-ation in ethnography gave the Hungarian scholarHofer occasion to rally for the fact that in Europe, asdistinguished from America, ‘‘theorising ... is gener-ally reserved to the peers of the science’’ (Hofer 1968,315). Finally, in more recent years, with the reinforce-ment of scholarly knowledge, a realisation beganpenetrating archaeology that the theoretical level ofstudies has its own specificity, that it demands aspecial, different education, needs its own speciallyprepared cadre by the influx of youth, and that it beseparated into a special branch of archaeology (Zakh-aruk 1971b, 12).

The relation of archaeologists to theory is two-fold.On the one hand, a lot of practising archaeologists –field people and museum curators – regard theory asan addle business and relate to it with some irony. AsKluckhohn noted (1940, 46), the greater number ofanthropologists (and he counted prehistorians amongthem) ‘‘still feel that ‘theorising’ is what you do whenyou are too lazy or too impatient or too much of anarmchair person to go out and get the facts’’.

On the other hand, many practical workers har-bour a secret envy at theoreticians since the latter al-ways have a wider horizon, broadened by theirknowledge of philosophy and anthropology. Thesame envy arises on account of the fact that theory isalways evident or latent in interpretation, the real nubof archaeology. And as theory is nearer to philosophyand to outward thinking, i.e. to ideology, theoreticalstudies are considered a privilege that should be offer-ed for merits – either for great achievements and ex-perience in practical archaeology or for a high ad-ministrative seat. Therefore, especially in the socialiststates, where theory was considered a leading force,old practical workers and heads of research insti-tutions frequently advanced in the shoes of theor-eticians.


The idea was put forward that experience is thebest guarantee of a good theory, but they had thebackground for creating theory no more than theydid for choreography. Their constant attempts attheoretical pirouettes merely increased the disregardother archaeologists had for theory. The oppositeextreme frequently occurs among theoreticians. Til-ley, known for his theoretical works and radicalideas, illustrated this in discussion with me when herecounted with resentment how an older colleagueadvised him to make an initial study of a remark-able amount of material – a monument, site or aperiod – before advancing with theories (Tilley1991). The advice was not entirely misplaced. Bothfield experience and museum practice are necessaryfor a theoretician if he or she is to realise what ishidden behind idealised objects. Though no morenecessary than for a theoretical physicist likeEinstein, who needs to be experienced in exper-imentation. It is desirable to avoid the mire whilegaining experience. A solid experience in practice isusually reached after many years, by which time itis too late to set about the theory.

2. THE CONCEPT OF THEORETICALARCHAEOLOGYWhat is presented here as theoretical archaeology was insome circles termed, and still is termed, differently. InSoviet literature there was ‘‘methodology of archae-ological science’’ (Zakharuk 1969); in America‘‘theory and method of archaeology’’ (Hawkes 1954;Willey and Phillips 1958) or ‘‘epistemology of archae-ology’’; and in Britain ‘‘general’’ or ‘‘central theory ofarchaeology’’ (Clarke 1968, 663; 1973, 15f). There isalso a suggestion to call it ‘‘archaeosophy’’ (Szekely1977). However, for this branch the designation ‘‘the-oretical archaeology’’ is becoming more and morefixed. The first appearance of the term was ascribedto me (Gardin 1980, 126; Barich 1977; 1982, note10), but this is not quite correct for it emerged spon-taneously in different places and by different authors(Sher 1972; Fowler 1977, ch. 5; Gardin 1979; 1980;Klejn 1977a; Barich 1977; 1982; Hodder 1982; Hol-torf and Quensel 1992; Guliaev 1993 a.o.). I haveeven found the term in publication as early as 1971(Cuadernos).

What is essential here is that theoretical archaeol-ogy is inscribed in a whole system of analogicalbranches of other disciplines. Monographs systematis-ing the theoretical knowledge in these disciplines aresimply entitled ‘‘Theoretical ... (with the designationof the discipline following)’’. There are examples ofsuch book titles in biology (Bertalanffy 1932), geogra-phy (Bunge 1962), sociology (Merton 1967), linguistics(Zvegincev 1967) and so on. Evidently a general no-tion of the theoretical branch in these disciplines isestablished, and it remains only to apply the formatto archaeology. It seems in this case that it would besimple enough to give a definition of theoretical ar-chaeology. It is clear that theoretical archaeologymust embrace theoretical studies in archaeology. Infact the question of this definition has its own diffi-culties that arise from various circumstances.

First, it is disputable as to what can be consideredtheory in general on the one hand and theory specificto archaeology on the other. Correspondingly, whichstudies can be considered theoretical – those onlyconcerning concepts and laws or others too? For in-stance, there are notions that theory is simply general-isation of facts, and another that it is a set of methods.If one accepts the former, then it would be very diffi-cult to delimit archaeology from numerable surveysof materials. If one accepts the latter, then all theworks on methods used in archaeology must be in-cluded. How to deal with the methods of other discip-lines used in archaeology?

Secondly, the question of differentiating betweenideas arises. Many people call any interpretation ofsources a theoretical activity, and there is a reason forthis – the interpretation constantly involves theories.Indeed, is not the whole business of interpretation ajob for theoretical archaeology? It is without doubtthat the analysis of the mental process of an archaeol-ogist, of the development of his or her ideas, is closelyconnected with theoretical thinking. During the sec-ond half of the 20th century it became clearer andclearer that the development of ideas of the entirediscipline in its historical course also has a direct re-lation to the theoretical grasp of archaeology. Buthow can the history of theoretical thinking be dividedfrom the history of archaeology in general? How canit be separated from the history of discoveries, exca-vations and biographies of scholars?

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Lastly, the question must be asked whether theoryin archaeology is possible at all or if archaeology is adescriptive, factographic discipline. There are viewsthat even if theories do act in archaeology they arenot archaeological theories but anthropological orhistorical ones. This would be a case of improper the-oretical archaeology.

Therefore, it follows from all these reasons, sincethe very beginning of the separation of the newbranch and of having realised this, that debates takeplace on the reasonable effectiveness, the subject mat-ter and the borders of theoretical archaeology. Oneof the first definitions of theoretical archaeology wasgiven in my ‘‘Panorama of theoretical archaeology’’(Klejn 1977a, 1f). When looking at theoretical mono-graphs in other disciplines I noted frequent extremes;some authors defining the theoretical branch broadly,including both philosophical problems and particulartheories, others prefering a narrow definition, em-bracing merely the general theory of the given disci-pline.

As for myself, I have chosen the middle of the road.I issued from the fact that the existing notions oftheory were various and diffuse, and to leave themoutside the branch was inconvenient as my task wasonly a survey. I also derived my view from an under-standing that people have to specialise in a whole ag-glomerate of interconnected problems usually desig-nated as philosophical, methodological, logical, theor-etical and in part historical. Yet from these problemsclosely interconnected and acting under the guise of‘‘theoretical archaeology’’, I considered only thosewhich were specific to archaeology and which em-braced the whole of archaeology.

Fowler leaned to a broader definition. Although headmitted the practicability of a narrower definition hereferred to the involvement of theory in any interpre-tation, be it unconscious or not, and came to the con-clusion that ‘‘in a certain sense the whole of archaeol-ogy is theoretical’’ (Fowler 1977: 131). More radicalinferences were made by Michael Shanks from thesame idea. In the discussion with Iain Mackensie hedeclared that ‘‘... there is no such thing as theoreticalarchaeology. Theory should be part of what everyonedoes – critical self-consciousness’’ (A dialogue 1994:19). On the contrary Gardin regarded my accommo-dating definition as too broad. He indicated that I

introduced it into Soviet archaeology where it wasequal to ‘‘general archaeology’’ but it is clear fromthe above references that it was not introduced by meand not only in Soviet archaeology. That ‘‘generalarchaeology’’ is broader than the ‘‘theoretical’’ one, isnot difficult to guess from the amount of handbooks,reference-books, dictionaries and encyclopaedias onarchaeology, which are all ‘‘general archaeology’’ butnot theoretical. Gardin himself defines theoretical ar-chaeology as the ‘‘logical structure of scientific con-structions in archaeology’’ (Gardin 1980: 126; 183:196) or as ‘‘science on considerations produced by thepens of archaeologists, expressed in a symbolical, signform’’, or more simply as ‘‘science on symbolical con-structions’’ of archaeologists (Gardin 1983: 245). Gar-din’s view is also close to that of Sher, who viewstheoretical archaeology as ‘‘the theory of processingof archaeological data’’ (1973: 55), and as ‘‘the discip-line’s section which studies general rules of descrip-tion, analysis and interpretation of archaeological rec-ords’’ (1976: 68).

Theory is a concept from the logic of science, butto reduce the whole of theoretical archaeology to lo-gic, to rules and sign constructions seems to me un-reasonably limiting. It is hardly fruitful to cut off thephilosophical, methodological, cognitive and historio-graphical aspects. This can lead to simplification andschematization of problems, as can be found in Gard-in’s book. On the question of the validity of theoreti-cal archaeology, even if archaeology is viewed asrather descriptive, it will at the very least need theor-ies of scientific description of archaeological material.Best of all, the question of where theoretical archaeol-ogy belongs is solved by the life of archaeology. De-spite the frequently diagnosed crisis (Gaffney andGaffney 1987) and the prognoses of its end (Kolpakov1992) theoretical archaeology still exists. It passes inand out of channels of the discipline, broadening inplaces and narrowing in others, it introduces certainproblems as fashionable while offering no attention toothers, but all in all it continues to grow.

3. POINTS OF DEPARTUREEvery theorist, including myself, has his own point ofdeparture and his own approach. To a large extentthey are determined by training, background and so-


cial positions, which in turn are probably conditionedby temperament. My own training was, like all mycompatriot colleagues, a Marxist one. I began with arejection of Marxism while still in high school, whereI hammered out an underground organisation of lib-eral standing. Then there was a short period of beingrapt by Marxism, and then, still on the student bench,it changed to a criticism of Marxism, a criticism thatgrew stonger and stronger. I identified with Marxismonly outwardly and at any rate, I needed to in orderto keep the possibility of working at university. So, Itried not to use the term ‘‘Leninism’’. I certainly didnot accept the false Utopia of ‘‘the Dictatorship of theProletariat’’ and I was very sceptical of the ‘‘brightcommunist future’’, nor did I ever enter the Commu-nist Party.

In my opinion Marxism has three main drawbacks.Firstly, Marxism ignores the biological basis of man’snature and reduces man to interaction of economicfactors and interests. This transforms Marxism into anarrow populist doctrine, and its aims into Utopia.For instance such an instinct as the love for one’s ownchildren prevents discarding the tradition of inherit-ance, but without discarding the tradition, real equal-ity is unachievable. The second drawback of Marxismis the preference it gives to the future over the presentand puts the state above the personality what is evi-dently anti-human. Thirdly, Marxism was always dis-tinguished by great zeal and was ready to apply anymeans for the sake of its utopian aim. All of thissickened me.

Yet the short affair with Marxism did not leave mewithout trace. Many views of materialism andmethods of dialectics were deep-rooted in me and didnot meet with inner resistance. I am a definitive athe-ist and up until now can only look at religious practicewith irony. I give attention to the material and social-political conditions of scholarly creation and analysesocial roots of theories seriously, although I do notconsider these roots as my only ones. In my opinion,the claims of indeterminists of absolute ‘‘free will’’ ofthe individual are simply laughable. There are limitsto free will. While a person can do really whateveryou imagine, although the more extreme the moreunlikely, a mass acts with the regularity of nature.Otherwise sociologists would have had nothing to do.On the other hand the rectilinear thinking of Marxists

often betrayed them. The role of personality and ofchance makes history unpredictable on exactly thepoints that are usually most desirable to foresee.Rather, the very gravitation towards theory was to acertain extent cast by Marxist training: Marxism is inits ideals theoretical.

Marxism used dialectics as substantiation for thenecessity of revolution. Yet this is a too situation-bound use of the method. If dialectics is consideredas teaching on contradictions, not only of develop-ment but of modern world and conscience, it appearsmuch more interesting. Contradictions, antinomiesand oppositions must be considered not as anom-alies – this is just the way the world is built. Marxismnecessarily compelled the ‘‘removal of the contradic-tions’’ by revolution. However both sides of a contra-diction can be right. And one must learn not to takethem away, but to live with them. Turning differentsides, one phenomenon and one concept reflecting itcan manifest themselves as different concepts. Differ-ent concepts can appear as different sides of the sameone. The spirit of such dialectics can be felt in mywork.

From Hegel, Marxism borrowed not only dialecticsbut also the bureaucratic spirit of Prussian state or-ganisation as an ideal. The interest to Neo-Kantianteaching served me as an antidote against such Hegel-ism and Marxism. I first became acquainted withWindelband’s and Rickert’s works through readingsof Marxist criticism of them. Yet this criticism wasenough to cause the reverse impact and it was thecriticised conception that impressed me. The expla-nation of the specificity of humanist knowledge, theview of the classification of disciplines, which was newas compared with the view of Comte and Engels, andthe view of the interrelation of fact with law in themall gave me an anchorage outside Marxism.

My background and milieu, Russian archaeology,has its own elaborated traditions, notably distinctfrom West-European. Of course I received these localtraditions, and they used to introduce not only a pe-culiar colouring into my works but certainly permit-ted me to take an independent and prospective posi-tion. So, in Russia there is no division of archaeologyinto two disciplines, as is commonplace in the West:classical (often with oriental) and prehistoric (with me-dieval). In Russia archaeology was and is one. For me

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it was the initial norm, and this determined much ofmy understanding of archaeology. It was not a partof history, but a source-studying discipline commonto all branches. This was also a protest against ideol-ogy and politics involved in archaeology. Hence thestrive to create an integral theory for it.

No doubt, the impact of my teachers shows too.The founder of Russian semiotics and Russianstructuralism Vladimir Jakovlevich Propp, underwhose direction I had a fortune to study, was oftenaccused of Formalism, both by Marxist ideologistsand by Levi-Strauss. Yet how is content to beunderstood if not through form? I listened closelyto lessons on such Formalism and this is why I re-searched so long and carefully on the cognitive po-tentials of typology.

My second teacher was Mikhail Illarionovich Arta-monov, archaeologist and art-specialist, many-yearsDirector of the Hermitage Museum. He was notablefor the independence of his judgements that were ad-vanced against several conceptions produced for thesituations of the moment. Noteworthy too for hisevident orientation to the West. I liked this positionand it seems to me very contemporary even nowwhen the alternatives are discussed about which wayRussia is destined for, the European civilisation orsome special way, essentially Asiatic. Firstly, like myteacher, I evinced an interest for Western literatureand common world science, and secondly, I devotedmy entire work in theoretical archaeology to workingout a system of theories and methods which couldgrant strictness and objectivity of archaeological cog-nition, in order that archaeology would be able toresist the intentions to serve the political situation ofthe moment. Propp’s Formalism was a support for mein this too.

On the other hand, criticism of Neopositivism ingeneral and of Analytical philosophy in particular,both very developed in Soviet methodological litera-ture, kept me back from the theoretical task of cre-ating an ‘‘analytical machine’’ for archaeology.Nevertheless the task of axiomatisation of archaeologyremains attractive for me. Yet in that and in generalI tried to escape simplifications.

It altogether assured me of my own position in the-oretical archaeology, which I hope will not be withoutinterest for the reader.

4. THE STRUCTURE OF THEORETICALARCHAEOLOGYThe coverage of theoretical archaeology is verybroad. A number of diverse problems are united here,and for the sake of comprehension one has to orderthem somehow. One should present theoretical ar-chaeology as a system, rationally differentiate its partsand place them in a logical order.

The first person who presented the structure of the-oretical archaeology was David Clarke, a very analyti-cal and conceptual thinker. In his ‘‘Analytical Archae-ology’’ (1968) he presented a general theory of ar-chaeology. It consisted of three ‘‘models’’: forarchaeological research design, archaeological objectsand for archaeological processes. The first model dic-tates how to proceed from archaeological records totheir interpretation, describing what steps are neededon this route. The second model grasps the nature ofarchaeological material, the nature of which is con-ditioned by the material belonging to culture and sec-ondly by the peculiarities of human creativity, whichis complex and diffuse, despite its regularity. Thethird model provides a framework to study the dy-namics behind the archaeological material – thechanges, growth and evolution of ancient cultures. Asone can see, the second model is directed to the ma-terial and to records, the third one to the past hiddenbehind it, and the first one to the process of cognitionconnecting the second with the third.

Some years later Clarke (1972b, 238) described thethree-part division of theoretical archaeology other-wise. He divided it into archaeological metaphysic,archaeological epistemology and archaeological logic.Under metaphysic he understood clarification of ar-chaeological concepts as well as their interrelationswith reality and their limitation. Under epistemologyhe had in mind the prospect of revealing the speci-ficity of archaeological information and consequentlymodes of archaeological cognition. Archaeological lo-gic was understood as the development of the rigorand explicitness of archaeological reasoning.

In his article ‘‘Archaeology: the loss of innocence’’Clarke complicated the structure. He considered thecomponents of theoretical archaeology from the pointof view of ‘‘archaeological philosophy’’. These com-ponents consisted of: (1) theory of concepts, (2) theoryof information, (3) theory of reasoning, and finally, (4)


general theory of archaeology. The first is character-ised by him as metaphysical, the second as cognitive,the third as logical (1973: 15) and the fourth is notcharacterised at all. Evidently it is the correct struc-ture of archaeology for him. In the text he connectsthe first component with notions on objects of studyand on the dynamics of the cultural process, the restwith research design. The general theory is dividedup by the steps of the research design, that is, by stepsof the archaeological cognition. It seems to me, it ishere that the most important contribution of this ar-ticle is contained. Clarke enlisted these parts:

(1) Pre-depositional and depositional theory – it hasto consider the interrelations between activity andideas of ancient people and their remains andtraces;

(2) Post-depositional theory – it considers changesthat occurred with the remains and traces aftertheir positioning in the earth or on the earth;

(3) Recovery theory considers interrelations betweenthe archaeological objects that appeared on theplace after all the changes produced by the timeand all what is obtained by excavations and trans-formed into data (it is mainly theory of selection);

(4) Analytical theory – it is mainly theory of elabor-ation of the material with various methods;

(5) Interpretation theory – it establishes interrelationsbetween the obtained results of analyses and theevents and processes inaccessible to observation.

This line is clear and reasonable but its interrelationswith the first three of Clarke’s schemes are not soclear and neither are their interrelations with eachother or their comparative important. Why is a theoryof concepts favoured, but not theories of laws, of prin-ciples, criteria or language of theory? If theory of ar-chaeological information is included into the list, whydoes theory of archaeological systems, of ordering ofarchaeological material not deserve this too? If theoryof reasoning is here, why is theory of modelling ab-sent?

Something here is not well thought over, and per-haps a broad field of systematisation remains left outof the parts of research design. Only some compo-nents of different ranges are selected for study.

As could be expected, Gardin’s ‘‘Theoretical Ar-

chaeology’’ is structured very simply; it has taken ac-count of only one aspect of theorising, the logical one.According to the suggested treatment of archaeologi-cal cognition by Gardin everything is divided in twoparts: compilation and explication. Roughly speaking,these are the collecting of material and its processingby interpretation. This can be equalled to Clarke’sgeneral theory which is in a similar position of a re-search design with steps, but Gardin’s scheme is morescarce and simplified.

In Soviet scholarship the late Juriy Zakharukthought much on the structure of theoretical archae-ology (1969; 1973). As he worded it, on ‘‘archaeologi-cal theory’’. Within cognition he distinguished be-tween the object and the subject matter. The first oneto him is a fragment of the reality under study, thesecond its reflection in scholarly knowledge. The ob-ject consists of ‘‘aimed object’’ (particular societies ofthe past) and ‘‘immediate object’’ (results of their ac-tivity – the material culture). The subject matter isalso divided into the object of the discipline, which isthe archaeological records and sources, and the re-sults, and these are reconstructed societies of the pastand their history. On Zakharuk’s schemes these com-ponents are situated in the sequence in which the in-formation proceeds, and the sequence is obtained inthe process of cognition. Everything is like in Clarkeand Gardin, only the number of stages is different:real societies of the past – their material culture –archaeological records – reconstructed societies. Ac-cordingly he postulates theories building the unitedstructure. At such approach the following row wouldbe expected: (1) theory of society, of social develop-ment, (2) theory of culture (or more correctly, of ma-terial culture), (3) theory of archaeological source-study, and (4) theory of reconstruction.

The whole pathos of Zakharuk’s building was di-rected to the idea of showing that archaeology isnot to be reduced to ‘‘naked artefactology’’, that isto say, archaeological source-study is only a part ofarchaeology. This was in the watercourse of thegeneral fighting for the affirmation of the Arcikhov-skij – Rybakov conception dominated in Soviet ar-chaeology that equated archaeology with history(Arcikhovskij: ‘‘archaeology is history armed withthe spade’’). However at such treatment one shouldinclude theory of social development and theory of

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culture into theoretical archaeology but they aretheories of other, independent disciplines such associology, history and culturology.

In my ‘‘Panorama of theoretical archaeology’’ I po-sitioned literature by periods and directions, I did notneed other structure. Yet when I worked on ‘‘Archae-ological Typology’’ the problem arose in front of meto determine the place of typology among other ar-chaeological theories, to establish their logical inter-relations, i.e. the structure of theoretical archaeology.Incidentally, I also considered then the ‘‘generaltheory of archaeology’’. Like my predecessors Clarkeand Gardin on this question I positioned some kernelof archaeological theories in line along which infor-mation proceeds from facts to their interpretation.These theories deal with archaeological material andare intended to give ideas for its processing, for inter-pretation, for extracting historical information fromit. I have called these theories endoarchaeological (in-ner-archaeological, intra-archaeological, or properlyarchaeological) as they are in the very kernel of ouractivity. Theory of classification and typology belongsto them as well as theory of migration recovery.

However, many archaeological theories, includingthose I was dealing with, do not fit into this kind.They are not directed toward archaeological material,its peculiarities and possibilities of its interpretation,but toward the archaeological discipline itself, towardits perfection. These are philosophical, cognitive andscientific problems as well as being problems of logicand psychology, so to say self-criticism and self-cog-nition of archaeology. When determining the subjectmatter of archaeology, its methodological nature, itsmeaning, the character of its facts and of theory it-self – all these tasks belong here. That is a theory oftheory ensues. Thus, it is archaeological metatheory.As soon as Renfrew applied the term ‘‘metaarchaeolo-gy’’ I have taken it into my tool kit and called thisgroup of theories ‘‘metaarchaeological’’.

For many a long day archaeologists saw only findsand what is hidden behind them – an Indian behindthe artefact, after the catchwords of R. Braidwood(1959a, 79). There was, and is, meant exactly this by‘‘archaeology’’. Renfrew (1969a, 243) called the meth-odological study of the discipline itself, of its generaltheory and methods, ‘‘metaarchaeology’’. Under thisterm he seemed to imply ironically a cliche of D.

Clarke. It would be more exact to speak of archae-ological metatheory, but Renfrew’s phrase possessespotentials for a broader use and therefore has cometo stay. According to norms of the Greek languageone should write this term as ‘‘metarchaeology’’(when a prefix in Greek ends in a vowel and is fol-lowed by another vowel, then the vowel from the pre-fix is dropped). However, in newer languages the bor-rowed prefix ‘meta-’ only occurs in the full form(probably due to words like ‘‘metaphysics’’, ‘‘meta-phor’’, ‘‘metamorphosis’’, ‘‘metastasis’’). This does notexhaust theoretical archaeology either. Still more the-ories remain that do not properly belong to archaeol-ogy but have a significant meaning for it. These the-ories developing mainly in other disciplines like soci-ology, history, culturology, anthropology, ethnology,linguistics, geography and others, nevertheless elabor-ate on concepts and laws which are condition sinequa non of functioning of archaeology. Among theseconcepts are ‘‘culture’’, ‘‘artefact’’, ‘‘ethnos’’,‘‘society’’, ‘‘epoch’’, etc. These theories establish regu-larities of migrations, diffusions, autochthonous devel-opment, influences, borrowings, independent inven-tions and so on. I do not mean their hallmarks inthe archaeological material, but the laws according towhich they were developed in living societies in thepast. I have called this group of theories ‘‘paraarchae-ological’’. Belonging to this is concepts of culture, ma-terial culture and historical process. Archaeologistsneed to study them very carefully, often also to workthem out with regard to special needs of archaeology.

So the former elaboration of ethnological theorydid not take into account the special interest of ar-chaeologists to know how in the remote living peoplestheir entire culture is connected with their materialculture, especially with its part which is able to lastduring thousands of years. It was necessary to createa special discipline, ethnoarchaeology.

Thus, I have outlined the structure of theoreticalarchaeology as three-part, consisting of endo-, meta-and paraarchaeological theories. I consider them onlyin this grouping. The three-part division later sug-gested by Lester Embree (1989; 1992) of the structureof American theoretical archaeology coincides to aconsiderable extent with my structure. There is ‘‘me-taarchaeology’’ in both our systems, his proper ‘‘the-oretical archaeology’’ corresponds to my endoarchae-


ology and his ‘‘philosophy of archaeology’’ corre-sponds to some extent to my ‘‘paraarchaeology’’ sinceit concerns culture, historical process etc. Howeverfrom my understanding paraarchaeology does not co-incide with Embree’s philosophy of archaeology, al-

though philosophical issues are touched on, as theyare in metaarchaeology. I begin with metaarchaeolo-gy because it allows me to present a general system-atic survey of the discipline and present its initial con-cepts and principles.

11Metaarchaeology

PART II. CONCERNS OF ARCHAEOLOGY

2. Subject matter of archaeology

An object is perceived differently by an eye and by an ear. So, the

object of the eye is a different object than that of the ear.

Karl Marx

1. REACHING UNDER THE CARPETWhen in 1987 heads of archaeological departmentsfrom all British universities elected a Committee foroutlining the future common policy in the difficultyears of reduced budgets, the Committee spotted theunexpected truth. ‘‘Absolutely fundamental is thedefinition of archaeology as an academic discipline ...Do we regard a degree in archaeology as a collectionof topics gathered together for convenience under thisheading ...? Or do we see it as dependent on a com-pulsory inner core, the irreducible heart of the disci-pline, without which no student can be properlytaught?’’ (Austin 1987, 230). The Committee chosethe second alternative. ‘‘Yet some problems werebrushed under the carpet. Most of our subject hasstrong links with other disciplines ...’’ – with history,ethnology etc., so the borders of the discipline ap-peared to be diffuse. However the question is not new.

As distinct from some other problems of metaar-chaeology, the determined concerns of archaeology,its field and its subject matter, have for a long timeappeared the necessary topic of any solid general text-book in archaeology. What has changed with the ap-pearance of metaarchaeology?

First, the role allotted to the analysis of such prob-lems has changed. The exposition of useful resultsfrom a study used to be aimed at rather than theelaboration and checking the means of obtainingthem. So, having exposed his considerations on‘‘aims, means and method of archaeology’’, SophusMüller (Müller 1898) did not begin with these con-siderations to his monumental survey of northern an-tiquities but placed them at the end. Such a practicewas usual even for works of more recent times. Nowit is impossible to begin a work without exposing andanalysing its premises. ‘‘... No archaeological study

can be better than the ideological assumptions whichunderlie the development of its arguments’’ (Clarke1968, XV).

Secondly, the way matters are considered haschanged, and with it the types of implications. In thepast they were advanced with some awkwardness asa statements of banal truths. In the same book SophusMüller saw it necessary to set the reader at rest bypromising to make the methodological problems ‘‘asclear as possible but also as briefly as possible. Be-cause truthfully speaking it is hardly tempting tocreate such an outline or to become acquainted withit. Yet nevertheless ...’’ (Müller 1898, 292). MeanwhileBuschor would scarcely agree to writing a methodol-ogical preface to a handbook of archaeology since hesupposed that ‘‘explanations on the concept andmethod of some discipline can only bear a characterof self-cognition’’ (Buschor 1936; 1969, 3). That isthey are subjective and divested of all objectivegrounds. Nowadays the necessity is accepted not onlyto elaborate strictly on methodological problems, butto rethink well-tried initial principles of archaeology(Chang 1967b).

Thirdly, the perception of the structural building ofarchaeology has changed. Various branches of ar-chaeology were formed within different spheres ofknowledge and were traditionally experienced as theseparate disciplines of prehistory, classical archaeol-ogy and other categories. These branches have seengreat difficulty in undergoing rapprochement. Theprogression from sources to inferences was consideredin a far more simple way than in today’s clear divi-sions into a step-by-step process. Childe was one ofthe first to note that ‘‘archaeology is one’’ (1956, VI),and despite the conservatism of some classicalscholars, archaeology as an explanatory science or asa system of methods is now viewed as gradually moreunited in the chronological span of its subject matter.It is also becoming more complicated and segmentedin its steps of cognition. More than one hundred years


ago Ivan E. Zabelin lamented that ‘‘it is very difficultto clear up for yourself even the very subject matterof archaeology. Indeed, what exactly is the businessof this discipline, what does it elaborate?’’ (Zabelin1878, 1).

2. INITIAL PRINCIPLES AND CONCEPTSIn the systematic description of any particular disci-pline its subject matter is the first component. Theconcept itself, ‘‘the subject matter of a particular disci-pline’’, was elaborated in detail by Soviet philos-ophers and scientists. However, even among them di-vergences exist and there is still not an agreed termin-ology. This is why it is necessary to stipulate whichunderstanding of the subject matter of archaeology isof present concern.

The subject matter of cognition, in particular of thescientific, is interrelated with the object of cognition.The separate piece of reality that is included in re-search cognitive activity is termed the ‘‘object’’ of thegiven discipline, if its objective character is intended,independent of the researcher’s existence. This isknown as the ontological approach. If however the in-tended meaning is the role of this piece of reality asthe source of knowledge and information, thus a gnose-

ological (the Russian term for epistemological) ap-proach, then this piece is termed the subject matterof this discipline (Zotov 1973, 18–29).

The role of fragments of reality as sources of infor-mation is determined not only by their own propertiesbut also by the tasks and possibilities of the cognisingconscience. So on the one hand the subject matter isnarrower than the object because not all the facets ofthe object can enter into the tasks of a given branch.On the other hand the subject matter is broader thanthe object for it includes the ‘‘tasks of cognitions’’ init as well, the ‘‘aspect of the consideration’’.

It was formerly conventional to identify the objectand subject matter. As is still ordinary in the West,these terms were synonyms, and they were never en-visaged with the tasks of cognition taken into con-sideration (or just the reverse, by only considering theimpact of the subject of cognition). Now it is some-times suggested to reduce the concept of the object toimmediate objects of study, i.e. to sources (Grushin1961, 12f, 74; Rakitov 1969, 174), and the concept of

subject matter to the sum of the aims or tasks of cog-nition (Rakitov 1964, 375). These suggestions seemunlucky. First of all they introduce again an unnecess-ary synonymous nature, a duplication of terms. Sec-ondly they return again to a view of reality as exclus-ively separate from the tasks of cognition and the con-cept thereby disappears in which they could unite.Besides, it is hardly fruitful to take away the laws andregularities from the object.

Suggestions also occur to place with the term of‘‘subject matter of the discipline’’ the community ofknowledge on the object, the reflection of the objectin the sign system of science and the like, i.e. the resultof research activity (Sadovskij 1965; Mel’nikov 1967,21; cf. Rakitov 1971, 37–63, 75). However, here thenecessary terms are also present without such desig-nation (‘‘knowledge’’, ‘‘facts’’, ‘‘evidence’’, ‘‘theories’’).Such understanding can only produce doubts in thenecessity of the very distinction of ‘‘object’’ and ‘‘sub-ject matter’’ (cf. Trudzik 1971, 55–58). Besides,through such understanding the aspect of the con-sideration is also ruined and the concept fades awaythat was able to grasp the activity, which is the actualpurpose of research cognition.

As the tasks of the cognition are an important com-ponent of the subject matter of the discipline theirpresence or absence is told in the whole of its struc-ture. That part of the reality which is involved in boththe object and subject matter of the discipline is dis-membered within the subject matter. Two poles canbe recognised in it (Zak 1968: 456–462, 471, cf. Raki-tov 1969: 169–178):

(A) Extrinsic phenomena accessible by direct obser-vation and registration – these are ‘‘immediateobjects’’ or ‘‘initial materials’’, ‘‘sources’’ or ‘‘rec-ords’’;

(B) Intrinsic, hidden essentials (laws, causal links etc.)which while characterising the object are just de-sirable, outlined and attainable aims of studying –these are ‘‘aims of cognition’’.

‘‘The task of science’’, Marx noted, ‘‘consists in reduc-ing the visible movement only manifested in the phe-nomenon to the actual inner movement’’. This divi-sion is important for the determination of the distinct-ness of a particular discipline. The right of a

13Metaarchaeology

particular discipline for its separation, for the isolationof its own subject matter, is determined firstly by thespecificity of initial materials (sources), demanding aspecial methodical apparatus (Sommerwill 1960,155–190; Kelle and Kovalzon 1966, 52). The distinc-tiveness of a discipline is also given by the homogen-eity and coherence of the entire chain of methods,techniques and procedures leading from these initialmaterials to the aims of cognition (Frolov 1968, 152–179). Thirdly it is given by the systemic tie or unity ofthose entities which are the aims of cognition (Sokolov1972, 71–72; Zotov 1973, 29f).

The subject matter of a discipline is broader, andby comparison its knowledge is the more completepart. Therefore optimally separated subject matter ofa particular discipline is reached when all the threeconditions are met above. If some of them cannot berealised at an outlined version of the subject matterseparation, it is evident that the subject matter is sep-arated unreasonably, and one must change its bordersby dividing up some sources, and leave further ad-vancement of the deeper aims to another discipline.The final aims of cognition of each large piece of re-ality, those characterising the object, are not necess-arily immediate aims of all disciplines studying thispiece of reality, this object. The modern process ofthe research cognition is deeply divided (Ovchinnikov1968, 26, 27, 29 – on the justification of ‘‘dismem-bering of the subject matter’’).

3. THREE TRADITIONSThere is no agreement among archaeologists as to thequestion of the subject matter of archaeology. Theonly point on which all concur is in the determinationof immediate objects of archaeological studies. Theseare material antiquities regarded as sources for knowl-edge of life and culture of past peoples and their soci-eties. Perhaps the specificity of these sources is ac-knowledged as sufficiently evident. Obtaining, regis-tering and ordering of these materials, even if onlybriefly, is something as a matter-of-course for anyunderstanding of the tasks of the discipline (Spaulding1960, 439). Views on this are divergent, not only nowbut also in the past. From the previous developmentof archaeology, metaarchaeology also inherited thediscussion on the determination of the subject matter

of archaeology, in which certain positions werereached long ago.

(1) One line of continuation stretches from Renais-sance collectors or antiquaries who gradually becamearchaeologists. Ancient artefacts, or antiques, wereinitially valued merely as extremely curious. Later, asunique items were selected they became types ofmonuments, and finally, since the 19th century theyhave been regarded as sources. Thus mass materialhas also acquired archaeological value. It is the prep-aration of such materials that the tasks of archaeologyare limited to according to this tradition. The cog-nition itself can be allotted to other disciplines, first ofall history, to which archaeology surrenders the pre-pared material. It appears as a source-studying disci-pline, subject matter may be reduced to sources andrecords (Bulle 1913; Niemeyer 1968; Rouse 1972).This conception is expressed by the motto ‘‘Archaeol-ogy is the handmaid of history’’, or as the Americanswould express it, ‘‘the handmaid of anthropology’’.

Sometimes in archaeological materials, especiallyin recent decades, a self-depending interest is con-sidered, an interest connected with the cognition ofmaterial culture as a part of culture in general (Deetz1967; Clarke 1968; Dunnell 1971, 116). But this cog-nition is understood in a cultural-anthropologicalspirit, as a notion that can reveal general laws. Inopposition to this Paul Courbin effusively defends theold position, claiming that ‘‘the establishment of factsis the archaeologist’s proper role and mission, thething that distinguishes him from all the ‘‘para-ar-chaeologists’’ because he is capable of doing thiswork, and he is the only one capable of doing it cor-rectly ...’’ (1982; 1988).

(2) The other line of continuation begins from his-torians, philologists and anthropologists who as-sembled tangible remains of the past and became ar-chaeologists. Classicists were the first in line, attractedby the possibility of illustrating the subjects of ancientauthors with artefacts and monuments, to yield newethnographic texts and later, the chance to put to-gether the history of visual arts.

Then scholars studying illiterate peoples andepochs became involved too. Considering survival inthe culture of modern civilised peoples and com-paring survival with the culture of contemporary un-civilised peoples, they established the existence of the


illiterate, ‘‘prehistoric’’ period in the past of civilisedpeoples. Having established this period they placedtheir hopes in archaeological remains as the mainsources of studying this period. For the study of pre-literate periods these sources were considered nearlythe only ones, at least as important as written sourcesfor the study of the next period, and in addition muchmore objective than them (Bernheim 1889) and moresimple. Hence, for these scholars prehistory practi-cally coincided with primordial (prehistoric) archaeol-ogy (Mortillet 1883; Dechelette 1908; Daniel 1950;Narr 1957), and the separation of a special source-studying discipline was thought unnecessary. Thisunderstanding is well expressed in the title of Leroi-Gourhan’s (1961) article on archaeology, ‘‘Historywithout Texts’’. Or in the same vein as Arcikhovskiysaid, ‘‘archaeology is history armed with a spade’’.

In contrast is the archaeology of the literate timesof the classical, medieval and other periods, which istreated as an auxiliary discipline that provides illustra-tive material for history and is regarded as a supple-ment to history. Alternatively it is identified with theancient history of visual arts, as an individual branchof history (Conze 1869; Furtwängler 1908: 231;Rumpf 1953; Narr 1957; Deetz 1967), or else it isattached to prehistoric archaeology as a branch ofhistory, homogenous with it and only conditionallyseparated. In this case they all are fused with historydue to sharing the same subject matter with it, namelythe historical process. The subject matter is reducedto the final aims of cognition. Correspondingly,Randsborg (1997: 189) distinguishes ‘‘traditional his-tory based on the written texts’’ and ‘‘history basedon past material reality, or, archaeology’’.

(3) Lastly the third line of subject matter. In theextent of one discipline it is supposed to have all thestages of cognition – from preparation to the histori-cal interpretation predetermined by it. The subjectmatter is considered broadly, and two levels are dis-tinguished within it, source-studying and interpreta-tion (Jack’s handbook after Dikshit 1960; Sankalia1965). An intermediate level is also possible whichoperates as a history of culture (Sophus Müller 1898;Crawford 1960). Sometimes this intermediate level isdeclared as final for archaeology (Brøndsted 1938).From this double notion on the division of subjectmatter in two branches of archaeology, two disciplines

even, some archaeologists infer two different pro-fessions (Rouse 1968, 12; Moberg 1969; Boüard1982). An archaeologist is and must be an all-purposespecialist according to this opinion (whether he canbe is another question, not put forward by these ar-chaeologists). As to the direct studies of material an-tiquities (description, classification etc.), they some-times separate it into a special branch of archaeol-ogy – Ja. A. Sher’s and Ju. N. Zaharuk’s‘‘archaeological source-study’’, or C.-A. Moberg’s‘‘archaeography’’ (Sher 1966; Zaharuk 1970c; Mo-berg 1969, 42).

The empiricist notion of history as the simplechronological exposition of facts that speak for them-selves (Ranke, Langlois and Segnobos, et al.), naturallyreduced the whole scientific procedure to preparingthe sources and, consequently, history reduced tosource-studies. With such an approach archaeologyhad the same right to be termed history as the anal-ogous preparation of written sources. To consider itpart of history or a separate parallel discipline wouldfall into complete dependence on the appraisal of thespecificity of records and not least on the ambitionsof archaeologists. The neo-Kantian expulsion of lawsfrom history and neo-Positivist eviction of causal linkslead to the same consequences.

Some historians however admitted that the mainbusiness of history is the revealing and judgement ofhidden connections between events and the search forlaws in causal links (Bernheim). Quite different conse-quences for archaeology issued from this understand-ing of history. According to such understanding themain business of a historian, after source-studyingprocessing of materials, corporeal or written artefacts,is to begin with the historical synthesis. This is quitea complicated business. Hence the choice. If we ac-knowledge that the preparation of sources is compar-ably simple and similar in character to the procedureof synthesis, then it is possible to equate source-study-ing with synthesis, thus regarding them both as onediscipline called history. The processing of writtensources was frequently treated in precisely this man-ner because both at the descriptive and synthesisingstages the scholar deals with sentences written onpaper. Archaeology was less often viewed this waybecause the procedures of processing and of synthesisare evidently dissimilar. In the case of archaeology

15Metaarchaeology

one can of course call this merged discipline ‘‘archae-ology’’, but in fact a discipline parallel to history isactually intended, i.e. another history, or a ‘‘historywithout texts’’ as it were.

However, with the development of source-studying,the drive becomes stronger to admit that the pro-cessing of sources is quite a complicated business andstrikingly different to the procedure of synthesis. Ifso, the processing of sources, both the written andespecially the archaeological sources, must be separ-ated into special disciplines. Here, only the role of thesource-studying discipline, the handmaiden of history,remains as a part of archaeology.

‘‘Certainly, many archaeologists will not be able toresist putting forward historical interpretations andconfirming them with the facts they have gathered (orcan gather); some of them ... will formulate behavi-oural laws, cultural laws. But where they were, in away, irreplaceable during the establishment of facts,by this stage anthropologists and historians will beable – advantageously – to take their place ... Archae-ologists can become historians, epigraphists, oranthropologists: but as happens every time one leavesone’s speciality, the result will perhaps – or probably –not be as good as if the work were done by a historianor an anthropologist. It would be no doubt better touse a specialist. Otherwise specialisation has no value,and absolutely anything can do absolutely anything...’’. ‘‘And perhaps some archaeologists will be earnesthistorians ... The important thing is that he be awarethat, in doing this, he is acting not as an archaeologistbut as an anthropologist or a historian. He is nolonger doing ‘‘archaeology’’, but something else’’(Courbin 1988, 154, 151).

4. CRITICISM OF CONCEPTIONSNot all of this is a scholastic debate. The discussion isconnected with philosophical and social positions andthey have a direct consequence for the practice ofresearch activity and teaching.

The acceptance of the first, narrowly object-oriented, point of view on the subject matter of ar-chaeology can lead and frequently leads to the breakaway of archaeology from history and sociology. Ar-chaeologists close themselves within studies of all thatis antiquarian, lose the aim of the studies and, even if

studying things intensively, fail to obtain from themthe information that is necessary for historical andsociological reconstructions. V. I. Ravdonikas (1930)accused the Soviet archaeologists of an older gener-ation of this and W. Taylor (1948, 45–94) showed howit occurred with the domestic (in this case American)Taxonomists. P. Martin (1968) demonstrated this withan example of Conjunctivists, the followers of Taylor.Concurrently historians and sociologists either do notuse archaeological sources at all or undertake sheerdilettante attacks of little significance on archaeology.Historians have no special methods of interpretationof archaeological material (Hachmann 1970, 11).

The establishment of the second, narrowly aim-oriented, point of view which dominated several dec-ades of Soviet archaeology is also associated with un-desirable consequences. The specificity of archae-ological records and their fundamental incom-pleteness are forgotten, leading to a tendency to solvebroad historical and sociological problems (for in-stance those of ethnogenesis) exclusively with archae-ological material alone, and with methods of archae-ology, while ignoring the important, sometimes cru-cial role of other sources, such as linguistic orethnographic sources (cf. thereabouts Klejn 1969, 21–35). In an attempt to compensate for their absence inareas of sociology and history, archaeologists makecrude criticism of the study of ethnonims, toponims,folklore etc. (thereabouts Propp 1962, 87–91; Ni-konov 1965, 4–5; Filin 1972, 25; Klejn 1991b; 1998).

It is as if archaeology duplicates history, but this‘‘other’’ history appears biased and weak. In lecturecourses not an ‘‘as-if’’ but what manifests itself is thereal duplication of history of primordial society byarchaeology, partly of ancient and medieval history.In order to avoid duplication, it appears necessary toschematise history of primordial society and to illus-trate it with ethnographic examples, while the basicaims of archaeology remain to make a survey of sitesand cultures chronologically, as found in standardtexts on archaeology. Also significant is the changingtitles given to courses on archaeology. It was initiallytermed ‘‘Introduction to Archaeology’’, which waslater to be changed to ‘‘Basics of Archaeology’’, andeventually ended being called ‘‘Basics of Archaeologyof the USSR’’. Although the meaning of the word‘‘archaeology’’ in the designation of course titles


changed somewhat unnoticed, it actually began as anarchaeology that designated a discipline, but whichby the end had undergone a shift in meaning to anarchaeology that was the sum total of material an-tiquities, chronologically and regionally ordered andsupplied with historical comments. A demand of pub-lications emerges to include not only processed ma-terials of excavations but obligatory and well-foundedhistorical and sociological inferences too (Artamonov1959: 5–8; Hołubowicz 1961). This greatly hindersthe publication of the finds and sometimes leads topublication of inferences instead of materials.

The compromising third point of view, where abroad subject matter is conceived, does not win greatacceptance. As yet its advocates have not succeededin showing that the tasks of studying both parts ofsuch broad subject matter as material antiquities andthe life of ancient societies are possible by means ofone and the same discipline, without including thesources with other specificity. There is no hope thatit is possible to unite the properties of both parts ofthe subject matter, to show their common features,while still achieving coherence and continuity in thechain of methods. In practice this compromise pointof view appears reduced to one of the above ex-tremes, more often to the third one, with which it hasin common an imposition onto archaeology of thefunctions of history and sociology and their social andpolitical role, something that many archaeologistslong for. Another point relevant to these conceptionsof archaeology’s subject matter is the separation be-tween prehistory and archaeology. From a narrowlyobject-oriented viewpoint on the subject-matter of ar-chaeology, prehistory is a separate discipline, whilethe other viewpoints see a fusion between archaeologyand prehistory.

5. DETERMINING THE CORE OF THEPROBLEMWith the separation of archaeology from prehistory,history and sociology now find more and more sup-port in archaeology (Grigor’ev 1973, 41–43; Bochkar-ev 1973, 56–60; Klejn 1977d; 1978b; 1991c; 1993;Tabaczynski & Pleszczynska 1974, 10–13; Hensel,Donato and Tabaczynski 1986). Despite currentprejudice (Clarke 1968, 12–13; Masson 1973, 46–49),

this separation does not demand the acceptance ofarchaeology as the handmaiden of history or necess-arily the full break of archaeology from history. Nei-ther does it entail the loss of history and sociology inarchaeology. Inclusion of ‘‘truncated’’ archaeologyinto a deep staged process of cognition is definitelypossible. In a number of contemporary works an ideais held that archaeology creates a new historicalsource from its materials, a system of antiquitieswhich becomes an important object of palaeohistory(prehistory and early history) and has the form of awritten source (Labuda 1957, 22; Grigor’ev 1973: 41;Bochkarev 1973, 59, abs.11; Lebedev 1973, 57; Gen-ing 1975, 11). Feedback from archaeology to historyis stressed too at the selection of attributes and otheroperations (Sher 1970, fig. 1; Bochkarev 1973, 58).Archaeology separates to a certain extent from his-tory, like in the first conception, but does not breakentirely from history.

For this a considerable modification of the firstpoint of view is necessary. Suggestions of some con-temporary researchers are directed on such modifi-cation. These researchers introduce into the subjectmatter of archaeology not only things with their sim-plest order but also the system of deeper connectionsand relations into which these things are included(Grigor’ev 1973, 42). Yet these connections and re-lations have many levels of complexity, and ultimatelyeverything that proponents like Binford of the thirdpoint of view want to introduce into the subject mat-ter of archaeology, such as laws of historical process,can be represented as the last and deepest level ofcomplexity. Then we return to the middle and broadtreatment of the subject matter of archaeology, if notto the third, narrowly-aimed one. The point is how-ever to determine the reasonable limit on which thepenetration of archaeology as a special science intothe depth of these connections and relations mustreach. Such a shift will fix the fourth understandingof the subject matter of archaeology, also a middleroad between the first and the third one, thoughrather narrow in character.

6. A PROPOSALThe cognition in the frames of a single discipline mustcontinue until the point where the systemic connec-

17Metaarchaeology

tion between its materials is discovered and the total-ity of facts appear in the system of functional links.Yet neither the sum of antiquities nor the restoredmaterial culture constitute an integer system. Theyare blocks of such a system that are isolated, unclosed,separated on the basis of second-rate attributes of ma-terial and safety. Such a system would be culture,which leads archaeologists to take the study of ma-terial antiquities to the level on which these antiqui-ties are included into the system of culture recordedin statics and dynamics.

Meanwhile culture as a whole cannot become thesubject matter of archaeology because an adequatestudy of it in statics and dynamics demands a hugeinvolvement and application of other methods. Onlyone aspect of culture enters the subject matter of ar-chaeology as its final unit, and this aspect includesmaterial antiquities in the system of functional linkswithin culture. The basis of this inclusion consists ofthree processes:

(1) Continuous development of culture – with inte-gration, disintegration, convergence and interac-tion of local cultures (Artanovskij 1967, 26–50;84–207; Sokolov 1972, 58–91);

(2) ‘‘objectification’’, i.e. conversion of ideas andevents into material things (Deetz 1967, 105–134);

(3) ‘‘archaeologisation’’, i.e. egress out of life, trans-formation of results of objectification into artefactsand monuments (Eggers 1959, 199–297; Bochkar-ev 1973, 59f). This process contains its own causalmechanisms and regularities, and they of coursecrop up in the subject matter of archaeology.

If these considerations are correct, then there arethree levels of depth in the subject matter of ar-chaeology: 1) things and their relationships, 2)phenomena, events of the past, and 3) their in-clusion into the system of culture and into the cul-tural-historical process. This allows a category com-position of the subject matter of archaeology to bedetermined as follows:

(1) The material antiquities per se as remains of thedefunct material culture of the past.

(2) Their links and relationships in the system of cul-ture – with each other, with other elements of cul-

ture and with particular chains of the cultural-historical process.

(3) Regularities and causal mechanisms in the basisof all these links and relationships.

This means in particular that the concerns of ar-chaeology are not limited, as V. S. Bochkarev(1973, 59–60) supposes, with the separation of ar-chaeological cultures. The formation of track se-

quentions is still involved entirely in the competenceof archaeology. These sequentions look like geneticlines but are only cultural traditions. It is in thesecatenae or chains of cultures that the historical pro-cess has flowed (Klejn 1973, 1–4; 1974, 47–48).This means that the so-called historical reconstruc-tions of phenomena (authochtoneity, migrations, in-fluences, transformations etc.) are the business of anarchaeologist, not of a historian. But the causal ex-planation of these events and revealing of laws gov-erning them is in the main not the business of anarchaeologist. These problems are of particular con-cern to an archaeologist but only from one side. Hereturns to their elaboration only as soon as it allowshim to establish the systemic link between his ma-terials, to form sequences. In the rest, despite thedirectives of L. Binford (1967, 267–275), theseproblems retreat to the competence of historiansand sociologists. It is here the border lies.

Under such an understanding, the subject matterof archaeology does not appear to be the work ofhistory, a part or duplicate of history, or an absolutelyindependent discipline. It emerges as a methodologic-ally independent and a particular social-historicaldiscipline. Social-historical in the same sense as canbe said for ethnography, linguistics, literary criticismetc. It has its own subject matter with specific initialmaterials, its methods, and its theories. It can advancein the role of a source-studying discipline in relationto other disciplines, as do ethnography, linguistics,and philology. Similar ways out of archaeology leadinto sociology, history, culturology, history of culture –disciplines synthetic by nature. Ambitions of statusand overt, though well meant, pretension of alienroles do not support its authority. Archaeology is adiscipline of a narrower but sufficiently importantpurpose and to ensure a fruitful integration of it withother disciplines one must first delimit archaeology,


clearly determining its functions and localising its sub-ject matter.

Reluctance to take into account the borders ofdisciplines and a trend towards archaeology losing itssubject matter has a long tradition in the SovietUnion. Besides the methodological substantiationcritically considered here, this tradition creates posi-tive ideational stimuli too: a trend towards the inte-gration of disciplines, overcoming the worship offacts, and the rise of the authority of history.

However if the specificity of different types ofsources demands differences in methods of pro-

cessing, then there is a basis for two disciplines: ar-chaeology and source-studying of texts. To providesynthesis this should naturally be carried out in onediscipline. But if synthesis is necessary then it is aquestion of which discipline to tackle the problemwith. Archaeology should be allowed to attain whatit reasonably can from the materials accessible to it,carried out to the extent that the methods it has de-veloped will allow. This would be far more beneficialboth to archaeology and to history. Let us renderwhat is Caesar’s to the Caesar of archaeology andwhat is God’s to the God of history.

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3. Archaeological sources

1. SOURCES IN THE COGNITION OF THEPASTThe term ‘‘archaeological sources’’ (arkheologicheskieistochniki) is widely used in Soviet/Russian archaeol-ogy and in the archaeology of formerly Socialist coun-tries; it appears both in general handbooks and in thetitles of certain works (Arkheologija ab 1961; Hołu-bowicz 1961; Kameneckij et al. 1975; Klejn 1978b).Due to the extensive use of the term it conveys the im-pression that it is natural and commonly accepted. Ad-ditionally that it is understandable and always used inthis matter-of-course meaning. Yet this is not the case.

Even skimming through the main pre-RevolutionRussian handbooks on archaeology by Uvarov, Gor-odcov or Spicyn, or the Proceedings of Russian Ar-chaeological Congresses, is enough to be convincedthat they are concerned with ‘‘archaeological monu-ments’’, ‘‘sites’’ or ‘‘materials’’, but they were notusually called ‘‘sources’’. In modern Western usagethe terms corresponding to our Russian ‘‘archaeologi-cal sources’’ are in general known. They are presentin archaeological vocabulary in German as ‘‘archaol-ogische Quellen’’ and in French as ‘‘sources archeolo-giques’’. Yet the full correspondence only occurs incontinental Europe. In English the similar term ‘‘ma-terial sources’’ is very seldom used. In its place wemeet the term ‘‘archaeological records’’. The word‘‘record’’ carries the meaning of a fixed message,registration or entry. While the word ‘‘source’’ impliesthe possibility of using information, the word ‘‘rec-ord’’ is abstracted from this aspect and stresses onlythe imposed nature of the information onto the ob-ject. In general, even if these terms are used in foreignliterature, they occur not in an archaeological par-lance but in general theoretical considerations in phil-osophy and methodology of history. In the archae-ological literature they are hardly ever encountered(some exceptions will be considered later). In contextswhere they could be expected, other terms appear:‘‘archaeological evidence’’, ‘‘archaeological data’’,‘‘archaeological monuments’’, ‘‘archaeological finds’’(German ‘‘Bodendenkmaler’’, ‘‘Bodenfunde’’), ‘‘ar-chaeological documents’’ (German ‘‘archaologischeUrkunden’’) etc.

In order to understand what archaeological sourcesare and to learn how to deal with them correctly,one needs first and foremost to determine their placeamong other sources of information, to reveal thespecificity of archaeological sources and clear up theirinterrelationship with the concept ‘‘historicalsources’’. This means complementing the historicalapproach with the structural approach and consider-ing the concept ‘‘archaeological sources’’ in the estab-lished system of concepts characterising and servingthe research cognition. Only in the system, in a netof connections and relations can each concept receiveadequate completeness of determination, and onlyfrom this can a clear-cut notion on its functions andon the limits of its application emerge.

In each theory, the scholar who wants to workstrictly and methodically will usually meet with har-monious and rigid systems, systems of main conceptsnecessary for the given theory. Yet such systemsemerging in different theoretical trends are often in-compatible. The most general concepts of a disciplineare called to serve and connect its different theoriesand even different disciplines. In real functioning suchconcepts gradually accommodate themselves to eachother and spontaneously constitute one system, al-though it does not always appear complete and clear-cut at once. The task emerges to order and specifythis system beginning from its most general parts.

Every positive discipline has its own factual base.The facts constitute this base, the initial data, andthe concrete evidence on objective reality, which thisdiscipline elaborates on with its methods and en-lightens with its theories. Each of these disciplines iso-lates, carefully seeks and systematises those objectsand processes in which data necessary for it are con-tained. These are its means of obtaining informationand they differ in structure. As a rule any given disci-pline does not limit itself by one kind of means butnevertheless some are more important than others.

There are disciplines on functional dependencies,behaviour etc. (biology, sociology, psychology) forwhich the main such means is natural observation. Otherdisciplines like physics and chemistry are supportedby experiment – the observer intervenes in the investiga-


tive process and changes its conditions in order totrace how it can be explained and thus to grant thecognition of hidden mechanisms. There are certaindisciplines, for instance linguistics and geography,which need comparatively less to organise special ob-servation. They use mainly contemporary materials al-ways accessible to description and act as the mainobject of immediate study. Then there are otherdisciplines whose objects accessible being analysedhave by themselves secondary interest but which areimportant for the discipline in question primarily asmediators which transfer the information, or in otherwords as sources. It is from sources that one can extractevidence about the events of the past which this disci-pline strives to cognise about. Such disciplines dealwith processes of development during the past (palae-ontology, history, historical geology, historical litera-ture etc.).

In Russian the word ‘‘source’’ generally means anyreservoir or opening from which something flows outof or can be derived from. In the direct sense it is aspring, the beginning of a brook. In the figurativesense it is an object from which information, evidenceor knowledge can be obtained about another object,and it is only due to this property that the first objectis interesting for us in some context. Only in this con-text does the object appear a source. It is in this sensethat newspapers use this word when they refer to‘‘diplomatic sources’’ or to ‘‘official, governmentalsources’’ etc.

In describing their means of obtaining facts his-torians characterise the specificity of their discipline,the peculiarity and difficulty of the initial methodolog-ical situation in normal historical study. The facts in-teresting for a scholar are very frequently inaccessibleto his immediate observation and effect.

At the same time this statement stresses the com-plexity too, the cognitive depth of those objects thatare accessible and liable to immediate investigationof a historian: chronicles, treaties etc. Indeed, beingthemselves facts of the past – products of a certaintime, a certain medium and certain actions, like thecreative work of a chronicler or the recording ofdiplomatic negotiations – they contain information onsome other, more distant facts of the past, facts oftenespecially important for the historian. These are factsabout bygone migrations of peoples, about extinct (at

the time of recording) customs and incidents, on wars,donations and so on. This rich information is ac-cumulated by the conscience of bygone informantsand expressed in sign systems especially predestinedfor transmitting the information, mainly in the natu-ral language of human communication, the languageof words. In other cases this deep information is as-sociated with regular connection of phenomena fromwhen some phenomena can be judged from others.Then it is recognised only by the conscience of aninvestigating historian whose conscience equates thisregular link to a sign system. Through it, he proceedsfrom immediate evidences to inferred ones. In suchways this bygone reality becomes accessible to histori-cal conscience.

The reflection theory accepted in Marxism claimsindependence and priority of the reflected object asviewed against the surroundings but it does not re-duce the result of the reflection (the image) to thereflected object, and it does not consider the imageand the object identical to each other. It takes intoaccount the active character of the cognition process,the possibility of removal of the image from the ob-ject, of the cognition from the reality. In such formu-lation this theory accumulates conventional generalideas of Materialistic philosophy and does not contra-dict sound reasoning. However the possibilities ofmismatch of an image with the object remained unre-fined in the Marxist-Leninist theory of reflection; asapplied to the practice of research it usually struggledfor rapprochement of the image with the object. In-stead it preferred simplifications and reduced every-thing to direct correspondence.

Historical cognition can be considered as a specifickind of a reflection (Ivanov 1962; 1963; 1973a;1973b; Danilov 1963; Pushkarev 1970, 64–84), and itis especially clear how complicated in reality the pro-cess of reflection can be. This is an indirect reflection,which as a rule is made without direct contact withthe object of reflection by the investigator. It is out-stretched in time, with its distribution in phases andwith delay (Fig. 1). First objects are reflected in theconscience of observers where these images are fixedand expressed in a sign system. Later the images arepassed to other people while being complemented enroute with new results of reflection, and are fixedagain anew. If we isolate one such fixation that im-

21Metaarchaeology

Fig. 1. Historical cognition: reflection in written sources.

printed not only old images but also the condition oftheir selection and fixation, this is altogether just asource. After a while, usually a long interval, this fix-ation is perceived by an investigator-historian andfixed again in his conscience and in a sign system.The reflection appears multi-step like in a periscope,but the mirrors of this periscope are displaced in timeand they are disconnected. At the moment when theinvestigator has perceived the images in their finalform, the initial objects and many intermediate formsare already gone. When the ray reaches the eyeglass,many mirrors that it had passed are gone, let alonethe very objects. Checking is extremely difficult butthis is the nature of historical cognition.

Sources are an important chain in the machineryof reflection characteristic for historical cognition. Itis the sources that ensure the agency between the per-ceived reality of the past and the subject of cognition,the historian-investigator. They contain the connec-tions between times and the information contained in

them is realised in images (Gulyga 1965). An imagecontains some general features expressible in abstrac-tions. But it unites them with individual features, pe-culiar, and inherent only in the given piece of reality.Like in any reflection, by and large images could notemerge in sources if there were no objects (prototypes)ready to be reflected, or if there were no systems ableto provide the reflection.

In early stages of the development of Positivist his-torical knowledge the reality of objects was viewed asself-evident and the validity of images did not raisedoubts. The reflecting system seemed simple, obedi-ent and easily controllable. Later, there was an upris-ing of scepticism and frustration in historical studies.Real objects may remain hidden behind this array ofimages but not necessarily behind each one in par-ticular. Historians recognised the activity and com-plexity of the reflecting system and became terrifiedat the size of its contribution to the formation of im-ages. It had lost not only the credulous nature of the


images, but the credit for the reality of their proto-types. What a historian sees in a source depends onhis preparation, education and talent, on the leveland activity of his conscience. The more he knows,the more he will see (Collingwood 1956, 237).

Indeed, the reflecting system of historical cognitiondeserves some attention. Included in such a systemare observers, informants, creators of sources and thesources themselves as well as source-studying special-ists and the users of historical information. However,as the mental reflection is not mechanical, not mirror-like, and not direct and not repeatable in history, andas images are not identical to the objects in principle,there is no sense in attempting to look behind eachimage for an object imprinted exactly in it. Imagescan be more or less near to real prototypes and canbe absolutely distorted and complete fantasy. Ofcourse there is the possibility of checking if and howthe images correlate with the objects (prototypes), butthis checking in the historical cognition is very diffi-cult due to its specificity.

In principle there are two main possibilities of mak-ing such a proof. Either to collate the obtained imageswith what is known from other sources about thesame objects, or to monitor the most vulnerable mo-ment of reflection, risking injury and frequently lead-ing to the appearance of distorted images, i.e. to con-trol the creation of the source. Data for such a controlare partly contained in the source itself and partly inother sources enlightening this source as a fact of thepast. Thus, there are at least two kinds of evidence ineach source: a) images of certain objects in relation towhich this source serves only as the means of reflec-tion, and b) images-facts of which a part is the sourceitself as an event of the life. The point is reached ofasking whether there is historical information con-tained in the sources. The answer is both yes and no.

One should not imagine that historical informationis contained in a source like milk in a jug. If the jugis tipped the milk will spill and as much as was orig-inally poured into the jug will run out; its state insidewill be the same outside the jug. And it retains oneand the same calorie content whoever drinks it. It isnot so with historical information. It does not existbeforehand in the source, but neither is the infor-mation brought in from outside. Rather, it growsfrom information on the sources on the past (‘‘poten-

tial historical information’’) during the process of itsconsumption. It does not flow by itself from thesource – it must be extracted, by squeezing the sourcelike a vessel, by turning it inside out. Its quantity andquality depend not only on the objects of reflectionbut also on by whom and how this information isextracted and consumed. In that ‘‘milk’’ or ‘‘cream’’form in which it is often imaged, it exists neither inarchaeological sources nor in any historical sources intheir initial state. In that sense historical and archae-ological sources are similar.

Thus if not all sources that inform about the pastare historical sources, they nevertheless all deservecareful checking for aptitude in this respect. Any ofthem can still appear as such in the future and allneed an attentive attitude. It has been a point of dis-cussion among Russian theoreticians of source-study-ing to consider whether it would be worthwhile toinclude a special category, a ‘‘potential historicalsource’’ or ‘‘pre-source’’ category, into the conceptapparatus of source studies.

There are different methods by which to group his-torical sources – epochs, territories, themes etc. Mostcustomary is division by way of reflection, in texts,corporeal (material), or lingual etc. L. N. Pushkarev(1975) suggested the most exact definition of this cri-terion, in which classification was made by themethod of coding and keeping the information in thesource. From the viewpoint of the information ap-proach now widely applied in many disciplines, infor-mation contained in any objects can be convention-ally considered as messages made up in some signsystems or in certain languages, i.e. enciphered in acertain clue. In order to read these messages and ex-tract information one must know this clue or code.But it appears differently in different kinds of sourcesas soon as information is extracted from them in vari-ous ways.

Strictly speaking by this criterion we distinguishfour groups among historical sources as well as in gen-eral among sources of information on the past: 1) lin-gual or speech sources (written and oral), 2) behavi-oural (customs, rituals, games etc.), 3) material, and 4)figurative. If one keeps to conventional use of words itis clear that the path to the definition of archaeologi-cal sources goes via the concept ‘‘material (corporeal)sources’’.

23Metaarchaeology

2. REFLECTION IN MATERIAL SOURCESIn the direct sense of the words archaeological sourcesare those sources which are relevant to the concernsof a special discipline called archaeology. This meansthat these are sources deserving separation into aspecial category by considerations of a methodicalcharacter. In order to extract information from thema special professional preparation and training isneeded, special methods, a special set of concepts, ina word a special discipline. Intuitive understanding ofsuch a necessity emerged long ago, and a disciplinewas spontaneously formed; archaeology was estab-lished. Initially, since classical times until the 18thcentury the term ‘‘archaeology’’ in full correspon-dence with its literal sense (from the Greek a|caioV,‘ancient’ and logoV, a ‘word’, ‘learning’, or ‘knowl-edge’) designated a very broad branch of knowledge,that of any true evidence about the ancient past.

Since the 19th century the meaning of the termnarrowed to the study of material monuments of an-tiquity. This was probably necessary as this subjectmatter demanded specialisation. But because this oc-curred spontaneously and was not substantiated the-oretically, these naturally formed borders and func-tions of such a formed discipline were often damaged.Moreover, suggestions were frequently advanced tochange its borders – to shift them or to broaden them,or to annihilate such a discipline completely. This canbe illustrated by several examples. In the first text-book on archaeology published under the Sovietpower it was stated that both material and writtensources on the ancient belong to the competence ofarchaeology. What, then, distinguishes it from his-tory? An inclination of interest to the material side ofthings and chronological depth. The author of thetextbook, the prominent historian S. A. Zhebelev(1923, 4, 27, 130), apparently did not acknowledgein material sources any specificity important for themethods of research. He held that ‘‘any special ar-chaeological method is hardly necessary to invent,similarly there is no reason to speak of some special‘‘attitude’’ in studying archaeology’’.

In 1932 in the introduction to a most authoritativecollaborative work, Handbuch der Archaologie, theinfluential German archaeologist E. Buschor (1969, 3)stated that there is not any special ‘‘archaeologicalmethod’’, and that methodical tricks are the individ-

ual business of each investigator. In his opinion an‘‘archaeologist is anyone who attributes a thingformed by a man’s hand to the past epoch’’, whilearchaeological sources are simply ‘‘a mirror in whichan archaeologist sees historical life’’ (my emphasis –L. K.). Objectivity of a researcher depends entirely onthe investigator’s acumen and power of observation.

Meanwhile, to clarify the idea of archaeologicalsources as a means of reflection, they can be com-pared to an optical device, in which they are likenednot to a mirror but to a periscope-like dive into thepast. This would not be a simple periscope like the‘‘Minos’ eye’’ (a simple periscope lowered by Lericiinto ancient burial chambers of the Etruscans), but amuch more complicated periscope consisting of a sys-tem of mirrors: now straight, now concave, now con-vex, now bizarrely distorted, and different filtres – ro-tating, opaque, coloured, etc. It would be foolish toignore this device on the pretext that it is not thedevice itself that is interesting for us but the objectbeing observed through it. Without meticulous study-ing of the device we cannot present, even mentally,the object in its real form, and cannot understandwhich real object is hidden behind that incomplete,split and often senseless image which is presented toour eye in the ocular.

3. WORDS AND THINGSThings as sources of information differ radically fromother sources of information by the way in which in-formation is encoded in them and consequently bythe means of extracting it (Fig. 2). Why however is aprofessional historian of traditional profile unable toextract this information?

Any discipline functions only in the sphere ofthought and speech. History is no exception. As dis-tinct from some other disciplines history is formulatedby means of everyday literary language. This meansthat it operates with information expressed in con-cepts, judgements and deductions exposed in naturallanguage with the help of some minimum of specialterminology. It is also how information is organisedin written sources – in chronicles, memoirs, treatiesetc. This is why it is difficult to make sharp bordersbetween original sources (annals, memoirs), secondarysources (compiled chronicles, chronicle convolute)


and academic works of historians. The elaboration of‘‘pre-source’’ for its transformation into a source doesnot differ in principle from the main labour of a his-torian – from establishment of causal connections,from trying to grasp interaction of laws and chances.In both fields – in written source-studies and in his-tory – a scholar confronts common concepts, throwstogether and transforms everyday judgements in lifeaccording to strict rules of logic.

So written source-studying is often worked outcompletely in a professional way by the same his-torian who thereafter uses the information obtainedfor historical research. With material sources mattersstand otherwise. It is impossible to operate immedi-ately with material things in the sphere of thoughtand speech. Without preliminary remaking, infor-mation fixed in things is not suitable for scholarly use.One must re-code it and do it twice. First one musttranslate it from what is metaphorically called the‘‘language of things’’ to any of the natural languages;to describe things and their relations. At this stageone has to use special terminology much more than inhistory. Then it is necessary, by comparing acquiredevidence with others, to establish what events andprocesses of the past have been reflected in the ma-terial sources described. Only then does the infor-mation obtained reach the form demanded by thehistorical discipline.

It was once widely supposed that this was a verysimple task. Now however it is clear that to realise thedemanded re-coding of information of material thingsis much more difficult than to translate a text fromone natural language to another, say from Russian toGerman. Despite the polysemy of words and pliabilityof their use, it is practically established that there isplenty of very narrow correspondences between natu-ral languages, and the context will prompt which ofthem to choose. Material things are even more poli-semic, or multiple in meaning. Full lists of all theirpossible correspondences are not available, and theircontext is often distorted.

The researcher takes the classical position of a de-tective criminologist who notices a cigarette stub atthe scene of a crime. Has the stub been left by thecriminal, victim, witness or a chance passer-by whosaw nothing? Was the cigarette smoked during themoment and at the spot of the event of interest for

the investigation, or had an ashtray been knocked andthe butt fallen out before the event? The list of poss-ible correspondences between the things and eventsis not limitless – it is quite apparent the cigarette wasnot smoked by a horse belonging to the criminal orby the investigator’s dog – but nevertheless the list isvery large, and it is difficult to grant its completeness.

Here one cannot rely on the simple expansion ofthe professional training of a historian into the newfield, one cannot do with the usual notions, life ex-perience and sound reasoning. Absolutely new knowl-edge is necessary, special methods and another disci-pline is needed. For processing material evidence usedin law a special discipline is created, criminology.Even more necessary is a special discipline for pro-cessing ancient material sources because it is evenmore difficult to elaborate on them.

4. ARCHAEOLOGICAL REFLECTIONFor many a long day scholars observed only one es-sential distinction in the earliest of ancient materialsources. The oldest sources available are sparse, mon-otonous, and poorly preserved. From the Palaeolithicperiod comes a plenitude of flint tools and fragmentsof bones, but the rest is badly preserved. In the Neo-lithic ceramics appear in great abundance, and fromlater epochs metallic ornaments, coins, and founda-tions of buildings are found, albeit only very seldomwith things like wooden utensils and leather shoes.Yet from the more recent past furs, laces, textiles,paper etc. can still be found in a preserved state. An-cient material sources are fragmentary and incom-plete, but these are purely quantitative differences.

H. J. Eggers, the German archaeologist, was thefirst to give heed in 1950 to the qualitative differencesbetween the living material culture (eplebendes Gut)studied by ethnographers, or observed by ancient in-formants, and the dead material culture (totes Gut),which falls into the hands of archaeologists (Eggers1950).

In addition to this qualitative difference, archae-ological sources are one-sided, caused by the unevenpreservation of different assemblages and the gapswithin them that cannot be compensated for. Indeed,more often than not, things that found their way ontothe scrap-heap and into the garbage sediments of

25Metaarchaeology

Fig. 2. Reflection in archaeological record.


dwellings were items that had broken or were notoften needed, especially if they were simple to pro-duce. Metal items would be used over and over againfor a long time. Fragments that had broken and beenground off during production were not thrown awaybut were re-melted for further production. Pots how-ever do occasionally appear in rubbish heaps.

Archaeological sources can be intentional just likewritten sources. The dead were not often laid intograves wearing the clothes and accompanied with thethings which they used for daily use (living Christiansdo not strut about in shrouds). For the next or otherworld the dead were supplied with equipment espe-cially selected according to conventional ritual, orotherwise especially made for this purpose. In somefemale burials of the Bronze Age in Central Europeor Caucuses the sets of ornaments weigh so much thatit would be impossible to adorn them, it was possibleonly to lie with them on. Golden ornaments of Scythi-ans and Sarmatians are not always cast, frequentlythey are only covered by a very thin gold leaf bearing

convex picture imprints. To wear such ornaments wasrisky for they would crumple at once. They can beplaced into a grave however and the appearance ismagnificent, even though the total use of preciousmetal is small. In a burial of a leader of the Scythiantime in Altay (Pazyryk barrows), as Professor Grjaz-nov has established, the wooden details of the bridle,different for each one of the nine horses, were pro-duced by different artisans. Tribesmen probably do-nated the horses as a burial sacrifice, but it is doubtfulthat the leader used such bridle when living. Thusupon the transformation of the living culture into adead one its constitution was rebuilt and the rates ofits components were changed.

In the same work, but especially following it,Eggers added considerations on subsequent changesoccurring to culture of the dead after its deposition,that is, after its resting in the earth, on the earth orunderwater. In essence he has brought the reader tothe inference, without formulating it as such, thathowever a dead culture differs from a living culture,

27Metaarchaeology

the third state of culture differs even more; the re-mains of a culture dead long ago – the state in whichit properly speaking passes to the business of archaeol-ogists (Eggers 1959: 262–270). The term for thechanges leading to this state were later suggested byDavid Clarke as ‘‘post-depositional’’ (Clarke 1973).

Changes affecting the culture of the dead act selec-tively upon it. Different materials react differently tolong-term effect of chemical substances. Metals arealtered by corrosion, wood decays and falls to pieces,bones can be better preserved, and stone and ce-ramics resist well against time. This exaggerates thedisproportion between metals and ceramics in cul-tural remains. Archaeologists find ruins of settlementsalmost devoid of metal but this does not mean that itwas absent from daily life. Yet these settlements areover-saturated with ceramics – there are literallymountains of ceramics, but this does not necessarilymean that when these settlements existed their houseswere full of all of these wares.

Not only the composition of the dead cultural ma-terial changes but its layout and structure too. A rivercan undermine a citadel and dislocate its remains,and a coastal dune will be re-scattered by wind caus-ing sediments of different epochs to be sprinkled intothe sand and mix together into one deposit. Moreoften still sharp changes are introduced by the activityof people, such as re-digging of old deposits in a hillfort with storage-pits, wells, and ditches for dwellingsetc., levelling of ground for fortifications, clearing ofruins, secondary use of building materials, robbing ofrich graves and so on.

5. MATERIAL ANTIQUITIESWhen comparing antiquities with other materialsources Ju. N. Zakharuk noted their differences interms of diagnostic possibilities. Diagnostibility of an-tiquities, i.e. the possibility to recognise and under-stand them, sharply declines as compared to sourcesof later origin. Younger sources are often more or lessknown to the investigator or to his contemporaries –the things themselves or their apparent analogues, orclosely kindred things. Their functions are experi-enced, their connections are congnised and theirplace in the system of culture is made known. Thesemay be rather old things too, circulating for a long

time and may even have become defunct long ago.Yet if such information about them is saved in thememory of living people these are not antiquities. Thecategory of antiquities contains only those whose in-formation is lost or severely distorted.

Russian terminology here is richer and more accu-rate than the Western equivalent. In Western lan-guages only one border among monuments of cultureis distinguished. It distinguishes modern or in generalyounger objects from those that came from the depthof a matter of centuries and are called ‘‘antiquities’’(in Russian drevnosti). This simplification conceals thedistinction between approaches of archaeologists andethnographers to the material remains of the past. Itwould be simpler to use terminology with one border,i.e. the division into two, if antiquities were the con-cern of archaeology and modern things were the con-cern of ethnography. Yet ethnography studies not onlythings of modern life!

Eggers felt this lack of a concept and introduced anadditional term into his terminology. Between ‘‘livingmaterial culture’’ and ‘‘dead material culture’’ heplaced one more term – ‘‘dying material culture’’(‘‘sterbendes Gut’’), and in this way designated thedefunct, obsolete, out-of-date part of ‘‘living materialculture’’. The border between the completely livingmaterial culture and faintly living, or dying, runs indifferent parts of material culture at different levels.Everyday clothes are completely replaced on a wide-spread basis in perhaps five year cycles, but furnitureis only discarded with every generation or two, andtable silver and jewellery remain in a family for anumber of generations. Sometimes, however, thingsof an age greater than this limit are kept in use, andthey are perceived as old-fashioned. While studyingethnographic collections from Pomerania, Eggers hasnoted that this state does not have an age limit, andit is not equal in different parts of culture (Eggers1959: 258–261).

In other words, the ‘‘dying culture’’ also has anopposite end behind which things are no longer util-ised in people’s lives. They are not kept together withmore new ones but fall out completely into the ‘‘deadmaterial culture’’ and are deposited there. Desig-nation of this stratum of dying culture, in some placesmillennia old, is strangely enough not a commonlyaccepted term in German, leaving Eggers’ termino-


logical innovations to remain only in his personalglossary.

In Russian there is another term, ‘‘starina’’, whichcomes from the word ‘‘staryj’’ meaning ‘old’, and itbelongs between the two extreme concepts ‘‘antiqui-ties’’ and ‘‘modern objects’’. ‘‘Starina’’ is everythingthat emerged long ago and it no longer correspondsto modern conditions, demands and standards. It iseverything that belongs to defunct types still circu-lating in living culture which are applied or can beapplied because they are still understandable to com-mon people in function and use. Material starina arethings technically or morally outdated, of obsolete ordefunct types, but preserved in living circulation or atleast in continuous possession of persons who knowhow to use them – until the moment when thesethings come under observation or were extracted forstudying or collecting. These are materials of ethno-graphic studies although these are not all materials ofethnography.

Not everything old and decrepit is called ‘‘starina’’.A thing modern by type can simply be old if it wasproduced long ago and if the type has still not becomearchaic, or can be neglected if it is very worn out andbadly preserved. Some narrower concepts are ‘‘anti-quarian things’’ and ‘‘survivals’’. Antiquarian here areantique things having value as a commodity and des-ignated as such from this point of view. The term‘‘survivals’’ (perezhitki in Russian) is applied in the samesense as in Western languages, but sometimes it onlycovers musty ideas and stereotypes of behaviour, butnot things. To the latter the term ‘‘relicts’’ is appliedin this meaning. Naturally, monuments of the com-parably recent past have more chances of receivingthe status of ‘‘starina’’, although it is not time that isthe main criterion in question.

Antiquities are remains of the culture of the past,usually of the distant past, separated from our livesnot only by a significant interval of time but also im-portantly by a break in tradition. It is such breaks thathinder the understanding of the remains; one shouldclear up the purpose of objects and search places offragments in the system of the whole. In a certainsense antiquities take a similar place among monu-ments of culture as fossil species do in biology. A spe-cies is called fossil when it is now non-existent, andceased to exist before the beginning of biological

science. Both terms – in biology and in history ofculture – are determined not as applied to each singleobject but to the whole typological totality; to a spe-cies in biology, to a type in archaeology. In thechurches of Kiev’s Pechery Lavra divine service still goeson today, but this is nevertheless an antiquity and ob-ject of archaeology, since its functioning is a rare ex-ception. All the other monuments of this type andtime were long ago left by their inhabitants or usersand since then have altered.

Material antiquities are things which, judging bytheir type, fell into disuse long ago and were forgot-ten, left in the earth, on the earth or underwater bythe time of their discovery by an observer. The ob-server in this case is a scholar or a collector who ex-tracted them from the environment for use not ac-cording to the direct original destination, but as asource of information on the past.

Although there are archaeological trends in whichregularities in history are accepted and which are op-timistic towards reconstructions and explanations,something else restrained theoreticians from reconcil-ing the border of antiquities and archaeology with thebreak of living memory. The point is that as a rulememory about the events of long ago does not vanishat once, it declines gradually. And with it explanatorypossibilities must decline gradually. Gradually andsmoothly the diagnostibility must weaken! If so,changes on this scale would be quantitative andsmooth. This means that one can establish only con-ventional or sliding borders.

Only recent studies in semiotics showed that this isnot so. The Russian archaeologist Vera Kovalevskajastated with a fine mathematical analysis that the signsystem of archaeological material she studied, of orna-ments of belt sets of Early Medieval steppe nomads,contains redundant information, i.e. more signalsthan it was necessary for ancient people to compre-hend the sense given to a thing. This permitted themto comprehend the sense even in difficult conditions,say partial alteration, and thus strengthen the re-liability and vitality of the system. As it happened, theredundant information of the sign system in archae-ological material appeared quantitatively the same asearlier measurements discovered in natural lan-guage – a redundancy of nearly 80%. Consequently,optimal redundancy (such that there will be sufficient

29Metaarchaeology

spare but not excessively so) appears approximatelyequal for the main sign systems working in socialcommunication. This suggests that common regular-ities of social and psychological comprehension actwithin them (Kovalevskaja 1970).

Issuing from language-material psychologists estab-lished that with a gradual and smooth decline of in-formation, by gradual distortion of a text for instance,comprehension does not decline gradually, but in ajump. Initially it weakens slowly, followed by a rapiddecline and complete lack of comprehension. That is,the cognisability is subjected to the dialectical law ofconverting a quantitative accumulation into a qualita-tive shift. If the distortions of the text touch no morethan 30% of its words, leaving 70% intact, the text isstill comprehensible. But if more is distorted, the textbecomes incomprehensible. Apparently this phenom-enon is not limited to languages (Moles et Valancien1963; Frumkina 1965; Frumkina and Dobrovich1971, 31, 36f).

The discovery of the threshold of comprehensionallows to archaeologists finally to establish the cri-terion of the separation of antiquities from ‘‘starina’’.Assume that the memory of things declines gradually,and the diagnostibility and comprehension lower notjust gradually but fall in a jerk. Here oblivion is diffi-cult to measure and to determine the threshold quan-titatively is also difficult but one thing is clear: behindsome threshold of oblivion a thing becomes an an-tiquity. The necessity to decode emerges – the needfor archaeology.

6. SPECIFICITY OF ARCHAEOLOGICALSOURCESMuch has been written on the specificity of archae-ological sources. The whole body of study came tothe conclusion that there is such specificity. Neverthe-less it was contested again and again. In dispute waseither its existence, its detectability or its importance.

Now we see that it was impossible to construct thebest and deepest criteria for determining and isolatingthe specificity of archaeological sources without andbefore the development of the semiotic approach.Therefore investigators spontaneously approachingthe determination of archaeological sources usuallystopped at attributes which would not even lead to a

fruitful division. Either these were attributes with onlyseeming divisive ability for the given material – suchas indications about the unintentional and objectivecharacter of remains, as opposed to the intentionalityand tendentiousness of written sources. Or they wereweak attributes of narrow coverage, not obligatory –as, e.g., ‘‘underground position’’, which would ex-clude petroglyphs and medieval churches from ar-chaeological sources. Or they were attributes thatwere diffusely formulated and unclear (like outlook,character, material nature, etc.). Or they were attri-butes such as incompleteness, indeed peculiar to ar-chaeological sources, but separating them only in thefunction of historical sources, and only from othermain kinds (i.e. from modern). This is a very scematicdistinction, because to admit absolute completeness ofany sources is impossible.

Investigators did not usually attempt to motivatetheir choice and explain why a particular attributedemands strict isolation of a group of sources. Neitherdid they attempt to determine if one attribute isenough for the isolation of sources. Indeed, one attri-bute is not adequate. This can quite obviously be de-rived from the above facts and considerations.

Archaeological sources belong at once to twobroader groups, things (or artefacts), and antiquities.There are other material sources that are partly his-torical sources. For example the architecture of build-ings, coins, smashed cars at the scene of an accidentor a bloody knife at the scene of a crime. There areother fossil and ancient sources, such as skeletons ofpangolins, traces of glaciers, chronicles, letter patents,and ‘‘Russian Laws’’, including cultural remains (an-tiquities). Archaeological sources differ from othermaterial sources by their antiquity, and from otherancient ones by their materiality. This double separ-ation is probably important for the isolation of thisgroup into such a category of sources which demandsa special discipline. Double isolation produces ex-treme difficulty in cognition.

Turning to material antiquities the investigatorfinds a double break. It occurs in the traditions be-tween the distant past and our time and in objectifi-cation, i.e. in the forms of how information is incor-porated (a break between the world of things and theworld of ideas able to operate in the research). Thisdouble break is the main specificity of archaeological


sources. To tackle the problem of this double breakdoes not simply mean doubling the research effort.The double break creates a new qualitative difficulty.

Let us compare archaeology with disciplines deal-ing with only one break, such as ethnography andhistory. In ethnography when we take a thing and itis clear to us what type of an object it is. Perhaps arock, a clasp, a vat, or an oven fork, things that mustbe noted and described. This involves informationwhich must be translated into another form, like inarchaeology. Of course it is not easy to formulate in-formation, to translate it into ideas, into words, i.e.to isolate the essential and to discard the inessentialattributes. This can be done in various ways and onecan certainly go wrong. Yet in ethnography much isalready at hand to aid in overcoming this difficulty.The connection of the thing with the actions of peopleis present, the date is known and there is a context offunctioning. There is an entire assemblage, the whole.

In archaeology this is absent. There are only frag-ments in front of us, fragments no longer actively con-nected to life and very indefinitely connected witheach other. Contemplating them is fraught with riskand demands special methods of study. An exampleof this occurs in hill forts of so called D’jakovo typein the Moscow region and its neighbouring districtsof two thousand years ago, where small earthen diskswith a central hole are always found. Some archaeol-ogists believe they are spindle-whorls, while othersthink they are loom-plummets, burners from oillamps, weights for measuring grain, or objects of asun cult. They were first discovered in the 19th cen-tury and are still debated today.

In the history of ancient written sources the op-posite picture is found. Here like in archaeology thebreak in tradition is also present. Much is forgottenand is incomprehensible to the modern investigator.Yet this is not as detrimental as it is felt in archae-ological material. It is told most of all by conversionof information from material form into word form,an operation unnecessary for a historian to take. Inancient written sources it has already been accom-plished by an ancient author. He was most probablybiased and as distinct from modern scholars he hadno broad interests or deep understanding of generaltrends. But in return he, as distinct from an archaeol-ogist, had to translate not fragments but a whole body

of text or other source. And he did not have to guessabout destiny and connections, he knew them andsometimes saw them as an eyewitness, not only thingsbut also actions and events associated with them.

Thus although they hinder cognition, taken separ-ately any one of the breaks is not so hazardous. Theloss of acquaintance with the context that interests usmay be compensated by the transmission of restora-tive information through another channel. In eth-nography through the channel of live communicationwith the participation of the investigator, and by di-rect observation, and in ancient history through thechannel of a written tradition. Only both breaks to-gether in combination like in archaeology, lead to aradical isolation of the scholar from the past reality,to a shattering of the whole into pieces, sometimes tothe complete loss of the sense of the information. Torestore it some external supports are needed in theform of the possibility to attract additional infor-mation that would allow a bridge to be built from theknown to the unknown. This may be the knowledgeof the sense of other things. Among them are archae-ological objects already deciphered. These are other,non-archaeological sources pertaining to the samepast reality; general evidence on the structure of ob-jects similar to those under study; knowledge of lawsaccording to which the incorporation of ideas intothings happened and still happen; transformation ofthings and events into archaeological traces and re-mains, etc. And of course strict and reliable methodsof using this knowledge for recovery of the lost senseis also necessary.

This is why only a double break demands isolationof sources into a special category and creates a specialdiscipline for their study. For this reason ancient ma-terial sources – those that it is customary to call ar-chaeological – constitute this category.

From these considerations it follows that it is im-possible to establish a strict and common chronologi-cal date for the separation of archaeological objectsfrom non-archaeological. It follows too, that exca-vations are not obligatory for attributing objects andworks to archaeology and are not exclusive to archae-ology (there are excavations without archaeology andthere is archaeology without excavations). It is clearthen that some studies are attributed to archaeologydue to the broad or confusing understanding of the

31Metaarchaeology

term ‘‘archaeology’’. In fact, strictly speaking, they donot constitute archaeology and have no grounds todo so. In ‘‘Archaeology of Cognition’’ the French his-torian of science Michel Foucault (1966) uncoverspast layers of the mental culture of scholars. In it hepresents how scholars approached their study in the19th century, in the Renaissance period and earlierstill, and which principles were adhered to in thestudy. It is clear that Foucault designated his theme‘‘archaeology’’ in a sheerly metaphorical sense (prob-ably in order to alienate the consideration from de-scriptive history) – this is a simple case. A more com-plex case is the so called ‘‘industrial archaeology’’,which would rightly be involved in archaeology if ar-chaeology was identical to the history of material cul-ture. But if it is not then ‘‘industrial archaeology’’ alsohas to be left outside archaeology. This is a branch

of history of material culture using some methods ofarchaeology, ethnography and museum activity. An-other example would be if archaeologists togetherwith criminologists were invited as experts to partici-pate in the opening of graves from World War II. Anarchaeologist would call this excavation activity, whilea criminologist would say exhumation work. In thiscase their work becomes neither archaeology norcriminology. It is an expertise for history. Similarly aradiochemist determining the date of a Neolithichearth by radiocarbon dating is practising within ar-chaeology, not in radiochemistry.

In summarising what characterises the place of ar-chaeological sources among other kinds of sources ofinformation on the past, we can say that they have aspecificity that forms the basis for the separation ofarchaeology as a special discipline.


PART III. NATURE OF ARCHAEOLOGY

4. Methodological nature of archaeology

1. METHOD AND METHODSDespite long debates on the subject matter of archae-ology, most archaeologists themselves still declaretheir perplexity as to the nature of it. Sir MortimerWheeler wrote: ‘‘What in fact is archaeology? I donot myself really know’’ (1956: 17). Robert Braid-wood added that ‘‘archaeology is what archaeologistsdo’’ (1959b: 1), a comment that agrees nicely with theopinion of Friedrich Koepp, ‘‘There is no archaeol-ogy, there are merely archaeologists’’ (Hausmann1939: 11). The definition and description of the sub-ject matter of archaeology alone does not exhaust itsdetermination. In order to comprehend what archae-ology is, it is insufficient to answer the question ofwhat it studies. In addition one has to determine howit studies its objects (Taylor 1967: 23).

Formerly this was described by determining itsmethods (cf. Reinach 1911). In the West even nowthe expression ‘‘theory and method of archaeology’’is used (Hawkes 1954; Willey and Phillips 1958;South 1977; Schiffer ab 1978; Stjernquist 1984), andsometimes in Russia such an expression can be seen(Rogachev 1978). In a recent book by Evzen Neustyp-ny (1993) ‘‘Archaeological method’’ specific method-ology in general is described as distinct from a text-book of archaeological methods (such as, say, byHrouda 1978, Martynov and Sher 1989 or Djindjian1991). On no account is one particular means of re-search meant by Neustupny, Hawkes and otherswhen they use the word ‘‘method’’ (evolutionary-typological method, cartographic method, method ofhorizontal stratigraphy and so on). Nor is the sum ofdifferent means of research implied by the word. Thepoint is to inquire which general path of cognition it isthat gives archaeology its methodological distinction,choosing from the few principal possibilities there arefor a discipline. What is its specificity in respect to itsmethodological nature?

This requires asking and solving questions of aclassificational character. Is archaeology a humanistic

discipline or a science akin to physics, chemistry andsociology? Does it operate as a discipline distinct initself or as part of some other discipline? Or is archae-ology just the reverse, an entire complex of discip-lines? Is it a self-dependent discipline, or is it anauxiliary, subsidiary thing? Can archaeology becounted among the fundamental disciplines? A practi-cal conclusion from this circle of questions is to askwhat tasks, procedures and methods are admissible inarchaeology, and which ones are not?

Of course, in such an understanding the ‘‘method’’of the discipline, i.e. its methodological nature, itsepistemological character, and its status and profileare determined largely by its subject matter. The typi-cal properties of this material and the aims of studycondition how it approaches its material.

2. HISTORY, SOCIOLOGY, ANDANTHROPOLOGYIn Anglophone countries the main division of re-search disciplines falls into a) natural and exact onesand b) the humanities. There is no separate term forresearch activity (like the Russian ‘‘nauka’’ or Ger-man ‘‘Wissenschaft’’). Two terms exist instead,‘‘science’’ used for the natural and exact disciplinesand the term ‘‘humanity’’ for humanistic disciplines.If there is a need for designating the research activitywithout this specification only approximately similarterms are used: ‘‘knowledge’’, ‘‘scholarship’’, ‘‘disci-pline’’, ‘‘research field’’ etc. Sometimes the term‘‘science’’ acquires a more general meaning and it isused in this way, but this can cause confusion.

When considering the position of sociology it ismostly located in science, together with physics,chemistry and political economy, while history isplaced in the humanities with literary criticism andphilosophy as its neighbours. In Russia we are veryunaccustomed to this, but we feel that in the methodsof sociology there is something that in fact makes it

33Metaarchaeology

akin to physics and chemistry, namely its revealinglaws by generalisation of facts, its negligence of indi-vidual facts, and the proving of hypothesis by inde-pendent facts. In sociology facts are interchangeableand not central to analysis as compared with laws. Onthe contrary, it is difficult to deny the methodologicalsimilarity of history with literary criticism and philos-ophy, although typologically history is rather closer togeography.

In USA the anthropological complex of sciencesexists separately, consisting of physical anthropology,cultural anthropology with ethnography, prehistoricarchaeology, linguistics, and psychology. This entirecomplex is located in science. To such a grouping aRussian is even less accustomed, but for Americansthese disciplines do indeed use similar methods, ap-proximately the same as used in sociology. The excep-tion is archaeology, for which it is better to speak ofseparately. Other things, and in some respect moreimportant ones, depend on these criteria of divisionrather than on the object. In particular the methodol-ogical nature of the disciplines depends first and fore-most on the aims of study. Meanwhile in the classifi-cation of disciplines there are known conceptionsbased purely on the difference between methods andaims of study.

In the natural sciences F. Bacon distinguished be-tween ‘‘physics of abstracts’’ and ‘‘physics of con-cretes’’ (1977). A. Comte built his five-unit scheme ofthe increasing complication of objects just for the rowof ‘‘abstract’’ sciences, but beside each abstractscience he placed the corresponding ‘‘concrete’’ one,for example alongside sociology and its generalisingnature he placed purely fact-describing history (1900).The most well known among such conceptions is W.Windelband’s and H. Rickert’s scheme dividingdisciplines into nomothetic (aimed at revealing laws in amass material), and idiographic (concerned with expos-ing and explaining facts in their individuality).

We can liken the world in which we live to a flat.When moving into a new home we learn laws of pos-session, rules of house keeping and using the home.Standard norms about its installations and furnishingare interesting to us too. But besides these things, it isimportant for us to know how these norms are re-alised in the given individual home – where in itswalls the electric wires run, who the neighbours are,

where the windows open onto etc. Geography servesto such orienting in space, as history does to time.Issuing from this example, one can determine his-tory’s interrelations with sociology.

Sociology reveals laws of functioning, the develop-ment of society, and laws of historical process, whilehistory analyses events of the past and finds causallinks between them. History, one could say, recon-structs the historical process. Both sociology and his-tory are concerned with facts but as Gulyga showed,they manifest different relations between fact and law(Gulyga 1969). Sociology generalises some totality offacts, usually a representative sample, extracts a lawfrom them, and in this function facts are mutuallyinterchangeable for sociology; thereafter they lose anyinterest for it. As distinct from sociology, history isinterested in facts themselves, in each one separately,in their concreteness and individuality. For History,Julius Caesar cannot be replaced by another greatgeneral, like Napoleon. Sociology needs facts only forrevealing the laws. History needs laws mainly for ex-planation of facts.

3. ARCHAEOLOGY AS A SCIENCEDavid Clarke had a vision to make archaeology a rig-orous discipline. ‘‘Lacking an explicit theory’’, hewrote, ‘‘... archaeology has remained an intuitive skill...’’ (1968: XIII). He welcomed the use of methodsborrowed from natural and technical sciences, but henoted, ‘‘scientific aids no more make archaeology a‘science’ than a wooden leg makes a man into a tree...’’. However, the use of theory, models, mathematicsetc. being introduced into the very core of archaeol-ogy would transform it, he hoped, into an analyticaldiscipline comparable with sciences and similar tothem in status (1968, 635).

Nevertheless, according to Clarke’s notions, itwould still not be a science. ‘‘The temptation to seethis aspect of archaeology as an archaeologicalscience must be resisted. Analytical archaeology is nota science but it is a discipline, its primary machineryis mathematical rather than scientific. The archaeol-ogist’s pursuit of the scientific mirage has long ob-scured the point that a study may be based on empiri-cal observation, experiment, induction and formationof hypotheses without necessarily being a science’’


Fig. 3. Archaeology in the system of disciplines – conventional look.

(1968, 663). So for Clarke, mathematics is not ascience, and archaeology as an analytical discipline isnot a science either. Then it appears that analyticaloperations – theory building, models, and use ofmathematics – do not qualify as scientific studies.Clarke views a science as distinguished by a high de-gree of certainty, while archaeologists can reveal only‘‘more than chance regularity’’. On this basis soci-ology and anthropology are not sciences either.

What Clarke described as an analytical discipline,others would safely attribute to science, even to ahard, exact science in the strict sense of the word. Thedifferentiation of exact sciences from inexact ones isvery poor though, especially if using a degree of cer-tainty in the differentiation. Physics and chemistrywere evidently ideal for Clarke, whereas archaeologywas his love. Why did he not claim the term ‘science’appropriate for analytical archaeology? It may be apsychological matter that could be most desirable toreveal. We can surely say that Clarke had a dream totransform archaeology into something like science.

Strangely enough, Christopher Hawkes, fromwhom nobody would expect, shared this dreamwith Clarke and was even more radical in his viewof it. At the anthropological section of the BritishAssociation he gave a presidential address, whichhe entitled ‘‘Archaeology as Science’’, and whichtook place ten years before Clarke’s ‘‘Analytical Ar-chaeology’’ appeared. ‘‘My theme’’, he declared, ‘‘isnot archaeology and science, but archaeology as

science’’ (Hawkes 1957: 94). In America, Robert

MacNeish published his book entitled ‘‘The Scienceof Archaeology?’’ (1976), a title noteworthy for itsquestion mark.

In Poland Zbigniew Kobylinski (1981), stimulatedby the example of New Archaeology, called to pro-vide ‘‘nomothetisation of archaeology’’, to make itinto a science revealing laws and ruled by theories.Really it proceeds from axiomatisation too, on build-ing a system in which everything is logically co-ordi-nated and built on principles. Urbanczyk responsedto Kobylinski with an extremely sceptical response.Przemysław Urbanczyk (1981, 58f) admits that ‘‘itwould be ideal to have a scientific theory in the fullsense – as an ordered system of statements linked byoutlined logical relations’’. Yet it is difficult to expectthis to be a deductive system like in mathematics.Such deductive sciences completely abstracted fromconcrete objects do not expand our knowledge on re-ality. Only theories as those of empirical sciences canbe in question – such as the electromagnetic theoryof light or classical mechanics. Some of the axiomsin them belong to determinative and statistical laws.However in archaeology they have not achieved exactquantitative expression and will still not achieve it inthe near future. ‘‘The empirical theory of archaeologystill remains in the sphere of dreams’’.

In general the position insisting that archaeologybe turned from humanity or even art into a sciencemay be considered as occupying the middle groundbetween two extremes (Fig. 3). At one extreme arethe scholars who assume archaeology is a part ofanthropology as a nomothetic social science or, as themajority of Soviet archaeologists see it, archaeology asa part of sociologically oriented history, ‘‘Archaeologywith a capital S’’ (Flannery 1973). The other extremeis represented by scholars who insist that ‘‘archaeol-ogy is not an exact science’’ (Amalrik and Mongajt1959, 252).

It must be admitted that both extremes seem to bemore logical and consistent than the middle position.Indeed, disciplines can hardly change their methodol-ogical nature arbitrarily. The methodological natureof a discipline is stipulated by its object, aims of studyand place in the system of knowledge. If it is changed,we simply get quite a different discipline, usually witha different name, for instance, astronomy instead ofastrology. So archaeology, by its methodological na-

35Metaarchaeology

ture, is either a science or a humanity. Or even art.However the whole of this apportionment is correctonly if:

(A) The nature of archaeology is defined by its alter-native association either with anthropology (cor-respondingly with sociology or sociologicallyoriented history) or with idiographic history;

(B) These two domains are really two halves of re-search knowledge: science and humanity.

This is not the case however. Generally I share WalterTaylor’s opinion that ‘‘archaeology is neither anthro-pology nor history’’ (Taylor 1948, 44). I fully agreewith D. Clarke’s insistence that ‘‘archaeology is ar-chaeology, is archaeology’’ (1968, 13). Clarke ex-plained very simply that archaeology cannot be re-garded as history because ‘‘the nature of the archae-ological record is such that there is no simple wayof equating our archaeological percepta with ... lostevents’’ (Clarke 1968, 13). It is worth adding that ar-chaeology and history have different inspirations ofknowledge; history strives to understand uniqueevents and heroes, whereas archaeology is obsessedwith generalisation, typification, and its central con-cept is ‘type’.

I must add that archaeology cannot be consideredthe same as anthropology or sociology either, becausethe system of archaeological data is lifeless. It has nosimple and direct correspondence with a society thatlived in the past and with the cultures that lived inthe past. So regularities we reveal in archaeologicaldata are not the same as the laws that were in forcein the living societies and cultures of the past. I wouldalso add that to me archaeology, even prehistoric ar-chaeology, is not equivalent to prehistory, althoughD. Clarke assumed such equivalence (1968, 12). Tohim ‘‘Archaeology and archaeologist contain prehis-toric studies and the prehistorian. It follows that theprehistorian is always an archaeologist ... archaeologyis often synonymous with prehistory’’. On that point,David Clarke’s teacher Graham Clark seems to meto have been more logical when distinguishing clearlybetween archaeology and prehistory in the first chap-ter of his book ‘‘Archaeology and Society’’, entitled‘‘Archaeology and prehistory’’ (Clark 1957, 9).

I am fond of Childe’s aphorism ‘‘Archaeology is

one’’ (Childe 1956, VI). This is the idea to which Da-vid Clarke’s well-known demand for general theoryfully conforms. He demanded a central theory ‘‘whichshould unite studies within the discipline regardless ofarea, period and culture’’ (1968, XV). He meant ‘‘thewider scope of archaeology stretching beyond the per-imeter of prehistoric studies’’ and mentioned such as-pects as ‘‘classical, medieval, recent colonial and in-dustrial archaeology’’ (1968, 12). If Childe and Clarkeare right, and I think they are, then we must treatprehistoric times within archaeology just as we treatthe classical ones. So if we distinguish between classi-cal archaeology and ancient history, why do we needprehistoric archaeology and prehistory to merge to-gether? There are some other arguments in favour ofdelimiting between these branches of knowledgewhich are presented in my article ‘‘To separate Cen-taur’’ (Klejn 1993).

According to D. Clarke, recent development ‘‘in-clined to distort these terms in a dangerous fashion.There is currently a tendency to take the term prehis-tory as meaning ‘a writer of history covering periodswithout written records’ with the implication that the‘prehistorian’ is an armchair synthesiser of the analyti-cal work of the ‘archaeologist’. Here the term archaeol-ogist is warped to mean the unintelligent ‘excavator’ orthe narrow-minded ‘specialist’ ...’’ (1968, 12).

Indeed, the archaeologist is an excavator and anarrow-minded specialist and cannot be different be-cause of the limited nature, scantiness and incom-pleteness of his data. Quite the opposite is true forthe prehistorian, who should be a synthesiser becauseit is necessary to put together, compare and combineresults of studies covering different kinds of sources.Not only are there archaeological, but also ethno-graphic ones, linguistic, osteological, folkloristic andso on. Yet to undertake comparative studies and inter-disciplinary synthesis a special kind of knowledge isneeded. It has its own methods, it requires peculiarerudition, and needs special training. Nobody forbidsan archaeologist to do the prehistory too, but then hemust realise that it is another profession and he isthereby faced with the problem of mastering a secondprofession.

Essentially, the root of the confusion lies in the con-ventional dichotomy dividing the whole totality ofknowledge in the sciences and humanities. Other


Fig. 4. The same: Klejn’s suggestion.

classifications of knowledge were proposed (in par-ticular by F. Bacon, Comte and others) which providedivision in abstract and concrete disciplines. My ownscheme is developed according to this trend (Fig. 4).

4. RECONSTRUCTION IN HISTORY‘‘Reconstruction of the past’’ is called ‘‘the main task’’of history, where ‘‘reconstruction’’ means recovery,reinstatement and reproduction. This is a very diffi-cult task since a historian deals only with fragmentsof the past and the complete picture of the past is notreflected in the sources, it remains for ever unknownto the historian (Erofeev 1976). Nevertheless manyhistorians consider the task of fully adequate recon-struction as feasible and even suppose that the recon-structed past has preferences over the past reality be-cause the general picture of the past is better observedfrom a distance and as the sophistication of historiansgrows (Dondt 1969). Naturally it is the mental recon-struction that is implied here.

In confrontation with the terms ‘‘restoration’’, ‘‘re-production’’ and the like it becomes clear that theterm ‘‘reconstruction’’ is not unambiguous or simple.Due to its similarity to the concept of ‘‘constructing’’it entails notions on the complexity of the procedureand on the inadequacy of the result to the past itself.Nevertheless ‘‘reconstruction’’ is perceived for the

most part as restoration and recovery. Taking into ac-count this undesired coincidence a suggestion wasmade to determine the essence of the reconstructionprocedure by comparing it with prediction (to whichit is similar by initial data and by composition of ac-tions) and so it was designated as ‘‘retrodiction’’.‘‘This is the procedure, and correspondingly the total-ity of methods applied in it, of indirect acquirementof inferred knowledge on past objects on the basis ofpresent objects or other past objects’’ (Nikitin 1960).

Reconstruction is far from the main task of history,indeed, if it was we would reduce history to a chron-icle. In history we seek something more: the systemicorder, explanation, and causal connection in the past.But it is not only this I refer to. In the spirit of histori-cal science the task of reconstruction as recovery isnot manageable, or to be more exact, is manageablein part. It is possible to reveal regularities or laws ofthe historical process. They are general sociologicallaws, and in Marxism it was historical materialismthat was allocated to establish these laws. It is possibleto introduce correctives that are subject to conditionsof territory and environment (general sociologicallearning concerns the principles of an impact of theseconditions on the historical process). Yet going alongthis path one cannot reach individualisation. It wouldbe necessary to enact not only main regularities orlaws and main local conditions but an enormousnumber of small particular circumstances which arenot even always known to us. Besides it would benecessary to take into account a personal choice ofmany people, which is also regulated by some laws,but those are probability laws with a great extent offreedom for each individual case. Now finally to thequestion of how to take chance into account.

P. N. Tret’jakov once remarked that, ‘‘... There areno contingencies in the development of culture ...’’ (P.N. Tret’jakov 1962). Really, this statement itself wasnot a chance, rather it reflected the pathos of the day.None other than T. D. Lysenko (1948, 520f) pro-nounced that ‘‘Such sciences as physics and chemistrybecame free from chance events. Therefore they be-came exact sciences. Ejecting Mendelism-Morgan-ism-Weissmanism, we automatically banish contin-gencies from biological science. We must firmly re-member that science is the enemy of chances’’.

Marxist theory refused absolutisation of determin-

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ism but Marxist practice demanded and favoured itbecause the belief in rightfulness and destiny of thecomplete and final victory of socialism was supportedby determinism, and here it was less dangerous tooverdo than underdo. In knowledge on prehistory thispractice had a theoretical tradition too, which wasspontaneously continued by Marxist archaeologistsand ethnographers. The same simplification was alsocharacteristic for evolutionists. For them history wasmoving with the exactness of a railway timetable, andperiods, epochs and stages changed like passing sta-tions on a one-way track. Yet we know that trainssometimes experience delays, let alone accidentalcrashes, and the route is not usually along only onetrack. As for history, it does not run on rails at all.

How is the historical process recovered however, inall its completeness and in its diversibility of individ-ual manifestations? Strictly speaking it cannot be re-covered at all in this way. It lies fragmented and isthen assembled from saved remains and fragmentedreflections, and of course never recovered in its fullentirety. The remains produce doubts because theycan be damaged. The reflections are of course subjec-tive and need to be corrected according to other re-flections if they are present. Without the remains andreflections such operations are only connected withfacts as interpolation, extrapolation and inference byanalogy. In any connections with facts they are never-theless hypothetical of course. Still more distant aredisposed models based on these areas of knowledgeand on theories, i.e. on sociological, demographic,psychological and other types of regularities. Thegeneral principles of historical reconstruction are for-mulated more completely by the late geologist S. V.Meyen – (1978, 80ff). Only by historical fiction is asubstantially more concrete and colourful recoveryobtained, but this is accomplished with the rich andin many ways free play of imagination, so that anyguaranties of adequacy fail.

All this activity is fully justified. It deepens andbroadens our knowledge, and brings us to a moresophisticated understanding of the past. Apart fromhistory being unable to return the past to us (this initself is a banal truth), it does not even recover it men-tally in the flesh – in all obviousness and concreteness,although sometimes it bears such an illusion. The pastproduced by historical studies appears fragmented in

its solid core and schematic in its all-embracingattempts. This fragmented past is like tatters of events,lumps of what happened, and they are hung on frag-ile constructions of theory.

History cannot retrieve facts that have disappearedwithout trace, and can no longer make them concreteor retrieve them in their concreteness and uniqueness.History can only build plausible hypotheses aboutpast existence and on the character of the past as seenthrough its hypotheses. It sees the past in terms ofcertain general characteristics, which are expressedby its hypotheses. In a sense, this is actually sociologyrather than history. It does not reconstruct, but it syn-thesises historical past on the basis of its sources andthe result of the synthesis is not one of reconstruction.

If it were able to reconstruct then it would also beable to predict, which is far from what it does! IndeedHegel said that people did not draw lessons from his-tory, for each situation was too individual to do so(1935, 7f). In Marx’s introduction to his 1857 ‘‘Econ-omical manuscripts’’ we find a very interesting state-ment which is often cited without recognising its fullmeaning. According to Marx, the categories andstructures of the most developed formation give usthe ‘‘possibility to penetrate into the organisation ofall the obsolete social forms ... The anatomy of manis a clue to the anatomy of ape. On the contrary, thehints of higher species in lower species of animals canonly be understood (sic! – L. K.) in the case of thehigher already being known. Bourgeois economygives us thus a clue to classical times etc.’’ (Marx 1958[1857], 731). This is an unambiguous statement onthe impossibility to predict in history! And conse-quently on the impossibility to reconstruct it What isthis principle conditioned by? Evidently by the open-ness of the prospects of development, by the subjec-tive factor, by the interaction of regularities with thosecontingencies without which ‘‘history would bear avery mystical character’’ (Marx 1964 [1868]: 175), itwould be doomed in a fatal way.

K. Popper proposed that predictions in the form ofprophecy are in principle impossible (1957). Avowedto the likening of history to natural sciences, A. I.Rakitov advances serious counter arguments, but itappears that he only defends the possibility of makingpredictions of a special kind – only probabilistic pre-dictions of stable types and successions of socially sig-


nificant activity in certain time intervals, not on con-crete and exactly fixed results, i.e. events (1982,282ff). Time and again, assurance is given that thereis no fatal predestination in concrete turns of the his-torical process. At each step history appears beforean open situation, with opportunities of alternativesolutions or choices (Gurevich 1969). When eventshave already happened, it seems that everythingcould have be foreseen and predicted, and such pre-dictions use to be made – behindhand: vaticinia ex

eventu. Yet predictions of concrete events are madeonly as guesses.

As inter alia the geologist V. I. Onoprienko noted,retrodiction and prediction are similar in their logicalstructure and they are connected with each other.‘‘These two procedures have ‘time symmetry’, op-posite in direction to the flow of cognition ... Retrodic-tion looks like the basis of prediction’’ (1976: 158).Consequently they are similar in their strength of in-ference. The impossibility of historical prediction im-plies the impossibility of full retrodiction, an unrealis-able in terms of adequate detail in reconstruction ofthe concrete course of history, and in terms of thosedetails which did not leave clear traces.

5. RECONSTRUCTION IN ARCHAEOLOGYBoth in Russian and Western publications one canfrequently see the statement that, as a prominentAmerican scholar writes, ‘‘the aim of archaeology ishistorical reconstruction’’ (Kroeber 1937, 163). V. D.Victorova noted that ‘‘Soviet archaeologists appliedthe term ‘historical reconstruction’ or ‘reproduction,recovery of historical reality by archaeological ma-terials’ and did so from the late 20s until early 30s’’(1988: 225). In practice when real reconstruction ofartefacts and assemblages is concerned, one speaks ofan ‘‘archaeological reconstruction’’, while when men-tal reconstruction of phenomena, structures andevents is concerned, one speaks of a ‘‘historical recon-struction in archaeology’’.

At first sight, by its role in the discipline and by itsprocedure, reconstruction in archaeology is com-pletely like reconstruction in history. But while in his-tory reconstruction is only one of the tasks, everythingin archaeology can be reduced to reconstruction. It isthe all-embracing task of archaeology. As far as ar-

chaeology is a source-studying discipline and archae-ological sources are ancient artefacts and assem-blages, its task is to convert information from the lan-guage of things into the language of history, thelanguage of historical phenomena, events and pro-cesses (Klejn 1981b: 16–17). In other words to lookbehind preserved remains and traces, and behindtheir relations to reveal ancient phenomena, eventsand processes. How do archaeologists go about doingthis?

The simplifying approach, to which Soviet sociol-ogists and even others were inclined, consisted of as-cribing a corresponding social meaning to every kindof element and trace, and to their relations. In aword, a social meaning for every type of archaeologi-cal pattern, where the type is considered a sign, as astable correspondence to a certain category of histori-cal phenomena, events and processes. J. Hill and M.Schiffer later called these kinds of archaeological pat-terns ‘‘archaeological correlates’’ to social phenom-ena. Correspondingly the latter could be called socialand cultural correlates to archaeological patterns.They are composed like an archaeological-sociologi-cal alphabet for ‘‘reading the past’’. One only needsto know this alphabet in order to read history freelyfrom archaeological texts.

The problem however is that social phenomenaand historical events in different conditions leave dif-ferent traces in material culture. Both sling and bow-and-arrow served the same function. On the otherhand archaeological traces of historical events are notunambiguous, behind them different phenomena ofthe past can be hidden. A dwelling burnt to theground can be interpreted in several ways: naturaldisaster, arson, war or ritual could have caused thefire. Even the causes of a contemporary fire are aheadache for criminologists, while in the archaeologi-cal situation many centuries have passed and possiblyanything but the necessary distinguishing details re-main.

Step by step archaeologists reconstruct formerstates of sources, monuments, artefacts and assem-blages, retrospectively – from the end of their exist-ence to the beginning. Even if the law is not revealedor is unknown to the archaeologist, he always has thehandy means of substituting the law or doing withoutit, although this puts the reliability of the result at

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stake. This method uses analogy in order to compareobjects. An investigator seeks objects belonging to thesame type or objects of a similar kind, and looks forsimilar assemblages that are already known or otherones that are better preserved. Thus he provides aninterpretation by close comparison. As Chang statedwith some exaggeration, ‘‘ archaeology as a whole isanalogy ...’’. He explained: ‘‘... for to claim anyknowledge other than the objects themselves is to as-sume knowledge of patterns in culture and historyand to apply these patterns to the facts’’ (Chang1967b, 109).

J. Hawkes stated that the main aim of archaeologyis the ‘‘reconstruction of individual events in time’’(1968: 255). If the word ‘‘individual’’ is understoodas ‘‘separate’’, then this statement is doubtful, and ifunderstood as ‘‘unique’’, ‘‘taken in their specificity’’,it is simply erroneous. As is known to all archaeol-ogists since their student days, archaeology is orientedon the typical, on typology. It retrieves only what isgeneral from artefacts, assemblages and cultures.

In this way it is fully consistent with history. Butwhile for history it means that reconstruction receedsfrom its central position and appears largely irrel-evant, archaeology does not squirm by such refusal.It is content with a much smaller degree of individual-isation, while it supports culturology (anthropology inAnglophone understanding) and history of culture,sociology and sociological history – the history of so-cial structures which the Annales school propagated.Archaeology helps protohistory – history of earlypeoples that were already neighbours to literate soci-eties – to retain the general canvas of the culturalprocess. Archaeology connects prehistory withpalaeoanthropology and palaeontology since for a sig-nificant part of that period man was little differentfrom animal, and animals do not possess biographiesand have history. This is a time for which individual-isation was to a large extent objectless.

Does this mean that archaeology is not concernedwith unique phenomena at all? Not for toffee, ofcourse. Unique objects are not so infrequent amongarchaeological finds. Furthermore, individuality canbe observed in every object – as the opposite side towhat is typical. Indeed, in the discovery of individu-ality it is not so much the presence of such propertiesin the object that is shown (although this is of course

important too) as the attitude of the subject of inquiryon the object. Of course the possibility of such anattitude is to a great extent conditioned by the pres-ence of such properties in the object.

A considerable amount of unique things appearswhere an archaeologist finds objects well preserved.Having obtained such an object he must transmit it toa historian untouched, but of course archaeologicallyprocessed – having been dated by assemblage, havingpassed through an expert investigation, undergoneanalyses etc. Archaeology has the means to convertunique objects having no analogies into more amen-able objects of typological study. One should only dis-member mentally such an object in a number of de-tails so that each of them appears without complicat-ing elements (they have formed neighbouring details),resulting in the objects appearing very simple and nolonger retaining their uniqueness. So a complex pat-tern disarticulates itself in its elemental componentsand in very commonly used motives. The combi-nation of these elements and motives remains unique.But it does not affect archaeology. The uniquenessexists before archaeological analysis and returns tothe thing after this analysis.

Archaeology transmits objects to historical investi-gation having reconstructed them and, as much as itis accessible to archaeology, interpreted them; butthey will undergo individualisation after their in-clusion into history.

6. ARCHAEOLOGY AS DETECTIVEACTIVITYSo far we have considered the place of history andof sociology in the system of knowledge. What aboutarchaeology? We have seen how it differs from bothhistory and sociology – so which group of disciplinesdoes it belong to? Certainly it contributes to historyand, as yet in lesser measure, to sociology, and toanthropology too. However this fact says absolutelynothing about the methodological nature of archaeol-ogy, it only uncovers its working contacts, connectionsand partners. The fact it co-operates with historymakes archaeology no more a kind of history – pace

Clarke – than contacts with men make horses human,or vice versa. Archaeology is archaeology, is archaeol-ogy ...


Archaeology is unconditionally connected with his-tory, but it is connected by business relations, as apartner. In other areas they are sometimes not onlydissimilar but not even akin. They are of differentmethodological nature. While history is an individ-ualising discipline and, taking into account the indi-viduality of human creatures, history is a humanity,archaeology is not. This is a fundamental difference.

Having said this however, they do have somethingin common. In particular it is apparent that neitherarchaeology or history reveal laws, they only usethem. History uses laws for explaining facts while ar-chaeology does so for reconstruction. This means thatarchaeology does not belong to the fundamentalsciences but to the applied ones. Something similar isremarked on by G. A. Antipov with respect to narra-tive reconstruction in history: ‘‘Differences betweenordinary research cognitive procedures and narrativereconstruction is fully analogous with, for instance,the difference between the activity of a specialist inthe sphere of theoretical mechanics and the buildingof bridges, houses, machines etc.’’ (1987, 94f). Foreven greater reason this can be said about archae-ological reconstruction – about real creation of miss-ing details and constructions (like modern reparationand restoration activity). Due to the similarity andeven identity of logical operations this also applies tothe whole of historical reconstruction in archaeology.

As soon as one tries to search not for its partnersbut its nearest relatives among disciplines, neither his-tory, sociology or anthropology would be discoveredin such roles. Unexpectedly, one would find similarmethods, principles, aims far from pure scholarship,namely in criminological tracing, in professionalknowledge and the skills of a detective or police in-spector and court investigator. The only difference isthat a detective serves society by exploring merely thepathological side of social life and that he arrives atthe place of the event without such an enormous de-lay as the archaeologist does. But the nature of theaim is the same; to restore the events and processesof the past by their material traces and fragmentedremains.

The analogy with detective activity was sometimesused by archaeologists to describe their trade (Clark1957, 20f; 1963; Braidwood 1959b, 5f; Klejn 1967;1978b, 48; Adams 1973; Shanks 1992, 53ff; Olsen

1997, 295f), but usually proposed as a metaphor. Yetit is not only this, it lies at the very core of things.The very first of these authors who made compari-sons, Clark, was quite serious when he began his fore-word to a compendium of scientific methods in ar-chaeology with precisely this analogy. ‘‘In his modeof work’’, he wrote, ‘‘and in his general approach thearchaeologist resembles in several significant respectsthe detective. Like the disciples of Sherlock Holmeshe seeks to recover the activities of men in past timefrom clues which compensate for their incompleteand often vestigial character by abundance and diver-sity. Most of this evidence is necessarily circumstan-tial – it can only be made to speak by bringing uponit the resources of natural science; and the more effec-tively these can be harnessed the more complete theinformation likely to be won from traces, which inthemselves may appear to the layman to be almost asslight as the blood stains and finger-prints used byskilled detectives to reconstruct crimes’’.

Bartel Hrouda (1978, 15) remarked in a textbookthat, ‘‘Basically archaeology is a kind of criminology’’.That is why archaeology adopted so many workingmethods from criminology. It enriched itself withthem especially during trials with archaeological sub-jects (e.g. the Gloselle scandal) – the custom of proto-col investigation, the reckoning of scientists and ex-perts etc. In the study of objects a detachment of theplace of origins is demanded from legal experts andsimilarly from archaeological classificators (Daniels1978). That is why some prominent archaeologists areknown as popular writers in fiction as well, both in thedetective genre (Casson, Glyn Daniel) and in sciencefiction (Francois Bordes as Francis Carsac).

One can object and ask if the task of a historian isnot also of the same kind? The historian also tries torestore the events and processes of the past, althoughhe mainly relies on material traces or on consideringthe stories told by participants, eyewitnesses and otherinformed persons. Let us introduce itemisation, notreally the task of history, but a field of historicalsource-studying, the preparation studies of writtensources, and there are specialised professionals for thistask. A proper historian analyses the results of suchan investigation and tries to answer other questionson the causes of the restored events, on their causalconnection, on their meaning and significance, on

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regularities in the course of history and how theymanifest themselves in the events. Thus it is moresimilar to the function of a court and the activity ofjudges. The archaeologist is nearer to the stage of thecriminal case in the related frame of detective activityand the prosecution’s investigation.

Restoration of antiquities and works of art is an-other similar occupation. There is no need to provelikeness. The only thing to be stipulated is that res-toration is not just a skill or a trade. It has its ownbasic rules, principles, methods and system of con-cepts. This makes it is a scholarly discipline too. So

what kind of disciplines are these? I suppose they be-long to a wide group of applied sciences, and this goesfor archaeology too. This means that Walter Taylorwas near the truth when he affirmed that ‘‘archaeol-ogy is no more than a method and a set of specialisedtechniques for the gathering of cultural information.Archaeologist as archaeologist is really nothing but atechnician’’ (Taylor 1948, 44;1968, 41). Neverthelessarchaeology is not just a method or technique. It hasits own system of concepts, its own theory and its ownprinciples.


5. Principles of archaeology

1. FOR THE SAKE OF CLARITY TOWARDSMURKY PRINCIPLESAccording to the physicist T. Hertz’s statement, therewere two paths of development in the history of phys-ics, Babylonian and Greek. Along the Babylonianroute scientists established a great number of concretefacts, particular regularities and a numerous connec-tions. The Greeks in contrast tried to reveal axiomsfrom which it was possible to deduce everything else(Hertz 1980, 173–203). This is called the axiomatis-ation of science and it was along this route Europeanscience developed. One of the most important theor-ies developed in physics is Thermodynamics, which isformed around three main principles. Another im-portant theory is Classical Mechanics, based on threefundamental laws of motion and formulated by New-ton in his Mathematical Principles of Natural Philos-ophy in 1687.

Newton also formulated his general idea on certainprinciples: ‘‘To derive two or three general principlesof motion from phenomena and afterwards to tell usof how the properties and actions of all corporealthings follow those manifest principles, would be avery great step in philosophy, though the causes ofthose principles were not yet discover’d’’ (1730, 377).Einstein contended: ‘‘Fundamental ideas and lawswhich can’t be reduced any longer, form an integralpart of a theory ... The most important aim of anytheory is to make the number of these fundamentalelements as little as possible and to make the elementsas simple as possible’’ (1933, 183). There are two suchprinciples in his Theory of Relativity. So far onlyphysicists have been mentioned but in biology andpsychology, as well as in the humanities, fundamentalprinciples are not usually marked out, though theyare implied. Apparently they have simply not yet hadthe necessary time to take shape.

In contrast to fundamental or pure sciences, ap-plied ones are, by their nature, more oriented to serveother sciences and practices and this is the reasonthey are less theoretical. Their objects are marked outless clearly in terms of structure and so it is moredifficult to understand their scope with a commontheory. Correspondingly it is more difficult to defend

their scientific, or at least scholarly status. It is moredifficult to prove that they are something more than acollection of methods, that they have their own stricttheory, harmony, stable unity and systemic order. Forthis reason the problem of initial principles is particu-larly important for these sciences.

Having enumerated some examples of how scien-tific methods and technical analyses are used in ar-chaeology, C. Hawkes then concluded the following:‘‘But, whatever kind of archaeologist or prehistorianyou are, your own claim to scientific status here, foryourself, rests only on the care which you take to pro-vide as far as possible properly guarantied, undam-aged, and uncontaminated specimens for the appro-priate examination. And that it is genuine claim, andnot simply a matter of taking common sense pre-cautions against getting things mixed up, broken up,or messed up, must depend on the principles embodiedin your part, our part, the archaeologist’s part, of theinterpretation of the find. If these are scientific, then weto that extent are scientific; if they are not, we arehere no more than painstaking and inquisitive indi-viduals who have managed to get some informationfrom other people who are scientists while we arenot’’ (Hawkes 1957: 94, My emphasis – L.K.).

In a recent book by Lewis Binford we find a similaridea. Speaking about inferences that the archaeologistdraws from investigated data, Binford concluded that:‘‘All these inferences were made tenable by his link-age of archaeological observations to principles andlaws of causation drawn from the sciences of mech-anics, physics, and the related fields of applied engin-eering ... Archaeologists cannot wait for other fieldsto permit them to make reliable inferences about thepast. They must themselves develop a science of ar-chaeology’’ (1983 198: 17).

Gibbon, writing in his 1984 book ‘‘AnthropologicalArchaeology’’ includes a section on ‘‘Methodologicalprinciples and rules’’. He notes that ‘‘more often thannot these principles and rules are untestable or at leastuntested tacit assumptions that lie hidden in ourthinking’’ (1984: 93). In a later work, ‘‘Explanation inArchaeology’’, he divides these principles in two sets(1989: 3f). The first set consists of ‘‘primary presuppo-

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sitions’’ without which any archaeology as it is usuallyunderstood would be unthinkable. As examples Gib-bon provides such banal truths like ‘‘Archaeologicalassemblages are material remains of past human ac-tivity’’ and ‘‘We can learn about the history of thehuman species by studying archaeological remains’’.Such primary presuppositions ‘‘can be regarded asthe ultimate justifications of archaeology, and theylead directly to general methodological directives suchas ‘Preserve and examine archaeological sites and ma-terials!’ ’’. ‘‘Denial of the primary presuppositions ofarchaeology ... would entail the collapse of archaeol-ogy as we know it’’.

The second set of principles is formed by the ‘‘sec-ondary presuppositions, i.e. presuppositions which aresupplementary or subsidiary to the primary set’’. Forinstance, ‘‘An archaeological assemblage is a mirrorof past human activity’’. Being unnecessary for thevery existence of the archaeological discipline suchpresuppositions determine the strategy of interpreta-tion. Whether the past human activity is reflected inarchaeological monuments as in a mirror is a debat-able question, yet it has nevertheless conditioned theirforming. The methods of interpretation depend any-how on this connection. These principles are not inany way banal, they are worthwhile studying. In anycase one can deny neither the necessity of some gen-eral principles in archaeology, or their a priori status,nor the fact they must be principles of interpretation.I have examined in brief their necessity and I shalldeal with it further at the end of this chapter. Fornow let us remain with the other two characteristics.

The nature of archaeology as an applied science isconnected with its aim of serving other disciplines. Itserves scholarly research just like other appliedsciences serve practical life and it is this indirect goalof archaeology that makes interpretation so crucial toit. Principles of interpretation appear as central in itstheoretical system. They control its relations withother disciplines it serves and thus the principles ofinterpretation make it relevant for them. Interpreta-tion is placed at the very output of archaeology, butthe discipline exists purely for the sake of it.

The a priori nature of these principles is connectedwith their axiomatic character. As we saw, this is alsohow principles of other disciplines are that evidentlybelonged to sciences. When Newton considered the

disciplines he began to assume an uncertainty of theirgrounds. The axiomatic character of these principleswas clear since the times of Aristotle, who stated that‘‘the existence of the principles is to be accepted, allthe rest to be proved’’ (Aristotle, Anal. Sec., I,10). Forthe most part, a remark made by Mill on this matterproves to be correct: ‘‘There is nothing more dark ineach science than the fundamental principles of thescience itself’’ (as quoted by Regirer 1966: 90). Funda-mental concepts and principles of any science or disci-pline appear to be fundamental for it precisely be-cause they do not find grounds in this discipline it-self – on the contrary, the discipline is based on them.The grounds are found either in other disciplines orin practice and in common sense. It is the business ofphilosophy to deal with them. In short, getting to thecore of axioms is an obscure task best left to philos-ophers. From our side, archaeologists must ensure ax-ioms are reliable, reasonable, stable and arranged sothat the other propositions of our discipline can beinferred from them. Inferrence should be explicitlypossible according to strict rules of logic. Is the axiom-atisation of archaeology possible?

2. THE SEARCH FOR PRINCIPLESHow many and what principles build the basis forarchaeological interpretation and make it explicitlyreliable? When looking for axioms it is difficult to sug-gest any preliminary order, save perhaps starting fromwithin the discipline, from the supposed derivatives.If something is done already, one can begin with areview of existing versions, with the experience of ascience. Then one may correct accumulated proposi-tions and determine what is in shortage.

In his book ‘‘Foundations of Archaeology’’ (1976)Jason Smith, the American archaeologist of Marxistorientation, writes that it is possible to reach scientificlevel by holding the following four assumptions: 1)‘‘that the world and universe are real and indepen-dent of human consciousness’’; 2) ‘‘that all things aredirectly or indirectly interconnected through causeand effect’’; 3) ‘‘that there are no things which bytheir very nature are unknowable, that is, supernatu-ral or magical’’; 4) ‘‘that change is a universal con-stant, that no things stay as they are forever’’.

Yet these assumptions are applicable to all the


Fig. 5. Principles of interpretation according to Hawkes.

sciences and to cognition as a whole. It is, as Smithhimself notes, ‘‘the basis of materialist philosophy’’(1976: 391). There is no sense in taking into accountthese principles, at least not in this form, for they aretoo general for our topic and they do not convey thespecificity of archaeology. Vadim M. Masson builttheoretical principles for archaeology from a Marxistpositions. He took three basic principles of historicalmaterialism from standard manuals (historicism, de-terminism and primacy of production) and, carryingthem into archaeology, examined the resulting realis-ations (sociological orientation, preference to massmaterials, interest in functions, Stadialist conceptionetc.) (Masson 1978: 32). The trouble was not so muchthat these principles were narrow and dogmatist. Theproblem resided mainly with the way they deter-mined the final appearance of the cultural-historicalprocess under reconstruction, but not with the way toit from the material or the methods of reconstruction.These principles made the result deliberately known,but the way of reaching it was unimportant and wasleft to common sense, cunning speculations or tacitconsent with an authority.

James Griffin’s 12 principles, ‘‘axioms of the cul-tural process’’, are of a similar kind (Griffin 1956).They set some reference-points for when the recon-struction is finished, what the cultural process mustlook like, and which conditions it must meet to berecognised by the scholarly community. Still these‘‘axioms’’, irrespective of whether they are correctand felicitously worded say nothing about how tocarry out the reconstruction or interpret the archae-ological data. In contrast to these principles thescholar Edward Sangmeister considered archaeologyto have only one fundamental principle. ‘‘The onlypremise which any ‘archaeology’ works with ...’’, hewrote, ‘‘is that a relationship on which some state-

ments may be advanced exists between the thingsmade by people, the manufacturer of these things andits users’’ (1967, 201). The relationship is not deter-mined, and surely one may advance statements aboutanything you like. Sangmeister’s premise is so diffuseand weak that it is useless to rest upon it. This scholarappeared to be too cautious.

In Gibbon’s book ‘‘Anthropological Archaeology’’the principles of interpretation do not build a systembut examples are provided and there are some veryapt ones among them: ‘‘The processes of the pastwere the same as those in operation at the present(the principle of uniformitarianism)’’ (1984: 93–97);‘‘People did things in the past for the same reasonsthey do things today (Roe’s principle of cultural uni-formity)’’. The last principle is entitled after Roe andthe reference to Roe’s article (1976) follows after thisIn Gibbon’s book. However Roe has only narrowedand made more exact the principle formulated earlierby Hawkes.

3. THE ANALYSISTwo papers, those of Christopher Hawkes (1957) andof Robert Dunnell (1978), seem to be the most inter-esting and serious elaborations on the theme. It hasproved useful to make the analysis of the problem justby considering these works, by examining their choiceand selection of principles. In Hawkes’ presidentialaddress not only reasoning about the methodologicalnature of archaeology is of interest, or the insistenceof revealing the fundamental principles of interpreta-tion, the selection of the principles themselves is at-tractive. ‘‘What are the archaeologist’s principles,which are embodied in his interpretation of his exca-vations, measurements, and comparisons?’’, asksHawkes. ‘‘I have often asked myself this question ...’’(1957, 95). In Hawkes’ opinion there are only twoprinciples controlling archaeological interpretation(Fig. 5):

(1) ‘‘People in the past did things for purposes whichcan, in the most cases if not in all, be correctlyunderstood’’;

(2) If ‘‘different people did the same or closely similarthings, ... their doing is not fortuitous, but requiresa single ... explanation to cover them together’’,

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unless these cases are ‘‘too separated in time orspace’’ or otherwise.

If we look closely (Fig. 6) at Hawkes’ first principle(comprehensibility of ancient artefact), one can seethe criterion of simplicity is not maintained. At leasttwo principles have become one here. The first is theprinciple of cognisability of functions in material cul-ture, meaning that one can comprehend the purposesthings are made for. The second is the principle ofconnection between epochs – aims that existed in thepast can be understood by contemporary people – asit was worded by Roe.

When examining the second of Hawkes’ initialprinciples, the principle of non-fortuity of similaritiesin things, it does not appear very simple either. Itimplies two different propositions. First, that formalsimilarities in things are important since they are notmerely formal – some correlation between form andsense is implied. And second, that similarities are im-portant because similar things have something com-mon in their origin; Hawkes meant the real commonorigin of similar things – from one cultural source andthen spreading by diffusion. Convergence can also beintended here because there is also something com-mon in it in terms of common causes and commonregularities. Thus, where Hawkes saw two initial prin-ciples, at least four are present.

The first of them is rather general. It concerns allthe disciplines on man and culture. I should even liketo say, it is not very axiomatic: it is based on otherprinciples. For instance, the principle of cognisabilitycould not act if every thing were absolutely uniqueand was made for absolutely new purposes, ad hoc. So,to be able to rely on this principle one should acceptthe existence of some regularities in culture, somelaws of satisfying the basic needs. That means theprinciple of determinism in culture is necessary andsome others alongside. Thus behind, or rather be-neath the first principle implied by Hawkes, no lessthan three very important initial, and really funda-mental principles should be placed: the unity of hu-man nature and correspondingly the community ofhuman culture, the existence of social and culturallaws, and the systemic order in culture.

The second implied principle – of those two intowhich it appeared reasonable to divide the first prin-

Fig. 6. Hawkes’ principles corrected.

ciple of Hawkes – is known as the principle of ac-tualism. The third deals with the correlation of ma-terial parts of culture with its non-material compo-nents (ideas, social functions and so on). The fourthprinciple is not exposed in detail by Hawkes. He didnot explain how and why the fortuity should be deter-mined. Yet it was clear from the context that Hawkessaw an affinity between the separate cases, and corre-spondingly something behind the formal similarity –namely a relationship caused by spreading. Behindthis briefly uttered reflection a discourse is hidden,reminding one of Graebner’s criterion of form, whichwas worked out by him for the sake of estimating thelikeness while determining the propinquity (homo-logy) of ethnographic objects. Graebner’s criterion de-manded the occurrence of a rare combination of attri-butes, not conditioned by the nature of the object.Graebner also had another criterion, that of quan-tity – the particular combination should appear re-peatedly (Graebner 1911).

However, Hawkes had predecessors in these mat-ters in archaeology itself. Sophus Müller wrote:‘‘Where there is a likeness, there must be a relation,a connection of some kind’’ (1884, 185). This prin-ciple does not look initial or axiomatic. It is inferen-tial, quite evidently deduced from the recognition oflaws in culture and society, i.e. from some kind ofdeterminism. Indeed, if law-like regularities exist inthe material, then likeness must exist as well. In thatcase neither differences would be fortuitous. Theyshow either the manifestation of different regularitiesor the interference of some other factors. In contrast,if there are no regularities, then the differences arequite natural – even if they are because of randomdispersion. What is more, it is often impossible to dis-tinguish between random and non-random events.True, Hawkes himself did not suppose it was necess-ary to use regularities for explaining the non-fortu-


Fig. 7. Principles of interpretation according to Dunnell.

itous character of similarities and differences. He wasready to look for explanation exclusively in identityand heterogeneity caused by diffusion. In turn, dif-fusion has its own regularities.

The importance of formal similarities and differ-ences in the archaeological material depends also onthe recognition of regular relations between materialforms and social meanings. All this leads to other,deeper principles. An article by Robert Dunnell(1978), or more precisely one section of it, is a centralwork on this topic, although both the article and thesection in question are entitled without indicating thistopic. It concentrates on functions but questions infact the initial principles of the functional interpreta-tion of archaeological evidence. The system of inter-pretation fundamentals (Fig. 7) is constructed by Dun-nell in two axioms and in some derivatives inferredfrom them, which consist of three theorems and onecorollary. Everything looks strict and logical – like inmathematics. Although mathematics is not a scienceto David Clarke, archaeology when presented sostructurally in its fundamentals looks very scientific.Dunnell made an impressive attempt in structuringthe basis of archaeology.

According to the first axiom, the purpose of ar-chaeology is anthropological description. Two the-orems are consistently inferred from this, the first onethat archaeological data are incomplete and the sec-ond that it is not identical to anthropological data.Hence, enrichment of the data is necessary. The sec-ond theorem is that archaeological interpretation maytake the form of functional reconstruction. The sec-

Fig. 8. Dunnell’s principles corrected.

ond line of discourse consists of an axiom and twoinferred propositions: a theorem and a corollary. Itleads to the legitimate use of ethnographic analogiesin archaeological interpretation.

Although Dunnell’s construction is serious and in-teresting, its realisation can hardly satisfy (Fig. 8).Dunnell’s first axiom is awkwardly formulated. Theaim of archaeology is narrowed and its orientation onhistory is dropped. Overall, if it was necessary toground the inherent incompleteness of archaeologicaldata, the grounds might be chosen more correctly.Archaeology aims to be of service to other disciplineson the past like palaeoanthropology, its subject matterdoes not coincide with the final object of their com-mon interest and is merely a source of cognition ofthis final object. It could be said that Dunnell’s firsttheorem is no theorem at all as it does not need sub-stantiating. It is simply a corollary to the first axiom.As far as archaeological sources reflect the final objectof disciplines studying the past, it is quite clear thatthey relate only incomplete information. The reflec-tion through the mists of time leads to remains andtraces, and they give naturally less information thanthe object itself.

The second theorem indeed deserves its status,since it needs to be proved. However, to ground itone needs first of all to rely on positions which arenot contained explicitly in the initial axiom. They arecontained neither in Dunnell’s wording nor in thesuggested substitute. For the substantiating, some pro-positions on the significance of function in culture arenecessary, on its connection with reconstruction of

47Metaarchaeology

historic events. Also necessary is a very broad defi-nition of function that includes semantic aspects andthe use of the thing as well. Otherwise why wouldreconstruction be limited to function? On the whole,all this line of discourse does not lead to the revealingof interpretative mechanisms. It leads solely to theproving of its necessity in archaeology and to its goalsof functional reconstruction. It does not explain howto carry out the reconstruction. Hence none of thesepropositions (the axiom, theorems and corollary) areto be included into the principles of archaeologicalinterpretation. Rather they concern the foundationsof the structure of archaeology and are similar to thefirst series of Gibbon’s principles.

From the recognition of incompleteness of data Iwould prefer to infer the demand for enrichment ofarchaeological information by non-archaeologicalsources, and not only by ethnographic analogies, ademand that I have advanced before (Klejn 1977d;1978b, 39–44, 54–56).

The second line of Dunnell’s discourse is of a differ-ent kind. It begins with the second axiom, the con-stancy of laws (uniformitarianism), and derivestherefrom the corollary of actualism. Dunnell dis-criminates between these two principles. As distinctfrom the Evolutionists and in accordance with thetask of his study he formulates the initial principlevery narrowly – according to the task of his study –and disputably: ‘‘Function, form and relationship be-tween them are constant through time’’ (Dunnell1978, 45). Hence he deduces the theorem: ‘‘Modernpeoples are functionally representative of past time’’.After which his corollary follows: ‘‘Functional inter-pretation of prehistoric data is by reference to ethno-graphic occurrence of similar forms’’. Dunnell seesthis as the foundation of why ethnographic parallelsare applicable in archaeology. The foundation beingrather insufficient for the reason that ethnographicparallels would be better considered in the frames ofarchaeological significance of analogies in general.

Thus, having in mind the initial, fundamental prin-ciples of the archaeological interpretation, Dunnell’swork broaches them indirectly and incompletely, buthis stipulations and the title of his work do not allowone to hurl criticism at him. Yet one of the principles,which has been noted by many practitioners for along time, is sustained by him successfully. Moreover,

the whole construction presenting the base of inter-pretation, and by this I mean the built up system ofprinciples and their derivatives, may become a modelfor further studies.

While analysing these two important articles,Hawkes’ and Dunnell’s, it becomes clear that somefundamental principles were observed by the twoscholars, while others were only dimly implied andpopped up during the analysis. In my analysis herepropositions of other scholars were also used.

4. SET OF PRINCIPLESAfter analysing these and other works we may pro-ceed to a conclusion that six principles of archaeologyhave been selected in the long experience of itsstudies. Some scholars relied upon one part of them,some upon another, but on the whole six intercon-nected principles appear.

(1) Determinism

As Michael Schiffer (1976, 5) writes, ‘‘archaeologists... found it necessary to draw a wide variety of behavi-oural laws to facilitate documenting and explainingpast events’’. These laws may appear in some var-iety – as determining the course of evolution, or askeeping society and culture dependent in their devel-opment on natural changes, or as enforcing techno-logical progress, and so on. For instance, Montelius’Law concerns things of the same category and thesame tradition – the most similar things in shape, arealso the closest to each other in time. Thus it formu-lated a correlation between formal similarity andchronological proximity. In other words, it describedthe development of things by their regular character(Clarke 1972a, 45).

The principle of determinism, however, is notlimited to the recognition of laws. The corollary ofthis recognition is no less important for science. Bohrdeclared, ‘‘Really, I think ... all of us agree with New-ton: the most profound basis of science is confidencethat in nature identical phenomena appear in identi-cal conditions’’ (Bohr, 1961 [1932], 22). The base ofour deductions concerning culture is the same. Howimportant is it to have the confidence that in everycase, cultural community or similarity is based on theidentity of conditions – either geographical, or racial,


or of social stage. This proposition may be called thecorollary of parallelism. It grounds the phenomenon ofconvergence. From this corollary the applicability ofanalogies in archaeology should be logically deduc-ible. The significance of analogies for archaeology,and in particular the significance of ethnographicanalogies for archaeological interpretation is recog-nised everywhere. Chang Kuang Chih has evenfound it possible to declare that ‘‘As to analogy, ar-chaeology as a whole is analogy’’ (Chang 1967b, 109).Objecting to the exaggerated hopes pinned on ethno-graphic analogies, Binford did not deny the signifi-cance of analogies in general and described the appli-

cability of analogies as a separate principle. If two or afew phenomena have many traits in common theyprobably hold some additional traits in common, andthe probability is higher if you are lucky enough toreveal the inherent tie linking the resemblances(Binford 1967, 1ff).

(2) Universalism

This is the principle proclaiming the unity of humannature (consequently of psychology too) and in con-nection with this the community of human culture.Haag mentions the ‘‘psychic unity of mankind’’among the main ‘‘archaeologist’s presumptions’’(1969, 47). It is implied that the psychology of all nor-mal people is basically similar. So for any person thebehaviour of another person is predictable in a con-crete situation. It is also implied that any culture mustin any case satisfy some basic needs of a person, andthese requirements – in food, rest, sleep, posterityetc. – are mainly the same. This is the principle ofuniversalism and it was formulated for ethnographyby Evolutionists (Tylor 1958, 6).

(3) Uniformitarianism

This principle is most important for providing afoundation for interpretation. The foundation formsfrom the same regularities that are being observednow and which acted in the past (i.e. the principle of

uniformitarianism, the constancy of laws). Only then canwe interpret the results of ancient processes by restingupon contemporary experience – the principle of ac-

tualism). This second one is a principle well known inall the disciplines studying remains of the past – ge-ology, palaeontology, palaeoanthropology, archaeol-

ogy. This principle is built on the idea of bringingtogether the epochs. That is, as soon as the unity (orcommunity) of basic traits in processes of the past andpresent are recognised, we can, with knowledge ofcontemporary processes, infer processes of the past.In other words, through studying contemporary pro-cesses we can transfer this knowledge to processes ofthe past. Thus two principles are operating here, anaxiom and a corollary.

The same line of discourse is present in Smith’sprinciples of stratigraphy. Smith derives it from thegeologist Hutton (1785) and expresses it with the aph-orism ‘‘The present is the key to the past’’ (Smith1976, 515). However, according to British and Ameri-can tradition, he covers both principles with the term‘‘uniformitarianism’’. Meanwhile, since long ago theterm ‘‘actualism’’ has been used too (see Guntau1967), and also for the designation of both principlesas one, which in my opinion is not very appropriate.The ethnologists J. Lubbock and P. Ehrenreich ap-plied the first principle to prehistory. The second wascommon place in Evolutionists’ works where it usuallytook the form of a label like ‘‘backward peoples arelike living fossils’’ (Tylor 1958, 16, 21–24; Morgan1877, 10f). In archaeology Malmer (1997, 7) dividesits application into three kinds: ethnoarchaeology, ex-perimental archaeology and reasoning of an archaeol-ogist based on his personal experience. On the basisof the actualistic principle a thing or an artefact istransformed into a source of information not simplyon events and ideas, but exactly on events and ideasof the past, a potential historical source or record.

(4) Systemic order in culture

These general propositions exist in archaeology onlyas theorems and in order to deduce them they neednot only the corollary of parallelism but also the prin-ciple of systemic order in culture. In general form thisprinciple was worded as applied to archaeology bySophus Müller (1884, 185). This scholar saw archae-ological thinking as being underlain by ‘‘our confi-dence that there is order and arrangement in thisworld’’.

Contemporary authors describe the systemic prin-ciple in culture with items that are characterised asinterconnected and interdependent. This principlewas accepted not only by Binford and his New Ar-

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chaeologists, but also by Trigger, a supporter of thecontextual approach. The last scholar calls a ‘‘basicproposition’’ the idea ‘‘that all elements of a culturalsystem are interrelated and that alterations in any onecomponent will result in changes of varying degree inall features of the system and in their interrelation-ships’’ (Trigger 1973, 103).

(5) Material/non-material correlation

To comprehend the functions of things one needs torest upon another principle, very specific to archaeol-ogy. One may consider it as an aspect or corollary ofthe principle of systemic order in culture. The link isnot evident and yet the specificity to archaeology isextraordinary. The essence of this principle is ex-pressed by Raymond Thompson (1956, 329) as ‘‘acorrelation between a certain set of archaeologicalmaterial objects and a particular range of sociocultur-al behaviour’’. James Deetz (1971, 3) has worded thisin the following way: ‘‘The sine qua non of archaeologyis a concern for the relationships between man’s vis-ible and measurable modification of his environmentand his invisible and less easily measured social andideological life. Both are regular, patterned, and inter-related’’. Some archaeologists call these relationshipscorrelates (Hill 1970, 63; Pebbles and Kus 1977; Schiff-er 1976, 12f). One can even say more definitely thatfor every particular case the ideas of people and thecorresponding behaviour are recognised as factors de-termining the form (in broad sense of the word) ofthings and assemblages directly. This is the principle of

objectification of ideas and events in things.Hence the possibility to make judgements on the

conditions of things, of their formation and the causesof their formation based on the form of these things.That is, the possibility to apprehend a thing as thesource of information on events and ideas. Similar toHawkes, Malmer expresses this principle very suc-cinctly: ‘‘physical similarity entails a probability ofevery other form of similarity, i.e. similarity in respectof time, use, name and environment’’ (1963, 264).

(6) Fundamental sufficiency of data

Many archaeologists have insisted on the idea of thesufficiency of data – more than any the ideologists ofSoviet archaeology. In the acceptance of the incom-pleteness of the data they saw a view that declared

the inability to know about the past. Obviously thiswould be in contradiction with their inherent epis-temological optimism. The idea that we can cognisethe real world is one of the main principles of materi-alist dialectics. In the eyes of most primitive Marxistsa disbelief in this looked simply like an attack uponMarxist ideology; Marxism is almighty, and therecannot exist anything that it could not get to know!The other proponent was New Archaeology whichhad its own epistemological optimism. Everything inculture had to be interdependent with such regularitythat after the saved fragments one could completelyrestore its lost parts. The leading figures among theseproponents were Arcikhovskij in the late 20’s andBinford in the early 60’s. They each advanced a state-ment on the essential sufficiency of the archaeologicaldata for full reconstruction and reliable interpreta-tion.

All in all, six fundamental principles are outlined: 1)of determinism in material culture, 2) of universalism,3) uniformitarianism with its corollary, actualism; 4)the systemic order in culture; 5) of objectification ofideas and events in things (material/non-material cor-relation), and 6) fundamental completeness of archae-ological data. For many archaeologists, whether theyare conscious of that or not, the whole system of inter-pretation in archaeology is based on these principles.

5. PRINCIPLES IN CRITICAL EXAMINATIONEnthusiasm for any of these principles has oftenraised hopes, but warnings immediately followedfrom the side of sceptical scholars. In an article fromthe thirties published in French and in English,Tallgren noted a widespread opinion ‘‘that methodadopted by students of the humanities was as certainand as rigid as that of natural sciences’’. The achieve-ments of Darwinism, he noted, transferred to the hu-manities, and the course of evolution, made subservi-ent to the laws of history, had to make history as exactas natural sciences. Tallgren inquired whether the for-mal method is correct when applied to the humanitiesand he concluded as follows: ‘‘No, I do not think itis, and probably most archaeologists, who are of thesame opinion, are sceptical. Scepticism is a powerfulaid to scientific thought ... One must be bold enough


to cast doubt both upon the theories of others andupon one’s own, and even upon the foundations ofone’s own science and its method ...’’ (Tallgren 1937,153f). None of the principles included in the set pre-sented here have avoided criticism.

(1) Determinism

Evolutionists, Soviet Marxist sociologists and Neopos-itivists all took a liking to this. Pjotr N. Tret’jakovuttered casually that ‘‘There are no contingencies inthe development of culture’’ (1962, 262). This couldnot, of course, convince practical archaeologists whorun up against strange occurrences, surprises andmysteries at every step in their work. As for Hawkes,he did not see similarities and differences as chancephenomena. Nevertheless he did not interpret non-fortuitous events as a display of social regularity, con-vergence and the like in the spirit of Evolutionism.He saw in it simply cultural and genetic kinship – theevidence of diffusion, migration and common origin.However, the non-fortuitous character of similaritiesand differences so fundamental for Hawkes was stillrejected by R. Lowie in 1912. ‘‘The comparison offorms can never do more than establish the identity offorms; that such identity is to be explained by geneticrelationship is an hypothesis ...’’ (Lowie 1912, 28).

Contemporaries of Hawkes developed Lowie’sharsh scepticism. Some of them, for example Thomp-son, emphasised that subjectivity of choice in the ac-tivity of both ancient masters and today’s classifiersundermines the effectiveness of laws. Others rejectedthe truth in the proverb that an exception just con-firmed the rule. There are too many exceptions incultural reality, so many in fact that the concept oflaw itself caves in (cf. Köbben 1967). Having enteredarchaeology, the idea of stochastic processes and regu-larities of probability saved the conception of law, butchanged the content of determinism. It has becomeparticularly stronger as regards to mass material, butit has stopped determining every isolated fact and,hence, lost touch with its cause.

I do not touch here upon the orientation of archae-ology on searching for laws in the framework ofanthropology – criticism of this enthusiasm is wellknown, but I do call attention to the point that theavailability itself of the laws of cultural process and/or the possibility to use these laws for archaeological

interpretation are called into question and are sub-jected to criticism. ‘‘Determinism is avoided’’, Hodderstated the fact (1991, 9). Hodder opposes determinismas counter to the emphasis on the active role of anindividual in culture (1991, 6–10).

(2) Universalism

Universalism has become firmly established togetherwith the idea of unity of the human race and culture.This idea typical for Evolutionists and supported bySoviet Marxist archaeologists sounded quite progress-ive. Evolution was considered as development of thetotal culture, homogeneous in principle, of the wholeof mankind. The subsequent trends – Migrationism,Diffusionism, and Ecological conception – haveundermined this idea. Tallgren stated, ‘‘No state ofculture, no evolutionary stage is or ever has been uni-form; there have always been differences. In everyculture one discovers rudiments, survivals, archaisms,marginal features, whatever word one may employ ...In every stage of culture there are ‘dialects’, if I mayuse a philological metaphor ... Any reconstruction ofa given culture which disregards ‘dialects’ may leadto serious errors ... It would be a fault not merely inthe application of a method but in the method itself’’(Tallgren 1937, 155f).

Walter Taylor made the next step by rejecting com-parative manipulations of types and gave paramountimportance not to type but the individual artefact andits position in a single particular context. It is thisposition that allows the functional use of the artefactto be exposed. The broad trend of Contextual Ar-chaeology begins with this appeal.

(3) Uniformitarianism and actualism

The principle of actualism, which originally gained afoothold in geology, met with opposition from thevery beginning. Among ethnoarchaeologists the scep-tical opinion of R. Gould has been heard, ‘‘The lessthe archaeologist must depend upon uniformitarianassumptions to infer past human behaviour, the morevalid his explanations will be’’ (1978, 254).

In archaeological interpretation Atkinson considersonly conclusions on technology to be reliable ‘‘be-cause there is no reason to suppose that the ‘laws’ ofphysics and chemistry have changed. The inferencesare made here within the framework of an invariant

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system. This is manifestly not true, however, of infer-ences about social organisation or religion, wherethere is no one-to-one correspondence between inten-tion and action (or between cause and effect), andtherefore no possibility of unambiguous inference inthe reverse direction. The essential frame of referencehere is a system of inference which gives due weight... to the strength of inference that the individual datawill bear, but no more’’ (1975, 176f).

Very important was the refusal of ethnographers toconsider the currently less developed peoples and so-cial strata as ‘‘living fossils’’ representing the prehis-toric past. The ethnographers have come to under-stand that these populations had changed greatly bythe present time because they exist in new conditions:‘‘it is unjust to consider any of the now living groupsas our contemporary ancestors’’ (Herskovitz 1949,71). The proposition of M. Foucault (1968) on thepeculiarity of every epoch and even its comparativeisolation from other epochs has sharpened the prob-lem even more. A. Leroi-Gourhan (1964) is known forhis aspiration to reconstruct primitive religion withoutadhering to direct ethnographic analogies. He evenconsidered whether they had caused more damagethan benefit.

Guided by the fact that conditions and causes ofevery cultural phenomenon are multiple and extra-ordinarily complex, Bruce Trigger contends that ‘‘thearmchair prehistorian, no matter how much generaltheory he knows, is unable to produce a detailed re-construction of the course of human prehistory on thebasis of what he knows about man at the presenttime’’ (1973, 104).

(4) The Systemic approach

Trigger has also stated the principle of systemic orderas the interdependency of every element of a systemon any other element of it. In such formulation itcontradicts the ordinary experience of every person.We often observe evident independence of one or an-other important component of a cultural system bythe behaviour of many others in it. Even where de-pendence is present, it often proves to be one-sided.The idea of the universal interdependence in cultureis very close to Binford’s notions. Yet from the verybeginning, from his first theoretical article, Binfordcame out against recognition of all the elements as

equal and comparable. He noted that subsystems, notsingle elements of a system, interact and influenceeach other in a system. He noted also that elementshave different significance depending on their belong-ing to a subsystem (Binford 1962, 218).

In 1971 in a paper presented to the Sheffield Sem-inar I directed the attention of archaeologists to thestructural organisation of a system adopted in the Sys-temic approach. I emphasised how significant the po-sition of an element is in this hierarchical structurefor determining its role in it, for the influence it has onthe other elements of the system (Klejn 1973, 702f).

(5) Objectification of ideas and events

The idea of a one-to-one correlation between ma-terial elements of culture and non-material ones haslost strength too. ‘‘Since historical events and essentialsocial divisions of prehistoric peoples don’t find anadequate expression in material remains’’, MargaretA. Smith (1955, 7) reasons, ‘‘it cannot be right to tryto arrive at a knowledge of them through archaeologi-cal interpretation’’. Michael Schiffer (1976, 11f) de-clared the idea of material/non-material correlation,the principle recognised by Binford, to be incorrectin archaeology. Binford supposed that social struc-tures had left a direct adequate imprint in materialremains. Opposing him Schiffer means that due tothe action of natural and cultural forces, material re-mains have reached us in very much a destroyed con-dition. ‘‘The principle I offer’’, he noted, ‘‘is that ar-chaeological remains are a distorted reflection of apast behavioral system’’ (Schiffer 1976, 12). He didnot call into question the availability itself of someimprints in the material culture under archaeologicalstudy and he does not deny the ‘‘correlates’’ with an-cient social structures, processes and events. On thecontrary, he affirmed their presence, though in dis-torted condition.

However this idea has also come under strong criti-cal fire. To Raymond H. Thompson (1956, 330f),‘‘Although a correlation between the artefact typesand various cultural generalisations is the ultimategoal of an archaeological reconstruction’’, and conse-quently considered as possible in principle, it is never-theless not granted as objective. Resting on analogousrelationships in ethnography, it is based on judge-ments by analogy which are known to be logically


unnecessary, and is permeated with subjectivity. ‘‘...[The] archaeologist injects a subjective element intohis inferential reconstruction ...’’, unavoidably andnot only once.

Karl Heider called the ethnographic validity of thiscorrelation into question. Such conclusions of archae-ologists ‘‘can only be tested against the facts of ethno-graphic cultures. Although for the most part they cannever be proven universally valid, only a few counter-examples can throw their usefulness into question’’.Heider provides such counter-examples, one of themin the statement of Thukidides who, long before thebirth of archaeology, reasoned as if he foresaw therisky discourses of archaeologists. He remarked thatin comparison with magnificent Athens, the militarySparta looked just like a large village, but it would bea mistake in future, looking at its scarce ruins, to drawthe conclusion that Athens dominated Sparta politi-cally. While exploring contemporary New Guineaaborigines Heider observed an unexpected picture.He has found that ‘‘Between the formal and func-tional typologies’’ of the aborigines, as well as in otheraspects of culture, ‘‘there are a number of discrepan-cies which would mislead the archaeologist’’ (Heider1967, 55). Hodder has explained this theoretically: ‘‘itis ideas, beliefs and meanings which interpose them-selves between people and things. How burial reflectssociety clearly depends on attitudes to death’’ (Hodd-er, 1991, 3).

Holding an archaeological conference on an anal-ogous problem, Carl-Axel Moberg (1981, A12f) calledboth the conference itself and his introducing paperto it ‘‘Similar finds? Similar interpretations?’’, allunder question marks. He sums up in this work: ‘‘Thethematic question in the title is, in reality, the questionwhether archaeology is feasible at all. Actually, ananswer in the affirmative, even if often entirely inex-plicit and unconscious, underlies all archaeology:‘Similar finds do indicate similar interpretations’. Butwe know so well (or ought to know) that in manyconcrete cases the reply has to be negative more oftenthan not. In this special research situation, similarfinds are poor indicators for similar interpretations’’.Is archaeology then feasible at all?!

(6) Fundamental sufficiency of data

If the data were sufficient, reconstruction could be

reduced to mutual positioning of components. How-ever, many data are simply absent – they have disap-peared forever and in archaeological practice we rec-ognise this at every step. Since Winckelmann’s timeauthentic parts of artefacts are to be distinguishedfrom restored, newly created ones. Flinders Petrie leftspaces free for early points in his sequence of datesjust as there are plenty of blank spots on archaeologi-cal maps, as well as hypothetical chains in typologicalseries (historians of language would say forms underasterisk). Childe admitted his beloved short chron-ology to be just as invalid as the opposite, long one –the last appeared however to be better substantiated.

Binford’s belief in the fundamental reconstructabil-ity of cultural components on the strength of theirmutual reflection makes this principle in turn depend-ent on another – of the systemic order in culture.Thus it is not primary and appears vulnerable frommany sides.

Despite all the stumbling blocks reconstructions haveindeed been carried out. Archaeologists albeit withhesitations and doubts, give credence to them and pintheir hope on them overall. The principles I talkabout stick implicitly in our heads. Here some dis-crepancy may be observed between our theory intowhich we sometimes dive and our everyday practice.In theory we disprove these principles and now andagain jeer at them because of their naivety, but inpractice we follow them and act as if we justify theuse of them by other people, i.e. give credence to theresults inferred therefrom. Are there any grounds forthis? It seems to me there are.

Firstly strict determination of laws, correlations andinferences is, as it turned out, not the only possibledetermination. Stochastic laws, probabilistic infer-ences, diffuse or fuzzy sets, incomplete dependencestake more and more significance in our constructions.An inference adopted for a totality does not necess-arily cover each member of the totality. A law incor-rect with respect to a single part may be true for allthe totality. This impels us to decide with circumspec-tion if it is possible to rely on the fundamental prin-ciples I have enumerated above. It is important todefine the kind of the phenomena we are going toapply these principles to.

Secondly, the principles are none other than the

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main, most influential, governing laws. But are theyuniversal? Edward Tylor wrote: ‘‘The tendency ofmodern inquiry is more and more towards the con-clusion that if law is anywhere it is everywhere’’ (ascited by Köbben 1967, 3). Binford reiterated theteaching of Leslie White with the aphorism: ‘‘Lawsare timeless and spaceless’’ (Binford 1972, 8). How-ever the inclination to formulate universal laws hassince greatly decreased and belief has grown that themore universal a law is, the more trivial or unreliableit is (Trigger 1973, 102). Well known is the bitterirony of one of the leaders of New Archaeology whoadmitted that after lots of trouble many of his associ-ates produced rather trivial and petty ‘‘Mickey Mouselaws’’ (Flannery 1973, 51). Many students have seenthe way to save the conception of law by limiting it.Arguing with Köbben I contended that a law wouldnot be banal and would get out of difficulties with itsexceptions if the limits of its use were indicated (Klejn1972a).

Thirdly, a principle does not just cease from actingoutside the limits of its applicability. We may find theopposite principle is acting there. In general this isclear: a principle formulates some elementary truth,which has no gradations but expresses polar relations.So if one thing is not true, then the opposite is true.

6. THE OPPOSITE PRINCIPLESAs soon as we try to formulate the opposite idea asan independent principle, its corollaries and theoremswill immediately spring up from it, the neighbouringprinciples with their inferred theorems join them, andall of this having turned into a complex system ofpropositions, into theory, will lose all the former sim-plicity and banal look. What is more we will mostlikely find that we already know these principles andhaving existed for a long time they are quite respect-able. They can be examined as follows.

(1) Indeterminism

Contrasting determinism is the principle of indetermi-nism. This principle is suggested both in history andarchaeology. Some critics of determinism came tosuch an opposition of determinism. The conviction ofHeider is contrary to Hawkes’ belief that the aimsof prehistoric peoples in their production of cultural

material are comprehensible. Heider’s ideas are alsocontrary to the belief that ethnographic analogies arereasonable. ‘‘Unfortunately for the archaeologicalprocess’’, writes Heider (1967, 52), ‘‘cultures are gen-erally quite unreasonable’’. In his concluding addressto the Sheffield Seminar the ethnologist Edmund Le-ach (1973, 764) warned archaeologists: ‘‘The properanalogy for human behaviour is not natural law – ofa physical kind – but a game of chess. The field ofplay and the rules of the game are laid out in advancebut the way the game is played out is unpredictable’’.Authoritative archaeologists, especially in Britain,were prone to think in this way. Even more so inGermany, where as Ulrich Fischer (1987, 184) haswritten, ‘‘cultural laws don’t exist’’.

(2) Individualisation (particularism)

The principle of universalism has its opposite too; thebelief in the unique character of every phenomenonin culture, in a nutshell, the principle of individualis-ation. In implicit form it was already inherent in thepassion with which the Diffusionists opposed particu-larism (the other designation of the principle) to gen-eralisations of Evolutionists (Buettner-Janusch 1957).Now this principle is exposed and clearly formulated:‘‘each archaeological object and situation is unique’’(Chang 1967a, 230).

(3) Historicism

What is counter to the principle of uniformitarianism,for which all epochs are equal? It is of course theprinciple of historicism that demands that allphenomena in development are taken into accountand substantial differentiation of epochs is made. Thisprinciple arose even before Evolutionism in teachingsof the catastrophe and progress in history. It is thefourth initial proposition of materialist philosophy inJason Smith’s book. On the whole Marxism has verymuch propagated it as documenting the law-depend-ent character of changes which lead to Communism.Historicism is not alien to New Archaeology orientedto the study of cultural process, of sociodynamics.

The acknowledgement of development alone doesnot require the identification of laws that acted in dif-ferent epochs. Nevertheless a very narrow principleof historicism existed, i.e. reduced to the demand forperceiving sharp qualitative differences of epochs. It


was present in Marxism and in some other teachingsclose to archaeology – in the teachings of Foucaultfor instance.

(4) Irregularity

It is not difficult to see that opposite to the principle ofsystemic order is the principle of irregularity, of dis-order. More difficult is to find this principle realised inresearch practice. The question would apparently notbe contained in what existed before the principle of sys-temic order was introduced but in the reaction of its op-ponents. Very seldom are its uses clear but it is im-plicitly contained in the initial ideas of archaeologistswho do not believe in the wisdom of the Systemic ap-proach and the boundlessness of cognition. Either theydo not consider that culture is an ordered enough sys-tem to be worth serving as a base for further con-clusions, or they recognise living culture as such a sys-tem but refuse to do consider archaeological materialas such a system for it is too fragmented and incom-plete. A system can only be introduced into such ma-terial from outside – it will be a subjective creation ofan archaeologist, just the position of J. O. Brew and J.Ford (Brew 1946; Ford 1954b; 1962 a,b).

(5) Polysemism

In the first row of principles the fifth one is the prin-ciple stating that material components of culture mustcorrelate with its non-material ones and with eventsof history. This principle has its opposite in the prin-ciple of polysemism of archaeological facts. I de-fended the idea of polysemism in my paper to theSheffield Seminar of 1971 (Klejn 1973; see also1978b, 48). In his ‘‘Theoretical archaeology’’ (1979)Gardin equates interpretation to ‘‘the logical para-phrase establishing the likeness of monuments dis-persed in space and time’’, and he advises not to for-get ‘‘that this paraphrase is almost always one ofmany, and the less we take this simple fact into ac-count, the more plausible such paraphrases will seemto be’’ (Gardin 1983, 154). Now Shanks and Tilley(1987, 115) note that material culture is ‘‘unreduciblypolysemic’’ and Stutt and Shennan (1990, 767) pro-ceed from the view.

(6) Initial incompleteness of data

By definition archaeological objects are less informa-

tive than direct access objects in a living culture. Be-tween the two is the destructive activity multipliedby time, a point that was stressed by Dunnell. Therecognition of the initial incompleteness of data isvery important for archaeology. It leads to the necess-ity of interpretation and the involvement of non-ar-chaeological information, to the interdisciplinary syn-thesis in studying the historic and prehistoric past. SirMortimer Wheeler (1952, 180f) expressed this verygraphically. He noted that the ‘‘archaeologist will findthe tub and will completely miss Diogenes. He willwrite profound papers on the typology of tubs; he willclassify tubs in categories A, B and C; he will discovera Tub-bearing Folk and plot their wanderings upongeographical and geophysical maps ... Only, he hasoverlooked, and could not help overlooking, the onesignificant thing about that Tub, namely, that it shel-tered the eminent Cynic and symbolized his philos-ophy for all time’’.

Hawkes made the cognisability of ancient purposesone of his two principles, yet three years earlier hehad introduced essential limitations. At that time hehad built his well known ladder of incomprehensibility. Itconsisted of different cultural spheres gradually moreinaccessible to the archaeological cognition – accord-ing to the growing incompleteness of the sources(Hawkes 1954). He is one of several who formulatedthis principle for archaeology.

Thus, this is the other group of initial principles ofarchaeology, a group that is quite opposite to that onewhich was investigated above. It must be admittedthat these different principles are also realistic andreasonable, by no means without foundations and inany case useful. They also form an integral systemwith its derivatives – corollaries, theorems etc., andall of them rank high in archaeology. So the demandto concentrate the study on the context (the principleof contextuality) is guided by the principles of indeter-minism and of individualisation. A further support ofthis principle of contextuality comes from the func-tions of things. The context principle was instilled intoarchaeology by followers of W. Taylor, in particularby Chang and Deetz, and in a somewhat differentway by Trigger.

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7. DIALECTICS OF PRINCIPLESIn logical space the fundamental principles of archae-ology are arranged in pairs – like the quarrellingGods before the Battle of Gods in Homer’s Iliad –the principles are in opposition to each other in everypair (Fig. 9). This reminds me of a maxim by NielsBohr. When visiting Moscow in 1961, Bohr said thatthe most fundamental truths were so profound thatquite the opposite ones were also true! Having dis-covered such truths, he explained, a science enters itsbest period (Fainberg 1988, 30).

Malmer pointed out something similar in prehistory:‘‘To some scholar a vague hint on political conditionsmay seem more important than a lot of information ondaily life but the opposite view is equally reliable’’(Malmer, 1963, 249). Zbigniew Kobylinski pointed outthe opposite views of M. Schiffer and R. A. Gould, bothstated in the same year of 1978, with regards to theproblem of uniformitarianism. Schiffer calls to formu-late universal laws as the same in both prehistoric andindustrial societies, while Gould denies the existence ofuniversal laws because the research concerns uniquecombinations of factors. Instead Gould insists on ‘‘site-oriented’’ studies, ‘‘and both of them seem to be right’’(Kobylinski, 1981, 30f, 46f). In an interesting article en-titled ‘‘Axioms in archaeology’’ A. B. Johansen (1984,36) writes that having revealed the fundamental ax-ioms and having built a system of knowledge on thisbasis it would be reasonable to derive thereafter a ‘‘con-trastive alternative’’, ‘‘could not the prehistoric peoplebe counting and non-counting at one and the sametime? At one and the same time hating and loving? Re-acting both constructively and destructively onto outerchallenges?’’.

However, as applied to physics this dialectic ofprinciples remains somewhere in the deepest philo-sophical comprehension of science. Thus inside ofevery physical discipline physicists manage to con-struct its basis without intrinsic contradictions. In ar-chaeology the picture is different. Universal laws areinessential, while essential laws not universal. Dataare always terribly incomplete, and meaning is hiddenwhich must be deciphered. So it is impossible to avoidcontradictions in the basis of archaeology. The Battleof Gods takes place right in the discipline itself.

When Gods are fighting, defeats and victories are il-lusory – no corpses are left on the battlefield, wounds

Fig. 9. Dialectics of fundamental principles in archaeology.

recover and all as though nothing had happened. Onlymortals involved in the conflict lose their lives. Whatcan a poor archaeologist do by watching Gods fighting,when far from being God? The decision suggests itselfwhich if suggested for a real fight would be deemedcynical: ignore one side and move on. It would evi-dently be the most stupid way out and ruin would beinevitable. One has to adjust to the situation and thismeans estimating which of the sides is stronger in thegiven situation, each time anew. One must also rely onintuition, on one’s own sense of measure.

Apparently this matter contains the fundamentalmethodological difference between archaeology as anapplied science, besides studying culture, and physicsas a fundamental science studying natural phenom-ena. David Clarke seemed to feel this irremovable dif-ference when he declared that the conversion of ar-chaeology into a science was not his ideal. He merelycalled for the formation of an analytical discipline, i.e.an objective discipline acting strictly and explicitly.

However, does not the result obtained here under-mine the very possibility for archaeology to be ana-lytical? For Clarke as well as for all who derived inspi-ration from analytical philosophy the ideal was un-doubtedly an analytical machine. By the phrase‘analytical machine’ is meant the logical researchstructure, elaborating the information explicitly, un-ambiguously and equally, always and everywhere.This ideal has been realised in the modern computer,by offering some researchers the possibility of con-


tructing the artificial intelligence of an archaeologist.Thus they hope to make a computer program able tosolve the tasks of interpretation.

The first intention of analytical archaeologists is, ofcourse, aimed at rectilinear formal logic issuing froma non-controversial system of principles (Watson et al.1971; Salmon 1982b). An almost schizophrenic splitinto two is revealed however in the very logic-founda-tion of the discipline. This is enough to frighten any-one who hopes for vigorousness and unambiguity,and for a non-contradictory basis of inferences. Thereare suggestions how to avoid this difficulty.

One can construct the program of interpretation asan expert system (Ennals and Brough 1982; Gardin et

al. 1987; Gallay 1989) – like those already existing inmedicine or geology. However, such a system wouldnot differ much from simple generalisation of existingsubjective estimations. It would only make theirsearch easier. One can construct the ‘‘artificial intelli-gence’’ on the basis of hypertext (Stutt 1988; Stutt andShennan 1992) – as simulation of the usual arguingof hypotheses which would however be supplied withexplicit argumentation. Nevertheless a scholar doesnot get rid of the feeling of dissatisfaction unless thelogic is traced to the very fundamentals.

Yet if one is going to model the discourse of an ar-chaeologist at interpretation, then the task is muchmore complex than it may be imagined. Neverthelessthe conclusion is not so pessimistic as it may seem. Inone of the first collective volumes on the application ofcomputers in archaeology M. Doran (1970) formulatedthe differences between ‘‘machine thinking’’ from theusual thinking of an researcher archaeologist. He hadin mind how one should reconstruct and discipline thearchaeologist’s thinking in order it to make it easier forconversion into formulations accessible to the ma-chine’s comprehension. Indeed, it manipulates onlymathematical expressions and thus needs exact defi-nitions, unambiguous orders, in full formalisation. Thebrilliant Russian mathematician and linguist V. V. Nal-imov at the end of his life wrote a strange book entitled‘‘In search of other meanings’’ (1993). To him thethinking of a machine is uni-directional and accuratelysegmented, whereas human thinking is diffuse, fluent,and not without inherent contradictions, but very mo-bile and plastic. This qualitative difference is con-ditioned I suppose by the fact that in the brain of a hu-

man the multiple devices processing the information(the neurones) co-operate in parallel processing.

On a macro level this is expressed in that the brain issplit in two hemispheres. These are relatively indepen-dent of each other and able to think differently, some-times even generating polar guide lines. In the mostlower portion of the brain, the connection and co-ordi-nation of the two cerebral hemispheres occurs, locatedin the brain stem. This means that the duality or du-plicity of the initial principles which is discovered in thevery foundations of archaeology does not border onschizophrenia. It makes this part of archaeologicalinterpretation closer to human thinking, partly intuit-ive, but also plastic and very rich in ideas, and less likethe strict and rigid logic of computer. I consider herearchaeological interpretation as a purely logical pro-cedure segregated from the executor and hence I com-pare it with human thinking as something different.

Perhaps a system of two parallel computers (may bewith a third one for co-ordination) would be able toimitate the interpretative thinking of an archaeologistwith good approximation to reality. When speaking of‘‘parallel computers’’ I am simply trying to catch theessence of the matter (professionals in computerscience would prefer more exact and cumbersome ex-pressions), but this seems to satisfy the task at present.The idea of parallel computers is active in the scienceof artificial intelligence, but with the aim to reach morespeed in calculations (Deering 1985; Feldman 1985;Hinton 1985). Apparently the task to approximatestructurally the modelling machine system of humanthinking should find its solution this way too. Hewitt(1985) works with such ideas in the ‘‘open systems’’ ofmany computers with a different logic, based on the‘‘hypothesis of contradicting axioms’’.

Some qualities a modelling system must have pref-erence over the brain of a researcher, otherwise whatuse would it have? The preference may be attainedby means of strengthening the relative role and capac-ities of the third, uniting computer. In the humanbrain the choice between contradictory guiding linesis made to a great extent under influence of irrationalstimuli, but in a way that is individual and not ex-plicit. Computers may help in avoiding these factors.Thus, the axiomatisation of archaeology is possiblebut the net that is realised appears very complicatedand contains inner contradictions.

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PART IV. ARCHAEOLOGICAL THEORY

6. Empiricism in archaeology

1. READING THE PAST, ORIGINAL CASTIan Hodder is known as a theoretician who advancedagainst the theoretical enthusiasm of New Archaeol-ogy, and against the determinism of laws and beliefin objectivity. In his book ‘‘Reading the past’’ he op-poses his simple ‘reading’ of material culture (withmultiple interpretion of material culture from under-standing contexts) with Binford’s ‘reading off’ humanpatterning from material culture patterning (with thehelp of deterministic correlation) (Hodder 1991, 4).He considered it appropriate to explain that his ‘‘re-actionary views’’ do not return us to simple empiricaldescription and inductive generalisation. He insistedthat ‘‘archaeology can be distinguished from anti-quarianism by its concern with the context of materialobjects’’. It seems to him that ‘‘archaeologists can in-corporate inductive methods in building up from con-textual associations ...’’ (1991, 190f).

But if theory is dismissed as depending on biasesand if at the same time uniqueness of events and cul-tural situations is propagated, how can contexts savearchaeology from being reduced to inductive general-isations and guesses on facts, let alone in contexts?Reading the past, reading the monuments withoutuniversal clue to their symbolic meanings is no inno-vation, it is something our empiricist grandfathersalso tried to do. The use of contexts is not neweither – Walter Taylor, K. C. Chang and ‘‘settlementarchaeology’’ used this approach. Does the ‘‘new con-textualism’’ (Hodder 1991, XIV) differ considerablyfrom the old one? ‘‘It initially came as a shock tome that post-processual archaeology was having littleimpact on data acquisition’’ (Hodder 1992, 171).People continue to collect facts as before.

It is a remarkable situation practical archaeologistsare left in who are devoid of their recent belief inlaws, analogies and objectivity. Nearly three decadesago I showed what the impact was of the ideas ofBritish Hypersceptics, with their belief in uniquenessand their dismissal of theories, on the practice of ar-

chaeology. They were brilliant theoreticians (Daniel,Hawkes, Piggott), but I saw them (Klejn 1972c) underthe device that he who sows Hyperscepticism, har-vests empiricism. The pupils of Piggott appeared tobelong to this trend, and Hodder is in the same vein.What will practical archaeologists do who follow hisprinciples? After much criticism has been directed topost-processual works, young archaeologists are al-ready left without any theory and feel happy in sucha state; ‘‘Archaeology does not need another GrandTheory’’ (Campbell 1994, 141). They are ready tocollect facts quietly. Really, the two decades of post-processualism have re-enforced the empiricism thatnever died in archaeology.

Since the time of Francis Bacon the idea of experi-ence entered science as the master: purely philosophi-cal a priori schemes broke away; facts became theonly legal source of positive knowledge, and the in-ductive method became the main principle of science.At least until the late 19th century empiricism was avery respectable way of research. However, later onits authority often rose up – in one country or branchof science, then in another, especially where the dom-inating theory plummeted into deep crisis.

In archaeology this way of thinking had especiallysteadfast practitioners, largely because archaeologicalmaterial is so demonstrative and large-scale. SophusMüller worked in just this way and regarded it asuniversal; gradual generalisation leads an investigatorfrom the material to the inference. ‘‘The propermethod of archaeology is ... the safe induction’’(Müller 1898, 298f). For a long time classical archae-ology has formed the safest accommodation for em-piricism, more so than prehistoric archaeology, andboth retain this way of thinking more in Germanyand Russia than among British or French archaeol-ogists. Having said this, the outstanding British ar-chaeologist Flinders Petrie even wrote a book called‘‘Inductive methodology’’ in 1877.

In pre-Revolutionary Russia even the most deep


thinking of archaeologists Vasilij Gorodcov was con-vinced that facts speak for themselves. ‘‘In the result ofmethodical cross-section or excavation of the earth’’,he declared, ‘‘as exact and coherent a reading of sitesmust appear as the reading of a usual book. For thisprocess no subjective intervention of an investigatoris needed since every phenomenon, every thing, mustspeak for themselves, like characters and words writ-ten on sheets of paper tell the reader everything theywere ordered to tell’’ (1908, 11).

Soon after the Civil war the historian Sergey Zheb-elev, at that time one of the leaders of Soviet archaeol-ogy, wrote a textbook for archaeologists. In this text-book he reduced ‘‘archaeological methodology’’ (forthe sake of irony he placed these words in quotationmarks) to description, comparison and generalisationof monuments. Therefore, in his opinion, one needsonly diligence, erudition and experience. The experi-enced archaeologist needs only to look at monumentsin order to ‘‘read’’ them, i.e. to understand them.‘‘The skill to ‘‘read’’ monuments in order to interpretthem constitutes the subject matter of archaeologicalhermeneutics. The latter must be based on rules in-ferred empirically and not by metaphysical ways’’(1923, 132f). Even the vocabulary is the same as thatof the Post-Processualists.

Ernst Buschor, the authoritative classical archaeol-ogist whose introduction opened the model handbookin classical archaeology in the editions of 1939 and1969, could say nothing ‘‘commonly valid’’ on ar-chaeological method. There was no general methodfor him: ‘‘There are so many archaeological methodsas monuments and groups of monuments under theconsideration, and so many methods as research per-sonalities’’. This shows good correspondence to Hod-der’s irreducible meanings unique to each context.‘‘Nevertheless’’, Buschor continued, ‘‘one initial pointis unmistakable; looking at the object. The archae-ological method, even though its application is ex-ecuted intensively in an apparatus of thinking, alwaysissues from eye experience, from seeing’’ (Buschor1969, 5f).

So simply reading the monuments and interpretingthem by free comparison with the like, and then con-cluding from an intuitive understanding of contextswas one of the features of empiricism. The fact that itis hidden under the cover-up of theoretical discourse

merely shows that empiricism has had its time. Never-theless it pops out now and again more or less openly,not as an entire movement but in a scattered way.

Sir Mortimer Wheeler looked with open eyes andforthright conscience at the humanistic and empiricistqualities of his profession. He concluded his book‘‘Archaeology from the earth’’ (Wheeler 1954/1956,230) in clear diction: ‘‘As archaeologists, then, we areat the same time collectors and interpreters ... Letit be agreed that the two words ‘archaeologist’ and‘antiquary’ shall in future be exactly synonymous ...’’.

2. OVERCOMING EMPIRICISMIn archaeology the first opposition to rise against thecommon belief in inductivist methodology was youngSoviet archaeology, and this movement was due to itsMarxist claims. Marxism dictates that it stems fromtheory, namely from Marxist theory of Historical Ma-terialism. So archaeologists should issue from Marxisttheoretical dogmas and not from facts, however muchin contradiction to facts these dogmas may be (re-member the matriarchy thesis). Despite all difficultiesfacts had to be subordinated and could not contradicttheory. If they did, woe betide them – and theauthors.

One of the figures who initiated the outfit of Sovietarchaeology with Marxism was Vladislav Ravdonikas.When he attacked traditional archaeology with sharpcriticism he started with the impeachment in empiri-cism: ‘‘It was still not long ago that it was consideredenough to make archaeological excavations and toprint a report on them, i.e. simply to establish a fact,and the scientific work would be fulfilled and theauthor can rest on his laurels, especially if there wasa chronology in the report, together with a descrip-tion of usual life, and some notorious ethnic attri-bution ...’’. Ravdonikas condemned ‘‘the empiricalslavery of thinking’’, and pointing to the Holy Scrip-tures of Marxism he concluded: ‘‘Now we have noright to be empiricists but unfortunately empiricismholds many of us in its captivity’’ (1930f 51f).

Paradoxically as it may be, the fight of Soviet dog-matists to support theory corresponded with the gen-eral development of sciences. Ten years later ClydeKluchhohn with similarly clear eagerness advancedagainst the empiricist outfit of American anthro-

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pology, and he included archaeologists. ‘‘In my obser-vation’’, he remarked, ‘‘the greater number of anthro-pologists still feel that ‘theorising’ is what you dowhen you are too lazy, or too impatient, or too muchof an arm-chair person to go out and get the facts’’(1940, 46). This especially concerns that part ofAmerican anthropologists who dig and are orientedto history, i.e. Americanist archaeologists. ‘‘If they usethe word ‘theory’ at all, they tend to use it as a pejor-ative synonym for ‘speculation’ ’’ (1940, 44). In Kluck-hohn’s judgement archaeologists are ‘‘but slightly re-formed antiquarians’’ (p. 40), and he concludes thatthey remain ‘‘on the intellectual level of stamp col-lecting’’ (p. 45). Having in mind their belief in self-obviousness of facts the critic states a ‘‘methodologicaland theoretical naivety of his archaeological col-leagues’’ (p. 51). He repeats words of the sociologistParsons when saying: ‘‘The facts do not speak forthemselves; they have to be cross-examined’’ (p. 42).

Nearly a decade after Kluckhohn, in the late 40shis pupil Walter Taylor (1948) went for American ar-chaeologists because of their empiricism with moredeveloped, sarcastic and individually addressed criti-cism. Taylor noted that for American archaeologistshistory is nothing but hypotheses. As an example herefers to the passing but very meaningful remark of J.Thompson (1944, 23; Taylor 1948, 59) who presentedhis monograph in the series ‘‘Theoretical approachesto problems’’ as follows: ‘‘The fact that the paper ispublished in the present series is sufficient indicationthat the case is not considered to have been com-pletely proved’’.

Taylor produced a reproach of his fellow specialiststhat they considered theorising as something notworthy of proper science, and that they hang on to‘‘the untenable position ‘to hold on facts’ whichmeans to avoid inference, hypothesis and proof’’(1948, 113). He refuted their outfit ‘wait-until-all-the-facts-are-collected’ (p. 61) and concluded his criticalanalysis with the words: ‘‘Americanist archaeology isnot in a healthy state. Its metabolism has gone awry.It is wasting and not assimilating its foodstuffs’’ (p.92).

Two decades later Lewis Binford continued thiscriticism. He turned against methodology reducingthe actions of an archaeologist to elementary ones –‘‘to generalising about the ‘facts’ he uncovers’’

(Binford 1968, 21). Indeed, ‘‘an empirical generalis-ation of data – no matter how accurate it is – is neveran explanation for the data’’ (p. 15). His disciple Jam-es Hill a few years later (Hill 1972) analysed in detaildifferences between the inductive way and the op-posite, deductive procedure, he stressed preferencesof the latter and made consequent inferencestherefrom. So New Archaeology began its triumphantraid through the Western world; everywhere it con-demned empiricism and aggrandised theory. In othercircles of Western archaeology the understandingstarted to take roots that empiricism was detrimental.Still during the time of the World War II the Frenchhistorian Marc Bloch wrote: ‘‘... Texts or archaeologi-cal finds, seemingly very clear and accessible, speakmerely when you know how to ask them. The flinttools in the Somme alluviums were abundant bothbefore Boucher de Perthes and after him. Yet therewas no man who knew how to ask – and there wasno prehistoric times’’ (1973, 38). In Germany RafaelUslar published an article (1955) under the drastictitle ‘‘On the advantage of speculative considerationof prehistoric monuments’’.

In the VII International Congress of Pre- and Pro-tohistoric Sciences in Prague in 1966 Geza Rohan-Csermak from Paris presented a paper that was laterpublished against empiricism in 1971. The axiom ofthe empirical approach reads: Primo observare, deinde

intelligere, postremo philosophare (first observe, then under-stand, finally philosophise). As soon as observation isnot possible without previous setting of rules and con-cepts for sampling, perceiving and description, thisauthor adds to the above axiom an initial phrase:Primo praejudicare (first foreordain, or predestine).

According to Durkheim’s designation the authorcalls his own outfit a priorism. One can doubt if hischoice of the terms is lucky (predestination, preju-dices, preconceived ideas, and biases are hardly thingsarchaeology badly needs) but the idea itself is reason-able. With his a priorism Rohan-Csermak partly join-ed the assault on New Archaeology, which inciden-tally also likes formulations of ostentatious sharp-ening.

The struggle of New Archaeology against empiri-cism is weakened by one circumstance. Empiricismremains in neopositivist methodology too, i.e. in themethodology of New Archaeology itself. The same


point was stated by A. Pałubicka (1973) with regardto Rohan-Csermak. Nevertheless more than two dec-ades went by under the title of New Archaeologywhich strongly and influentially advanced against em-piricism. Then post-processual archaeology broke thedomination of New Archaeology and, as was shown,built the ground for revival of the empiricist ap-proach, although it managed to do so under the ban-ner of theory.

3. THEORETICAL GHETTOIn the 1970s theoretical archaeology as a specialbranch of archaeology was formed. It does not mean,however, that archaeology in general changed its sen-timent towards theoretical studies. The anti-theoreti-cal mood of German archaeology is well known(Härke 1991; 1995), and is even somewhat exagger-ated (on this issue see Klejn 1995b). Yet look atFrance. Hodder and Tilley one evening in 1986 puta pressing question to some well-known French ar-chaeologists ‘‘over an excellent beer’’. French archae-ologists are fortunate enough to speak the same lan-guage and breathe the same air as Althusser, Bourd-ieu, Foucault, Levi-Strauss, so ‘‘why do thesearchaeologists use so little theory?’’ And French ar-chaeologists (Gleziou et al. 1991, 91) agree: ‘‘To de-scribe the position of theoretical archaeology inFrance seems indeed equivalent to posing the ques-tion: ‘Why is there no theoretical archaeology inFrance?’ ’’. They conclude that: ‘‘The best currentFrench examples suggest that interpretative work willremain very empirically grounded in an interactionbetween the data on the one hand and analogy, ex-perimentation and analytical techniques on theother’’ (Gleziou et al. 1991, 119). These archaeol-ogists, known as the most theoretically orientedamong French archaeologists, dropped such com-ments as, ‘‘The irony is that in actual fact the mostconservative position is no doubt the most promising’’(Gleziou et al. 1991, 105).

When New Archaeology was on its climb in theUSA, holding up high the banner of theory, KentFlannery (1972, 103, 106f) estimated that ‘‘perhaps60 percent of all currently ambulatory American ar-chaeologists’’ belong to the ‘‘traditional’’, ‘‘norma-tive’’ school. This ‘‘includes most of the establishment

and not a few of the younger generation’’. ‘‘Many ofthem felt (and many still feel) that if we only wait untilall the facts are in they will speak for themselves’’.Only 10 percent of archaeologists belong to the ‘‘pro-cessual school’’. The rest ‘‘aim their fire freely’’ atboth camps, but at least some of them are more onthe traditional side. This was the impression of a par-ticipant in the movement on the side of the processualschool. It is still a favourable estimation for processua-lists.

Later, when Ezra Zubrow (1980) looked at the quo-tation statistics of the most creative years of 1968 –72 of New Archaeology, it appeared that the mostcited authors were empiricists Zeuner, Hole, Braid-wood (the lively opponent of Binford) and Helbæk,and only then do Binford and Flannery follow, whilethe whole of New Archaeology took merely 21⁄2%!True, in the years 1977 and 1978 the most citedauthors were already the theoreticians Taylor, D.Clarke, Hill, Flannery and Binford. Yet this was al-ready the time when the domination began shiftingfrom USA to Britain and from ‘‘processualists’’ to‘‘post-processualists’’.

The place of theory in Great Britain’s academy forthe period of the highest peak of post-processualistsuccess is described by post-processualist JulianThomas (1995, 349f). As he notes, in the UnitedKingdom there are more than 200 archaeologists whohold appointments at universities. Over 100 of thesescholars have a ‘traditional’ outlook – they are ‘‘large-ly concerned with the extraction, description, classifi-cation and compilation of archaeological evidence’’.They believe ‘‘that it is their task to accumulate asexhaustive and well-documented a record of theirchosen material as possible, on the understanding thatwhen complete this record will constitute a self-evident account of past human activity’’. These‘‘atheoretical archaeologists’’ are contrasted to 85 the-oretically inclined archaeologists with determinableviews. Among them ‘‘somewhat less than 40 individ-uals’’ are listed whose approach to archaeology isbroadly ‘processual’ (influenced by Binford, Clarkeand Higgs). A further group of around 30 persons isindicated who are ‘‘strongly theoretical’’ but belongto several trends (Marxism, feminism etc.) that cannotbe included strictly into mainstream post-processual-ism. Merely ‘‘fewer than 15 persons’’ are true post-

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processualists – professing hermeneutic interpreta-tion, contextualism and critical theory. Of courseThomas regards only the last little group as the truetheorists, while to me post-procesualism, as I havenoted already, is a path to empiricism. He concludes:‘‘Academic archaeology in Britain is overwhelminglyempiricist in tenor’’.

Thus some 70 theoretically oriented archaeologistsoppose the 100 empiricists and 15 hidden empiricistsplus all the archaeologists working outside universit-ies – and this is the world stronghold of theoreticalarchaeology! As Peter Ucko (1995, 2) notes, ‘‘theoret-ically inclined archaeologists are in the minority in allcountries, and are thus forced to form a ghetto withintheir discipline’’. This picture of theoretical archaeol-ogists applies in Russia too. Although Marxism de-mands theory and negates empiricism, after the viol-ated collapse of ‘‘Stadialist theory’’ in 1950, any en-thusiasm Soviet archaeologists had for theoryevaporated and Soviet archaeology saw an ‘‘atheoret-ical period’’ for the following decades with the re-stored domination of empiricism.

4. SYMPTOMS OF EMPIRICISMThus, there are deep roots to empiricist methodologyin the post-Soviet landscape, while both the positivistmethodological ideas of New Archaeology and the ac-tivity of post-processual archaeology formed con-ditions for retaining empiricism in the West. What arethe symptoms of this now anomalous narrowness ofthinking in archaeology?

(1) All hopes on fact

Gorodcov’s belief that ‘‘things speak for themselveslike characters and words’’ and an archaeologist’s be-lief in simply reading monuments ‘‘like normalbooks’’ still rules archaeology openly or in a guiseform. As Härke (1995, 50) remarks, A. E. van Giffen,the founder of modern Netherlands’ archaeology be-tween the wars, liked to use the German motto: ‘‘DieInterpretation schwankt, die Tatsachen bleiben’’(‘The interpretation changes, the facts remain’).

When P. Courbin (1982/1988) fought against sim-plifications of New Archaeology he was mostly rightin the exchange. But when he hastily insists on ‘‘rawfacts’’, on ‘‘neutral’’, ‘‘objective’’, ‘‘fundamental’’,

‘‘evident’’ facts, on ‘‘facts speaking for themselves’’, hedemonstrates his stubbornness. When he invokes toreduce archaeology to facts and in the essence limitsthe aim of archaeology with ‘‘establishing of facts’’,i.e. disposes archaeology of theory, he essentiallyweakens possibilities to cognise the facts.

(2) Belief in pure facts

Many veteran archaeologists still crave for ‘‘purefacts’’. They are convinced, like K. Godłovsky in Po-land (1962, 81f), that the researcher sees ‘‘objectivelyexistent’’ reality in archaeological records, that in ar-chaeology the main approach is induction and that inits basis ‘‘pure sources’’ should reside, not ‘‘alreadyinterpreted and bearing on them a load of views andconceptions’’. Deduction is permitted by this authorsolely ‘‘in attempts to reveal as much as possible thegaps in our sources or unclear phenomena and facts’’.

(3) Revealing types

The simplest method to reveal archaeological types iswith statistics and correlation, a method discoveredby Binford’s teacher Albert Spaulding (1953, 1960)which is widely disseminated. Spaulding’s outfit sup-poses that our types, properly speaking, are containedready-made in the material. ‘‘The Marxist archae-ological school’’, Sher stated, ‘‘has developed a notionon types of artefacts, objects and monuments as ofreal classes between which the differences are pro-duced by chronological, ethnic, local, technologicaland other natural-historical conditions and not by theopinion of a researcher’’ (Sher 1970, 13, note 7).

(4) Description instead of thinking

This may be manifested in several attitudes, for in-stance, in preferring ostensive definitions. CristopherHawkes (1973, 177) wrote in the journal Antiquitythat ‘‘If cultures, as a viable concept, are indeed to berecognised, they can be defined only by total enumer-ation of their parts’’.

(5) Induction as the only valid way

Domination of empiricism is expressed in that asimple generalisation of facts became in practice tobe taken as the only way of study for a reliable guar-anty against unrealistic ideas. L. N. Gumilev (1989,30) refers to the example of natural sciences: ‘‘instead


of philosophical postulate the natural scientists apply‘empirical generalisation’ having after V. I. Vernadskyvalidity equal to observed fact’’. It was meant that inempirical generalisation petty facts are fusing togetherand instead of an array of small facts one large factappears. We can leave this without further analysiswith the truth expressed by L. von Bertalanffy (1969,53): ‘‘a simple junction of empirical data thoughstanding for a certain progress does not properly con-stitute ‘science’ ’’. We can also leave aside the ideathat empirical generalisation is not a simple sum ofobserved facts and is not equal to the individual resultof observation (recall here the problem of choice andsampling).

(6) Data vs. speculation

The same empiricist outfit is expressed in the striveto confront solid empirical studies of material with allsorts of theory anywhere it is possible – as speculation,as empty philosophising. Binford characterises thethinking of his teacher James Griffin as ‘‘antitheoreti-cal’’. ‘‘To Griffin’’, he writes, ‘‘theory was to beequated with speculation, and one only did that ifthere were no data. If data were available, it was clearwhat one did: one summarised the data and the ‘‘self-evident’’ units of meaning were historically syn-thesised. In Griffin’s mind there was no questionabout what data meant or what they were telling usabout the past’’ (Binford 1972, 3). In the USA manyremain on the side of Griffin.

The situation in modern Germany is characterisedby Heinrich Härke (1995, 48) as follows: ‘‘The wordtheory, to German ears, sounds airy-fairy, it impliesspeculation ‘without foundation’ (i.e. without evi-dence), and it seems to exclude practicality which isconsidered highly desirable. To call somebody a ‘theor-etician’, or to call something ‘theory’, invariably carriesderogatory undertones. In order to avoid these conno-tations, German scholars outside the natural sciencesavoid the term ‘theory’ as far as possible, and if theyhave to, they put it under the heading of ‘method-ology’. ‘Methodik’ has a solid ring; it sounds practical,systematic, goal-oriented and efficient. Härke refers tothe textbook by Ziegert as an example.

For such a position the notion itself is character-istic; these people view the argument between empiri-cists and practitioners of theory as the confrontation

of purest factography against empty theorising with-out any connection with facts. However while in-ductivists eject theory completely from science, theiropponents do not think it possible to manage withoutfacts. Even the New Archaeologists who exaggeratetheir worship of theory, use facts which they oftenborrow from empiricists, as Courbin (1982, 162ff)showed. Binford himself admits that ‘‘The reader maywell find some incompatibility in my insistence on in-ductively formulated research problems and my advo-cacy of an essentially inductive data collection pro-cedure based on sampling theory. I, too, find someincompatibility’’ (1972, 133).

(7) Generalisation as the road to theory

Going beyond theory considered as speculation, em-pirical generalisation, especially broad coverage offacts, came to advance as theoretical study – in con-trast to description of facts. In our current archae-ological use the words ‘‘theoretical generalisation’’fused to a phraseological unit, a common cliche. Ifthere is a generalisation, a summing up, many areinclined to suppose that it is already no longer at theempirical level of study.

Even if one adopts theory, it is considered in aninductivist vein – as extracting regularities from thegeneralisation of facts. For instance, Martin Jaguttis-Emden (1977) builds a symmetrical scheme in whichartefacts are fixed with protocol sentences, some pro-tocol sentences united form a hypothesis relating tolayer or site, and a compound of such hypotheses re-lates to the whole culture and is called ‘‘theory’’. Itfollows that theory and hypothesis are distinguishedfrom fact-fixing sentences merely by their coverage,by a higher stage of generalisation. Evidently for thisauthor one fact is a fact, two similar facts form coinci-dence, and three are adequate for regularity, and thismeans law, and law lies in the basis of theory. Sothere it is, three generalised facts make theory.

(8) Voracious hunt for facts

It is supposed that the more facts are collected, themore valid are inferences, and in the case of the gen-eralisation held as theoretical, the more facts that areaccumulated, the deeper the theory is. Hence the si-lently approved uncertainty of aims in many projectplans. Indeed, in any case something will be exca-

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vated, new facts obtained, and they will be possiblygeneralised or included into previous generalisations,with broadening and strengthening of the inferences.As the saying goes, one more extra brick will be putinto the building of the discipline. The hunters for thefacts are ignorant that not all facts allow the inferenceto broaden, that often the simple multiplying of thefacts does not strengthen the grounds, and that theextra brick can appear extra indeed, i.e. a waste. Inthis case excavations risk appearing to dissipatemoney and ruining the monument if, of course, it isnot a salvage excavation. The simple accumulation ofthe same evidences brings nothing new. When theborders of the necessary representative sample areoverridden, the further accumulation of the samefacts is useless.

(9) Horror vacui

As Kent Flannery (1972, 106f) noted, the traditionalarchaeologists ‘‘were often deathly afraid of beingwrong ... They spoke in awe of the incompleteness ofthe archaeological record and of the irresponsibilityof speculating on scanty data. Somehow they seem tofeel that if they could get together a few more pot-sherds, a few more projectile points to a few morearchitectural details, their conclusions would be un-shakeable’’.

The exceptional care or abstinence from inferencescame to be regarded as prudent. The archaeologist isadvised to wait until the ‘‘sufficient’’ quantity of factsis provided. S. N. Zamjatnin (1951, 92) emphasisedthat in archaeology ‘‘the accumulation of facts usually[go] slowly, and one should find forces in oneself torefrain from temptation of solving and sometimeseven from putting the question if the sources did notallow this’’.

(10) Unfeasible desire of completeness

But how many facts are necessary in order that thesetting of the question and the assumed conclusion bepermissible? One cannot find criteria of ‘‘sufficiency’’if one admits incompleteness of data in general.Therefore the demand emerges to dig and surveyliterature until all the necessary facts relating to thetheme are collected, the desire to collect ‘‘all thefacts’’, that is the completeness of the sources. Thisview penetrates even the considerations of theor-

eticians. ‘‘The narrowing of specialisation’’, supposedKolchin, Marshak and Sher (1970, 4), ‘‘derives notfrom the loss of interest to theoretical work, as it issometimes said, but because to deal with theory isimpossible if you do not possess the entire complete-ness of initial data’’. The entire completeness! Yet En-gels (1952, 256) objected against such approaches: ‘‘Ifwe should want to wait until the material is ready inpure form for the law, it would mean suspending themental research until then and by this cause alone wecould never obtain the law’’.

The American anthropologist Julian Steward(1949, 24f) developed the same idea in the middle ofthe 20th century. For him ‘‘it is obvious that the mi-nutiae of cultural history will never be completelyknown and there is no need to defer formulations un-til all archaeologists laid down their shovels and allethnologists have put away their notebooks’’. Ifanthropology is not interested in unique and exoticdetails it is necessary that attempts be made to formu-late the law however preliminary they be. This for-mulation allows us to establish new kinds of problemsand directs our attention onto new kinds of datawhich escaped us earlier. ‘‘Fact-collecting of itself isinsufficient scientific procedure; facts exist only asthey are related to theories ... and theories are notdestroyed by facts – they are replaced by new theorieswhich better explain the facts’’. As logic specialistsshowed long ago, induction cannot in principle becomplete.

(11) Practical experience as a permit to theorising

It is common belief that theoretical and methodolog-ical judgements are only allowed to be made by thosewho have a long empirical experience. JoachimWerner worded this most openly and sharply: ‘‘Publi-cation of archaeological sources is a very laboriousbusiness, it demands tenacious and accurate working.Only he who has fulfilled these imperative obligationsand possessed them receives the right to get into thequestions of method; this is the border betweenscience and journalistics’’ (1951). Werner’s highbrowdisdain to certain exponents of political journalism inthe array of scientists is quite understandable, never-theless his argumentation is a bit naive.

On the basis of this view lies belief in theory asmerely inductive generalisation of collected and pro-


cessed facts. The most profound and careful amongempirically oriented archaeologists avoid indicatingthe exclusively inductive way and speak of ‘‘theorybeing merely the rationalisation of experience’’(Randsborg 1995, 221; see also 1994).

(12) The ‘not-the-time-for-theory’ argument

In view of successes of theory in other disciplines andthe glory of great theorists of the past in archaeology,a climb-down is sometimes suggested: there is placefor theory in archaeology though only at a later stageor in its earlier stages, but not now. The first state-ment was developed as an excuse for the absence oftheory during some decades in Soviet archaeology.Ju. N. Zakharuk (1970a, 10) argued that it was necess-ary to go through an empirical period and first ac-cumulate enough facts in order to reach an analyticalperiod and begin building theoretical constructions.The second solution has been developed by UlrichFischer (1987, 194): ‘‘All theoretical methods of pre-historic archaeology ... were developed in the 19thcentury ... One can justifiably state that the theoreti-cal section of the methodology of our subject has beencompleted. Additions are to be expected in the practi-cal section’’.

5. THE STANDPOINT OF MODERNPHILOSOPHYThe absolutisation of induction and the blind vener-ation of facts is the Positivist principle. Influential inthe philosophy of the 19th and 20th century, it is re-jected by many modern philosophical and methodol-ogical schools, including Marxism, right from its be-ginning! ‘‘Empirical observation of itself never canprove sufficiently the necessity’’, Engels wrote (1961,244). ‘‘Science’’, writes the Soviet philosopher Bazh-enov (1968, 316), ‘‘develops not by way of simple gen-eralisation of particulars but by advancing hypothesesand including them into deductive systems with theaim of their subsequent checking’’.

Another philosopher, N. F. Ovchinnikov, notes(1968, 12f) that ‘‘nobody observed in immediate sen-sual experience Democritus’ atoms and elementaryparticles of modern physics. Only through a longchain of theoretical deductions is a thought on theseparticles mediated by experiment in which properties

completely different from those of objects under studyare given to us immediately. A foggy trace of a par-ticle in the ionisation chamber is distinguished by itsproperties from the particle itself, just as a visible traceof an aeroplane high in the sky is not comparablewith the aeroplane itself, and is actually completelydifferent from it ... In the cognition of nature such asituation emerges in which the striving to confront athought with an object on the basis of experience isactually the confronting of an experience with an ex-perience and thought with a thought’’.

Archaeological materials are interesting forscholars not only in themselves, but as sources of cog-nition of extinct social and cultural systems and longpast events. These sources are merely some fragmentsof what is necessary to reconstruct, only imprints,traces, and they are also in themselves incomparablewith societies and events. One cannot make good pro-gress by means of a simple generalisation of them.As B. M. Kedrov (1966, 36) rightly notes, ‘‘empiricaldiscoveries by themselves, however important theybe, do not produce revolutions in science’’ – for thistheoretical discoveries are needed. ‘‘The entire historyof science reflects this’’.

Among philosophers a saying by Einstein is popu-lar: ‘‘There is no inductive way which may lead tofundamental concepts of physics’’ (Einstein 1965, 47).This is true for any discipline, including archaeology.Confronting ‘‘a thought with a thought’’, theoreticalarchaeology inevitably appears in front of a necessityto turn to that discipline which specialises in thematching of ‘‘a thought with a thought’’ – to philos-ophy.

The reckoning to philosophy is inevitable for anyparticular discipline in the critical moment of thechange of its theoretical conceptions. In front of thetask of reconstruction and cognition of complicatedsystems, inaccessible by direct observation, archaeol-ogy naturally has to turn to the application of models.Among them the most similar and accessible modelsappear as the main ones for archaeology, namely eth-nographic parallels. Therefore the way of overcomingempiricism in archaeology demands its integrationwith ethnography on the basis of a program whichshould be worked out by theoretical archaeology.Without this the rise of archaeology on a new, higherlevel would be impossible.

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Of course, this is not to simplify. A number of at-tainments of archaeology are connected with thedomination of the empirical method in the 1950s and1960s. It is always the case where the empiricalmethod works in a previously empty place, where ma-terials have still not been collected – there were suchsections in archaeology – or where there are nomethods at all, which has also occurred, or where itconfronts schematism and dogmatism, preconceivedideas, and a priori schemes. Here it gains victories.

The absence of new and proper archaeologicalmethods in Soviet and post-Soviet archaeology canbe conceded as an essential hallmark of the generalweakness of the empirical method that dominatedSoviet archaeology for many years. All methodical

novelties of the last decades in archaeology havebeen borrowed in almost ready form from naturalsciences or worked out for the first time abroad(Semenov’s functional-technological method oftraceology was created long ago).

The need for archaeology in its own archaeologicaltheory is realised more and more strongly, and thetrend towards theoretical studies is indeed observable.In order to advance further in our approach towardsa general theory of archaeology, we need to realiseclearly what theories are, as applied to archaeology,what their distinctions are from empirical generalis-ations of archaeological material, and what we expectfrom archaeological theory of the future.


7. What is archaeological theory? A systematic analysis of the issue

It is not the question ‘‘Is my theory true?’’ that now appears crucial

for a theoretician, but rather ‘‘Is what I am creating a theory?’’

Dyson (1967, 118f).

1. OUTLINING THE PROBLEM‘‘What is theory?’’, asked the archaeologist Pete Rushrecently (1994, 66–76). His answer did not make forgreat clarity: ‘‘... no general and complete answer tothis can be given’’, he writes, ‘‘for even where theoryhas been explicitly formulated in archaeological dis-course, the range of conception of theory, of its limits,capabilities and purpose is vast’’. He comes to theconclusion that it is impossible to find anything com-mon in archaeological theories, and they form some-thing like Wittgenstein’s ‘family resemblance’ – thatis some of them are similar to some others, but alto-gether they are connected only by their common par-ticipation in a net of links. Eventually they are linkedwith practice. But then any reasoning of archaeol-ogists could be called theory.

Julian Thomas (1995, 350) distinguishes ‘‘a wide-spread misconception of what theory is and what itdoes’’. As Peter Ucko (1995, 1) notes, there is ‘‘littleagreement about the relationships of archaeologicaltheory to practice, nor even, perhaps, about what con-stitutes ‘archaeological theory’ ’’. It appeared clear thatuntil now archaeologists had no united and clear no-tion on the essence of theoretical work. With onlylimited experience and their archaic, most often unrec-ognised, inadvertently borrowed ideas of philosophers(mostly of empiricist ones), archaeologists approachedresearch work with extremely simplified notions on itstasks and demands. Meanwhile, going now throughthe stage of scientifically-technical revolution, archae-ology needs a check-up and substantiation of its meansof cognition. This stimulates it to venture more inten-sively into philosophy for help. Whereas in variousphilosophical schools as well as in various disciplinesthe inclination towards cognitive problems and the in-terest in metatheory is already manifest.

2. CURRENT NOTIONS(1) Ordered totality of facts

According to such an understanding any generalising

inquiry is theoretical (induction is excluded from em-pirical studies; solely description is assigned to them),and the wider the circle is of generalised facts, thehigher the level of theory must be. ‘‘Only theory’’,Zakharuk claims (1971a, 48; 1971b, 8), ‘‘... is thesingle form of scholarly generalisation’’ (Note: the pe-culiar double emphasis of this author has been pre-served in this translation). It is in compliance with thisthat Brjusov (1954) entitled his article where the fac-tual basis for chronology of the Neolithic of the forestregion was generalised, entitled ‘‘Some theoreticalfundamentals of the Neolithic chronology’’. Suchtreatment of course reflects the broad authority of theempirical method (see Klejn 1977c) – the summaryof facts is raised to the level of theory!

Even to an archaeologist who fights for ‘‘theoretis-ation’’ of archaeology (Gening 1982, 7), early theor-etisation appears to be a matter of sorting and simplefunctional identification of things – a pot, a knife, agrave – though it is recognised on the spot that thisis ‘‘purely empirical study’’, and additionally that thisis ‘‘empiricism of the lowest descriptive level’’. Furthertheoretisation, transitional from an empirical level toa theoretical one, must be secured by generalisation,classification, revealing of regularities – all this is al-ready present in empirical study. Gening writes that‘‘... A certain degree of theoretisation of the knowl-edge is reached but this does not move it [archaeol-ogy] out of the limits of an empirical science’’. Andhe elucidates this with a quotation from a philosophi-cal work: ‘‘one should not reduce it [the empiricaldiscipline] to an accumulating of facts ..., on its em-pirical stage, too, certain conceptual positions rest inits basis, ... on the logical activity’’ (Gening 1982, 10).This means that as far as scholarship is not reducedto the accumulation of facts, but is concerned withgeneralisations, manipulations with sets of concepts,acts of logic, then theoretical activity has alreadystarted. So what is the distinction of theoretical activ-ity from the empirical one?! Goethe said ‘‘everythingfactual is already theory’’. But, ‘‘everything factual’’,and not ‘‘everything empirical‘‘! Leaning to some in-apt innovations of certain philosophers Gening at-taches the ‘‘so called descriptive theories’’ to real the-

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ories, which must take an intervening place betweenthe empirical and theoretical levels. According tothese philosophers descriptive theory ‘‘immediatelydescribes a group of objects ..., solves first of all thetask of ordering of ... facts’’. Its ‘‘laws are generalis-ation of the empirical stuff’’ (Popovich and Sadovskij1970, 206). But then, is there in general a ground fornaming it ‘‘ theory‘‘? Of course, not least to take intoconsideration the desire of some empirical scholars tobe called theoreticians.

For those who deny the priority of the empiricalmethod, there will be a resulting lack of understand-ing of theory too. Our philosophers suppose ‘‘scholar-ship as a theoretical base of knowledge is not andcannot be the totality of facts ...’’ (Ovchinnikov 1968,23).

(2) Ordered totality of concepts

Chang writes, ‘‘Archaeological theory ... is a system-atic set of concepts which we believe our archaeologi-cal facts ... can be consistently dealt with and ex-plained’’ (Chang 1967b, 128). However, concepts arealso to be considered not as a priori ones, but assimple generalisation and registration of facts. In thiscase the whole conception appears as the perfectionof the preceding one. Therefore it is not infrequentthat the adherents of the first one are also ready toaccept the second. Zakharuk (1970a, 10ff) awards firstplace to the working out of concepts, the systematis-ation of them and the co-ordination of terminologyin the theoretical development of Soviet archaeology.He presents this work as the main means for tran-sition from ‘‘empirical’’ stage in the history of ourdiscipline to its ‘‘synthetic’’ stage, while identifyingsynthesis and generalisation with theory.

Of course, concepts are necessary for theoreticalwork, and theory puts them into a certain system.But the concepts themselves, even if ordered, do notconstitute theory. The kernel of theory consists ofjudgements in which concepts are connected witheach other so that the dynamic interdependence ofvariables expressed by the concepts is established.This alone allows the prediction of changes in somevariables based on the changes in others. From thepoint of view of contemporary philosophy, ‘‘if a logi-cally non-contradictory system of concepts is unableto predict some observable consequences, then there

are no grounds in general to believe it is theory ...’’(Kopnin and Popovich 1968, 88).

With such correction this idea was recently exposedby Chapman and Dolukhanov (1993, 1): ‘‘The sim-plest definition of ‘theory’ is the selection of the rel-evant variables or factors in a defined problem andthe establishment of the inter-relationships betweenthose key variables. So working at ‘theoretical archae-ology’ means working at three connected stages: (1)definition of problem focus, (2) selection of variables,and (3) characterisation and explanation of interac-tions between and transformations of variables’’. Theissue, however, consists in what kind of interactionsbetween these variables are implied and how theycould be established.

(3) System of laws

In a programmatic book of New Archaeology theequation is given: ‘‘Scientific theory, formally speak-ing, is a body of related laws’’ (Watson et al. 1971,163). Laws are to be formed into the logical form ‘‘InC, if A, then B’’ and are understood as expressionof a regularity (Fritz and Plog 1970, 411). In Sovietliterature it is difficult to find such clear wording ofthe equation ‘‘theoryΩlaws’’, but the idea itself is verybroadly accepted and directs many studies. A fullyMarxist directive to reveal laws or regularities, under-pins it here, albeit reduced by the influence of empiri-cism to the level of a simple generalising of iteration(‘‘lawΩsimilarities’’).

However, as A. L. Mongajt (Amalrik and Mongajt1966, 173) illustrated with simple examples, law-typeregularity is not reducible to an exposition of iter-ation, to an enumeration of common outer attributes,but presupposes ‘‘a common cause of analogousphenomena’’. The leader of New Archaeology him-self, Lewis Binford recounted a remark by his teacherLeslie White: ‘‘Julian Steward doesn’t know the differ-ence between a universal fact and a law’’. ‘‘At thetime’’, admits Binford, ‘‘I really didn’t understandwhat White was saying. Were not law statements uni-versally true? The difference of course is the role oftheory. An empirical ‘‘law’’ and a ‘‘covering’’ law arevery different. One implies lots of looking; the otherimplies lots of thinking’’ (Binford 1972, 18).

Thus, it is not that laws grow from empirical basisand form theory, but quite the reverse, they are


formed by theory and are applied in the explanationof regularities in the material. It is not the other wayaround, ‘‘There is simply no logical path which couldlead from experimental material to building oftheory’’ (Bazhenov 1973, 403). This is actually an oldidea and was expressed by Albert Einstein (1965, 10)with certain brevity: ‘‘... [a] theoretical system is prac-tically unequivocally determined by the world of ob-servations, though no ways lead from observations tofundamental principles of theory’’.

(4) A set of interconnected methods

What does it mean to proceed from empirical tasksto theoretical ones? Some Soviet scholars understoodit as the following: ‘‘For example, it is necessary topass from an empirical procedure of comparing agiven vessel with another vessel ... to general rules ofcomparing any two or more things or objects’’, andto build general rules of classification, dating etc. (Ka-meneckij et al. 1975, 5f). Sher (1973, 55) considers‘‘theoretical archaeology’’ as the ‘‘theory of elabor-ation of archaeological data’’. This theory is ‘‘a systemof general models’’, and the latter are exposed as‘‘general rules of comparison ..., various methods ofstatistical elaboration ...’’ and so on.

Among the determinations of ‘‘central theory of ar-chaeology’’ by David Clarke there occur ‘‘procedurescommon to archaeology everywhere’’ (Clarke 1968,XV). For many New Archaeologists theory meanssimply a ‘‘mathematical model’’ – a formula for calcu-lating the relations between observable variables.Patty Jo Watson with her co-authors suppose, how-ever, that one should not call methods and techniquesof excavation and analysis ‘‘archaeological theory’’,for these methods and technologies are mostly bor-rowed from other disciplines. ‘‘Although it is not logi-cally objectionable to group all these general rules to-gether into a body to be called ‘archaeologicaltheory’, ... it surely would best be referred to simplyas the set of methods or procedures used in archaeol-ogy’’ (Watson et al. 1971, 165).

The essence is obviously not in the fact thatmethods are often borrowed from other disciplines,but that archaeology also needs its own methods forits specific tasks which are suitable for its subject mat-ter. These methods do exist and it is optimal if theirapparatus is not built from the facts themselves but

from strict interpretation of them, from the mentalprocessing of them. The methodological apparatusshould be inferred from theory, and theory should notbe substituted with exclusively empirically-basedmethods.

In the opposite case, a situation described by Hole(1973, 25) arises: ‘‘Rather than an explicit set oftheory we have a set of procedures: typology, numeri-cal taxonomy, attribute analysis and the like. Andeven worse, since we must work with what we have,we tend to grasp at straws, hoping that ... artefacts ...will somehow inform us on the behaviour that wequestion. Neither established procedures nor theartefacts at hand necessarily result in information thatis meaningful in terms of the cultural categories wewish to understand’’.

(5) Projection of philosophical theory

There was a time when in Soviet social learning onlydialectical-and-historical-materialism was ranked withthe status of theory. No dialectical issue was intended,albeit only one realised in a narrowly dogmatic senseand scholastically strict. Even the Marxist dialecticwas opposed to theory – simply because somebodyfrom the classics of Marxism somewhere labelled itso. It was thought that in any social science dialecti-cal-and-historical-materialism is the only generaltheory for this discipline. So the ‘dialectical etc.’ notonly appeared in the function of philosophical andsociological learning but also was allotted with func-tions of special theories of various disciplines alsohaving the tasks to reveal the specificity of each con-cern. This dogmatic directive of Naturphilosophie(which would be better paraphrased as ‘‘Sozialphilo-sophie’’), having reduced theoretical work to an ar-rangement of the materials according to generalschemes set beforehand, was abolished in the late 50sduring the years of the ‘‘Thaw’’. The point of viewrefuted by Engels that arises from the treatment ofphilosophy as the ‘‘science of sciences’’ has lost recog-nition by many Marxist philosophers (Kopnin andPopovich 1968, 94ff). The importance of philosophyfor the development of positive knowledge, of sciencesand humanities, is doubtless. Marxist philosophy didcontribute to them with interesting ideas. However,penetration of philosophical ideas into research prac-tice of positive disciplines is a complex and mediated

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process. They enter a positive discipline not in placeof its special theories and not ‘‘disguised’’ as these the-ories superficially but are refracted, transformed andassimilated by them (Zakharuk 1970a, 14f).

3. THE CONCEPT IN OPPOSITIONThe obligatory study of the general methodology ofresearch is not realised in Russian university pro-grams. The rich and refined conception of theoreticalknowledge on science and more broadly speaking onscholarship elaborated by philosophers and specialistsin the sciences, including Marxist ones, is simply un-known to archaeologists, and only comparativelyweak gleams of it are reflected in the theoretical workof archaeologists. It is highly necessary to introducearchaeology to the contemporary notions on whatscholarly theory is and from that point of view to ana-lyse the simplified notions, evident or latent in archae-ology and as realised in daily research work. Withsome philosophical snobbishness L. B. Bazhenov oncedeclared the following: ‘‘In general, in our opinion, astrict determination of theory in the frames of con-tent-philosophical study is impossible and not necess-ary’’, (Bazhenov, 1973, 392). Nevertheless, it seems tome that he outlined, and partly realised in the samemagnificent article, the possibility of four attitudes forsuch a determination of theory in archaeology:

(1) The logical-deductive approach – by indication ofa covering concept and specifying distinction (thisis the proper definition).

(2) The ostensive approach – by enumeration ofexamples.

(3) The philosophical-content approach – ‘‘by thetotality of the main characteristics of theory’’.

(4) The systemic-structural approach – by observinghow the place of the concept in the system ischanged at its various turns, if we consider theparticipation of this concept in different oppo-sitions.

The last method of determination listed here seemsto be the most fitting one to initiate a general ac-quaintance with the complex and many-sided objectof theory. It helps to orient oneself and to select thevisual angle suitable for the task. The word ‘‘theory’’

has many meanings but it usually designates any ofthe following:

(a) Every mental activity of a scholar, as opposed to‘‘practice’’ (e. i. Strong 1973; Hensel et al. 1986;Shanks and Tilley 1987).

(b) The solving of practical tasks on the basis of gen-eralisation of facts, as opposed to ‘‘speculation’’.

(c) Simply a hypothesis as opposed to ‘‘fact’’ (seeStrong 1936; Johansen 1974; 1982);

(d) A proven conception as opposed to ‘‘hypothesis’’.(e) Any explanative idea as opposed to other such

ideas (e. i. Artamonov 1947).

This is not merely homonymic use of terms but anexaggeration of one and the same concept which hassome narrower meanings, which happen not to co-incide with each other. In general, if despite someinconveniences people prefer to do with a single termby assigning to it various meanings in different con-ditions, it is not without reflection. Concepts desig-nated with the same term can coincide in certain con-ditions, they can transform into others, or they cantransit from one to another – it is exactly this partialtransformation and transition that are fixed by thetransmission of the term.

Thus, for archaeologists, it goes without saying thatfacts play an important role in forming theory, as itssource according to one opinion, and according toanother, as the touchstone for its establishment as atheory, or at least as its aim or object of application.It is a little more difficult to understand the inclusionof theory into the structure of facts, but if we recallconcepts by which we are only able to apprehendmentally and describe artefacts for a message ...

The British archaeologists M. Shanks and C. Tilley(1989, 2) phrase this idea extremely sharply and para-doxically: ‘‘Theory and data are not in outer relationsto each other ... Any set of data must have a theoreti-cal orientation ... Our dialectical approach meansthat theoretical structure becomes a part of definitionof data and vice versa’’. In fact, this idea has beenaround for some time. Even with the opposition of‘‘theory’’ (as ‘‘hypothesis’’) to ‘‘fact’’, Goethe still man-aged to grasp the impossibility of a pure factographyand stated: ‘‘The main thing is to understand thateverything factual is already theory’’ (Maximen undReflexionen, Nr. 886).


Fig. 10. The concept of theory in oppositions.

Or let us take another aspect. Speculation is theopposite of theory if theory is considered a generalis-ation of facts (see determination (b) above). However,for a theoretician, speculation is his practice, closelyconnected with other kinds of scholarly activity in ar-chaeology. Exaggerating this truth, Shanks and Tilleydeclare in a previously cited passage: ‘‘We make stresson theory as practice ... Such position puts an end totheory considered as something sharply divided frompractice of real activity in archaeology and standingbehind of this practice. What we were working for istheory from practice and inside practice, the notionthat archaeology is theoretical practice’’. Sic!

On the other hand, speculation is ‘‘pure’’ thinkingseparated from practice – from immediate dealingwith facts. And such thinking is part and parcel ofoperating with concepts, that is, of a scholar’s mentalactivity – in other words, an integral part of the cre-ative activity of a scholar. Surely it is present and itcannot be absent in the work of an archaeologist too(Uslar 1955). From this point of view, theory (see de-termination (a) above) opposing practice naturally im-plies and includes speculation.

In the methodology of research inquiry, in all thesciences, it is considered correct to designate the term‘‘theory’’ with:

(f) Strict logical systems which arise not on the levelwhere the information on concrete objects is col-

lected and fixed, but on the level where it is cre-atively processed. This is the level of manipulationwith ideal objects, which the real objects, individ-ual and (mainly) group ones, are replaced with.Under certain conditions results of these oper-ations on ideal objects are translated onto real ob-jects, which in the end permits explanation andprediction of phenomena. All this presupposesstrict rules that form a program aimed at the in-formation on the data. Under this meaning,theory is a program based on some fundamentalidea for processing information. Here theory is theopposite of ‘‘empirical’’. To me this is the maindefinition, and the most modern, well specifiedand embracing of definitions.

(g) By transforming the mechanism of processing intoa stereotype, theory turns into method (Ovchinni-kov 1968f). On the other hand, to react flexiblyupon impulses of empirical workers and for thesake of a free evolution of theoretical thought,theory is not enfettered with application tasks ineach of its links, and it does not include a stereo-typed methodical apparatus. It leads to it only inthe end, separating it, and in this sense, it opposesthe method. It is not by chance that more thanhalf a dozen very well-known archaeological pub-lications contain the opposition ‘‘theory andmethod’’ in their title (see Hawkes 1954; Willeyand Phillips 1958; South 1977; Schiffer ab 1978;Gening 1980; Stjernquist 1984).

(h) Further, if prediction is only possible once theorycorrectly grasps and reflects the regularity in-herent in its object, then it opposes the object in itsreflection. The reflection is inevitably incomplete.

(i) Finally, theory itself serves as an object of meta-theory and in this capacity it is in opposition tometatheory.

(k) However, at the same time it opposes metatheoryin terms of identity, because metatheory is also atheory.

Thus, in each of the indicated oppositions ‘‘theory’’can also occur as its own opposition, but does so withthe transition into another opposition. So the oppo-sitions themselves are linked in pairs. Each pair con-tains three concepts of which the middle one is‘‘theory’’ (Fig. 10).

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The philosopher B. S. Dynin (1972, 69), while con-sidering the categories ‘‘theory’’ and ‘‘law’’ also dis-covered ‘‘the necessity of opposite (by their meaning)explications of one and the same categories of meth-odology’’. Such an abundance of dialectically contra-dictory outer relations, with possibilities of distri-bution, shifts and reconstructions of a concept, pre-supposes a complex inner structure. This innerstructure appears to be too complex for archaeol-ogists. Too often they substitute some single compo-nents of theory for theory as a whole. The contem-porary simplified notions on theory in archaeologyhave more to do with this substitution than with aninability to explicate, to narrow and to specify theconcept of ‘‘theory’’.

4. THE SYSTEM OF THEORYIt is time to move away from simplifications reducingtheory to one of its components. Such impoverishingis especially threatening in archaeology because in thematerials of this discipline, the driving forces of theprocess being studied (and of its most important regu-larities) are hidden deeper and are more distant fromempirically observable phenomena than in otherspheres. This means the components of theory aremore separated in archaeology. We would like tonavigate through the history of peoples and the lawsof their development, but we see merely traces andremains of things.

To summarise facts, to specify concepts and theirinterrelationships, to establish regularities, to elabor-ate methods, formulas and algorithms, and to applyphilosophical principles – separately or even together,is not sufficient to explain the similarities and differ-ences in the material, to translate the facts of archae-ology into the language of history and sociology, and

to predict reliably what the missing material was –in short, to reconstruct the past. And without suchexplanation and prediction there is no theory. Some-thing else is needed that will tie the components oftheory together, transform it into an efficient workingmechanism, into an instrument of cognition. Con-crete explanative ideas are needed and one needs toknow where they should be taken from, how theyshould be collected and how they should be proved.This is what forms the system of theory.

If, for instance, observed similarities are to be ex-plained, and the idea of diffusion is drawn in fromethnography, then one needs to assess the principle ofactualism, and specify the concepts of ‘‘borrowing’’,‘‘assimilation’’, ‘‘area’’ and others, and confrontchronological data. One must also modify the typo-logical method – the genetic linking. After this manyother considerations would still remain.

The simplified notions on the nature of theorydo not continue to linger in the environment of ar-chaeologists because it is short of clear-cut defi-nitions – they are far from rare in the methodolog-ical works of philosophers, and the addition of yetanother definition would not solve anything in ar-chaeology. Much more important is to comprehendhow particular philosophical ideas and empirical in-formation enter into theory, and which of its com-ponents they influence. For this, one needs to knowwhich places the various components occupy intheory, how its cognitive mechanism is built andhow it works. Thus, the critical analysis of the cur-rent, customary notions on archaeological theoryturns us to the problem of the cognitive structureof theory. So far, at least in Soviet philosophicalliterature, there are very few works on this topic,and in theoretical archaeology there are none at all.Understanding this theme is a vital task.


8. Structure and working of archaeological theory

1. AN EMPTY BOX?The sociologist Myrdal (1958, 233) once made thefollowing remark of theory in sociology: ‘‘In our pres-ent age the task is not, as it was some time ago, in ...filling the ‘empty box’ of theory with empirical data.Our theoretical ‘boxes’ are empty, because first of allthey are not constructed so as to perceive realities’’.True, but one must still understand that the construc-tion does not only mean the form of the box, and thatit is not every form that will make theory workable.The point is not a box that one should fill, but themechanism within the box that one should bring intoplay to perceive and interpret reality. This idea is nowentering archaeology, so it is important to examinethis mechanism in a theoretical framework.

As far as this matter is concerned, references todefinitions in philosophical literature can be very dif-ferently expressed and offer no solution. One has to re-veal how philosophical ideas and empirical infor-mation enter theory, and which of its components theyaffect. It is necessary to find the components that ar-chaeological theory consists of, their roles within it,how its cognitive mechanism is built and how it func-tions. It is a matter of the epistemological structure (gnoseolog-ical in Russian terminology) of theory and it is desirableto differentiate this structure from that of a logical one.

The logical structure of theory is a system of its state-ments and of the deductive connections of these state-ments, i.e. of the possibility to make a statement thatfollows from another. The logical structure of theoryis also a system of corresponding hierarchy. To thiscan be added strong means – induction and deduc-tion for instance – which must provide the substan-tiation for and the use of these statements. By epistemo-

logical structure something else is to be understood. Thisis the set of means of cognition (laws, concepts etc.)and the interrelations between them. It is this set thatforms theory and offers it the heuristic and creativeforce, and provides it with the ability to transforminformation and to create new knowledge (Shtoff1972). Both themes are clearly connected with eachother but the archaeological elaboration of the logicalstructure does not really clear up very much in theepistemological structure.

In archaeological literature there is still no work onthis second theme, although some of its aspects weretouched upon by American archaeologists. It was donewhen they considered the neighbouring theme of thelogical structure of theory, in particular such sections ofit as explanation and verification (Fritz and Plog 1970;Watson et al. 1971; Gibbon 1989; a.o.). Outside archae-ology, however, in works of Western philosophy ofscience the epistemological structure of theory was veryintensively elaborated, though mainly for naturalsciences (bibliography see in Harvey 1969).

Culture has its own specificity, which is exemplifiedby several traits: polisemy, a high degree of chance,the interest of researchers in individuality, the signifi-cance of estimating etc. The specificity concerns pe-culiarities and differences in the way of proof and inthe role of particular components as well as in themethods of formalisation, in a word, in many thingsbut in the epistemological structure in general, in itsgeneral contours and plan. Let us separate the maincomponents of the epistemological structure of theoryin general and consider them in the light of theunderstanding of archaeology developed in the pre-ceding chapters.

It is clear from the previous chapters that archaeol-ogy is to be understood as a discipline which drawsand processes material antiquities as sources of infor-mation on the past. The task of archaeology embraceshistorical interpretation of archaeological materials,i.e. recognition by traces and remains, as well as thereconstruction of things, historical events, processesand cultural phenomena of the distant past, while thecausal links between them are established by history.As soon as these recognitions and reconstructions arenot just an art but a research activity (science in Rus-sian, French and German), it is implied that they con-tain some regularities in their basis, even laws, andamong them there are laws specific for archaeology.

2. THE SYSTEM OF LAWSIn order to explain and to predict the behaviour ofobjects, which is a primary demand of theory, one hasto know the laws of this behaviour. In propositions

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asserting laws (nomological propositions), the depend-ability between variables is stated as well as conditionsand limits in which this dependability is valuable, thatis, the character of this dependability. Very oftenwhen archaeologists speak about laws they mean em-pirical generalisations, i.e. a general summary of facts,and they try to build theory purely on this basis. ThusA. E. Matjukhin (1975, 20) hopes to achieve theoreti-cal explanation by means of general regularities suchas the ‘‘chronological correspondence of differenttypes of tools with the character of production andthe economy of ancient people as well as with theirintelligence’’, or the ‘‘increase of the coefficient of theuse of implements and of entire assemblages fromepoch to epoch, etc.’’. V. F. Gening (1975, 7) justlyconsiders such regularities as empirical generalisations.

One cannot build a well-grounded explanation and astrong theory on such a framework. Theoretical workin archaeology has no prospects without recognisingthis.

Theoretical laws differ first of all because they em-brace dependencies between phenomena, causal orfunctional. There are works especially concerned withsubstantiating the presence of laws in archaeology(Plog 1973), and to establish that there are the samekinds of laws in archaeology as in other disciplines:causal, functional, dynamic, laws of probability etc.(Stickel and Chartkoff 1973). It would be no less es-sential in archaeology to reveal the specific type ofthese laws and establish their grouping.

This specificity is in particular connected with apeculiarity of archaeology; in archaeology the objectsdirectly observable (archaeological materials, materialsources of information, or the material record) areseparated from those objects which properly speakingare only of interest to the investigator, namely fromthe sociocultural systems of the past. An ethnographerobserves such objects directly and a historian receivesdata on them from other people. The archaeologistmeanwhile has access to neither of these and insteadmust view the behaviour of objects that once ‘lived’on the basis of the ‘behaviour’ (the variability anddiversity) of other objects – the dead ones. Howeverthe behaviour of these ‘others’, as soon as they aredead, is not independent. Therefore in archaeologythe laws of behaviour of the directly observable ob-jects, the archaeological material, can be only empiri-

cal. To explain this behaviour the archaeologist needstwo series of theoretical laws. A statement along theselines can be found in several works, especially in Wat-son et al. 1971, 24; and Fritz 1972, 140.

The first series embraces the laws of behaviour ofactive objects whose behaviour only interests the ar-chaeologist in the final analysis. This analysis consistsof the functioning and development of socioculturalsystems. So these are processual laws of the cultural

process (in Russian terminology specified as ‘cultural-historical’, for ‘cultural’ embraces also contemporaryprocesses, not only development). In other wordsthese are statements on the connections between vari-ables of the cultural (cultural-historical) process, andin particular the stages it traversed long ago. Theseare the laws of evolution.

The second series embraces the laws of the surren-dering of the cultural-historical process to the archae-ological record, of the reflection of this process in ar-chaeological materials. These are statements on theinterrelations between the sociocultural phenomenaof the distant past and the patterns of the preservedarchaeological material. These last laws express thedependence of the saved archaeological materials onsociocultural phenomena of the distant past.

The matching dependencies or correspondences,according to Binford (1972, 249), form the basis ofthe ‘‘bridging argument’’, so one can call these‘‘bridging’’ laws. More to the point, these are the lawsunder the ruling of which certain processes subse-quently proceed: (1) transformation of ideas intothings (objectification of ideas), (2) materialisation ofevents, (3) mortification and archaeologisation of ma-terial culture (‘‘wear and tear’’ – deterioration, run-out, selective accumulation, dilapidation etc.), (4) de-position of results, and finally traces and remains en-tering into research processing.

A lack of understanding in how practice differs be-tween these two groups of laws often leads to un-clearness in important inferences. For instance, D.Clarke (1968) explains the behaviour of archaeologi-cal cultures directly from laws of their adaptation tothe natural environment as if they were dynamic sys-tems like animals or living cultures. This would meanthat each change could be explained as the result ofsome impact of an environmental event.

Let us look at the struggle between the two strat-


egies of research. The contextualists (the ‘traditionalarchaeology’ of the USA) believe that it is first necess-ary to reconstruct the historical events of migrations,influences, wars, building activities etc. and thenbased on this establish the laws of history (Sabloff andWilley 1967). The Processualists of New Archaeologydemand quite the contrary. First to reveal the laws ofthe cultural process and only then, with their help, toreconstruct events (Binford 1968). There is clearly amuddle here. To recognise and prove new regularitiesin past stages of the cultural-historical process onemust really know its course and direction, and thismeans a need for a preliminary reconstruction ofevents. On the other hand, in order to reconstructthem correctly and reliably one has to be in pos-session of the laws. But which laws are these exactly?Here is the key to this circulus vitiosus. With regards tothe processual laws, they are of course necessary tothe archaeologist in the selection of the structuralmodels used in reconstruction, they are ‘‘his onlyhope’’, as G. Clark (1957, 170) describes them. If itwere the case, then the cognitive scepticism of C.Hawkes, G. Daniel, S. Piggott would receive metaar-chaeological substantiation, for the role of the pro-cessual laws in archaeology appears twofold. They areone of the main aims of cognition because they arenecessary for prognostication. At the same time theyserve as the means for cognition because they areneeded for the explanation of archaeological materialand to reconstruct historical events. However, thiscontradiction is solved in the dynamics of research.The first role (of the processual laws) is appropriatefor the laws that are under investigation and the sec-ond role for the laws already discovered (partly dis-covered by other disciplines).

It remains without doubt that the laws, once dis-covered and accepted, would lead the researcher toquite definite reconstruction models that would striveto affirm and support these laws, and this would notonly hinder but delay the whole progress. Where isthe way out of this circle? Most important is that thebridging laws play a crucial role in reconstruction,and that these are inferred not from archaeologicalmaterials but from ethnographic observations andfrom experiments. The processual laws are used inthe passage from archaeology into history rather thanin archaeology itself, although they are also used in

archaeology too. Thus both of the contesting strat-egies ignore the diversity of laws and appear to makeincorrect simplifications.

Until recently it was not custom in archaeology toformulate laws clearly after having been discovered,or to give them names, as it is customary to do so inphysics. But this does not mean that things did notcome off satisfactorily when establishing empiricaland theoretical laws. Rather, the weight of the formu-lation was produced by the diffuse probability charac-ter of these laws and by a lack of hope in developingthem into a strict system. Even in traditionally morestrict sciences, when the decisive role was occupiedby laws-trends and archaeology began moving to-wards the strict sciences, the basis for purity becameweaker. This saw the beginning of the explicit formu-lation of the old, long established laws and evenauthors being awarded with laws named after themon the basis of priority. For stratigraphic relationsSteno laws were adopted from geology, in particularthe ‘‘Law of Superposition’’. They were named aftera 17th century Danish physician (Hole and Heizer1969, 16f). This law states that providing there hasbeen no redeposition of material, then the upperlayers of material are younger than the ones beneath.For work on burial assemblages the Worsaae Law wasdesignated after the Danish archaeologist of the 19thcentury. According to this law things that appear inthe same burial (and in general in the same assem-blage) were used at the same time (Rowe 1962).

Since then more new laws are being introducedand discussed. For instance in the collection of lawspresented on prehistory by the American R. Carneirois a law stating that in the relative sequence (in a typo-logical series), the extent of similarity of any two attri-butes is directly proportional to the evolutionary dis-tance between them (Carneiro 1969, 492ff). That is,the more distant these elements are from each otherby their level of development, the fewer the cases oftheir reverse chronology.

There is some very obvious criticism to be madeconcerning the laws of archaeology, for surely thesetruths are too banal and self-evident to be declaredtheoretical laws. Why are they claimed to be laws ofarchaeology when each of them embraces a spheremuch broader than the subject of archaeology?

One of the initiators of this ‘raid’ on archaeological

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laws, K. Flannery, says ‘‘that it seems to him that inorder to discover a ‘natural law’ in the allotted sixweeks of his field season, the investigator was forcedto tackle a problem of the utmost trivia; this has pro-duced series of low-level generalisations that somecritics have called ‘Micky Mouse laws’. These lawshave even emerged from the lips of colleagues whomI regard as sane, serious, and competent people. Forinstance, at a genuinely exciting seminar on the Bush-men I learned that ‘the size of a Bushman site is di-rectly proportional to the number of houses on it’.From another colleague I recently learned that ‘as thepopulation of a site increases, the number of storagepits will go up’ ’’. And Flannery adduces the cry of hisco-worker R. Whallon: ‘‘If this is the ‘new archaeol-ogy’, show me how to get back to the Renaissance’’.(Flannery 1973, 51). This is challenging criticism,though one might seek consolation in the fact thattheoretical laws do not exist in such a simple form –each one of them is inscribed within an entire system.

Theory is extensively useful and is able to separateand embrace the subject matter of a discipline. It canbe used for systematisation and it is able to self-de-velop. These capabilities are provided by its structure;the net of laws that make up the kernel of theory isconstructed deductively and shows a branch struc-ture – out of one or a few postulates (main laws) quitea number of derived laws are drawn according tostrict rules of deductive logic, in the way a syllogismis drawn from premisses. What usually escapes theattention of methodologists is that the previouslystated connections between phenomena serve as thesecond premisses of the syllogisms (‘‘and because ...’’,‘‘and as soon as ...’’). Or quite the contrary, the oldlaw forms the first premiss, while the new law formsthe second one. Carneiro’s Law is in actual fact de-rived from postulates of Evolutionism, while notionson the dispersion and normal distribution of singleartefacts around the selected positions serve as secondpremisses. The main postulates of archaeologicaltheory are always evolving from some fundamentalexplanative idea which potentially holds the clue tothe whole theory in compact form. For Evolutionismthis is the idea of evolution, for Migrationism the ideaof migration, for Environmentalism the idea of theimpact of the natural environment on culture, forStadialism the idea of qualitative leap, and so on. All

these ideas are able to suggest an explanation for themain enigma of archaeology, namely the phenom-enon of the abrupt interchange of archaeological cul-tures, and in the same stroke to explain similaritiesand differences of culture in various territories (Klejn1975a). Therefore when people speak of a crisis in thecurrently dominant archaeological theory, this meansthat it is time for a new fundamental explanative idea.

When explaining the breaks between archaeologi-cal cultures one must always choose between explana-tive ideas based primarily on some kind of law –either on a ‘‘processual’’ law or a ‘‘bridging’’ law. Inthe basis of an archaeological theory an idea of oneof these kinds may be laid down. When Migrationistsexplained breaks by the occurrence of invasions, andthe Stadialists by leap-form transformation, they ap-pealed to ‘‘processual’’ laws. When Evolutionists ex-plained breaks with gaps in our knowledge, and whenE. Wahle offered the obscurity of the first shoots ofeach new culture as a reason, they addressed laws ofreflection, i.e. ‘‘bridging’’ ones.

However each leading theory explains not only thisenigma, for in its collateral, accessory explanations itcan support other laws. As a result Migrationisttheory constantly explained the smallest similaritiesby means of migrations and made every effort tomake the criteria of substantiation of migrations lessstrict, while Stadialists, on the contrary, made thesecriteria more rigid. Operating in this way, both theor-ies appealed to ‘‘bridging’’ laws. On the other hand,Evolutionism was unthinkable without the notion ofregular and gradual progress and its uneven develop-ment (with which they explain differences and simi-larities). Wahle’s theory implies an elitist productionof culture, and both Wahle’s theory and Evolutionismemploy ‘‘processual’’ laws. Thus, systems of laws inarchaeological theories have a complex structure (Fig.11).

3. THE LANGUAGE OF THEORYProvided that a law can directly manipulate the sameobjects as represented in empirical studies, then in itswordings, only the interconnection of two particularphenomena or (by generalisation) of the interconnec-tion of two groups of homogenous phenomena wouldbe fixed. Yet the investigator would always remain on


Fig. 11. Structure and working of theory.

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the level of the observable surface of the world. Thetheory would be doomed to remain a hypothesis adhoc; neither explanation, nor verification with inde-pendent data would be possible.

However, the power of theory consists in the way itoperates with special ideal objects – abstract concepts(‘type’, ‘influence’, ‘evolution’, and ‘qualitative leaps’etc.), and in its ability to establish relations and de-pendencies between them. The properties and re-lations of objects in the real world, such as pots andarrowheads, are reflected on by generalisation, trans-formation and by finding meaning.

How is the transitiveness of archaeological knowl-edge implemented? How is the transfer to sociocultur-al phenomena of the past possible? The Swedish ar-chaeologist M. Malmer places this task with archae-ological typology. Among archaeologists the word‘‘typology’’ has long carried a special meaning: theterm designated certain means and results of classifi-cation and ordering (Klejn 1979a; 1982; 1991a).Under typology Malmer understands the set of classesrandomly established by an archaeologist. Malmer’stypes are established by means of definitions, untilthere is definition there is no type (Malmer 1962).This is, of course, idealistic exaggeration, even abso-lutisation of the relativity of our concepts, and it re-ceived critical appraisal in archaeology (Spaulding1953; 1954; Klejn 1973c).

It is essential that Malmer correctly grasped thenecessity for every generalisation and for every inter-pretation to break away from particular artefacts. Ar-chaeologists who believe they avoid typology and relyexclusively on stratigraphy or on combinations ofartefacts in assemblages remind Malmer of Moliere’s‘‘Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme’’ who did not realisethat he was speaking prose. In fact these archaeol-ogists use typology permanently, but only uncon-sciously and therefore they often do so incorrectly.

The ‘‘typological action’’ helps the archaeologist toformulate empirical laws, but this is not sufficient fortheoretical laws that reveal hidden interdependencieswhich have explanative character. Among ideal ob-jects in this case are inevitably ones that have no cor-respondences in the real world at all (theoretical con-structs). Either they still have no correspondences(they are designed to receive them in the course ofpractical creation, or at least can receive them) or

they have already lost them due to disappearance,destruction, both quite common in archaeology, orthey are unable to carry the correspondences (theerror of the conscience). Or these objects must in gen-eral have no such correspondences by definition, be-cause they are relative assumptions, auxiliary con-cepts, or secondary abstractions.

From the projection of the laws and concepts oftheory onto reality some general aggregate theoreticalobject is accumulated, an ideal and abstract one, andtheory regards this object as the essence of the real,empirically observable fragment of reality, a fragmentwhich it purports to explain. If these concepts remainideal, i.e. only as mental objects, they could not begrasped in the research and one could not manipulatethem. Meanwhile clear dependencies must be estab-lished between them to save this information and totransfer it. In order that theory can manipulate theseideal mental objects successfully, they have to bepartly materialised without losing their ideal prop-erties and while still remaining abstract. This meansthat they should be conceived in sign form. Conse-quently, in order to be unambiguous and sufficientfor the aims of theory, its terms should be placed ina system – a glossary must be compiled, first and fore-most in natural language.

Natural language is however very elastic and flex-ible, its words and expressions not always clear. Thishas its merits as well as its flaws. Drawbacks can becaused by the separation of dependencies, leading tocomplications and possible confusion. Many wordsare needed for detailed descriptions and this results inparticularisation, which contradicts the actual essenceof theory. Therefore it is necessary to work out somespecial terms. Terms are special words with a singlemeaning that are precisely delimited and providedwith definitions. They are limited and required by theaims of theory and can be granted by systematisationas if creating a glossary. Connected with the concepts,they form the vocabulary of theory, and together withlaws as a kind of grammar, the basis of the languageof theory is built. It is only when one translates infor-mation from the concrete language of observationsinto this abstract language that one is then able tobuild theory.

For a long time in archaeology, concepts and termswere selected and accumulated rather spontaneously.


Additions of terms were scarcely made, only a hand-ful appearing with each new theory. Evolutionistshave introduced ‘‘development’’, ‘‘connection by ori-gins’’, ‘‘typological series’’, ‘‘typological rudiment’’,‘‘epoch’’, ‘‘period’’ and others. Migrationists added‘‘type area’’, ‘‘origins of culture’’, ‘‘Urheimat’’ (orig-inal homeland), ‘‘invasion’’, and Autochthonistsadded ‘‘continuity’’. Diffusionists introduced ‘‘influ-ence’’ and ‘‘borrowing’’. From the Theory ofStadiality archaeology received ‘‘sinstadiality’’. NewArchaeology has brought ‘‘model’’, ‘‘cluster’’, ‘‘pat-tern’’ (configuration), ‘‘structural pose’’, and ‘‘tool-kit’’among others. In the beginning it is usual practice foreach theory to manage with old concepts and terms(Akchurin et al. 1968, 56f). However, because of theterminological conservatism and thrifty ways typicalof the Old World archaeologists, this state is consoli-dated and as a result akin but different concepts aredesignated by one term: the archaeologist constantlytries to strike a chord on the piano with a single fin-ger. But this means that terms lose their status andbecome simply words of a professional jargon.

Today archaeologists think more accurately abouttheir sets of concepts and terminology, and they intro-duce more radical and new terms more often, bothfor new concepts and for explication of the old ones.It became accepted to supply theoretical works withexplanatory guides consisting of lists of definitions.We meet expansive dictionaries of this sort in theworks of M. Malmer (1962), D. Clarke (1968), R.Dunnell (1971), I. Rouse (1972), Klejn (1991a), and inMalina’s textbook we find a summary glossary (1975;1980). Another example actually arose as a separatebook (Klassifikacija 1990). The danger appears how-ever which previously struck American archaeologistswho boldly introduced new terms. The dangerthreatens that soon every archaeologist will speak hisor her own language and others will not understandproperly without the dictionary of the author in ques-tion. The elaboration of a unified language then en-ters the agenda and there are in fact works especiallydevoted to tasks of this kind.

It is inevitable that one stumbles at this difficulty,one of the important peculiarities of archaeology, andone of its distinctions from natural sciences. In thenatural sciences not only structural elements but alsotheir combinations are stereotyped and are con-

sidered on equal ranking and interchangeable. In cul-tural material individual combinations are also im-portant and the choice of them is not irrelevant.Therefore the task of unifying the language of archae-ology is laminated, and the possibility of finding asolution appears differently in different layers.

The ordering of elements of analytical classifi-cation necessary for the primary description pro-ceeds most successfully. Of course such ordering, de-scriptive archaeology, implies some theoretical basisfor the description (Gardin 1963; 1967), but thisbasis is not connected with the cultural content ofthe material, merely with its physical substance.Only topological parameters, physical-chemicalproperties and the like (K. Pyke termed these ‘‘etic’’)have been taken into account. For their fixation ajoint conventional net of standards, templates andprocedures is actually quite possible and such a netis minimally dependent on archaeological theories.However, as soon as it comes to unification of thenomenclature, i.e. names of types having culturalsignificance, known as ‘‘emic’’ after Pyke, things be-come more difficult. In such ordering, in taxonomicclassification, and in cultural typology no unity ofcriteria is possible. The criteria differ by tasks whichare in front of the student, and by cultures whichhe describes, and these circumstances condition thedifferent nets of types for the same material (Hilland Evans 1972; Klejn 1982; 1991a).

The dependence on theories is quite apparent, asindicated when revealing evolution or migrations, in-fluences or imports, an archaeologist dismembers thematerial differently. Archaeologists long for systematics,as in biology, but end up only making an inventory.

The overall works appear cumbersome and an indis-putable result is reachable only when the author in-troduces order into the conventional practice of nam-ing and builds the whole scheme in the fashion ofidentifying directories with convenient clues. Unfortu-nately, as a rule, archaeologists avoid this and do notrecognise the qualitative difference of either task –systematics and inventory (Klejn 1979a). Among thedisciplines dealing with mass materials archaeology isthe only one which did not create even a single identi-fying directory (cf. directories of bones, leafs, flowers,languages and even classic mythological heroes). Thisis the payment for theoretical illiteracy.

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More complex is the unification of variously desig-nated theoretical constructs. Strictly speaking, on thislevel the joint glossary implies joint theory. Eachtheory needs a certain set of concepts with certaininterrelations between them, although there are in-variant concepts descending from theory to theory.Yet in archaeology, naive hopes are very popular, firstand foremost to establish a unified and commonly ac-cepted glossary, to agree on the necessary set of theor-etical concepts, on their delimitation and designationand then, on this basis, to build theories and to dis-pute them (Zakharuk 1970; Dunnell 1971, 4; Rouse1972, XXV).

Only the contrary approach can be realistic: firstlyto create and refine our general theoretical object, toascertain its needs in terms of concepts, then to workthem out and confront them with the concepts ofother theories. The systematisation of all the theoreti-cal concepts of archaeology implies systematisation oftheories in archaeology, and this is the task of metaar-chaeology. The requirement of terminology is of anauxiliary, technical character and can proceed in an-other more simple way, but then it should be reducedpurely to glossary tasks: registration and conventionalformulation of meanings, without establishing thenormative net and hierarchy.

4. MATHEMATICAL APPARATUSAs a rule, modern physical theory proceeds in math-ematical form. Propositions are formalised, variablesand their relations receive quantitative characteristicsand postulates become initial equations. Admissiblemathematical transformations are made – in full ab-straction from the content of the variables. As a resultnew derivative equations emerge, with additionallydiscovered relations between the variables or withnew variables. It remains to take these new relationsand variables back to the content and to find theircorrespondences in the language of the given theory,i.e. to supply mathematical symbols again with thecontent of theoretical object. Usually it is called con-tent interpretation of formalised propositions, butHarvey calls it transliteration, leaving the term ‘‘inter-pretation’’ for the switching from theoretical conceptsto realia.

This entire procedure allows the shortening and

standardisation of form of operations that infer lawsfrom postulates, to mechanise operations, and, usingthe sophistication of mathematical technique of trans-formation, to discover additional laws that exist invery complex connection with the initial ones. In sucha complex connection it would hardly be possible toreach them by means of direct study of the subjectcontent. The principle of using mathematical appar-atus in archaeology is the same as in other disciplines(Sher 1970; Kameneckiy a.o. 1975), but here the con-ditions are different; there is a distinct specificity tothe material and there are different tasks to tackle.Thus the functions and the role of the mathematicalapparatus are rather different.

First of all by studying the complex cultural ma-terial, more attention is given to the task of searchingfor oppositions and evaluating discrete relations. Thismeans evaluations for which gradual changes are in-essential, only the question of whether the relation ispresent or not is important. Therefore many laws ofarchaeology do not hold quantitative character, forexample the Steno’s and Worsaae’s Laws alreadymentioned. It is true that modern mathematics is notreduced to quantitative operations, and it is possibleto find a number of quantitative laws in ancient cul-tural material (Ford 1962a,b; Carneiro 1970), andthere are ways of quantitative expression of qualita-tive dependencies (i.e. Hill 1968). Nevertheless therole of mathematical apparatus in archaeologicaltheory is more modest.

To narrow down and establish the functions ofmathematical apparatus in archaeological theory, den-sity and cascade character of links in cultural materialare especially important, as well as frequent inclusionsof random non-controlled factors, which comes fromthe difficulty of isolating the connections under studyfrom noise. But most important is the uncertainty ofcultural characteristics of archaeological material. Thequantitative analysis demands evening out, whichstems from the assumption of units of counting, for dif-ferent variables can have equal value in different con-ditions. In ancient cultures these units had a differentmeaning and different range, but exactly what thesewere remains unknown to the archaeologist.

This is why mathematical apparatus in archae-ological cultures has not been developed as a rulesince the very beginning of working on theory. It was


added considerably later and does not embrace thewhole corpus of its system of laws, it only refinessingle branches of this system. So the Theory of Dif-fusions has taken a remarkable place in archaeologysince the beginning of the 20th century and wasstrengthened since the middle of the twenties by Chil-de, but only in the 1960s did quantitative studiesbased on it appear. These were estimations of the dif-fusion rate (M. Edmonson 1961), connection of per-centage distribution of types with territorial propa-gation (M. Malmer 1962), and they acceded quanti-tative diffusion models elaborated in geography(Hägerstrand 1952; Brown 1968; Hudson 1972).

5. PREMISSES OF THEORYTheory does not emerge from an empty space. Inorder to explain one must have something that per-tains to explanation, some body of empirical data,and sources are needed from which explanative ideascan be taken when they are not contained in the em-pirical data. Thus, for creating a theory two groupsof premisses are needed: the empirical basis and thetheoretical basis. The comparable evaluation of theirroles in forming archaeological theory brought abouta most polemical attitude.

The empirical basis consists of the collection of, 1)single data of experience (observation and experi-ment) and, 2) empirical laws derived by means oftheir generalisation. For instance, the discovery of aburial with a bronze awl found in the barrow is anempirical observation, while the statement thatbronze awls occur (or can occur) in barrow graves,but flint hand axes never do, is an empirical law. Theempirical basis will be reliable only in the case of thisknowledge being obtained by means of strictmethods. But methodical proof and improvement isone of the functions of theory (Klejn 1978a; 1995c),and theory cannot come before its premiss. So whatmethods can be applied to the building of these prem-isses? Only methods derived from the previous theor-ies or borrowed from other disciplines. So for check-ing Migrationist constructions one needs relative dat-ing of similar sites on the assumed original homelandand in the new area populated. This dating can beprovided by the Evolutionist-Typological methodelaborated on the basis of the earlier Evolutionist the-

oretical conception or can be obtained from naturalsciences with their methods (pollen analysis etc.).

For the followers of Empiricism, including theearly Positivists, the empirical basis was the onlypermissible source of theory, and its core was re-duced in essence to the execution of empirical laws.One could explain an observation by means ofcovering it by empirical law, and one could explainthe empirical law by means of covering it by abroader empirical law, and all while remaining onthe surface of phenomena, without diving into hid-den causes. In these frames, solving the tasks of ar-chaeology would appear absolutely hopeless: to re-construct and cognise unobservable processes onthe basis of the principle of actualism – this cannotbe empirically defended!

The opposite extreme is a refusal to rely on em-pirical basis. It is performed by reducing the func-tion of factual material to a purely passive role – tobecome the object of application of explanatoryideas and to provide an illustration for them (vari-ous scholastic and dogmatic conceptions). A looservariety of such an attitude is connected with theattempt to reduce the role of the empirical basis tothe testing of theory. This occurred in Post-Positiv-ist Deductivism and in archaeology, which has ac-cepted this as its initial principle in New Archaeol-ogy of the USA and Britain. In fact, only in thelatter role can the empirical basis serve as the start-ing-point for a strict deductive inference able toconnect it with theory.

Is its meaning exhausted here? Can the other basis,the theoretical one, serve as the only source of theory?The theoretical basis consists of two parts: (1) thescientific view of the world and, (2) the collection ofprevious theories of the given discipline. A scientificview of the world is specified as applied to each disci-pline and consists of principles (the most general lawsof this discipline) and universalia (its most fundamen-tal concepts). The principles build borders for what ispossible in terms of the laws introduced by the newtheory, and through the universalia – ‘culture’ or‘artefact’ – we define concepts introduced by thetheory. For the determination of the universalia them-selves, as they are the most fundamental concepts ofthe whole given discipline, one must go outside itsborders. Universalia can maintain a number of kin-

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dred disciplines simultaneously and archaeology usesthis.

Age old principles of archaeological interpretationremained tacitly implied and in recent decadesattempts have been made to formulate them. In theseattempts the conviction of archaeologists has been dis-covered that there are very few such principles if notonly a single one. As earlier mentioned, Hawkes be-lieves that there are ‘‘merely two principles’’ whichoffer scientific status to archaeology (1957, 94; seeabove, ch. 5.3)

However, in other attempts more principles arementioned – those of determinism, actualism, histor-icism etc. When the full list is compiled they are manyin number. This becomes clear as soon as the ques-tion arises on the possibility of handing interpretationover to the machine ... There are a number of recentworks devoted to universalia – to the concepts ‘‘cul-ture’’ and ‘‘archaeological culture’’, ‘‘type’’, ‘‘attri-bute’’, ‘‘artefact’’ etc. (Dunnel 1971; Bochkarev 1975a.o.).

The scientific view of the world is closely connectedwith intertheory. Intertheory is the environment thatis made of theories of other disciplines and, with itsideas, influences the theoretical development of ar-chaeology. These interconnections are most apparentin the case of Evolutionism which is represented inbiology (Darwinism), geology (T. Calvin, Ch. Lyell),linguistics (A. Schleicher), ethnography (E. Tylor andJ. Lubbock), archaeology (G. de Mortillet and O.Montelius). The idea of complementarity formulatedby N. Bohr for natural sciences did much to achievepopularity for the model conception in a number ofdisciplines. G. Gjessing made an attempt to apply thisidea directly to archaeology and connected this withmodels in archaeology. Intertheory and the scientificview of the world developed under the command ofphilosophy, although not always under its leadership.Changing abruptly, they form subsequent ‘‘styles ofthe scientific thinking’’, after M. Born’s expression(1953, 501; 1955, 102; cf. Klejn 1973b).

Metatheory is connected with the laws and con-cepts of previous theories. Relying on the methodol-ogical function of philosophy, metatheory studies,generalises and gives them sense, and through themit describes the main characteristics of the given disci-pline – in order to enable the production of new the-

ories. Some contemporary investigators consider justthe theoretical basis as the main source of new theor-ies and the empirical basis only as a touchstone forverification of new theories. Of course, many con-cepts and terms are delivered from the stores of theor-etical foundations in ready form for the needs of anew theory while universalia allow the formation ofnew concepts. Metatheory helps to manipulate them,to establish the relations they have with the materialand to previous theories. Many laws of the previoustheories will pass to the new theory too and serve assecondary premisses of syllogisms. The principles willalso be useful by helping to formulate postulates.

In a word, much more of the building materialcomes from the theoretical basis to the building siteof the new theory than from the empirical one. How-ever, even with this there is no fundamental idea,strictly speaking – delivery is not guaranteed. A fun-damental explanatory idea may be borrowed fromthe theoretical store of an adjacent discipline as ideasof evolution and migration were borrowed, and maybe transformed from the inherited theoretical luggageby means of broadening a narrow idea, by means ofrelease of limitations – this is how Contextualism wasformed. ‘‘Methodological expansion’’ of a branch thatdeveloped successfully is considered a normal case(Ovchinnikov 1968: 22). In archaeology organisedsearches for a prospective source of borrowings arediscussed (e.g. Renfrew 1969b). For those searchingafter ideas a directory of explanatory ideas was com-piled which contains a thousand such ideas able toexplain human (Berelson and Steiner 1964).

An idea can also come from non-scientific knowl-edge or can emerge anew as did Wahle’s conceptionof the idea of a latent development of a culture, andthere are no strict rules for its creation. In retrospect,one can estimate the role of various influences: (1) ofthe situation in the empirical basis, (2) of theoreticalresources, (3) of the state of social conscience, e.g. therole of the ideas of equality, progress, competition andreforms in forming of Evolutionism, and (4) of an in-dividual practice of an investigator. However, anystimuli act indirectly – through the creative con-science of a researcher, through his or her imagin-ation. It is here where the notions that were earlierunconnected now touch each other, where new unex-pected associations emerge and surprising ideas are


born – those from which it is necessary thereafter toselect intuitively a suitable one. Thus, some creativeact which is equated with abduction would be posi-tioned before induction and deduction, more exactlybefore their inclusion into theory (Hanson 1965, 86f;Hempel 1966, 15).

This thought has already found its way into archae-ology and introduced a confusing re-estimation ofvalues. ‘‘Good abduction does not depend upon thequantity of data a given investigator has examined ...It is a function of his creative ability as a scientist,and no more ... Those who wish to explain hypothesiscreation as a linear function of data examination aretrying either to shift responsibility for hypotheses theycould not create or to protect themselves lest they bewrong ... Hypotheses may be indicated conclusions ofthe research of other archaeologists, anthropologists,or social scientists. That is, one may be using the ab-ductions of others’’ (Plog 1974, 19). There is, ofcourse, some exaggeration in such strong distancingfrom the real material. To create new ideas material isnecessary too but the creative process does not extractgeneral, repetitive characteristics from the material inthe way induction does and it does not cover facts byimperatives derived from more general regularitieslike deduction. It is a mixing of information that leadsto new connections and associations which forms partof the creative process.

By itself this act is alien to the discipline and doesnot belong to strict science, but without it there is notheory. When completely embraced by a strict disci-pline, without its divisions, knowledge is faultless andlifeless. In order to shape a theory it is insufficient toknow facts and to think strictly. Creative boldness isnecessary too and although it can sound impolite,sometimes talent does not go astray.

6. THE OPERATIONAL APPARATUS ANDTEXT OF THEORYTheory is always exposed in a special language andestablishes laws in a special ideal world by postulatinglinks between ideal objects. If so, in order to provideproofs from the facts and to apply it to the real worldof particular things and events, it is necessary to trans-late concepts and inferences of theory into the lan-guage of facts and particular operations. The complex

problem emerges of the interrelation of two worlds:the world of theory and the world of facts.

Empirical generalisations are partial whereas atheoretical law expresses necessity (essentiality) andin its own sphere it is complete and universal. Ifand when facts are generalised and rise to the levelof empirical laws, then to bring the world of factscloser to theory is impossible while they are still dis-tant from the form of necessity and universality ofresearch thinking. We are left with the only solu-tion: to transfer the world of facts over to theory.There is only one way to do this, namely to trans-form the mental objects and propositions of theoryinto real ones, i.e. to render concrete the fragmentof reality under study by means of this theory. Thismeans constructing a third world, ideal but real,and formulating a particular statement in the lan-guage of laws and concepts of this theory.

For this sake one must first and foremost describethe factual material in concepts and terms of thegiven theory. In general there is no such thing as puredescription as well as pure observation free from thedemands of theory (or of fuzzy mixing of old theories)and free from theoretical notions.

When describing something, we inevitably use con-cepts, and concepts are inevitably components of asystem of notions. This system is of a theoreticalcharacter, and let this theoretical setting be dim anddull, implicit and non-strict. However, concepts andterms with which the material was described beforeforming the new theory, belonged to the glossaries ofold theories. Now one has to describe this material,in the glossary system of the new theory and usingthe old glossary only to the extent in which its partsare assimilated by the new system. Using this descrip-tion, one can already infer particular empirical regu-larities from abstract theoretical laws, i.e. to buildmodels that realise theory as applied to every particu-lar fragment of reality. From each law one can infera number of such models, because the conditions ofrealisation are different. These models dictate the ex-pectation of observations. When confronted, the ex-pected empirical laws and observations must coincidewith real ones if the theory is true (they can howeveralso coincide if the theory is not true).

In order to describe strictly the material by meansof the glossary of the new theory, one must possess a

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set of rules that regulate the covering of particularphenomena with concepts of theory. These rules ofcorrelation, connecting the ideal objects with realones, control the selection of the chosen things, prop-erties and relations of reality, norms of measuring thematerial, permitted operations with terms, i.e. thefunctions of the present terms.

In the same vein, in order to infer particularmodels of real phenomena from theoretical laws, onemust possess a set of rules that regulate the transform-ation of dependencies between the variables into par-ticular ones. This transformation includes: a) simpli-fication imposed by the unevenness of the material:by encumbrances, noise, gaps; b) delimitation im-posed by the specificity of the material, by the im-peding conditions. The rules must predict reliable op-erations with concepts and formulas of the theoreticallaws and determine in this way their real sense, thesemantics of the matter. The operational apparatusof theory is built by these two codices that regulateoperations with the laws and glossary of the theory inthe theoretical rendering of reality. If by concepts andterms of theory we mean the glossary and by the lawswe mean the grammar of a certain language, then theoperational apparatus of the theory forms the seman-tics of this language.

Most specialists of scientific methodology make nodistinction between the text of theory and its oper-ational apparatus. In descriptions of the cognitivefunctioning of a theory one can find a ‘‘text’’ (Brown1963) or the ‘‘operational rules’’ (Nagel 1961) and onecan find direct statements on their make-up (Harvey1974, 85). Meanwhile their functions are very differ-ent as they are in every language – the functions ofsemantics and the statements or text of a theory aredifferent from the functions of the rules and the re-sults of their use. It is therefore reasonable to distin-guish between these two members of the cognitivemachinery of theory because they are distinct by theirconnections with other parts of this machinery.

In archaeology, perhaps in history too, the task oftheoretical rendering of reality appears to be morecomplex than in other disciplines. The point is thattheoretical laws of archaeology, while providing his-torical reconstruction, also establish dependencies ofrendering. These are dependencies between variablesof either the rendering procedure (bridging laws) or

of the object to be rendered (processual laws). There-fore, when formulating the statements of theory onthe basis of theoretical laws and rendering initial re-ality as if it were empirical material, it will be alreadya secondary rendering that is arrived at, and the resultwill have been rendered twice. In the beginning infact, on the basis of the archaeological record we mustrender the real world of the past, and then we mustrender the record on the basis of this rendered world.However, reconstruction of the real world on thebasis of the archaeological record has many possibleoutcomes since cultural objects are polisemic and therecord is fragmentary in several ways. Going back tothe record from our hypothetical reconstruction wemust face not only the manifestation of known lawsin the formation of records but also the contributionof chance. So in both ways – to the past real worldand back to the record – distortions and losses of in-formation can occur.

This brings us back to the question of the specificityand importance of archaeological laws (Klejn 1979b).Really, both the main categories of archaeologicallaws – processual and bridging – often seem quiteordinary. They have been revealed with methods andmaterials of other disciplines, such as sociology, eth-nology and anthropology, or simply through some ex-perience by means of sound reasoning. Processuallaws also fully realise their explanative and organis-ational potentials in other disciplines – like the historyof material culture, and historical sociology. However,even the laws of this group are particular to archaeol-ogy and are used differently than in other disciplines.They demand special rules in operational apparatus,for intsance the need to separate the diffusion of ideasfrom the diffusion of things in archaeology. Further-more, in this group there are laws where archaeologi-cal materials are necessary and irreplaceable in orderto reveal those laws. In particular are the specific lawsof early stages of the cultural-historical process (Wat-son et al. 1971, 168f).

As concerns bridging laws they are simply un-necessary for any other discipline, except other areasof source-studying. Not by accident the means bywhich these laws are obtained and verified, throughscientific and sociological experiments as well as eth-nographic observations, formed several branches notof sociology or natural sciences or ethnography, but


just of archaeology: ‘‘experimental archaeology’’ (Se-menov 1957; Ascher 1961; Coles 1966; 1973), ‘‘ur-gent archaeology’’, ‘‘living prehistory’’, and ‘‘actionarchaeology’’. From this series of new disciplines only‘‘living prehistory’’ belongs more to ethnography orethnology, although it is oriented to serving archaeol-ogy (Kleindienst and Watson 1956; Asher 1962;McKern and McKern 1974; a.o.). In essence, the rul-es of correspondence in operational apparatus mustreceive substantiation from these laws.

It is customary to make a clear distinction betweenrules and laws in methodology of science (Popov1972, 121, 151), but in archaeology the distinction, toa large extent, is lost. Laws of archaeology, as wasmentioned above, are involved in the operational ap-paratus of archaeological theory by receiving statusand meaning from this system of laws. Thus laws inarchaeology display a far from trivial and ordinarycharacter. Let us take the laws of Steno and Worsaae.Surely, what is simpler than a sequence of sedimentsor the contemporaneity of things in one and the samegrave? It can however prompt us to think of con-ditions in which these laws are not valid, situationswhere superposition does not hold. Many naturalphenomena can present contradictions to the law ofsuperposition – volcano eruptions, levelling of a sur-face, the activity of burrowing animals, geologicalfaults etc. The law of Worsaae can also be opposedas a consequence of certain human actions – crypts,secondary burials, reburials, the robbing of graves etc.More complicated still was the task of expanding thislaw, performed by O. Montelius, in order to embracenon-burial assemblages like stores and dwellings.

In other words, it is the incomplete wordings so fartypical of archaeological laws that make them sobanal. This can happen when one forgets that, as En-gels wrote in the ‘‘Dialectic of nature’’, relations thatare extended to a law are present only ‘‘in certainconditions’’, i.e. the realisation of laws ‘‘always occurswherever these conditions are present’’ (Engels, 1961,549).

Archaeologists have felt the necessity of an oper-ational apparatus for their theories for a long time butuntil recently it was compared with the operationalapparatus of the physical sciences and endeavouredto find close correspondences of its theoretical objectsin the real world. This meant archaeologists were and

sometimes still are stubborn in seeing only ancientethnicity in archaeological cultures, despite all thecautions of ethnographers (for criticism of these viewssee Mongajt 1967; Klejn 1970). For a long period thesource criticism in archaeology was limited to the so-called extrinsic criticism, that is, checking the authen-ticity and preservation state of the material form ofthe records; whether they are false or not. Only re-cently the demand of the inner criticism of sources,i.e. evaluation of their cognitive potentials, expandedinto archaeology from history (Eggers 1950; Klejn1978b; Kristiansen 1978). This led to the situationthat even now the possibilities contained in a numberof old theories have not been exhausted, despite theirone-sidedness. This is because in their time these the-ories did not receive a satisfactory operational appar-atus. The elaboration of such an apparatus presentslarge heuristic opportunities.

We rightly criticise Migrationsim and Diffusionismfor converting the ideas of migration and diffusioninto a skeleton key for the interpretation of anychanges in a culture. The migration theory in Kos-sinna’s doctrine was built on extremely primitive rulesof correspondence and particularisation (see Klejn1974). But as it is, we have no need to recoil fromthese phenomena – migrations and influences – perse. These phenomena acted significantly in the cul-tural-historical process, and archaeology needs thetheory of migrations and theory of influences andborrowings. The development of operational appar-atus for the archaeological theory of migrationsmeans searching for archaeological hallmarks of mi-grations, for qualitative criteria of the validity of mi-gration hypothesis in each particular case (Klejn1973a; 1999a; Titov 1982).

Such apparatus await development for other oldarchaeological theories, provided they have revealedessential characteristics of some real phenomena.These old theories will still work further in the disci-pline and will gradually become more defined casesof a more general theory. Of course, one cannot takefor granted that this will not produce new exagger-ations, and it is possible that archaeology still awaitsNeoevolutionism, Neomigrationism, Neodiffusionismetc. However, archaeology has not only the experi-ence of plummeting into extremes but also the experi-ence of overcoming them.

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7. THE STATEMENTS AND VERIFICATIONOF A THEORYFormulating the statements of a theory is made poss-ible by verification against reality – its test. For NewArchaeologists this is a comparably simple procedureof empirical verification, or the slightly more compli-cated procedure of empirical falsification. In the caseof empirical verification the statements are confirmedby looking for correspondences in the real world,whereas empirical falsification checks for unexpectedphenomena that do not correspond with the expectedor predicted phenomena of the theory, i.e. to disprovethe theory.

However, verifying a theory is not limited to ameeting with reality on an empirical basis (let us callthis procedure the E-test). The point is that this typeof testing has a number of weaknesses. It is only astrict procedure when applied to material in whichfacts are always unambiguous, always occurring inone-to-one relations: when the cause of or the reasonfor a type of material is able to produce only this onetype; while each such consequence can only have acause of one kind. Yet even in the study of the physi-cal world this condition is not always granted.

In culture, at least similar causes in similar con-ditions can lead to similar results, and by means ofaltering conditions one can recognise regular connec-tions. Nevertheless the procedure of deduction of ex-pectations is there unreflective, it cannot be turnedback. Unforeseen observations disprove a theory ofcourse, and predicted observations substantiate it, al-though not completely for they only make it moreprobable (and without quantitative determination ofthe degree of probability) because the expected phe-nomenon could be due to other causes. Many wayshave been suggested to compensate for the weak-nesses of empirical verification: to enlarge the numberof the deduced predictions, to provide the diversityand mutual independence of the predictions, or evento substitute falsification for verification, i.e. to checkthe competing hypotheses for the possibility of dis-proving them. Yet none of these means give assur-ance. Basically this is conditioned by the imperfectionand incompleteness of induction that is the founda-tion of the empirical basis.

In the cultural material the role of the conditionalchoice of forms, of conditional offering of meanings

to them, is considerable. So quite often similar factorseven in similar conditions can lead to different conse-quences, and behind similar phenomena in similarconditions different causes can be hidden – pluralcausality dominates in cultural material (Köbben1967). Archaeological fact is polisemic (Klejn 1973b),and regularities are therefore discredited. In order toavoid having these regularities discredited, it was sug-gested such disturbances of laws could be consideredexcusable exclusions – as statistical or explainableerrors (Köbben 1967), or as borders of the sphere ofthe law (Klejn 1972a). Although this disposes discred-iting of laws, it does not remove the difficulty of theirtesting. There is more asymmetry here than in thephysical world: even an unexpected observation doesnot disprove a theory and does not demand its re-vision and correction – it might be simply the resultof the inclusion of an unfitting fact.

In this situation there are additional difficulties inrendering reality. In order to understand them onehas to return to the contents of the text or statementsof a theory. Beside the enlisted links in rendering re-ality, two more are involved: explanation and predic-tion. Both use the means of projecting the inferentialexpectations onto empirical matters and onto prac-tice. However, in the case of explanation it is achievedthrough the comparison with reality (the E-test). So,prediction is a simple projection of expectation (andits repeating as applied to practice), while explanationuses connections and meanings suggested by theoryand carries them onto reality and embodies in itselfthe power of theory, its authority.

For the activity of theory in a ‘‘purified’’ environ-ment, for instance in physical science, symmetry ofboth projections is implied: if predictions are re-alised and they are identical to expectations of atheory, then the theory is true. Even in physicssymmetry falls under doubt, but only from oneside: not every explanative inference provides expla-nation (Pechenkin 1973). In archaeology predictionabout the past is extremely asymmetric to expla-nation. Even when a cultural-historical law andsome conditions of its realisation are known, we arenevertheless unable to render the result of its im-pact unambiguously if we do not know all the con-ditions of realisation. The historian and the archae-ologist must always take into account interaction of


many factors and reckon with the role of contin-gency as sometimes very productive.

Such are the weak points of the E-test in generaland in archaeology in particular. In many disciplinesa T-test is included in verification that checks concur-rence with previous theories on the basis of Bohr’s‘‘principle of correspondence’’. The new theoryshould not contradict old theories already proved fortheir sphere of competence and must include them aslimiting cases into its own body. This is the demandbehind which belief in the unity of laws of the worldis hidden. It becomes a criterion of reliability of a newtheory (Kuznecov 1948). Such a criterion can onlystrengthen the respectability and prospects of atheory, it raises its creditability so to say, but cannotprovide complete confidence needed in every case.The less reliable the checking by the E-test, thegreater the significance of the T-test for checking bymeans of theory.

Archaeology is accustomed to discarding fashion-able theories rather easily and this fickleness is usedby some authors both in the substantiation of theoryand in the advocacy of freedom from theory. Somearchaeologists describe the failures of theoreticiansand enthusiastically collect facts that have destroyed

beautiful theories. When a theory is verified on thebasis of some multiple facts in one sphere and turnsout to be a fiasco in adjacent arrays of material, itdoes not necessarily mean that the theory is wrong atall. A new, competing theory may explain the factswhich had troubled a previous explanation but maynot necessarily include all the other facts explainedby the old theory – it simply leaves them aside. But ifthe new theory is to be stronger then it is able toinclude the old theory as well. In natural sciences thisis considered the grand road of the development ofscience.

In social sciences the development is more fre-quently directed another way. Here the confrontingsocial forces, while taking opposite and extreme posi-tions, often defend one-sided views, strive to maintainthe universality of their own theory and try to refuteand crush all the others. However, the grand roadmentioned is not contradicted for these disciplineseither. In the search of that grand road for theoreticalarchaeology there is perhaps a tendency to think of atheory that could include invention, migration, dif-fusion and other causes for the interchange of culturesas particular cases (see Klejn 1972b; 1981c).

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9. Functions of archaeological theory

In his article ‘‘The philosophy of archaeology’’, antici-pating the posthumous collection of David Clarke’spapers, Glynn Isaac (1979, 15) addressed both thosescholars who are interested in theory and those whoask: ‘‘Why do we need to bother with theory?’’. ‘‘Untilnow did we really live badly without theory?’’, askedJakov Sher in his preface to the Russian edition of J.-C. Gardin’s ‘‘Theoretical archaeology’’. He asks thisquestion from the position of an imagined empiricalarchaeologist, although there are many who ask thisquestion quite seriously. Well, the last question couldimmediately be answered with reference to Clarke.In his ‘‘Analytical archaeology’’ Clarke (1968, XIII)demonstrated that it has long been the case that ‘‘Ar-chaeologists do not agree upon central theory’’,nevertheless ‘‘regardless of place, period, and culture,they employ similar tacit models and proceduresbased upon similar and distinctive entities – the attri-butes, artefacts, types, assemblages, cultures and cul-ture groups’’. Later Clarke (1970, 29) stated: ‘‘the cen-tral theory uniting archaeology is implicit in what ar-chaeologists do and constitutes a real central theoryhowever weak and inadequate any written account ofit may prove to be’’. But this latent theoretical con-ception inevitably appears dim, incomplete, insuf-ficiently elaborated, and weakly grounded. An explicitpresentation of theory allows us to use its merits moreeffectively and to detect its shortcomings at an earlierstage.

However the question set out by Isaac and impliedby Sher still remains. Both authors stress that they donot share the scepticism of their imagined opponents.The use of theory in archaeology seems, to them, be-yond doubt, and they see the ready answer in theworks of Clarke and Gardin. Meanwhile, thesescholars themselves regretted the fact that it was stillimpossible to answer this question positively andpopularly. Having divided archaeologists into thosewho accept theory as necessary for archaeology andthose who think theory is a hash, Clarke (1968, 22)declared that his ‘‘Analytical archaeology’’ was writ-ten for the first group whereas ‘‘the latter will doubt-less continue to ... blinker themselves to narrow as-pects of narrow problems’’. ‘‘Theoretical archaeology

has still not proved its necessity’’, noted Gardin (1983,32).

There is, in his words, an understanding that argu-ments are to be expected from theoretical archaeol-ogy. If one approaches this task from the position ofa theoretician, it is evident that the utility of theorymust be demonstrated not by examples of a usefulapplication of several theories (because howevermultiple these examples may be, there will always becounter-examples which can be adduced), but ratherby strict logic, that is, in the framework of method-ology. The question of the use of theory in archaeol-ogy, as translated into the language of methodologicalanalysis, turns into the question of the functions ofarchaeological theory. Works devoted to this issue arenearly absent in archaeological literature. Non-Rus-sian works of this kind are simply not known to me.Among works in Russian two may be mentioned: theshort article of V. V. Radililovskij (1985) and a chap-ter in V. F. Gening’s book ‘‘The structure of archae-ological cognition’’ (1989b, 156–193). Both authorshave transferred schemes from Soviet philosophicalliterature mainly for the exact and natural sciencesonto archaeology (Pechenkin 1972; Bazhenov 1973;Ruzavin 1978). These elaborations, in turn, rest uponworks of well-known non-Russain specialists in thephilosophy and logic of science.

In Radililovskij’s list, which he has borrowed fromBazhenov, there are four functions of archaeologicaltheory: descriptive, explanatory, predictive, and syn-thesising. Gening retains only two of them, descriptiveand explanatory, but adds another one, systematising,which he has taken from Ruzavin. Both archaeol-ogists try to find arguments for likening archaeologi-cal theory to physical, chemical, and sociologicaltheory: archaeologists must have all the traits of thesesubjects – laws, and systematisation, and expla-nations, and predictions. Proceeding from an under-standing of the concerns and nature of archaeologyand from different notions on theory, it seems to mesensible to consider (consecutively) various stages ofarchaeological inquiry in order to detect whether, ineach of them, archaeological theory plays any role,and if it does, what role. It is also worth evaluating


traditional general scientific notions of the functionsof theory – how significant are they in archaeology,and to what extent are they incorporated in it?

1. THE IDENTIFICATIVE FUNCTIONIn such an approach, one function which is absent inthe general reasoning of philosophers, the identific-ative function, must be included in the list. The allo-cation of the field for archaeological study is itself es-tablished in the theoretical sphere. Consequently, sotoo is the general delimitation of appropriate ma-terials for the study, as well as the attitude to be takento them – in brief, the determination of the sphereof archaeology. What we consider as the object ofarchaeology, what constitutes (pace purists of theQueen’s English) archaeologicality – is determined bytheory. If there is no clear theory, then the directconsequence is a confusion in attribution of some ob-jects to the competence of archaeologists. Hence, de-bates on applicability of its methods to those objectsoccur.

Archaeology has long been established as a studyof material antiquities, of ancient things. Under things,‘objects of material culture’ are understood, the ma-terial products of humanity. Thus, archaeologicality (itsounds better in Russian!) is defined by two character-istics: belonging to material culture and antiquity.Neither concept is as simple as it may seem. Bothdemand empirical substantiation and theoretical elab-oration.

The characteristic of belonging to material culture is as-certained by the presence of attributes of humantreatment, as understood on the empirical basis ofgeneralised results of experience and observation. Butculture presupposes, if not a purposeful, then at leastan expedient treatment – in accordance with certaincultural norms and traditions. This means that theor-etical analysis of the concept of culture and its subdi-vision, material culture, is needed, as well as of itscomponents – norms and traditions.

Antiquity is ascertained by empirical analysis too, bythe selection of attributes derived from the long ex-perience of the discipline. However, such empiricalgeneralisations do not dictate what date an objectmust be for it to be recognised as an archaeological ob-ject, how ‘ancient’ must a thing be to be ‘archaeologi-

cal’. Here, also, a theoretical analysis of the problemis needed.

Speaking about studying historical objects in gen-eral, G. A. Antipov (1987, 49f) enumerates possibleerrors of identification and accompanies his list witharchaeological examples. It appears, from his selec-tion, that two possible errors may occur in each ofthe two characteristics of the archaeologicality (an-tiquity and the belonging to the material culture) –over-estimation (when non-archaeological objects areconsidered as archaeological ones) and under-esti-mation (when some archaeological objects are omit-ted). In sum, there are four categories of mistakes:mistakes of modernisation, archaisation, ‘sociologis-ation’ (when natural phenomena are taken for cul-tural ones), and ‘naturalisation’ (when cultural objectsare not recognised, they are taken for natural ones).Examples are, correspondingly: the pictured pebblesfrom Mas-d’Asil, flint parts of modern threshers, andeoliths. Antipov did not find an example for thefourth kind of mistake, but one can easily adduce suchan example: the ancient pots which, in Poland, wereinitially taken for naturally produced ‘objects’. Thus,the determination of ‘archaeologicality’ is founded ontheory and at the same time this is an establishedinitial task for archaeological studies. According todifferently formulated theories this task will be solveddifferently!

When archaeological theory, diffuse and unclearthough it was, was considered by archaeologists as apart of geography (and there was such a time), thensites were considered as archaeological objects – theyincluded barrows, hillforts, citadels, and temples.When archaeological theory developed in art history,it was mainly monuments of ancient art that wereadded to the range of archaeological objects. Theorientation of the discipline towards history gave birthto the notion of the ‘archaeological source’ or ‘archae-ological record’ and prompted archaeologists to studyall antiquities, not only aesthetically expressive ones.Despite this, merely the unique, spectacular, or espe-cially ‘eloquent’ monuments were taken into accountseriously. For mass material (pottery, flint flakes, etc.)to be included in the archaeologists’ scope, it ap-peared necessary to realise the importance of the his-tory of culture and, as the French historians use tosay, the history of ‘structures’. Then not only ‘proper’

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things to study became the object of archaeologicalstudy, but all material trace of human activity.

Debates about the extreme chronological limits ofarchaeology – how far its competence stretches andat what point it begins – usually display an abstractnature. Too great an exactness was not usually de-manded. In such discussions another matter of debateis the material origins of archaeological data – to whatextent and in which cases should natural objects notproduced by people (i.e. wood, bones, pollen etc.) beconsidered ‘archaeological data’. Such debates aremore important, for they concern issues of the delimi-tation of the discipline and of the integration of thesematerials into it. These are issues of professionalspecialisation and of the approximate scope for eachdiscipline.

All these problems are connected to the key ques-tion of how archaeology recognises its own material,that is, with the ascertaining of the archaeologicalityof objects – the establishment of the concerns andlimits of archaeology.

2. THE INTEGRATIVE FUNCTIONThis function follows on from the preceding aspect,in the sense that it relates to the same material, isbased on the same statements, and is also connectedwith the processes by which the concerns of archaeol-ogy are formed. The unity of archaeology is the ques-tion here.

Archaeology originated in many countries and notas one discipline. Its branches appeared to be inde-pendent disciplines, even belonging to differentgroups of disciplines. This is shown in the fact thatspecial institutions, journals, university chairs, and so-cieties were created. So, classical archaeology was,and is, developed in nearly the whole of Europe sep-arately from ‘primordial’ (prehistoric) archaeology.The first was shaped in the wake of art-studies andphilology, the second, however, established itself as apart of biology. In Germany it was guided duringsome decades by the palaeo-pathologist Virchow withhis collaborators, who were also physicians. In Russiaprehistoric antiquities were collected initially by Baerin the course of his study of human anatomy, whereasmuseums were allotted to classical archaeology. In theUSA, prehistoric archaeology is part of the anthropo-

logical complex of sciences (parallel with physical andcultural anthropology, ethnography and linguistics),while classical archaeology is not; it is, in general, re-lated to the humanities, not to the sciences. In Ger-many and USA these branches of archaeology areeven named differently: the term ‘‘archaeology’’ isused only for ‘classical archaeology’, while primordial

archaeology is named simply ‘‘prehistory’’ (Vorgeschich-te, Urgeschichte). Oriental archaeology was de-veloped in some places together with classical archae-ology, in others separately from it. Medieval archaeol-ogy was always linked to history. Sometimes outsideof the Mediterranean area mediaeval archaeologywas combined with prehistoric archaeology to form a‘‘local’’ archaeology which was seen as opposite of the‘‘classical’’ sort. In Germany, about a century ago, thedivision between these branches was intensified by thecompetition and mutual hostility of these twobranches to such a level that it produced a schism inthe discipline.

Some scholars are trying to substantiate this sharpdivision – Kubler (1961) among the classicists andChang (1967b) among prehistorians. ‘‘So deep-rootedand entrenched in history is the division of archaeol-ogy’’, he writes (1967b, 137f), ‘‘and the tradition hasalready carried so much momentum, that the statusquo is inviolable, its rationalisation futile, and anygrand design of confederating these rival approachesinto a single master discipline of archaeology is fool-hardy’’. Chang is aware of the possibility to searchfor common ground: ‘‘The question is real, however,about whether a common methodology underlies allarchaeological schools. Or, less ambitiously, are someof their concepts, methods, and terminological struc-tures essentially interchangeable lenses for the samemaster camera?’’. He answers this question nega-tively.

Hawkes (1954), in England, and Rogachev (1975;1978), in Russia, suggested that the absence of writtensources was the principal distinction of prehistoric ar-chaeology from ‘‘historical’’ archaeology, as Rogach-ev called all the other branches. Hawkes not only di-vided archaeology into ‘‘text-aided’’ and ‘‘text-free’’,but also introduced subdivisions into the former: pro-tohistory, parahistory, and telehistory. These subdivi-sions and terms suggested by Hawkes did not catchon (except the first one which already existed). ‘‘But


can presence or absence of written sources influencethe content and specificity of archaeological studiesand their opportunities?’’, asks Zakharuk (1978, 25).

The experience of Russia is very interesting in thisrespect: here archaeology is traditionally one disci-pline. It is remarkable that in a number of countriesthe term ‘‘archaeology’’ is kept in the names of bothhalves of archaeology. All workers in these disciplinesare archaeologists, and they all use principally thesame methods and main concepts. All these brancheshave, of course, one and the same theoretical basis.Childe (1956, VI) meant just this, when he declared‘‘archaeology is one’’. More than that, Childe ob-served that prehistoric archaeology outstripped classi-cal and mediaeval archaeology, up to his own time,in terms of the development of concepts and methods.So he remarked: ‘‘If Romanists and medievalistscould be persuaded to adopt the techniques and thecategories elaborated for older periods, many prob-lems in history might be resolved’’.

This problem also has another aspect. As soon astheoretical thinking is commonly connected withideology, it is held that the ideological differences ofscholarly schools in archaeology, of national schools,and so on, must lead to a sharp divergence in generalarchaeological theories, and hence of archaeologiesin general. Pointing out the disintergration of NewArchaeology, which pretended to be a Kuhnian para-digm for archaeology, B. Myhre (1961, 161) stated:‘‘There is not one archaeology or one prehistory anymore, but many, depending on the philosophical orpolitical theory of the archaeologist’’.

The ideologies of Soviet archaeology were espe-cially efficient in this schismatic activity. In the SovietUnion the belief was imposed in every way possiblethat Marxist archaeology was an absolutely new, quitedifferent science as compared to all other archaeol-ogy, which in Soviet parlance was called ‘‘bourgeois’’.It was said that it had different theory, different con-cepts, and different methods. The question was dis-cussed whether such a science should ‘‘retain the oldterm with its new content’’ (Ravdonikas 1930, 20). Areplacement of ‘‘archaeology’’ by the term ‘‘history ofmaterial culture’’ was considered, and for a short timethis became practise. The old term survived, but theSoviet archaeological establishment long continued toassure everybody, and itself, that Soviet archaeology

fundamentally differed from the rest of the archae-ological world: ‘‘the comprehension of the Marxist-Leninist scientific outlook and the development in theconditions of a socialist state created, as a matter offact, a completely new discipline which has taken anhonourable place in the ranks of other sections of his-torical knowledge ...’’ (Rybakov 1967, 583).

All this was instilled into the conscience of Marxistorthodox archaeologists to such an extent that theleading theoreticians of the ‘‘establishment’’ con-sidered it possible to publish works on theoretical ar-chaeology without using any foreign literature. Thiswas not because using foreign works was forbidden(to some extent it was always allowed) and not onlybecause they did not speak foreign languages (al-though admittedly most did not), but because theybelieved that, abroad, archaeology was another disci-pline, which had not reached the level of a properscience. There was no point in concerning oneselfwith it, may be simply to unmask and expose its folly.

Western archaeologists often responded in thesame way. Americans, in their archaeological works,ignored not only Russian but also German archae-ological literature, though on essentially differentgrounds. Their next turn in direction aspired to beconsidered as the New Archaeology. These were notChang’s ‘‘rival archaeologies’’, these were hostile ar-chaeologies, fighting with each other. But they stillargued on the same basis, and often in the samescholarly language. As a rule, the more a school up-holds its uniqueness, its monopoly on the right to beheld as science (or scholarship), the more it is isolatedand the more it falls into decay.

No doubt archaeologists have plenty of philosophi-cal and political orientations – there always were plentyof these. But when some people, observing discord,speak of many archaeologies, it is useful to consider howdeep a level of divergence of interests can conditionpreferences in the choice of facts and methods, as wellas certain probabilities of error. All have to select out ofone and the same set of methods, and use the samefacts. Dissimilar in their convictions, archaeologists tryto fill their concepts with different contents, but theseare concepts derived from one system and contentsfrom one world, and this difference in meanings is notso significant as to prevent archaeologists from under-standing what the thing is all about.

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The theory of archaeology must allow archaeol-ogists to see this situation clearly and must help them,despite all the differences, to keep their discipline in-tact, to keep the connections within its framework. Itis not by chance that there are no special theoreticalworks applicable only to prehistoric archaeology.When a theoretical book by an archaeologist is pub-lished, whether on specificity of sources, or on classi-ficatory concepts, or on ways of interpretation, it issought with equal interest by archaeologists from allbranches of the discipline.

3. THE SELECTIVE FUNCTIONThis function appears to follow directly from the id-entificative one: after identifying the archaeologicalmaterials the choice and selection of which to use ineach study is made according to the theoretical lineto be adopted. If a ‘‘zero’’ theory (the principle ofempiricism) is accepted, in other words, if there is notheory, then any material can be fitted in indiscrimi-nately, but in essence unwittingly on the part of theresearcher, for it is selected according to his or hertaste and other biases. However, it is usually held de-sirable to gather more data in order to provide awider base for generalisations. Underlying this viewis the idea that any material must provide somethingnew. In general empiricists suppose that one has tostrive for maximal recovery, ideally to collect all ofthe material.

If a theory exists and the principles of statistics areincluded in it, then one can make do with ‘‘represen-tative samples’’. If theory is guided by hypothetico-deductive logic and accordingly the inquiry is aimedat the checking of a hypothesis, then the collection ofmaterial appears narrowly directed: only that is gath-ered which can confirm or refute the hypothesis. Ofcourse, such an attitude is dangerous, especially inexcavations. Since excavations destroy part of, or allof, the monument, some or all of its other materialwhich is unnecessary for the inquirer at the momentwill simply perish with all the potential information itcontains. Finally, if one assumes, like Clarke, thatthere is a general theory, some set of principles, con-cepts, methods and procedures, common to all thesubdivisions of archaeology, then it is reasonable toconclude that there is also a standard set of problems

and tasks. We need to supply these with materials,and information, as if for a questionnaire. It is sens-ible to gather information according to a broad set ofquestions.

In recent decades the methodology of collectingevidence was intensively elaborated as a theoreticalproblem (sampling theory) in American and Britisharchaeology (e.g. Binford 1964; Mueller 1975; Cherryet al. 1978). There is no need to prove that the selec-tion of evidence depends on the special problembeing studied. This problem either results directlyfrom the dominant theory, or is due to contradictoryinformation which, itself, produced the problem.

4. THE DESCRIPTIVE FUNCTIONThis function is mentioned both by archaeologistswriting on the functions of theory and by some philos-ophers. Archaeologists, however, in the main merelyexplain the place of description in archaeologicalstudies and how it is to be conducted. The task hereis different: to reveal whether it or some aspects of itare a function of archaeological theory, and if theyare, to show this connection.

The connection does exist. Description is nothingbut the translation of information about material intothe sign system for fixating, storing, processing andtransmitting it. Language serves as such a sign systemfor description. But the initial point at which descrip-tion is supported by theory is before the momentscholarly description begins, because the language forit must already exist. It existed beforehand, and exist-ed with all of its concepts with which it is able tomirror the material, its components, properties, meas-urements, connections, changes, movements, etc.That is to say, a sufficiently developed categorisationmust be established beforehand.

Description and even primary systematisation aredependent on language, on pre-exising categories. AsCaws (1965, 33) remarked, mastering ‘‘a certain lan-guage can result in characteristics for its division andsegmentation of what is immediately perceived’’. In-deed, to English-speaking archaeologists ‘‘camp-sites’’are distinguished from ‘‘settlements’’ in that the firstwere populated only for a short time, while the latterwere places long inhabitated. Russian archaeologiststraditionally distinguish stojanki (‘‘camp-sites’’ or


‘‘stands’’) as ‘‘Stone Age settlements’’ from selishcha

(‘‘remains of villages’’) as ‘‘settlements of the earlyMetal Ages’’ even if the first were inhabited for longerperiods than the latter. Only the date of the site istaken into account, not the duration of its ‘life’. Be-sides, both categories are included in the Russian ter-minology into poselenija – the general category ‘‘settle-ment’’, including hillforts and towns.

Categorisation exists in articulated language fromthe very beginning. It grows and evolves spon-taneously. However, archaeological material has itsown claim to categorisation. Firstly, many archae-ological objects are things not existing in daily life andtherefore have no correspondence in the actual sys-tem of categories. Secondly, nearly all archaeologicalobjects have suffered from the effects of time andnatural processes. Hence they have a peculiar appear-ance not met with in usual practice. Thirdly, archae-ology is interested in properties and connectionswhich usually do not attract attention outside of ar-chaeology (for example, presence of patina, strikingbulb, stratification, and so on). In the development ofa discipline (in particular of archaeology) the languageof scholarship is, therefore, being perfected all thetime. This perfection consists mainly of the enrich-ment and refinement of categories, in the ordering oftheir totality, and in replenishment of it with abstrac-tions, setting out the interrelationship of categoriesmore precisely, and organising them into a more andmore strict, balanced and rich system. This is, ofcourse, the business of theory.

‘‘Our usual language is filled with theories’’, Pop-per (1965, 59) has said; ‘‘observation is always obser-vation in the light of some theory’’. There are philos-ophers who reduce theory to the language of science.Although this is an exaggeration, an extreme view,the elaboration of the scholarly language, particularlythe language of description is undoubtedly one of thetasks of theory, and such language is one of its compo-nents.

Change in the leading theoretical concepts (the‘-isms’ of archaeology) introduced into everyday prac-tice newer and newer concepts and terms of descrip-tive language. So, since the time of the earliest adher-ents of the concept of the ‘‘Three Ages’’, other con-cepts have entered the language of archaeologicaldescription – such as ‘‘assemblage’’, ‘‘in situ’’, and

‘‘layer’’. The partisans of Diffusionism (including Mi-grationism) could not do without the concepts ‘‘local-isation’’, ‘‘site’’, and ‘‘area’’. Ecologists began speak-ing of the ‘‘environment’’ and ‘‘niche’’. Taxonomistselaborated the concepts of ‘‘attribute’’. Understand-ing of the basic objects of archaeology also changed –initially it was ‘‘antiquity’’, then ‘‘monuments’’ and‘‘relics’’, now ‘‘artefacts’’ and the ‘‘archaeological rec-ord’’ (or ‘‘archaeological source’’).

First and foremost, natural language appears in therole of the language of science. Phenomena becomedescribed with everyday words and expressions,usually without any indication of quantitative charac-teristics for the aims of comparative analysis of styles(the direction was evidently theoretical!). Winckel-mann set out some rules for scholarly description ofancient arts by means of natural language, and theserules – completeness of description, attention to smallpoints, personal survey (to describe de visu) etc. – arestill in use, and not only applied to monuments of thearts. However, for all its force and flexibility, naturallanguage displays a number of shortcomings whenplaying this role – it is too unspecific, diffuse, redun-dant, and emotionally coloured. Special branches oflanguage, therefore, come into existence, a sort ofscientific or scholarly slang.

One of their peculiarities is the presence of specialterms for scholarly concepts, including concepts in-tended for scholarly description. Ideally, these termsmust be inter-coordinated and compose a united sys-tem, at least within the framework of a given study,but preferably within the frame of the entire range ofsciences or humanities. Terms become conventionaland if theory is well considered they are specific andclearcut, supplied by full definitions. The other pecu-liarity of a special scholarly language is the dry, strict,laconic, and neutral style, which avoids every ambi-guity, or latent metaphoric meanings, and substitutionof emotions for argumentation. The third peculiarityis the use of abbreviations instead of often listingwords, terms and expressions. The fourth peculiarityis the application of formulae for showing relation-ships and ties, especially in the cases where quantitat-ive measurements and calculations are possible.

In archaeology such style of description was elabor-ated gradually, beginning with the records of collec-tors and travellers, but was fully established only in

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the second half of the nineteenth century in museumcatalogues and field journals of expeditions. It beganto be applied in published expedition reports, too. InRussia Gorodcov in the early twentieth century ap-plied the tabular form of data presentation. As a uni-fied language of description in the discipline it is stillabsent in the second half of the twentieth century,large archaeological works are often supplied with ter-minological glossaries containing definitions of themain special terms (e.g. see Klejn 1980, 104; 1991a,343).

Finally, in the recent times, under the pressure ofcomputerisation, specific languages have been formedespecially for the aim of scholarly description – descrip-

tive (document, informational) languages – which are dis-tinguished by extreme formalisation, explicitness andstructured organisation. A reduction of description toits simplest operations forms their basis. Descriptionis here conducted with special symbols according toan expanded code.

5. THE SYSTEMATISING FUNCTIONTo some extent this is the logical continuation of thepreceding function because, in the process of categ-orisation, every description not generalises (this is anempirical operation) but also covers the material withcategories created within a certain ordering system,no matter how it orders material, and even if onlyprimitively. Strict intercoordination and subordi-nation of these categories in accordance with thespecificity of the material and with the tasks of thestudy builds the scholarly scheme of ordering.

If on the basis of similarities and differences thematerial is distributed into strictly delineated cells,covered by standard categories, a scheme of classifi-cation results. If the material is clustered around con-cepts on which the centres of such categories are fix-ed, a scheme of typology is built. How to organise thetotality of classificatory or typological concepts in dueaccordance with the specificity of the material, andwith the tasks of the study, are of course decided bythat system of propositions, that program of actions,which properly is theory. To the extent to which thistheory regulates these actions, it is called theory of ar-

chaeological classification (cf. Kolpakov 1992) or theory of

archaeological typology (Klejn 1991).

The following must be stipulated: the distributionof empirical material into cells of classification or itsgrouping around ideals being called ‘types’ and‘styles’ are empirical operations – ascertaining simi-larities and differences, identification, and generalis-ation. But the organisation of the system of conceptsitself, allotting them to hierarchical levels, delimi-tation and intercoordination, as well as their subordi-nation to the general tasks of the study – all of theseare theoretical actions. There are a number of diffi-cult questions here. Is it possible to combine the tasksof classification and those of typology in a singlescheme? To what extent are the cells, the grouping,or the borderlines which we ascertain in the archae-ological material inherent to that material itself, andto what extent do they depend on the arbitrariness ofthe inquirer? Do they mirror connections and delimi-tations that really existed in the past, in the once-living culture? One might cite further questions.Quite a number of these questions have been ex-tracted by Chang from Kluckhohn’s article on ty-pology (Kluckhohn 1960; Chang 1967b, 83), andsome more can be seen in other works (cf. Hill andEvans 1973, 231, 268; Klejn 1991a, 13, 31f). All ofthese are theoretical questions.

Classifications were made by collectors of antiqui-ties in the Renaissance and even in classical antiquity.Even then, many of their classifications sorted thingsby their functional purpose, according to analogieswith things that existed in daily life – weapons, tools,and ornaments as seemed appropriate. To this,Winckelmann added classification on stylistic prin-ciples. In the time of Evolutionism, distribution bysupposed functions became the main kind of classifi-cation. At the same time typologies began to appear,where the material was grouped by stylistic and, ingeneral, formal similarities and differences onlywithin categories separated by the supposed functionalpurpose of things (and only for such categories wasthe term ‘‘category’’ used in Russian archaeology).That there is a hypothetical basis of this categorisationindicates the involvement of theory. The point is notthe future of every hypothesis. Indeed, after beingconfirmed, some go on to become fact. Hypothesesabout function are of this sort. The process of ascer-taining the functional purpose of things is based onnotions of the functional organisation of an ancient


culture and the means of its cognition. This is theory.In culture, the connection of function with form is

not determined rigidly. Usually there is a certain free-dom of choice in selecting a form for a given function.We archaeologists are forced to ascertain forgottenfunctions from the present excavated forms. The taskin every case is extremely difficult. We have to searchfor the key in the system of forms of the given cultureitself and in the supposed system of functions corre-sponding logically to this. We must already have somegeneral notion on the given culture, some expec-tations about it in respect to functions which wereperformed in it. This means that the discovery of an-cient cultural structures of our archaeological ma-terials by means of purely empirical procedures is im-possible. This was noted first by Taylor (1948) andthis is the central idea of my work on typology (Klejn1977c; 1982; 1991a). To this observation concerningthe dependence of the earlier stages on the furtherstages in an inquiry (a sort of a paradox of ‘outstrip-ping’), one can add that, by becoming ‘standard’, theclassificational cells soon move into the professionallanguage of description. Then there is no need in de-scription to enumerate the attributes of a thing – awhole permanently repeated complex can be replacedby the simple attribution of a type that was formerlydetermined. Formerly determined – here is the clueto the paradox of ‘outstripping’ – the initial steps ofan inquiry, resting on a later stage of the study, drawinformation from the results of earlier steps of generalinquiry more advanced than the earlier stages of thespecial study being undertaken.

Systematisation is inherent in theory by its nature,‘by definition’ so to speak. For in some essential as-pects theory is just a system of laws, concepts andconclusions. Theory systematises not merely concepts,but also empirical regularities or laws, trying to estab-lish relations of intercoordination and inference be-tween them. The most organisational perfection intheory is reached when it is able to derive all its lawsfrom one single general principle. To do this theymust all be connected with this principle by logicalsubordination, that is, they must be explained by it.In other words, this level of systematisation is unat-tainable without explanation (again the phenomenonof outstripping!) and, properly speaking, it appears tobe an aspect of the explanative function.

6. THE PROBLEM OF EXPLANATORYFUNCTIONThis function is present in the lists compiled by botharchaeologists and, even more commonly, philos-ophers. It receives the most attention from all of thesescholars, whether archaeologists or philosophers, andis regarded as the main function. The connection ofexplanation with theory is difficult to deny – if oneholds that explanation directly appeals to laws, thenlaws are the kernel of theory. If, however, one under-stands explanation more broadly and questions theequation of history with sociology by their shared in-terest with laws, then the problem becomes morecomplex.

The essence of explanation as exposed by the most‘rigourous’, most neo-positivist wing of the Americanarchaeology (cf. Spaulding 1968; Fritz and Plog 1970;Watson et al. 1971) followed the philosophers Hempeland Oppenheim: there must be at least one scientificlaw by which the facts to be explained (the explanadum)can be ‘covered’. Explanation through law is called‘nomological’ or ‘deductive-nomological’. The posi-tion of Deductivists has been subjected to a devastat-ing critique (e.g. by Schuyler 1973; Morgan 1973; Le-vin 1973). Three main types of explanation are men-tioned in the literature – ‘causal’ (in terms of causeand effect), ‘structural-functional’ (finding the placein the structure and ascertaining the functions), and‘genetic’ (ascertaining the origin). Refusing absolutedeterminism in culture, one group of researchers in-clines toward the idea that in archaeology structural-functional explanation is applicable (M. Salmon1982a; Renfrew 1982), the other part persists incausal explanation as a special kind of probabilisticexplanation most appropriate to the historical discip-lines, including archaeology (W. Salmon 1982; Smith1982; Eggert 1982; Mellor 1982; Trigger 1982).

But what is liable to explanation in archaeology?Binford, who was among the first to introduce the‘deductive-nomological’ principle into archaeology,thought initially that it was events and processes insocio-cultural systems of the past that were to be ex-plained. Later he thought that, before one begins tostudy the cultural process through the sources, onehas to explain the sources themselves. But as he stillconsidered that one had to explain them through theevents and processes of the past, then the problem

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appears to be a vicious circle. Binford came to theconclusion that a special discipline for the study ofarchaeological sources is needed, and a correspondingtheory of archaeological record (Binford 1982). Forhim both of these steps of cognition – the cognitionof sources and the cognition of the past itself – aresteps within archaeology, but to me, as to Rouse(Rouse 1972; Klejn 1976; 1978b; 1991c, 1993) theymust be separated. Archaeology is a discipline study-ing material antiquities as sources of informationabout the distant past, whereas the study of the pastitself, of its events and processes, on the basis of pro-cessed and prepared sources is palaeohistory (prehis-tory and most ancient history). In establishing itself asa mature discipline, archaeology learnt to study notonly each individual artefact, but the entirety of ma-terial culture. Archaeology studies the sources for theunderstanding of the cultural-historical process.

It is not difficult to observe that for the time beingdebates in the archaeological literature are about thenature of explanation in palaeohistory, not in archaeol-ogy. Explanation has been concentrated into only apart of the range of understanding of the past – onthe peripheries of cultural-historical process. As soonas archaeology appears a special source-studyingdiscipline, the question of the nature of explanationmust be considered anew.

At this first stage in understanding the past we areinterested to know what an object that we have dis-covered was, what its functional purpose in an ancientculture was, and of which ancient events and pro-cesses does it give evidence. These questions are ap-plicable to any amount of material – whether a singleartefact, or many similar artefacts, whether an assem-blage or a group of uniform assemblages. In the re-search design of archaeology this is the task of cultural-

historical interpretation, a task which is akin to the tasksof translation from one language into another, andalso to the tasks of a detective. But it is not at all thetask of a historian! Thus, in application to archaeol-ogy proper, the explanative function appears the in-

terpretative one, and this puts archaeology outside ofthe historical disciplines in respect to its immediatetasks and methods, and its methodological nature, al-though not of its ultimate aim.

What, then, is the nature of explanation in archaeol-ogy? That is to say, what is the mechanism of interpreta-

tion? Since events and processes that we were able toexplain the appearance and content of archaeologicalsources occurred in the distant past and are inaccess-ible to direct observation, the main type of expla-nation in archaeology must be explanation by analogy –that is, by using a model. Analogies in archaeology (in-cluding ethnographic ones) have received less atten-tion than they deserve (cf. Ascher 1961; Smolla 1964;Morwood 1975; among others). With some exagger-ation, but not without grounds, Chang (1967b, 107)declared: ‘‘archaeology as a whole is analogy’’. De-spite the enormous number of archaeological booksand articles with the word ‘‘model’’ in the title (Klejn1973, 75–77), still less has been written on modelsproper. From the works of philosophers, and ofmethodologists of science, it is known that expla-nation by analogy belongs to the group of inductive,probabilistic methods (Nikitin 1970; Popov 1972,181–183).

Besides explanation by a ‘model’, other approachesare also applied in archaeology. As soon as one hasto ascertain the functional purpose of artefacts andfeatures, one cannot do without functional-structural ex-

planation. It is also produced, in the main, inductively.As soon as archaeological objects come to rest in acondition or in a place that was not typical of themin the past (when they were ‘working’ in the culture)one has to do some explaining. In order to compre-hend their functions one must mentally move fromtheir present state and place to their past state andplace; one must reveal what has led them to theirpresent place and state, why they occur where theydo, and so on. This requires causal explanation. Thecausal form belongs to the deductive group, althoughit does not immediately require a universal law, ornecessarily presuppose absolute determinism.

Now, it is possible to ascertain whether such expla-nation is the function of theory, that is, to decide whatthe role of theory in archaeological explanation is,and of which theory. As it is known, theory presup-poses the presence of a strong law or a block of laws.

Let us begin with causal explanation. Behind everycause some regularity, even if probabilistic, is hidden(Kon 1969), and every scholar seeks to strengthen theprobability of their explanation being correct. So, inthe end, behind the cause looms an absolute law(Mellor 1982) – as an unreachable ideal. The causal


explanation presupposes laws of dynamics, whereasthe structural-functional one presupposes laws of thestatic aspect of structure. Finally, explanation by ana-logy as it appeals to particular occurrence, seems toavoid law. Behind the object and its model, some setof similarities besides those which underlie the ap-proximation are presupposed. Consequently, analogypresupposes that both objects are encompassed by aregularity that determined their resemblance. Ofcourse, one seldom appeals to this regularity directly:it is merely implied. In an obvious way other regular-ities are acting here, more general ones. They areprobabilistic, guiding the choice of the model for thespecific object or site and, in general, relations be-tween every object, site, and model.

It is already evident that the basis for all these ex-planations forms a theory: a theory of archaeological record

(of archaeological sources) and, more broadly, a theory of

interpretation. This leans upon empirical generalisationsfrom experimental archaeology, ethnoarchaeologyand ethnography, as well as upon that theory of syn-thesis which lies behind historical reconstruction andunites all the source-studying disciplines as a founda-tion of history.

7. THE PROBLEM OF THE PREDICTIVEFUNCTIONPhilosophers define the predictive, or prognostic,function as ‘‘the most important function of everyreally scientific theory’’ (Ruzavin 1978, 23). ‘‘Only thepresence of the predictive function’’, elucidates Bazh-enov (1973, 416), ‘‘prevents theory from being self-containing, closed in itself, and lets it become practi-cally useful’’. Apparently, there is some difficulty forthe realisation of this function in archaeology. Thisdifficulty probably results from the fact that predictionis directed to the future whereas, according to Trig-ger’s (1970) apt expression, ‘‘the future of archaeologyis the past’’. How then can predictions be made, whenprediction belongs to the past?

Some scholars (for example, Rakitov 1982, 289),striving to retain the function of prediction intact forhistorical and archaeological theory (since each de-cent theory must have a predictive function!), ‘‘modi-fied’’ the past. They retained from it only some hints,and substituted the future for it. They say one can

predict new archaeological discoveries, the places ofnew finds, and their appearance. But, firstly, such spe-cific predictions (they are called heuristic) rest moreupon empirical generalisations than upon theory andgeneral laws. These are simply inductions,broadening a generalised fact. Secondly, it is clearthat while these new finds belong to the future, it isnot their past appearance which is to be predicted (itis already known), but new discoveries. This meansthat not the past of the finds is predicted, but thefuture of the study.

Other scholars (for example Nikitin 1966; 1970;Binford 1972, 333f; Trigger 1973, 105; Onoprienko1976) have chosen an opposite approach – in orderto retain the past as the point of the function, theysacrificed prediction as a form of action appealing tothe future and speak instead on retrodiction, or postdic-

tion, inferences appealing to the past. Binford (1972,334) explains: ‘‘The only way ... contemporary obser-vations are converted into statements about the pastis through our ability to retrodict – to establish on thebasis of present evidence what were the conditions inthe past which produced the contemporary obser-vations ...’’. But how do these inferences differ fromusual explanations of the past?

Many rely on the propinquity of the prediction, orretrodiction, and explanation (Dray 1957, 2; Hempel1965, 176; Nikitin 1970, 222–238; Trigger 1973,105). Their logical structure is identical; both are in-ferencesa and both hypothetical ones. Explanative hy-pothesis is to be checked through confronting the ex-pectations inferred from it with independent facts.Further, what is expectation? This is just prediction(or retrodiction) with a stressed uncertainty (Zubrow1973, 246). On the other hand, prediction or re-trodiction, made merely on the basis of analogy orcorrelation (that is, an empirical way) remains vague.It becomes strong only if the basis receives expla-nation from law, from theory.

Retrodiction and explanation do not coincide. Thedistinction consists of the fact that explanation pre-supposes the linking an object with many other ob-jects, whereas retrodiction, undertakes to describe,even if only approximately, supposed objects of thepast (or of the future).

But what does it mean to describe supposed objectsof the past on the basis of its modified remains, frag-

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ments and traces in the present – to describe it assuch as it looked in the past? This means carrying outits mental reconstruction. However in many cases, whenfragments are small and there are few of them, a greatfreedom of choice arises. In piecing them togetherone can compose them differently, and the traces canbe differently interpreted. This, in turn, means thatbesides facts, imagination and ideas participate in re-construction. If they are strictly organised and sub-stantiated, then this is theory. Thus, in archaeologythe predictive function appears to be a reconstructive

one.The specificity of history, to which archaeology re-

lates, means that it cannot abstract itself too far fromreality, it cannot refuse detail altogether. It is directednot to revealing the general laws, but to establishingspecific facts of the past in their causal connection(Dray 1957; Trigger 1973). Consequently, historical re-construction proper is possible only in rare cases –when it concerns the recent past, very specific situ-ations, and those well provided with sources. In the ma-jority of cases, in history, not properly historical but so-ciological or anthropological (‘culturological’) recon-structions occur. As for archaeological reconstructions,these do not usually pursue the task of exactly and mi-nutely restoring individual aspects. Even as applied tosingle artefacts they content themselves with restoringtype-characteristics. So, in archaeology reconctruc-tions are quite real, but the degree of their complete-ness, and adequacy, is inversely proportional to theirconnection with purely historical tasks.

8. THE INSTRUMENTAL FUNCTIONUnder this term I mean the transformation of theoryinto method. The history of science, or of scholarship,teaches that theory is akin to method: driving its oper-ational apparatus to the level where it becomesstereotyped, theory turns into method (Ovchinnikov1968, 20f). In not one list have I found this function.Yet, it serves to bring theory into practice.

So, proceeding from the theory (or, pre-theory)which correlated style with epoch, Winckelmann andGerhardt elaborated fundamentals of the compara-tive-stylistic method. The Danish progressionistsThomsen and Worsaae, turned their scheme of the‘‘Three Ages’’ into the method of correlating artefact

forms with epoch and came to the stratigraphicmethod. The theory of stadiality encouraged interestin productive forces and, having fought against the‘formal things-study’ (a translation of an ironic Rus-sian term for ‘artefactology’ or ‘potology’), producedSemenov’s functional-traceological method. Pro-cessual archaeology, with its interest in a systemic ap-proach and ‘models’, introduced multivariatemethods and computer simulation. Behavioural ar-chaeology gave rise to branches (including ethnoar-chaeology and experimental archaeology) speciallyaimed at the elaboration of interpretative methods.

9. THE HEURISTIC FUNCTIONKaplan (1964, 268, 302), an American philosopherand a specialist in the logic of science, writes: ‘‘Everytheory serves, in part, as a research directive; theoryguides the collection of data and their subsequentanalysis, by showing us beforehand where the data areto be fitted, and what we are to make of them when weget them ... Theory functions throughout inquiry ... itguides the search for data and the search for the lawsencompassing them’’. Archaeologists also note some-thing of the sort. In their statements some heuristic di-rections are mentioned. The first one is, so to speak, in-trinsic, in the frame of the chosen theory. ‘‘The mainpurpose of a theoretical model’’, writes Redman (1973,20), ‘‘is to help the researcher to select relevant vari-ables and significant hypotheses from a large numberof possibilities’’. Mainly this is work in the existingparadigm, following the terminology of Kuhn.

The other direction is the external one. It is asearch for new ideas, for new theories. In his enter-taining article on the interaction of typical figures inarchaeology during the formation of every next para-digm, Schwartz (1978) has separated a figure,‘Searcher’, who initiates the whole affair by findingnew, unexpected data, not predicted by the currenttheories. Thereafter the results come to the main fig-ure, ‘Genius’, who creates new ideas, new expla-nations, new theory, and who thereby sets into mo-tion the entire team-’Systematiser’, ‘Advocate’, ‘Con-tributor’, ‘Teacher’, and ‘Eclectic’. The scheme isvery nice, but the beginning is not quite aptly pic-tured. Nobody can deny the value of new data, newfacts, especially if they are unexpected, but experience


teaches us that their significance, at least in archaeol-ogy, is rather in checking the old theory in order tocorrect it, to modify it, to limit it, or even to disproveit. Its opponents are not necessarily innovators, theycan be the partisans of one of the old theories. Thisis quite understandable: the unpredicted fact exerts anegative influence – it denies and refutes but, by itself,it is not a positive contribution to theory – it does notcreate new ideas, it does not provide new expla-nations. A new theory usually originates in anotherway (for theoretical analysis of this problem see thepreceding chapter and Klejn 1980). The principalnew ideas for a new theory must come from outsidethe discipline, or be produced inside by a creativeindividual able to combine and process a lot of infor-mation, often alien to the discipline, but sometimesproduced inside – this time arising from the confron-tation of existing theories.

Let us look closely at the examples with whichSchwartz has illustrated his ‘Genius’ figure – Taylorand Binford. ‘‘Lewis Binford is the obvious exampleof an apparent paradigm-maker in recent Americanarchaeology. His work has attached many youngscholars, to the extent that they think of themselvesas the school of ‘new archaeologists’. His role hasstimulated new work by others ...’’ (Schwartz 1978,158). However, I have not found in the article anexample of ‘Searcher’ who supplied Binford with un-predicted facts from the very beginning, nor have Ifound there indications of such facts themselves.Moreover, I have not found them elsewhere. Appar-ently, they did not exist. More than that, it appearsthat in the initial creative phase, ‘Genius’ wasoriented, in general, not towards new facts but to-wards old ideas. ‘‘Yet, how new are his ideas?’’, asksSchwartz (1978: 158) about Binford. ‘‘They certainlywere foreshadowed at least by Steward and Setzler(1938), Kluckhohn (1948), Steward (1949) andCaldwell (1958)’’. Binford (1972, 2–19) himself pointsto Walter Taylor, Albert Spaulding, and Leslie Whiteas the sources of inspiration for his ideas and he de-scribes very picturesquely how he used these influ-ences in creating his innovative programme. Onemay add to his antecedents Neo-positivistic philos-ophers, notably Hempel and Nagel. I do not want tosay that Binford was not mentally independent or thathe created nothing new. Far from it. I wish only to

stress that all of his new ideas grew from processingold ideas and old theories.

If we turn to Walter Taylor, we find behind him thefigure of his teacher Clyde Kluckhohn. Kluckhohnsupervised the writing of his well-known book whenit was still a dissertation. Many scholars borrowedideas from Taylor, not only among Processual archae-ologists but also their opponents, Contextualists likeChang and Trigger, or the new opponents, the Post-Processualists, such as Hodder. David Clarke had hisown intellectual antecedents in archaeology and out-side of it – Childe, the philosopher Wittgenstein, ‘newgeographers’, numerical taxonomy, and systemstheory.

Thus, to a very great extent theory gives birth totheory. A new theory results from the processing ofold theories. As Steward (1949, 25) has put it, ‘‘theor-ies are not destroyed by facts – they are replaced bynew theories which better explain the facts’’. This isso partly due to the addition of new ideas from otherdisciplines and from life in society, and partly becausethe growth of the discipline, the development of itsconcepts has its own logic. Their succession andchange are not fully fortuitous. Evolutionary typologi-cal series themselves drew on the theory of catas-trophe as applied to archaeology. So each existingtheory has got much potential to condition new theor-ies. One must only know the theories and be able towork with them. On this heuristic aspect Randsborg(1982, 425) draws a general conclusion: he proposes‘‘to proceed inductively using various theories as indi-cators of possible further directions of research and toform approaches rather than dogmatic, static frame-works’’.

10. THE CONTROL FUNCTIONTo advance ‘‘dogmatic, static frameworks’’ is also atask of every new theory and one cannot escape this.The point is not in creation of a paradigm for ‘‘nor-mal’’ science, following Kuhn, this being a conse-quence of other tasks. The thing is that every scientific(‘scholarly’) law is more absolute or, if it concerns pro-babilistic laws, the stronger (i.e. the probability of itbeing correct is the higher), the more limited is itssphere of application. Laws not only dictate or, if pro-babilistic ones, permit, but also forbid.

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‘‘The limiting role of a law influences essentiallyits predictive functions and is most manifest itself intheory’’, writes the philosopher Vinogradov (Popov1972, 189). And he continues: besides classes of as-sumed phenomena ‘‘theory sets a class of forbiddenphenomena ... A theory in which nothing is forbiddencan neither describe nor predict anything. Thereforethe process multiplying the principles of interdictionin theory is connected with broadening the class ofphenomena being described, explained, and pre-dicted’’.

If, nevertheless, a fact is reliably confirmed, then itforms the basis of revision of the theory which for-bade it – a basis for a limitation or abolition of thetheory. So the confirmation of the Palaeolithic ageof cave art essentially undermined the authority ofEvolutionism, which believed in the gradual progressof the human mind and so forbade the existence of‘too early’ art. Evolutionists therefore declared it aforgery. However, unless confidence in the theory isnot undermined, and while its basis remains broadand stable, it serves as the criterion for verification ofnew facts and new laws.

Thus, theory appears a criterion of the scholarlyrange of new discoveries and directions in archaeol-ogy. More than that, however, theories, although theycontradict each other, nevertheless form some theor-etical fund consisting of contributions from varioustheories into the theoretical picture of the world, bycorrespondence with which we evaluate new dis-coveries. Only very stable (and the most reliable) con-tributions from various theories go into the theoreticalpicture of the world – principles, concepts, andmethods of verification. This is why we reject withclear and calm conscience all claims for the ‘abomin-able Snowman’, Atlantis, ancient astronauts, and soon. What rests behind this calm confidence is ourknowledge of the theoretical (or scholarly) picture ofthe world, the knowledge that we have to correct andreplenish, and this also goes into the control functionof archaeological theory.

11. THE SYNTHESISING FUNCTIONAny theory synthesises the material – it condensesthe empirical information and simplifies its mosaic.The trend to principal simplicity is expressed in

that theory seeks to explain as wide as possible arange of appearances on the basis of as few as poss-ible premises. Therefore, a trend to expansion is in-herent in any theory: theory begins penetrating intothe area of competence of other theories anddisciplines. It is especially noticeable when thistrend is realised by the rise of new theories: eachnew one has to show its validity by being able toexplain also those phenomena that the previous onecould not.

However, the factor of retaining results acts heretoo. As Regirer (1966, 95) wrote, ‘‘it is only in prelimi-nary stages that one simply throws out the existingtheories in order to free a place for the new ones.When theory has been confirmed by experience offacts, usually it is modified, so that it is included intothe new, bigger theoretical conception as a particularcase, with all its results confirmed by the experience.When a success is reached in the explanation of facts,passing on to another theory appears possible only ifthe number of the facts explained does not decrease,but quite the reverse, if it increases: the attained ex-planations do not get so easily rejected by science (orscholarship)’’.

I have always been amused by the vehemence withwhich adherents and enemies of migrations or inde-pendent development advocated their own expla-nations as a principle and rejected fully the competingexplanation. Whereas all that was actually neededwas to determine the conditions under which one oranother explanation appears correct.

Influences and borrowings on the one hand, andmigrations on the other, long competed with eachother as explanations of the sudden multiple appear-ance of new elements in culture. Albeit from the verybeginning some researchers used one or the other ofthese explanations at choice, as if equal – bothphenomena are, as a matter of fact, alternative kindsof diffusion. However, diffusion too, is merely oneamong many possible explanations of culturechange – evolution, cultural and social revolutions,environmental effects, and others. They might beconsidered as potential parts of a more general theoryof culture change (or theory of the change of cultures).This theory, in its turn, may be viewed as a part of astill more general theory of archaeological interpreta-tion, and so on.


12. THE ENLIGHTENING FUNCTIONThe last, but not least, function of archaeologicaltheory is to enlighten. None of the scholars cited be-fore mentioned this function, probably because it isthe most evident. As one scientist (Regirer 1966, 101)said, ‘‘theory is like a light-tower on which floodlightsare mounted to illuminate a building site’’.

Indeed, without theory, however experienced ar-chaeologists may be, have either to subordinate com-pletely to tradition, or to search by trial and error (in

Russian we say ‘by the method bustling about’).Theory evolves before their very eyes as a scheme ofinterrelations in their material and an orderingscheme for their set of instruments, it determines theiraims and tasks. Of course, both schemes are incom-plete, in some respects distorting the picture. But fromfield experience we know that it is better to use imper-fect maps than to have nothing and to travel withoutmaps at all. The more so as that ‘‘nothing’’ oftenmeans the blind confidence in a chance guide.

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PART V. ARCHAEOLOGICAL FACT AND RESEARCH DESIGN

10. Archaeological fact

1. FROM FACT TO DATA‘‘What constitutes an archaeological ‘fact’?’’, threemodern archaeologists, including Binford, ask and re-ply: ‘‘We maintain that in reality the record containsno facts, if we take this term to mean ‘given empiricaltruths’ ’’ (Sabloff et al. 1987, 203). They imply theknown motto of new philosophers that fact is ladenwith theory. Even such avowed empiricists as SirMortimer Wheeler (1960, 199) understood that theremust be an element of theory there, if our facts shouldmean something. This shows that the problem of archae-

ological fact is not as simple as it was once thought.In the early 19th century the British excavator Sir

Richard Hoare (1812) was proud of having not re-sorted to theory. ‘‘We speak from facts, not fromtheory’’, he wrote in the introduction to his book. Facthad long been contrasted with theory as true andsolid reality had with speculation. Later, as theoriesreceived weight in science, fact became considered asa necessary base of any theory, then as their touch-stone, as a criterion of proof.

However there is little in the way of theoreticalworks on this problem in archaeology. The first ar-ticles on archaeological fact appeared in the West in the30s of this century (Strong 1936; Steward and Setzler1938), and in the USSR in the middle of the 70s(Viktorova 1975a; Zacharuk 1977; Sher 1985). His-torians realised much earlier than archaeologists thecomplexity of the problem of scientific fact. Theirunderstanding of fact undoubtedly influenced the no-tions of archaeologists. For a long time archaeological

fact (AF) was seen by archaeologists as somethingsimple, hard and self-evident. Archaeology, like his-tory, began with ‘naıve’ empiricism but lingered atthis stage longer than history. The Curator of theAshmolean Museum, J. H. Parker, said, ‘‘archaeologyis ... history taught with eyes, by showing a series oftangible objects’’ (Parker 1870, 9). ‘‘In this’’, V. A.Gorodcov wrote on stratigraphic data, ‘‘one needs nosubjective intervention of the investigator because

each phenomenon, each thing should speak for itself...’’ (Gorodcov 1908, 11).

The accumulation of errors and fakes showed ar-chaeologists that the obviousness of an AF could bedeceptive (Munro 1905; Arnau 1959 or 1961; Paul1962; a.o.). There was nothing for it but to establishmethods of checking the authenticity of archaeologi-cal objects. Although these methods were in unques-tionable relation to the external criticism of writtensources, archaeologists called it simply ‘source criti-cism’ (for instance Jacob-Friesen 1928, 98; Kruglov iPodgaeckij 1935, 14–31). Any other criticism of thesources was not thought of as necessary. According tothe classification of historical sources, written ones fellinto the bracket of ‘tradition’ and were held as inten-tional and tendentious, while archaeological recordswere included in the category of ‘remains’ and wereconsidered objective and incidental (for a survey andcritic of these views see Pronshtejn 1971, 17, 23–25).

H.-J. Eggers was one of the first who noted thatinformation contained even in genuine material an-tiquities is not completely adequate to reflect theevents of the past because not all data are maintained.Eggers noted the intentional nature attached to spe-cially selected articles laid into graves with the dead(Eggers 195, 52). Eggers found three phases in theprocess of converting information: living material cul-ture – dying material culture – long ago defunct, ‘mu-seum’ material culture (Eggers 1959, 262–270). Ingeneral Eggers and other archaeologists of the BRD(E. Wahle, R. Hachmann) while revealing ‘‘the limitsof the cognitive possibilities’’ of archaeology (Wahle1941; Hachmann, Kossack and Kuhn 1962, 16–28)refer to the distortions of the information that takeplace during the course of the ‘dead culture’. Ameri-can and British archaeologists also noted the filteringof information that occurs in the first and last stagesof the process.

What are the first effects of filtering in the process?From W. Taylor’s viewpoint culture ‘‘consists of


ideas’’, an ethnographer observes objectification ofbehaviour while an archaeologist is left with only thetangible remains of this behaviour (Taylor 1948, 97–115). Thus after Taylor AF is the third step from theessence of culture and in each step shifts of meaningand loss of information are possible. Childe (1954,739) noted that ‘‘many deeds (gestures, words etc.) donot pass into fossil state and do not leave durableresults after them’’. Neither language, social relationsnor ideology are deposited in archaeological ma-terials, ‘‘and this’’, G. Daniel writes, ‘‘is the funda-mental limitation of prehistory’’ (Daniel 1962, 127f).J. Griffin used to say he ‘‘never saw anybody who waslucky to excavate the kinship system’’ (Binford 1972,8). Ideas are objectified differently: much depends onthe subjective factor – the free will of personalities,which is alien to regular rules.

How is the flow of information discussed in Britishand American studies? Here modern critics exagger-ate the subjective contribution of an investigator. Yetnot before long Childe believed: ‘‘Cultures are ob-served facts’’ (Childe 1936, 3) until Daniel challenged:‘‘Cultures of the modern archaeologist ... are only in-strumental concepts’’ (Daniel 1950, 319). Once againKrieger and Spaulding maintained the idea that,‘‘types are discovered in the material and characterisethe state of facts’’ (Krieger 1944; Spaulding 1953). J.Brew and J. Ford challenge this: types are constructedby the investigator and are imposed onto the material(Brew 1946; Ford 1954b; 1962a,b). David Clarkesummarises these sceptical views as follows: ‘‘In ar-chaeology the only facts are artefacts’’ (Clarke 1968,41). However one cannot describe artefacts withoutcovering them with the set of concepts held in themind of the investigator. Clarke notes: ‘‘These factsappear observations in which the nature of the ob-server and his intentions play a great role ...’’ (Clarke1968, 21). In such case there are no facts at all inarchaeology, or one has to admit all its facts are to alarge extent constructions of the investigator and, inthis new sense, ‘artefacts’. These will not merely beancient artefacts but modern ones too, our ‘artefacts’,not in the sense of being hand-made but in the senseof being artificial.

Clarke’s sympathy for these sceptical views was notaccidental. They reflected a climate that reigned inNew Archaeology. The neo-positivist and post-posit-

ivist philosophy of New Archaeology caused it to ad-vance against empiricism and produced some ignor-ance of facts to the advantage of theory. ‘‘Facts donot speak for themselves’’, taught Binford. From thevery beginning facts are laden with theory, they donot exist by themselves outside the theoretical ap-proach, sampling and processing. The main basis forthe New Archaeologists’ custom to neglect a singlefact is their anthropological and sociological training,their hunt for universal laws of the socio-cultural pro-cess. This is why facts are frequently interchangeablefor them and important only so far as on their basisit is possible to infer some law. They are importantonly until such a law is inferred. Thereafter facts losetheir meaning. They are selected with the special aimof solving some problem – there is simply no need inother facts. With their interest in theory and aimingfor laws the New Archaeologists were distinguished inthis respect from Taylor’s direct followers, the Con-textualists. The latter also admit the cognitive inertiaof facts, their dependence on interpretation and theirtheory-ladenness. Yet they respect every single fact;for them the array of facts forms not the basis foruniversal law but a unique context.

P. Courbin, an antagonist of New Archaeology,sees with irony that as a counter to the old, traditionalarchaeology, New Archaeology declares ‘‘there are no‘‘raw’’, ‘‘neutral’’, ‘‘objective’’ facts, there are no‘‘basic data’’, no ‘‘unstructured’’ samples, no datawhich could ‘‘speak for themselves’’. Facts emergeonly in the ‘‘system of connection’’, in the approachsystem explicitly given previously ... everyone has andhad always a ‘‘system of connection’’ ...’’ (Courbin1988, 119). Well, this is somewhat exaggerated. Aswe have seen, there were other approaches too. EvenCourbin himself after disclosing New Archaeologists’secret confidence in facts obtained by traditional ar-chaeology, concludes: ‘‘In essence, although it iswrong in reality, is it not simpler to admit (from prac-tical considerations only) that facts exist indepen-dently of the exact attitude to problems?’’ (Courbin1988, 119).

As to the secret confidence of New Archaeologiststo facts, he definitely caught sight of it. It was con-ditioned by the following circumstance: New Archae-ology’s relation to facts depends first and foremost onits theoretical orientation on the systemic approach. The

103Metaarchaeology

New Archaeology sees in culture a system where allcomponents are closely interconnected and interde-pendent. So for an archaeologist armed with the sys-tem analysis method it is no grief that facts of archae-ology are laden with theory and contain elements ofinterpretation. Due to the correlation of facts in thesystem, this interpretation is hard and potentially un-ambiguous. An early stage Binford sorted artefactsinto technomic, sociotechnic and ideotechnic, according toself-evident treatment of their content (Binford 1962).Later he admitted himself that this division was‘‘somewhat silly’’ (Binford 1972, 17). Other New Ar-chaeologists started searching for narrower deter-mined ‘correlates’ (Hill 1970, 63; Schiffer 1976, 12f).The depth of facts here is theoretically admitted butin practice the face of the fact appears flat. Facts asbefore do speak for themselves though under theirbreath, in the investigator’s ear.

Archaeological systems as they were outlined fromthe direct generalisation of facts were, in the New Ar-chaeology, equal to cultural systems of the past as theyhad lived. Tracing these archaeological systems (byextrapolation and interpolation) through subsequentstratigraphical planes – through time profiles – wasconsidered as the true development. Any systemchanges along the way were assumed to be changesof cultures of the past, changes that demanded causesto be found in the past – such as impact of the naturalenvironment, of neighbouring cultures, or the activityof intrinsic factors. Meanwhile some of these changesin archaeological systems were not at all reflections ofphenomena of past cultural systems. Instead theywere merely distortions introduced in these systems,‘post-mortem’ so to say, when they were purely ar-chaeological systems: some whole fractions of ma-terial are lost because of unequal erosion of differentmaterials. Unequal studies also lead to differences inresults, etc.

However a new approach was forming in the firsthalf of the 1970s, and more decisively in the secondhalf, on the basis of the New Archaeology. This ap-proach was called Behavioral Archaeology. It movedthe centre of gravity from the study of cultural andhistorical process to the study of archaeological sourceformation. The essence was in realising the depth ofarchaeological fact. In the very first scheme M. Schifferpictures the passage of materials from living contexts

(he calls it ‘systemic’) to archaeological context: ob-taining the raw material – production – use – dis-carding – deposal in rubbish (Schiffer 1972). Laterthe scheme became more detailed and elaborated onparticular examples (Fig. 12 – Schiffer 1976, fig. 4.3).S. G. H. Daniels from Nigeria suggested the mostmultistage scheme of AF (Fig. 13 – Daniels 1972, fig.5.1). His scheme follows the idea stated by Monteliuslong ago about the losses of information in archae-ological cognition. Montelius (1888, 5) wrote: ‘‘Onlya small part of what once existed [1] was buried inthe ground [2]; only a part of what was buried hasescaped the destroying hand of time [3]; of this partall has not yet come to light again [4]; and we knowonly too well how little of what has come to light hasbeen of service for our science [5]. Almost all of thefinds of past centuries have disappeared without atrace, and even much of what has been discovered inthe present century has been destroyed’’. ThusMontelius envisaged 5 stages of losses of factual ma-terial, indicated in the above passage with the ad-dition of brackets. Daniels’s model of origins (or of con-

ditioning) of archaeological information was formulated asapplied to a single site and shows 7 levels:

(1) Potential population of artefacts suggested by thecultural matrix;

(2) Actually deposited population;(3) Its preserved part;(4) Part in the excavated unit;(5) Discovered artefacts;(6) Data taken into consideration;(7) Published data.

Perhaps not without influence from this work, whichwas given to Clarke for publication, he elaborated onhis scheme of information movement in the levels ofAF from the predepositional situation through to posi-tional one and postdepositional to the situation of dis-covery and then to analysis and interpretation (Clarke1973, 15f). In this setting Binford presents a schemeof relations more complicated than he did in the late1980s, where this time he places ‘‘fact’’, ‘‘phenom-enon’’, ‘‘event’’, ‘‘data’’, although not completelyitemising every one of these concepts:

‘‘In the science the term ‘‘fact’’ relates to aspects ofactual appearing of the phenomenon. More import-


Fig. 12. Flow of information in archaeology (after Schiffer 1976).

ant is that scientists give the status of the fact to ‘‘rec-ognisable’’ single event that was realised in a certaintime. Fact exists in the event ..., which occurred onceand then is gone forever, while data are presentationof the fact by means of relatively stable establisheddocumentation. If we admit the equalisation of factswith events then we must conclude that archaeologistscan never work with the facts of the past. Howeverarchaeologists produce much data as the result oftheir study and of observation on the archaeologicalrecord... What events do archaeologists describewhen they produce data? They fix events of the obser-vation in which they participate ... These observationrecords reported as data of archaeology belong tomodern facts – to modern events of observation. Nohistorical facts (past events) are accessible to archae-

ological observation. Archaeologists produce datafrom the facts of contemporary observations onartefacts’’.

‘‘Observations on one sherd or arrowpoint aretreated as one event and consequently as the sourceof the fact’’. ‘‘When the archaeological event is dis-covered in archaeological context ..., it seems prob-able that artefacts must belong to past events ...Nevertheless we cannot muddle implications withfacts’’, ‘‘There are no historical facts that remainedfor us in order that we have seen them and recorded’’(Binford 1989, 55–57).

Events proceeded in the past and became the prop-erty of history, or historical facts. Archaeological re-mains, artefacts, sources (or records) are preservedfrom them. Observations on these sources are events,

105Metaarchaeology

but they are modern ones, or modern facts. Record-ings of these events are data produced by archaeol-ogists. On the basis of data we judge about pastevents, but data in archaeology are for us not factsbut merely implications or inferences. In Binford’sscheme, fact of archaeology has been laminated inthe historical, an event of the past, and in the modern,as an act of archaeological observation in the present.In this situation there are two more stages in themovement of information, two more steps of fact,both reflecting an event in material form. One isartefact (or source), the other is data (record of obser-vation of the source). These last two steps are notcalled facts because only event deserves the status offact after Binford (although in Latin, factum, literallymeans ‘made’ or ‘done’). Binford notes four steps inthe flow of information.

Taking into account that events of the past do notexist, likening facts to events allows Binford to allotthe status of fact with observation and to place obser-vation over real objects. This is a neo-positivist line.In theoretical considerations by the New Archaeol-ogists it is the last stage of the flow that features moststrongly, that is, the data, as opposed to facts. The datais the only reality that exists for us while facts aremerely implications of data. Binford carried the termdata into the title of the article quoted above. He alsoused this term much earlier (a chapter from his bookin 1972 was entitled ‘‘Method of data collection’’), butit did not receive a place in the general scheme untilthe 1980s. The term is borrowed from mathematicsand was initially coloured in a statistical hue. Thestatistician and archaeologist Daniels (1978, 31) evenremarked about his archaeological work that: ‘‘I usethe term information rather than data, since datatends to suggest only tables of figures, and I am inten-tionally including ... apparently nonquantitative infor-mation’’. Gardin (1974, 18) considered the definitionof the term data (donnee) without such overtones. Tohim data implies an indication of individual object ina community and a distinctive trait of this object, thetrait being intrinsic (morphologic, technical etc.) orextrinsic (origine, context, date etc.). So, Binford hada justification in retaining the term data for the laststep of the transformation of fact.

This stress did not pass unobserved. R. Gould,whom Binford accused for his empiricism, noted an-

Fig. 13. Research design model (after Daniels 1972: 5.1).

other exciting idea by Binford that has failed becauseit lacks a reliable empirical basis (Gould 1985, 641).Binford rejoined: ‘‘Gould is forced to infer that state-ments on the past are impossible so far as no empiri-cal data remained for us which we could see’’. Henotes: ‘‘The past is gone, Richard. There are onlymodern statistical data. It is our task to understand sothese modern facts that reliably reconstruct (to infer,if you like) the ‘‘real world’’ of the past. To insist thatthe ‘‘real world’’ of the past is the same ‘‘real world’’that is present in archaeological records is a sheernonsense’’ (Binford 1989, 116). Nevertheless due tothe belief in strict systemic organisation of culture andin the existence of laws (laws of cultural process and


those governing the archaeologisation of materials),Binford is convinced that it is quite possible to inferreliably the ‘real world’ of the past from archaeologi-cal records. He considers methods worked out by himand by other New Archaeologists as adequate andreliable means for such inference.

In the 1980s however, the ideology of the next gen-eration began setting the tone in archaeology, at leastin British archaeology. They had lost faith in systemicorder and with this faith the Neo-Positivist optimismas well. The main theoretician of this new direction,Ian Hodder, summarised in his book ‘‘Reading thepast’’ all the inferences of the New Archaeologists andtheir predecessors on the ‘‘facts laden with theory’’and the dependence of facts on it, on the non-exist-ence of ‘‘pure facts’’ and so on. ‘‘The bare bones thatare left’’, he summarised, ‘‘are the facts in the realworld which we can never observe’’ (Hodder 1986,here 1991, 16).

He rejected Binford’s assurance of the reliability ofhis methods as independent instrument able tomeasure relations between ancient society and mod-ern archaeological material. This is not true, declaredHodder, because many measurements depend on ourperception and our categorisation, and they are veryweakly connected with the material. Over and abovethere is no independent measuring instrument atone’s disposal: the methods themselves are dependenton theory. ‘‘There can be neither checking of theorywith data nor independent measuring installation norvalid knowledge on the past’’. Hodder stresses the‘‘destroying’’ effect of his inferences: ‘‘... the wholefabric of archaeology as a scientific discipline ... isthreatened’’ (Hodder 1991, 18). If the basis of factsof archaeology is so unreliable and inaccessible, fromwhere does an archaeologist obtains his knowledge onthe past? ‘‘As a result, the theories one espouses aboutthe past depend very much on one’s own social andcultural context ... In other words, the data-theoryrelationship is conceived and manipulated within cul-tural and historical contexts’’ (Hodder 1991, 17f).

Thus, if in the beginning AF was perceived assomething even more simple and evident than fact ofhistory, in the end AF appeared in front of investi-gators as something far more complicated and deep.Having regarded AF as something simple archaeol-ogists once saw its objective side as absolute, while

modern western archaeologists who recognised thecognitive multistage nature of AF saw the absolutenessof its subjective side.

Comparing schemes of Daniels and Clarke, A. Sul-livan elects Clarke as his preference. Daniels proceedsby counting artefacts, which is treated simultaneouslyboth as a channel of information communicating toan archaeologist and as the communication (or ‘mess-age’) itself which has to be processed. Clarke analysestraces (in the wide sense), and these are the ‘message’,while artefacts are merely the channel through whichthe ‘message’ is communicated to an archaeologist(Sullivan 1978, 193f). Sullivan does not use the termsclearly here and does not clearly differentiate the con-cepts. In the same survey he differentiates ‘‘evidence’’or ‘‘data’’ from ‘‘material remains’’: archaeologists obtainevidences (or data) from material remains (Sullivan1978, 189). ‘‘Evidence’’ has been frequently translatedas ‘‘information’’ and ‘‘fact’’, while the term ‘‘material re-

mains’’ is used here because, in English, the term‘‘source’’, which is more suitable here is not used. Theterm ‘‘record’’ is usually applied instead which does notfit the designation ‘a channel’ or ‘reservoir’: it meanswritten information, and this is imprinted and fixed. Fact

and sources are more exact designations of those sidesof the relation which are presented here by Sullivanas traces and artefacts.

2. CONVERSION AND RECONVERSION OFINFORMATIONIn his article ‘‘Archaeology: the loss of innocence’’(1973) David Clarke considers archaeological re-search as ‘‘information processing (or elaboration)’’,where information enters through ‘‘archaeologicalchannels’’. The information ‘‘may be extracted fromcomplex, integrated relationships encapsulated within... sites ... from data’’ (Clarke 1973: 13). He holds thiselaboration of information as part of the generaltheory of archaeology – ‘‘it is just these ... steps whichunderlie the critical leaps in archaeological reasoning.Without such a body of theory these critical leaps doindeed take-off and become a free-flight of creativefancy – an irresponsible art form’’ (Clarke 1973: 16).Clarke was indeed impressed by Daniels’ article inClarke’s collective volume ‘‘Models in archaeology’’,which was printed the year before ‘‘The loss of inno-

107Metaarchaeology

cence’’. This can be seen in Clarke’s choice of particu-lar levels being separated ‘‘in any archaeologicalinterpretation’’, namely:

1) Hominid activity patterns as well as social and en-vironmental processes that once existed;

2) The sample and traces of these patterns, depositedcontemporaneously with (1);

3) The part of that sample which survived and is re-covered;

4) The part of the sample in (3) which was recoveredby excavation or collection.

Clarke suggested theoretical conceptions concerningthe transition from each level to the next one:

(a) Predepositional and depositional theory (1–2),(b) Postdepositional theory (2–3),(c) Retrieval theory (3–4),(d) Analytical theory – analysis of the circumstances

discovered which became ‘data’.

The theory consists of joining the data by means ofmodels preserved in archaeology. To that Clarkeadded:

(e) Interpretative theory which, from all these analyseddata, concludes that the structures and processesare unobservable directly (Clarke 1973, 16f).

Although Clarke has employed Daniels’ treatment, heremained with his four-level structure of archaeologi-cal information (he does not apply the term ‘fact’here). However, it traces clearly the flow of infor-mation from processes of the past through archae-ological monuments and to the written report of anarchaeologist. The full process of information conver-sion is the cognitive basis and logical structure of thearchaeological procedure, as Clarke calls the archaeologi-cal research design. This conversion process leadsfrom factual material (objects of archaeology) to itsinterpretation in terms of history. This is what unitedthe sequence that lies at the basis of certain researchdesign models: inductivist, deductivist and problemdesign. The selection of these schemes is determinedby the philosophical and methodological position ofthe investigator. However, what conditions the struc-

ture of the subject itself – the overall quantity ofstages, their content and sequence? How is this struc-ture connected with the philosophy of science?

It can be shown that these characteristics are con-ditioned by the understanding of AF. If the fact issimple and may be reduced to what is seen on thesurface, then merely collection, description and gen-eralisation are necessary. If the fact is complex andcontains not only information which we search for,and beside it there is much other information andthat which we search for is distorted, then the elabor-ation must be more sophisticated and extensive. Cri-tique, clarification and replenishing are needed.

Archaeology studies material antiquities (bothartefact and non-artefact ones) and relations betweenthem. The necessary postulate of archaeology is toadmit that its objects are traces and remains of thepast, i.e. results of historical events and socioculturalphenomena. These traces and remains are consideredto be information on and produced by the events andphenomena that once occurred. Information wentthrough several transformations before it was de-posited as facts of archaeology. Thus, it is not initialinformation but a transformed type. It now reflectsnot only events, processes and phenomena of the pastbut changes in the reflection too. Not only a historyof a society is deposited in this information, but alsoits own history. AF is not simple or flat, it has depth.This second history is not merely extra complication.To cognise it is necessary in order to rebuild the firsthistory. In order to establish what is initial infor-mation, one must recognise all the transformations inthe information. In the essence the analyses made byus that the material is exposed to is not direct trans-formation of the information but the reverse one. Itis not the conversion, but the reconversion, not thedivergence from the past reality but an attempt toreturn to return to it. Clarke indicated that his in-

terpretative theory ‘‘connects [levels] 4–1’’ (Clarke 1973,17), that is, it traces information in the reverse direc-tion – into the archaeological material.

3. THE DEEPEST LEVELS OF AF

Optimally, the researcher would strive for accuratereconversion and the separation of subjective and ob-jective elements in AF as completely as is possible. It


is necessary for this sake that the scheme of the cogni-tive multistage structure of the AF appreciates thelevels of the AF (i.e. stages of the conversion and itsfiltering) as well as it can. Most schemes manage thisonly for a few levels, but as there were many suchproposed schemes, even a simple generalisation ofthem is able to aid a more complete examination ofAF. The authors of these schemes spent their entireinvestigation efforts mainly on attempting to mentallypicture the material culture by issuing from archae-ological remains. Rouse and Taylor aimed to establishwhat is hidden behind things and their relationships.Behind things and relations these archaeologists sawcustoms, stereotypes, and idioms of behaviour, andstill deeper, behind those, they saw social norms andindividual motives, that is, ideas (Rouse 1939; Taylor1948, 97–124). Theoreticians in the West concernedwith the concept of AF and the problem of archae-ological research design did not venture further thanthis. It is understandable by itself: sharp criticism canbe made of the objective idealism in the basis of themethodology because it is reducible to the notion ofideas as prime causes.

Not only is idealism presented in the methodolog-ical fundamentals of modern archaeology in the Westbut materialism is too. Soviet Marxists used to con-sider this materialism flat, non-consecutive, andsuperficial, since it is full of neopositivist ideas andthus is akin to subjective idealism. As applied to thecognition of AF this is clearly expressed by the line ofthe New Archaeology – to limit the culture conceptwithin behaviour and its material results, and to elim-inate ideas from this concept since they are not ob-servable directly (Binford 1965; Watson, LeBlanc andRedman 1971, 63–65). Yet the concept of culture (insuch limits) appears fundamental for the conceptionof ‘‘cultural process’’, and the cognition of ‘‘culturalprocess’’ and its laws are considered as the main aimof archaeology (Binford 1968; Watson et al. 1971, 22f).In other words, in reconversion the New Archaeologytheoreticians envisage advancing only to the level ofbehaviour actions, not deeper. In their notion AF ap-pears flatter than in the notion of their idealisticallydisposed predecessors.

The orthodox Marxism affected archaeology in asimilar way – to refuse seeing ideas in the basis. Itconcentrated its attention on tools, objects, and pro-

duction. In the early 1930s A. V. Kiparisov (Kiparisov1933, 7–9) and K. R. Megrelidze (Megrelidze 1935,71–81) suggested holding the principle of object-prac-tical activity as a leading idea in Marxist archaeology.In the 1970s this was caught up by V. D. Viktorova(Viktorova 1975b; 1989, 16f, 65–78). V. F. Geningconsiders AF as the result of objectification and putsobjectification theory on the foreground in archaeol-ogy. Objectification of what? Of particular ideas? Notat all, objectification of some very abstract ‘‘forces ofhuman essence’’, of ‘‘social live activity’’ in general(Gening 1989, 64f). From the ‘‘object-technologicalreconstructions (OTR)’’ he leads the investigator(Gening 1989, 224–270) to ‘‘socio-technological the-oretical model (STTM)’’ and so on, and from theredirectly to the end target, to socio-economic forma-tions, which as it is known are exactly five in number(the phraseology of Bulgakov’s Voland fits well here).

In my opinion, to be a Materialist does not mean re-fusing the role of ideas in the conditioning of behav-iour, and does not mean sticking to the tangible, visiblebehaviour and to boggle over revealing ideal motivesof behaviour. It is just the reverse, to be a rational andconsecutive materialist means, after passing through allthe levels of cognition, to see behind the ideas and rec-ognise those stimuli by which these ideas are producedin the conscience of people. Not to shrink back one stepbut to advance a step further.

Ideas are conditioned by the being, by the entiresocial and personal practice of people – by pro-ductive, economical, political, ideological, everydaylife activity etc. Within this practice, the stimuli ofcreation of social norms, standards, and ‘‘mental tem-plates’’ emerge and are rooted to ideas. ‘‘The prob-lem of conscience’’, the Soviet philosopher E. S. Mar-karjan noted (Markarjan 1969, 43, also 37–42, 44f),‘‘is first of all the problem of the stimuli of its forma-tion. It is these stimuli that were contained in the ma-terial-production practice’’. Behind the ‘‘matrix ofideas’’ one has to see the ‘‘matrix of stimuli’’. Thesestimuli have to be considered as the last, the deepestlevel of AF. They provide the passage to the causalmachinery and sociocultural or historical regularities,i.e. output off the limits of the AF, into theory.

The approach to these last levels of the AF and totheir separation was difficult. These difficulties residedin the double relationships of practical activity with

109Metaarchaeology

ideas. Must we place this activity on a level higher ora level lower than the ideas? It seemed that there weregrounds for both cases. In theoretical works of Sovietauthors concerning this problem, a more general ap-proach was taken: the activity was related not to ideasbut directly to the material results – indeed, these areundoubtedly its derivatives (Zacharuk 1970, 13f;1973, 44f). The root of the difficulty was lurking inthe double essence of the very concept of practicalactivity. One thing is the particular operations, dy-namic actions of people, and components of behav-iour. They can be considered as realisation of theideas. Quite another thing is the total aggregate prac-tice of the society, situations which the activity bringspeople into, and the characters that result.

4. THE COMPLETE COURSE OF THECONVERSIONIssuing from these considerations we can present thefull scheme of the multi-step cognitive structure of AF

as follows (the levels are enumerated according to theconversion of information):

(1) Stimuli – social and personal practice of people(production, economical and political relation-ships, ideology or mentality, everyday life etc.).

(2) Ideas – social norms, customs, standards, indi-vidual motives (already rooted here are plans ofbehaviour and the potential population ofartefacts, i.e. the cultural matrix).

(3) Actions – operations, deeds, events, i.e. thatwhich realises the customs, stereotypes and id-ioms of behaviour.

(4) Incorporations (embodiments) – things, artefacts,marks and traces on them, material objects aswell as their interrelationships in the living cul-ture. Their total population is present. This isthe objectification of behaviour, or, indirectly,objectified ideas.

(5) Deposits – things, fragments of them, traces onthem and left from them, as well as interrelation-ships of all of them in the dead culture. Not thetotal population of things but only its depositedfraction.

(6) Remains – the same in the archaeological ma-terial in situ in or on the earth by the time of

excavation (or of sampling, surveying or the like).This is the preserved fraction.

(7) Destructions – displacement of a part of the ma-terial by non-professional collectors.

(8) Observable – that which is in the archaeologicalmaterial which was in the space under research(in the dig, the section, the profile, the collectionetc.). This is what an archaeologist is able to lookat directly.

(9) Discoveries – things, traces and their inter-relationships discovered, noted by researchers inthe field or in collections. This is the fraction thatis seen by an archaeologist.

(10) Samples – things, traces and their interrelation-ships recorded and liable to registration (visual,written, and other descriptions) or taken fromthe field. This is the fraction selected in the fieldor in collections.

(11) Filtrates – the same objects less the discardedones, i.e. objects (and their relations) accountederroneously: pseudo-artefacts, non-genuinetraces, fakes, counterfeits, forgeries. This is thepurified fraction.

(12) Descriptions – reflection of the information fromthe previous level with the means of a specialelementary ‘‘alphabet’’ and by comparison withconcepts of analytical classification.

(13) Compacts (generalisations) – the result of infor-mation having been compressed by separatingout its essentials by means of taxonomic classifi-cation, type and systematisation.

(14) Evidences – information from one of the pre-vious two levels (or from both of them) reportedin a publication or in a lodged work (field report,dissertation etc.), in files or in computer memoryas well as in personal archives and at the worst,in the researcher’s own memory.

Of these 14 levels of AF, the first three deal with po-tentials, the next eight (from 4 to 11) with material,and the last three with reflections.

5. FILTERING IN THE FLOW OFINFORMATIONBetween these levels there are filters or floodgates inwhich information is transformed: some passes


Fig. 14. C- and N-transforms in archaeological information flow(after Schiffer 1976: 2.1).

through but some is lost, distorted, or a kind of pollut-ing enters (Klejn 1975b; Sullivan 1978, 193). Whatfactors affect the information at these floodgates?(Daniels 1972, 204–209; Collins 1975) M. Schiffer di-vides them into cultural (C-transforms) and natural(N-transforms) (Fig. 14 – Schiffer 1976, 14f). In orderto investigate the sequence the direction outlined byDaniels and Clarke is more convenient – along thesteps of information flow. Let us consider them in thesame order of information conversion. For the sakeof convenience in comparing, ordinal designations offloodgates are given.

Crystallisation of stimuli (0–1)

Led to by sociocultural-historical regularities andcausal machinery. The situation is complicated by thefact that many of these regularities act only as trendsand provide merely probabilistic (not rigid dynamic)determination, while some of the causal mechanismsdo not produce unambiguous causal connections:under the impact of different conditions, frequentlyrandom ones, similar causes can lead to different ef-fects, and behind similar effects different causes canbe hidden (the phenomenon of plural causality).

Realisation of stimuli (1–2)

This process is also determined and therefore customsof the peoples having no contacts often appear similar(the phenomenon of convergence) but the segment ofprobability determination here is much bigger. EvenMarxists admit, at least in theory, the relative inde-pendence of ideology (here meaning the world ofideas). In the final appearance of ideas, the individualpeculiarities of people are represented. Thus customsof peoples are very diverse.

Incorporation of ideas in behaviour (2–3)

Here the mark of various obstacles are met: naturaldisasters, conflict of ideas, conflicts between peopleand between groups of people, and between person-ality and society. Social norms are less rigid than thebiological program of behaviour. Personalities andhuman populations dispose freedom of will, freedomof choice, and this freedom is not limitless but notfictional either. So the realisation of ideas in behav-iour and with it the behaviour itself are predictable,but not strictly predictable.

Objectification of behavioural acts (3–4)

The New Archaeology as well as orthodox Marxistsestablished here clear relations. Schiffer retained thisnotion when he placed correlates before his distortingC- and N-transforms (Schiffer 1976: 12–14). This iscorrelation between objects (artefacts) and ideas. Infact there are no unambiguous correlations, there areonly ideals weakly realisable in behaviour. It is clearthat behaviour intervenes between ideas and objects(artefacts), behaviour that leads from ideas to objects,and it usually does not realise the ideas exactly. Be-sides, a gap always exists between the behaviour andits objectified results (artefacts) (Krause and Thorne1971). A simple difference of materials will conditiondifferent results even in equal series of actions di-rected on these materials. Things of different appear-ance will emerge. However, it is not only the ma-terials that are different, but the conditions of actionstoo. H. Obermeier, with a group of French archaeol-ogists, arranged experiments of throwing flint intostone crushers in order to show that flint is split dif-ferently in warm conditions and in frost and that itcan lead to different sets of flint industry (Obermajer1913: 468). Therefore ideals are ideal, manufacture

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does not coincide with template, or realisation withmodel, or imitation with original.

The first act of archaeologisation (4–5)

This is predepositional: death, becoming defunct,departing, deposition on, and later, in the earth. Inthis way the selection proceeds, one may say, depo-sitional selection) – the bearers of culture them-selves accomplish it having in mind peculiarities ofsituations and things (Eggers 1959, 264–268, seealso 276–294). People themselves selected what todiscard, and what to keep. They determined inwhich situations the worn-out, obsolete, damaged,or broken things go, in a natural way, to depo-sition, and in which situations this way is open tofresh, intact, sometimes specially made things,necessarily in an artificial way. In comparison withliving culture, here proportions are changed as wellas appearance. The make-up of the living is not re-peated in the summary distribution of the bonefragments of animal species in the occupation layer.Age composition of the once living community isnot reflected in a cemetery as in a mirror: duringthe life of one mature generation several gener-ations of children could have lived. Some compo-nents of the ‘living’ material culture are simply lost(usually organic parts) while components absent inthe ‘living’ culture have entered into the dead cul-ture, for instance, specially manufactured ornamentswith gold foil and ceramic models of things.

Many sub-systems in the material culture areopen – they do end up as compact deposits and arefrequently not covered by other distinct layers. Thisis why in several cases elements that were separatedby enormous time intervals in the ‘living’ culture co-incide and are mixed together (‘‘compression’’, Ju. N.Zakharuk 1975).

Second act of the archaeologisation (5–6)

This is postdepositional. The first group of factors iscontained in fossilisation. The changes that take placemake the orginal use of an object no longer possible.The other aspect of fossilisation is the belonging toextinct species. The final appearance of the objects isa consequence of natural forces and of time – de-composition of organic materials, corrosion of metals,and so on. The position of remains is changed by

redepositing under the action of natural forces. Allthis increases the compression effect.

The second group of factors is ancient artificial de-struction. During the post-depositional period thesubsequent generation of people also had an impacton deposits through activities such as piling up thehabitation layer, robbing the graves, secondary dig-ging and destruction of monuments. They disturb thestructure of assemblages and change the compositionof material. This also increases the compression effect.Both groups of factors acted in parallel ways, withoutstrict alternation in time.

Modern artificial destruction (6–7)

The activity of non-professionals, obtaining thingswithout recording find conditions or falsifying them,which displaces a part of the material from assem-blages. It is at this stage that the majority of fakesarise in the material.

The choice of unit for investigation (7–8)

Archaeologists are forced to limit the area of samplingand mapping. It is clear that this will influence theamount and content of the information received. Thiswill depend on many circumstances – the aims of re-search, financing, equipment available, accessibilityetc.

The detection of information bearers (8–9)

The detection of artefacts, traces, and relations by re-searchers in the space outlined. It is insufficient tolook at the objects – one has to see them. What theinvestigator will be lucky enough to see depends on anumber of factors: the competence of archaeologists,the methods applied, the technical outfit of the pro-ject, the level of the development of science at thetime, conditions of work etc.

Selection of the necessary information (9–10)

Everything worth recording and preserving is necess-ary to select. There is usually too much observed in-formation. To record it in totality is practically im-possible, not to speak of the total amount of ceramics,all the bones, the content of the graves and the entirecontent of the occupation layers. Transfer to a mu-seum of all the relationships of artefacts with the en-vironment is in general impossible in principle, so


selection is unavoidable. Technical constraints of theproject will affect the selection. Notions of the re-searchers on the comparative importance of differentparts of the information discovered forms anothergroup of factors conditioning the selection. These no-tions rest on aims set by the given project and ongeneral evidence on an estimated set of data for theproject. Again, the competence of the researchers andthe general level of science development will be rel-evant. Subjective intentions and views of the re-searchers also play an important role.

Selection of genuine information (10–11)

One must recognise young, often even modernartefacts, traces and relations mistaken for ancientones, and natural objects mistaken for human madeobjects. In this floodgate distortions are possible too:the loss of some information and relations or the lossof unwanted, corrupting information.

Recording of the discovered and selected (11–12)

Recording of artefacts, traces and relations is a ruleof every professional expedition. The monument islost to a certain extent and to excavate it a secondtime would be impossible. Recording should rescuethe maximum possible quantity of information andgrant adequate access of the collected information toany user distant in space and time.

Written description is the reflection of real things bymeans of not only natural but also a special conven-tional language with an elementary ‘‘alphabet’’, ‘‘vo-cabulary’’ and ‘‘grammar’’ (scientific terminology, ab-breviations, formulas, tables, indexes, codes etc.). Suchdesription implies comparison with the concepts ofanalytical classification. All these means must providemaximum and exact transmission of information. Thecharacter of the transmission depends on the set of con-cepts and terms in which the material is described, therichness of language, its flexibility and adequacy for thematerial, and its terminological clarity.

Graphic fixation also implies a certain convention-ality, the transmission of three-dimensional realitywith plane projections, reduction of the light andshade relations with linear contours, and often de-tachment from colour. This is also a language and itsrules imply quantity and choice of projections, thedegree of generalisation, sign conventions, and scale.

Generalisation or minimisation (12–13)

This is the comprehension of information for the sakeof convenient record keeping and use. In the basis ofthis process is separation of the essential by meansof taxonomic classification, type and systematisation.Several kinds of connections are revealed: type, as-semblage, culture etc. Taxonomic classification im-plies hierarchy of attributes, estimation of compara-tive importance of various object parameters. Suchestimation has objective footholds in the material.However, culture is a complex and multi-sided sys-tem, and the interests of observers are broad and donot coincide on many points. So the choice of theessential and the estimation of parameter importanceare not rigid. Some divergence of solutions is deter-mined by difference of approaches – by systems ofviews, and by interests.

Narrative (13–14)

This is figuration and objectification of the elaboratedinformation by special means of storage and distri-bution – in publications, papers and files, in computermemory as well as in natural memory, notes of re-searches themselves, in museum exhibitions etc. Pub-lications, electronic and printed, occupy the mainplace among these reservoirs and distributors of infor-mation. In preparing for publication the last distor-tions of information are possible – editing, changes todrawings and photos, editorial additions and changesin accentuation, and uncorrected mistakes.

Having traced the course of archaeological infor-mation transformations from beginning to end, wecan hardly wonder there are errors and divergencesin archaeology. How strong are the regularities andsense connections between events and their traces, ifindeed after this entire cascade of transformationsthey do still show through the mosaic of descriptionsand interpretations? And how sophisticated must theresearcher be to catch them, to reveal and to repro-duce them in a state similar to their initial one?

6. RECONVERSION, REFLECTION ANDCRITIQUETo consider in such details the conversion of infor-mation, the process offering multistageness and depth

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to AF, was necessary in order to present clearly thefull course of reconversion. Since it is reconversionthat lays in the basis of archaeological research de-sign, the planned succession of steps in archaeologicalinquiry is intended. The point is not to repeat the listof stages of conversion in reverse order. Reconversiondoes not simply mean the mirroring of the conver-sion. One has to trace its full course anew. It is necess-ary to consider all the stages of reconversion com-pletely and consecutively, because at every stage thetask of reconversion is to restore and reconstruct thestate of information on the preceding level, while eachtime taking into account what occurred in the filteringfloodgate – what is lost, added and distorted.

Conversion was the movement of information inthe formation of an archaeological record, the form-ing of the archaeological facts, where objective processesof culture acted. Reconversion is the revealing of in-formation, the tracing of the flow of information, theadvancement of archaeological thought into thedepth of AF. The research of this process is reflection:self-checking, self-proving, self-control and self-cri-tique by the researcher as an abstract person, as aresearcher in general. With respect to particularpeople it can not be a self-criticism at all, but simplya critique. Indeed, different features of this abstractperson can be realised in various scholars. This is alsothe analysis of the portions of information being re-ceived about the traced sections of reconversion. Thisprocedure is called source criticism and is usuallylimited to a particular step or a few steps of the entireflow. Here it is understood in the broadest sense.Practically the whole inquiry can be understood assource criticism. No wonder then, that archaeology isconsidered as a source-studying discipline.

By moving the reverse way through the precedingsurvey, towards the information, let us designate thestages of reconversion or criticism with a different nu-meration, this time with Roman numerals and corre-lated with the previous list in brackets.

I. Textological criticism (14–13)

This is proof of the adequacy of narrative exposition.It relies on the inner logic of the narrative. Otheraids are the comparison of various realisations andversions of exposition, and verification of the expo-sition with the preserved parts of information from

the preceding levels. The outer characteristics of thenarrative (accuracy, detail etc.) are taken into ac-count, too, as well as general findings of the author’spersonality and on the process of the exposition.

II. Critique of concepts (13–12)

This is the reliability proof of generalisation and it canbe executed in two ways. The first consists of repeating(even if only partially by sampling) the work done andincluding an analysis of the methodological foundationof classification, and analysing the attempts of its appli-cation to the same material. This route is convenientsince it does not demand any output beyond the bor-ders of the material studied, but it is not attractive be-cause it entails twice the amount of work.

The second way is to ascertain from ‘outside’whether the given system of generalised concepts isrealistic. This means comparing it with other anal-ogous systems, to apply it to a broader circle of ma-terials and to clear up whether it ‘works’ – whetherthe new materials fit it and whether its concepts cor-relate with other concepts. This way is more interest-ing, but it leaves the researcher unsure whether allthe particular errors were revealed.

III. Critique of description (12–11)

Critique means foremost proof of the completenessand accuracy of description. This proof includes esti-mation of possibilities and limits of every method ofdescription applied and testing of the accuracy oftheir application. This allows us, if not to restore un-recorded details, then at least to establish where andwhat kinds of omissions one can assume.

IV. Critique of authenticity (11–10)

The proof of the original information selection, in-cluding estimation of the applied methods of selec-tion. The rest is reduced to repeating the selectionbecause the checking of methods application co-incides with the selection due to the critical characterof the very operation of selection.

V. Setting critique (10–9)

This is the proof of the selection of informationneeded. This proof concerns criteria and conditionsof this selection, demands to characterise the person-ality of the researcher and the level of scientific devel-


opment at the time of research. It is not always poss-ible to make the selection again. What was discardedin the field is mostly lost beyond hope. One can onlyestablish which cases do not exclude objects of a cer-tain kind in the space studied.

VI. Critique of observation (9–8)

This is proof of the completeness of objects discoveredin the area under study. This proof must assess themethods of survey, equipment of the project, com-petence of researchers, take into consideration thelevel of scientific development and the conditions ofwork, and the intensity of study if carried out over alarge area. As a control, it is of course possible tomake a second study but only if the excavation of theobject or of its given part is still proceeding. After-wards it only remains to infer undiscovered detailsfrom the above estimations and by comparison withanalogous assemblages.

VII. Critique of limits (8–7)

The analysis of the choice and limitation of the spacein which the research is done. For this it is sufficientto estimate the size of the area and its content of ar-chaeological materials in comparison with otherareas. Factors which determined this are consideredby historiography. For critical proof they are interest-ing only in the case data on the choice and on thelimitation of the area.

VIII. Museum critique (7–6)

This is an estimation of the scope and consequencesof the modern destruction and separation of the infor-mation. It is essential to assume what informationmay have been contained in the lost parts. The mainfoothold in this selection is museum and field docu-mentation. The comparison is suggested by itself. Ifthe field documentation is absent, the only hope is inanalogies and various evidence from elsewhere.

IX. Critique of remains (6–5)

This is an estimation of the scope and consequencesof ancient destruction – natural (fossilisation) and arti-ficial. However, strictly speaking, one can only esti-mate the consequences of destructive processes whenit is known what existed before the destruction. Butthis is not known, and it is the reason the estimation

is necessary: in order to reconstruct the first destruc-tion. In many cases, remains that survived after de-struction are unambiguous or have little meaning –they allow only one or a few certain varieties of recon-struction. Secondly, in several cases, the causes of de-struction are known, so one can establish what de-posits would have been distorted (and thus possiblyhad existed) and what would have survived. Thirdly,analogous objects that are better preserved can serveas models for such a reconstruction.

Thus critical work on reconstruction at this stage isreduced to three series of operations: 1) counting ofdegrees of freedom in reconstruction from remains ofvarious kinds, b) estimation of destructive factors thatonce acted and estimation of their impact, c) con-sidering objects under study against a background ofbetter preserved objects of the same kind.

X. Critique of deposits (5–4)

An estimation of the changes that occurred when ob-jects passed from the ‘living’ culture to the ‘dead’ one.This estimation has to embrace ‘‘depositional’’ selec-tion of the bearers of ancient culture, ‘necro’ trans-formations (changes of proportions etc. in the deadculture in comparison with the living), and com-pression effects. It is here, in these operations, that thecentre of gravity lies in the ‘‘estimation of cognitiveopportunities’’ of various kinds of archaeologicalsources.

XI. Critique of things (3–2)

This is an estimation of the difficulties met in the ob-jectification of behavioural acts. Problems of objecti-fication embrace connection of work and artefact,process and result, actions and traces. What diffi-culties can be expected here? Establish regular corre-spondences, trace regularities, calculate correlations –and it’s all over but the shouting. The network ofuniversal ‘correlates’ will appear and the only task re-maining is to formulate the rules of correspondenceand apply them.

This is not quite the case however (Klejn 1981a).Culture is polysemic. There are no stable correspon-dences in it, there are only more or less noticeablepreferences, usually local, temporal and each speciallyconditioned. Each case has to be considered individu-ally. It is necessary to uncover in which cases equal

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actions led to different results. This is important inorder not to overestimate the differences and not tooverestimate their meaning. It is also necessary to un-ravel situations, fortunately not so frequently, wheredifferent actions have led to equal results (Adams1968; 1973). Critical estimation of complexity orientsthe investigator in search of decisive details, for in-stance, stratigraphic traces of secondary burial. It ori-ents the researcher too, in considering the objectunder study in a broader system – for example, acomparison with analogous tombs where the secondhalf of the tomb space prepared for the second corpseremains unfilled (Itina 1954).

Modern behavioural archaeology does not want togo further than this level of cognition. It is afraid ofshaky ground on the route ahead, but are furtherareas really impracticable?

XII. Critique of behaviour (3–2)

This is an estimation of the divergence between ideasand their realisation in behaviour. In essence this is apsychological task – to conjecture and grasp ideasfrom behaviour. This psychological task is very diffi-cult even with living people, whose feelings, thoughtsand intentions we understand better than the psy-chology of people more distant by culture and time.Nevertheless, in these cases, when it depends on ‘fam-iliarity’, we can rely on plenty of minute details, im-agine ourselves in the same situation and make stipu-lations based on discerning ‘Other’ from ‘Us’. All ofthese fail almost completely when we advance ideasfrom archaeological remains.

In order to restore an individual idea in such a situ-ation one has to find a more adequate realisation of thesame idea – the imitation of an original artefact for in-stance. The methods of determining the direction inthe typological series (after typological rudiments) andthe direction of the influence (after separate modes) arethe keys to such a riddle. ‘Shared ideas’, or socialnorms, can be restored more reliably: if there is muchdeviation from the ideal but they show a normal distri-bution, then revealing the ideal is not difficult. A ques-tion emerges however of whether the deviations fromideal always conform to the law of normal distribution.Can systemic shifts not emerge under the impact ofequal vector forces? This should establish the criticalestimation of the whole situation.

XIII. Critique of ideas (2–1)

The task of this stage is to judge the extent to whichlife phenomena, those that stimulated certain behav-iour, were reflected in particular ideas of ancientpeople. The critique of ideas lies at the core of thereconstruction of life of the past, reconstruction afterideas deposited in things, after archaeological facts ingeneral. How did people react to phenomena in theirlives, and how did they perceive them? Is it possibleto restore their ideas through their reactions and thento make judgements based on these phenomena? Thisestimation has to appreciate not only realisations ofindividual chance divergences, not only local differ-ences connected with race, ethnicity, gender, age,class, estate, caste, etc., but also the specificity of theprehistoric and ancient consciences. Since things likemythology played a large role in the thinking ofpeople, it does not coincide with the thinking of mod-ern man. Even the actions of medieval people willremain completely incomprehensible to us if we im-agine them as sheer rational agents, and we reasonstrictly logically about them, soundly calculating theirinterests and the historic situation.

We often are inclined to judge situations in the pre-historic and ancient world after ideas and actions ofancient people and forget these traps, seeking naiverationalistic explanations for ancient ideas and actionswith the help of modern common sense and patchydata on the past. These explanations participate ac-tively in our system of evidences on past life, and socondition the formation of a false historical picture.A critique of ideas attempts to prevent this deviation.How prehistoric people thought and felt, and howthey cognised about their life and themselves, welearn from ancient pictorial and symbolic monu-ments, from ethnographic and psychological studies,and from theoretical reconstructions. It is significantthat in recent decades researchers of prehistoric eco-nomics venture more and more into these themes.

XIV. Critique of stimuli (1–0)

We have to estimate to what degree particular stimuli(historical phenomena, events, and circumstances)were necessary and unavoidable in the conditioningof the behaviour of ancient people. This is connectedwith revealing the limits and possibilities of the proba-bilistic determination in each case where such deter-


mination took place. This is also connected with casesof pluricausality. From this definition it is evident thatif the critique of ideas means reconstruction of stimuli,the critique of stimuli leads to reconstruction of his-torical process, of causal relations, and needs analysisof very broad historical prospects. This analysis ishardly feasible on the basis of archaeological recordsalone. Consequently, critique of stimuli goes beyondthe limits of archaeology proper. Archaeological re-search in the proper sense is limited to the precedingstep.

7. CONCLUSIONThe analysis undertaken of AF is distinguishable frompreceding attempts by one circumstance. Otheranalyses have concentrated on the philosophical as-pect of the theme. They revealed the interrelationshipbetween objectivity and subjectivity in AF, and theiraim was to show how significant the subjective factorwas, and to show this against over-confident opti-mism. They focus very much on terminological hair-splitting subtleties in order that philosophical argu-ments are stated clearly enough. European archaeol-ogists, mostly British ones, gave more attention to thepractical operations of cognition.

It seems to me that in continuing the Europeanline I was lucky in revealing the connection betweenstructure of AF and archaeological research design.

The complexity of AF is for me not a reason for pessi-mism but rather the stimulation to work – to enlargethe archaeological research design in scope, and tothe elaboration of its new stages and operations. It isnot to philosophical speculations that this study leadsus, but to methods of work.

Modern researchers arrived at inferences of AF

with four-levels, which would correspond to a four-stage procedure, or four-stage archaeological researchdesign. Only Daniels from Nigeria suggested a seven-stage procedure (without any connection with AF).David Clarke wrote in 1973 on four levels of fact and5 stages of the research design when he divided thegeneral theory of archaeology into consecutive stepsin his well-known article ‘‘Archaeology: the loss ofinnocence’’. In 1975 I suggested a 14-stage researchdesign (Klejn 1975b); substantiation of this procedurewas my understanding of the multi-stage nature ofAF.

The parcelling of procedure and scrupulous itemis-ation of its stages acquires special attention as con-nected with the prospective computer elaboration ofarchaeological facts on the basis of ‘artificial intelligence’.Computers demand maximum parcelling of oper-ations. Today it is insufficient to know that AF is com-plex, one has to know how many levels there are. Theinnocence of archaeology was lost long ago. Now theissue is not in stating contriteness, doubt or satisfac-tion, but for this event to lead to a strong and healthyparadigm.

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11. Archaeological research design

1. BIAS AND IGNORANCES. G. H. Daniels, an archaeologist from AhmaduBello University, Nigeria, recognised a stimulatingparadox connected with the processing of archae-ological information: ‘‘From the earliest stages of ouraquaintance with the academic world’’, he stated, ‘‘weare taught that knowledge is desirable, and that ignor-ance is a condition to be remedied as soon as possibleand even at great cost. [Archaeological research] de-sign on the other hand states unequivocally that inmatters of classification ignorance is a paramount vir-tue and one which, as innocence used to be, is irre-placeable if lost’’ (Daniels 1978). He understoodclassification here in a very broad sense, embracingboth selection and measurement.

It is not common opinion that the loss of innocencein archaeology is worth the sorrow. David Clarke didnot think so when he wrote his article ‘‘Archaeology:the loss of innocence’’, and Christopher Hawkes sup-posed that it is even possible to return to this state –he wrote a responce to Clarke with ‘‘Innocence re-trieval in archaeology’’, as he did not want to knowof the new, analytical, archaeology.

Due to his mathematical orientation, Daniels, whoworks at a statistical centre, was one of the firstscholars to escape the sometimes idle philosophicaltalks on the depth of archaeological fact, and beganspeaking instead on the cascade flow of informationfrom the past events to the analysis of archaeologicalrecords. So he linked the two previously unconnectedproblems: the epistemological structure of archae-ological fact and the normative research design – thenormative succession of the stages of archaeologicalinquiry. The course of information is his main inter-est, and to understand its movement in the most com-plete way possible and its results as objectively aspossible are his main concerns.

By the 1970s, two decades had already passed sincethe beginning of the talks on the subjectivity of infer-ences in archaeology (since Smith 1955; Thompson1956), although the critical theory, just emerging inwestern Marxism, did not enter archaeology in full un-til the 1980s. Daniels stepped into this line of interestwhen he made the challenge of subjectivity the main

concern of his studies. He was dealing with the flow ofinformation from the past and, correspondingly, withthe reverse proceeding of cognition – from the present.He had in mind a modern researcher’s cognition of thepast – the scheme, the plan, and the design of the in-quiry process. The struggle with biases troubles himmost: ‘‘At the heart of the research design problem’’, hewrote (Daniels 1978, 29), ‘‘lies bias, and the way inwhich it enters, or can be prevented from entering, intothe data during the research activities of selection,measurement and classification’’. Since preconceivedideas are usually oriented against some views and facts,the implementation of bias by the researcher presup-poses preliminary knowledge of the material understudy – if the material contains odious things againstwhich bias can act, suppressing or refusing them. Sothe means to prevent bias from doing this is to grantthe researcher the benefit of not knowing too early thematerial on which research operations are to be di-rected. Such measures are usually applied in the activ-ity of experts – the material must be unknown to himbefore the results of examination are declared.

The strange insistence of the researcher on this ig-norance is explained by the belief in this measure.However, despite his belief bias is not the only sig-nificant problem in achieving objectivity, perhaps noteven the main one, and ignorance is not the onlymeans to reach a validity of results, and perhaps notthe best means either. In addition to the subjectivityof a researcher, there are objective factors in playsuch as the fragmentary state of the artefacts, largegaps in the materials, the polisemic nature of culturalthings, and often an absence of relations betweenparts found and parts lost. As for resorting to ignor-ance it is not a logic tool, but part of the psychologyof research strategy. Overcoming one’s own bias doesnot necessarily demand such measures, much can bedone with the help of randomisation as well as strictrules and limitations elaborated for methods.

This was more broadly considered in the earlierwork of Daniels. In his 1972 work he placed a schemeof a 7-step information flow from the past events tothe present remains (see Fig. 13). In the floodgatesbetween the information states in his scheme, factors


Fig. 15. Model of archaeological procedure (after Clarke 1968: 2).

which make an impact on information are included.They are inserted from two sides: from the left of thescheme factors which can be controlled by the investi-gator are shown, for instance, the selection of the ex-cavation location, and from the right, uncontrollable fac-tors like redisposition. According to the position onthe way the information flows, these factors are di-vided into three groups: historical, postdepositional (fromdeposition in the earth until the excavation) and meth-

odical. In the article, main kinds of errors on theselevels are considered in detail: ‘‘noise’’, non-system-atic mistakes, and prejudgement. Correspondinglymeasures aimed to dispose them are indicated: for-malisation of the procedures, introduction of redun-dancy, and randomisation. (In Daniels’ scheme 5.3one should change the places of ‘‘normalisation of

procedures’’ and ‘‘randomisation’’: the last one sup-presses the ‘‘noise’’ rather than ‘‘bias’’.). Post-depo-sitional factors are shown on the right, and it is saidhereof: ‘‘The most that can be done is to estimatetheir effects and to try somehow to allot them a place’’(Daniels 1972, 202).

It is difficult to say why Daniels later narrowed hisview on the means of obtaining objectivity. May beby this time, approaching the 1980s, the advent ofcritical theory with its preoccupation with biases wasalready felt. Both articles by Daniels contain the term‘research design’ in their titles, a term that implies thenormative scheme of archaeological inquiry.

2. NORMATIVITY OF THE RESEARCHDESIGNArchaeology is a scholarly discipline, in continentalEurope it is even called science, since linguisticallyhumanities are there not distinguished from sciences.Since it is a discipline or a science (in the generalmeaning of this word), the main process of its func-tioning should be a disciplined activity subjected tocertain substantiated rules. It is divided into stagesor levels, and their organisation, that is their set andsuccession or the procedure of archaeological re-search, is not arbitrary. Clarke calls this normativescheme a model for archaeological ‘‘procedure’’ andpresents it as one of the three parts of the generaltheory of archaeology (Fig. 15). Since Clarke, theterm ‘‘procedure’’ has come to stay in Russian ar-chaeological literature as the designation of this suc-cession of steps. Rouse calls such a scheme ‘‘strategy’’of archaeological and prehistoric researches, while hetolerates exceptions from it as ‘‘tactics’’ (Fig. 16). B.C. Swartz exposes this scheme as the ‘‘logical suc-cession of archaeological aims’’, L. Binford, J. Fritzand F. Plog as ‘‘archaeological research design’’, andV. S. Bochkarev as ‘‘structure’’ of archaeological re-search (Clarke 1968, 34f, fig. 2; Rouse 1972, VII-X,27f, 62ff, fig. 8; Swartz 1967, 487–497; Binford 1964;Fritz and Plog 1970, 409–411; Bochkarev 1973, 59).The term ‘‘archaeological research design’’ is nowusually applied in Anglophone archaeology.

It is possible to formalise some parts of this schemeand transform them into an unambiguous successionof commands, leading to a rigidly determined chain

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Fig. 16. Strategy and tactics in the logical procedure of archaeology (after Rouse 1972: 6).

of operations. Such succession becomes an algorithm(Sher 1970, 9–23, fig. 1). It is often impossible toreach such a grade of strictness within so many stages,and every one of these stages can be freely dismem-bered into elementary actions. Yet interrelationshipsbetween the stages perceived as whole blocks arerather definite. Bochkarev (1973, 59) insists that the‘‘procedure has a hard structure that does not permitomissions of levels or their displacement’’. As we haveseen in the previous chapter, the archaeological fact ispractically the long course of information from thepast events and phenomena. Along this course theinformation squeezes through several floodgateswhere parts of information are distorted and lost. Thisconversion of information is fixed as a series of states,which are levels of the archaeological fact (AF).

With the cognition of those remote events andphenomena as the target, an archaeologist by the verynature of things executes reconversion of information.The temptation to make this reconversion a one-actperformance is great – to pass in one stroke from AF

to historical-sociological meaning, presuming it lies

somewhere under the very surface of AF. This wouldbe so simple, so convenient! Even if we know thatthere are many levels to the fact, with many filteringfloodgates, why not consider the changes of infor-mation all together or grouped morphologically (e.g.after Schiffer’s classification: C-transforms, N-trans-forms), and not according to their natural succession?There are factors that push archaeologists to attemptsof such a simplified, or reduced, reconversion. Theseare now daft attempts, dogmatic adherence to a par-ticular rigid scheme of unambiguous interpretationswith a ready set of labels. V. S. Bochkarev (Bochkarev1973, 59) is right: one should not skip over stages ofthe research design.

In each rendering the flow of information runsthrough a cascade of qualitative and quantitativetransformations (objectification, mortification, idealis-ation etc.). It seems as if it passes through filters andat each one incurs a loss and suffers distortions. It isdesirable to control, correct and compensate for theselosses. So, the conversion of information consists ofphases separated by floodgates that have a filtering effect.


In each floodgate every transformation changes theappearance of information and serves as a spring-board for the next transformation. Only adjacentphases are connected with each other directly as ini-tial and derived. And quite often some remains, afterwhich one could judge the initial appearance, arekept only in the derived phase. So we make judge-ments on the initial appearance by issuing from theprevious one. If while doing this we skip over somephases, perhaps some essential changes in infor-mation will be lost, and distortions of the past realitywill be unobserved. As a result we come to false re-construction. Hence the importance to account for allthe phases of the conversion, all the floodgates. Thismust become the basis for working out the full schemeof the archaeological research design.

There is an additional complication to this prob-lem. The action of these floodgates is two-way: Thesame filter that stipulates materialisation in one direc-tion, stipulates idealisation in the contrary direction.The mischief of it is however that the losses in thesetransformations are asymmetrical and often irretriev-able. If while objectifying an idea (say, the plan of thedwelling), a person could not realise some part of theidea, and in a hurry did not install an oven requiredby the usual plan, then an archaeologist, while idealis-ing his observations on this (and only this) excavateddwelling, could not reconstruct this part of the planand will come to new and completely different losses.The archaeologist will lose data on an entrance assoon as it was cut by a later pit-dwelling and willreceive false data on the content of storage pits if to-gether with it some materials have been found of thepit-dwelling cut in. So the losses do not let the savedinformation compensate for them, but they arepooled and not only add to each other but becomemore complicated too.

This means that the rules of interrelation in archae-ological theories cannot do with simple correspon-dences but should envisage a procedure, much morecomplex than in other disciplines. One should envisagean organisation and permanent attraction of externalinformation not contained in the regulated flow.

Why it is necessary to provide such conversion sub-sequently, without omissions? If we omit a floodgatethose changes that occurred to the information at thisfloodgate may not be identified, and consequently

they will be ascribed to earlier causes. The initial stateof the information will be reconstructed wrongly: inthe original picture factors will be supposed which infact were not existent. This is why all the floodgatesshould be revealed, the full course of the conversiontraced, and the strict succession of the reconversion –back through the floodgates – respected. Discreditedlong ago were naive notions that did not suspect amulti-step nature to the archaeological fact, and didnot conceive how dangerous it is to jump from ar-chaeological facts directly to events and socialphenomena of the historical past. Archaeological cog-nition is digging, not jumping.

3. COMPLICATIONIn my scheme of information flow 14 stages were pre-sented. This list of conversion phases (and corre-spondingly reconversion) is divided in two parts. Asconcerns the conversion, the first 7 acts present build-ing (1–4) and death (5–7) of the material culture. Theresult of this part of conversion is an archaeologicalrecord, or in Russian terminology, an archaeologicalsource. The next 7 steps present its initial, presumablyempirical cognition (survey, excavation, recordingetc.). The research procedure executing this cognitionmainly follows the reconversion but with some stipu-lations. This connection is realised in two varieties.

If the investigator builds a study on originalsources, his or her procedure coincides with conver-sion embracing the stages 8–14 and includes the outercriticism of archaeological records (stage 11). The re-sult of this investigation is the transfer of an archae-ological record from material form into generalisedconcept form, applicable for operating in scholarlyknowledge (or in science in the broad sense of theword). The continuation of the study is usually aninterpretation study, and its procedure follows recon-version through the stages 7–1. The core of this studyis the inner criticism of the archaeological record (esti-mation of information change at each floodgate), andthe result is the creation of a new record, or newsource, a historical one.

When an investigator works not with originalsources but with literary data, the entire procedurefollows the full course of reconversion through all thestages 14–1, and the outer criticism is widened cover-

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ing all the first 7 stages (14–8), since it is necessary tocheck transformations in each of these floodgates too.Only when reconversion (14–1) having terminateddoes the historical, sociological or culture investiga-tion begin. In fact the realisation of this procedure iseven more complicated because this straight logicalscheme of information processing is only a basis onwhich different approaches to the material are built.These different approaches are connected with differ-ent understandings of the interrelationships betweenfact and inference, with different placing of generalis-ation, hypothesis and problem. In the research prac-tice, the normative scheme of the archaeological research

design (hereafter ARD) is realised only as a trend, anddeviations from the ‘‘strategy’’ frequently go far be-yond the borders of any rational ‘‘tactics’’. In im-plementing the ARD, confusion dominates. Two cir-cumstances support this situation in the discipline.Firstly, the schemes of ARD usually appear more di-rective than normative: they are advanced by theor-eticians without serious substantiation or merely withgeneral philosophical substantiation, and not inter-related with the specificity of the archaeological ma-terial. Secondly there is disaccord in the notions oftheoreticians themselves with respect to this issue: in-stead of receiving a single normative scheme, practi-cal archaeologists are supplied with an amount ofschemes differing both in quantity and in the set ofthe stages, as well as in their succession.

Nevertheless these schemes can be grouped accord-ing to the New Archaeology in two main varieties(their own and the opposite), or possibly in three vari-eties in all. Every one of these varieties changed withtime, new blocks of operations were introduced inthem, and the connections between the blocks be-came more complicated. Blocks were grouped dif-ferently – now closed inside one discipline (archaeol-ogy, or prehistory, or palaeohistory), and now the en-tire succession was more or less radically divided intwo parts – archaeological and historical (or sociologi-cal, or anthropological). Yet behind all these vari-ations one can distinguish three main patterns.

4. INDUCTIVE PROCEDUREOne of these patterns was formed in the nineteenthcentury. This is the scheme which was followed by

many scholars, both scientists and humanists, withoutmusing upon its explication. The first to clearly for-mulate it among archaeologists was Sophus Müller(1896, 292–307). He described the order of archae-ological research as follows:

(1) Collection of materials;(2) Observation or inspection of materials;(3) Inferences on details;(4) Generalisation – inferences on the rules (establish-

ing of types, combinations, styles, cultural groups);(5) Their confirmation by covering with common hu-

man rules (in particular connected to modernones);

(6) Turning to the causes of discovered phenomena –elucidation of them by comparison and by con-clusion with analogies, setting up and proving thehypotheses.

The final objective is the cognition of causal depend-ence; through gradual generalisation, induction leadsan investigator from the material to this final objec-tive. ‘‘The proper method of archaeology is ... the safeinduction’’ (Müller 1896, 298f).

With various modifications, this basically inductivescheme is exposed by K.-H. Jacob-Friesen (where theaim is ‘‘genealogy’’), G. Clark (where the aim is re-construction of the past), I. MacWhite, D. Clarke(feedback connections are introduced), J A. Sher(weighting of the attributes is separated into a specialstep), and E. Chouraqui (methods are joined with thetechnique of the research). For Rouse, archaeologyin a three-step procedure cognises the nature of theremains and then hands the results over to history,which in a four-step procedure terminates in reveal-ing the causes (Jacob-Friesen 1928, 98–152; Clark1957, 9f, 18–20, 169f, 174; MacWhite 1956, 3–7, pl.I; Clarke 1968; Sher 1970; Chouraqui 1972, 212–228; Rouse 1972, 28; a.o.). This scheme was logicallyworked out and epistemologically substantiated by in-ductivists, philosophers of early positivism, and espe-cially by Mill J. S. (1914). It was accepted by archae-ologists of various philosophical orientations, perhapsbecause it reflected and logically executed some realaspect of empirical research studies. This aspect re-mains necessary even in those systems where it is notexaggerated and is not the entire essence of the study:induction is inherent to empirical studies and the


widening of factual basis. The introduction of newfacts into research circulation is able to producechangeovers of old conceptions, to serve as a stimulus.

5. PROBLEM-ORIENTED PROCEDUREAnother scheme of procedure, established long agoas a norm in sciences, was also used in archaeologyalthough rather sporadically and without strict rules.As applied to archaeology it is first exposed in a clear-cut form in the work of Taylor (1948, 152–202, table4). Taylor’s order of operations looks like this:

(A) Determination of the problem in the frames of aconception;

(B) Working with materials:(1) Collection of data;(2) Criticism of their usefulness;(3) Analysis;(4) Interpretation (ascertaining the technique,

function etc.);(5) Description;(6) Exposition (in publications and the like).

(C) Building of local chronologies;(D) Synthesis by connections in the context of dis-

covery;(E) Comparative study of culture in statics and dy-

namics;(F) Studying the nature of culture, its constants, laws,

and functioning;

After Taylor the stages (B) and possibly (C) are theconcern of archaeology. Further than this it passes thebaton to historiography and ethnography (D), eth-nology (E) and anthropology (F). In setting out hissteps Swartz (1967) follows Taylor:

(1) Preparation – surveying the preceding studiesand anticipation of field problems.

(2) Acquirement – of materials in the field.(3) Analysis – placing the data in the network of

time and space.(4) Interpretation – ascertaining the technology

and functioning of artefacts.(5–6) Integration – (a) ‘Reconstruction’ of the life of

a population, and ‘synthesis’ of large culturalunits, and (b) ‘Abstraction’, the formulation oflaws or principles.

In Soviet archaeology the course of methods for his-torical-archaeological studies at Leningrad State Uni-versity was built into the teaching program accordingto a similar but more complex scheme. The path ofthe researcher was traced three times: from obser-vations to hypotheses (‘‘logical heuristics’’), from datato unknown (‘‘psychological heuristics’’) and espe-cially at large from archaeological materials to histori-cal and sociological conclusions (archaeologicalmethods). With establishing the problem, the secondof these advancements began, with characteristics ofobservations as the first one. Therefore neither stepwas considered at the third advancement, and it be-gan immediately with criticism of sources: (1) externalcriticism, (2) inner criticism, (3) description of ma-terials, (4) classification, (5) revealing of connectionsand placing them in time and space, (6) historical re-construction, and (7) sociological interpretation.

Preferences in this development were the linking ofARD to general scientific aspects of research process(to logical and psychological ones) and the introduc-tion of H. J. Eggers’ demand for inner criticism ofsources in Soviet archaeology. The imperfection ofthis design was that from the immediate archaeologi-cal line of consideration, the step of selection andsampling of materials was lost. The importance of thisstep was well shown by Binford (1964, 425–441),while the general scientific characteristic of obser-vations does not serve as an adequate substitute forsuch analysis because it does not solve specific prob-lems of an archaeologist.

A similar scheme of Bochkarev repeats this flaw(and even aggravates it by the absence of parallel linesof considerations) and terminates the archaeologicalpart of the procedure with ‘‘separating of fractionsand cultures’’. It is questionable if one can committhe interpretation of similarities between cultures to ahistorian, and the revealing of migrations, influences,autochthoneity etc. Taylor’s problem-oriented schemefinds its philosophical substantiation with pragmatistJ. Dewey, in a work on problem situation (Dewey1955, 104f). The general pragmatic orientation ofTaylor’s ‘‘contextual approach’’ makes this schemeand even its reinforcement natural for him and hisfollowers. As for archaeologists with other philosophi-cal beliefs, for them this scheme seemed acceptable,because it reflects and formalises a real and important

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aspect of research process in archaeology: its organicorder, emergence and presence of problems in it, andin connection with this, a purpose to the researches,at least to many of them.

6. DEDUCTIVE PROCEDURENot long ago a scheme of procedure widely practisedin physical-chemical sciences was suggested to archae-ologists. According to the scheme a study begins withadvancing an hypothesis from which expectations arededuced and confronted with the material. It is in thisconfrontation that the proof of the hypothesis consists.This deductive scheme of ARD was first exposed in L.Binford’s works of 1967–1972 (Binford 1972, 47f, 92f,114–121, 245–260) and especially well by J. Fritz andF. Plog (1970). In their article, the core of the pro-cedure is the explanative hypothesis covering the factof archaeology with the law of anthropology; thus theexplanation is derived from theory. The list of stagesof the ARD arranged by them is as follows: (1) hypoth-esis procurement, (2) expectations deriving from it, (3)design of data collection, (4) acquirement of data, (5)data analysis transforming them so as to make themuseful for verifying predictions, (6) proving the predic-tions (establishment of connections between vari-ables), and (7) hypothesis estimation by the results ofthe proof, the estimation of the explanation.

Other American New Archaeologists follow thismodel (Watson et al. 1971, 114–152). The orientationaccepted by them on the proof of a certain hypothesisruns through the entire line of research and deter-mines not only the succession but the figure of all itssteps as well, from the collection of materials (‘‘Onlydata considered to be relevant will be collected’’) tothe report publication (with ‘‘only enough data fromthe site excavated to support the argument’’). ‘‘Thisprocedure is not only legitimate but also it is the lifeof science’’ (Watson et al. 1971, 14, 114, 157). Ofcourse, this is utter exaggeration – the deductivescheme becomes a deductivist one. This time the ar-chaeologists themselves indicate the philosophicalsource of their methodological ideas. This is the hypo-thetico-deductive explanation scheme of K. Popper –K. Hempel – T. Nagel (Popper 1935, 26f; Hempel1942, 35–48: Nagel 1961). According to this schemethe researcher explains particular facts by covering

them with a law. This scheme was born on the basisof logical positivism but became well developed onlyin post-positivism. It was much criticised and right-fully so, in both philosophy and archaeology for itsnarrowness, limitation, simplification and exorbitantpretensions (Dray 1957; Tuggle et al. 1972; Morgan1973; a.o.).

However, it is shown that explanation through lawremains a very central and determining kind of expla-nation in historical disciplines (Kon 1969), over andabove hypothesis is the necessary stage of any expla-nation, and explanation is the core of a full study. Soto in this scheme of ARD, separating itself more andmore from its narrow law-explanative basis, it mouldsa completely real aspect of archaeological studies.This is why in Russia as well, many studies devoted toproving broad hypotheses follow practically the samescheme, if not in exposition, then at least in execution.

7. CONTRA-DISTINCTIVE DISCUSSIONIn some respect the problem-orientation scheme ofARD can be viewed as an interim between the twoothers, as a transitional scheme: a determination ofthe problem is still not advancement of a hypothesis,but it does limit data collection and processing fromthe very beginning, and stimulates internal criticismof sources – the estimation of their cognitive possibil-ities as applied to the problem. Therefore the mainargument had run high between the partisans of thetwo other eccentric conceptions of ARD, while thepresence of the middle one was simply not givenattention. The followers it did have were seen as be-longing to one of the extreme conceptions. J. Hill(1972), who advanced in favour of the deductivists,considered the pleas from both of these outsidecamps. Proponents of the deductivist scheme accusetheir opponents that the inductivist scheme is built onerroneous premises:

(1) As if one can work in the field without a priorinotions and collect all information contained insites (‘‘vacuum-cleaner approach’’, Hill 1972, 67);

(2) As if data collected this way are universal and anyinvestigator can later use them for solving anytasks;

(3) As if every archaeological fact is unambiguous,


and facts speak for themselves, and their simplegeneralisation is sufficient for comprehending thepast.

Treatment of the facts depends on the aspect con-sidered, and in collecting the information one pro-gram often technically excludes another (for instance,you can remove a layer either horizontally or verti-cally, but not both ways simultaneously). The in-ductivist procedure leads one to adjust aims to thecharacter of the data collected, and this character ispredestined by the unobserved, unrealised readinessof the investigator. By collecting material blindly anarchaeologist will catch a lot of details needless toanybody.

What criticisms do advocates of the inductivistscheme have of the deductivists? That their op-ponents force a single aspect on the material, whileignoring the richness and diversity of informationcontained in the sources, and that this will lead tofaults in the collection of data. An orientation of prov-ing the only hypothesis will be psychologically baf-fling – it will stimulate a search for confirmation ofthis hypothesis and not to search for refutations:

(1) That the deductive procedure is not relevantnamely for archaeologists because monumentsusually present surprises;

(2) That there are some projects (salvage excavations,contract work) which are stimulated not by re-quests of investigators but by demands of life;

(3) That archaeologists usually have no possibility ofproving hypotheses by experiment.

In fact at least a part of the mutual accusations iscorrect as applied to absolutisation of these schemesof ARD and it shows limitations of both. Situationsare possible in which the inductive scheme of ARD isjustified (for example, a study of processed materialsof salvage projects). There are studies demanding adeductive procedure (subject studies realising an idea,attribution of finds, polemical works). It is essentialthat these accusations are mostly non-applicable tothe intermediate, problem-oriented scheme of ARD.

The problem-oriented directive can be likened toadvancing a hypothesis to the outset of the researchprocess, but not a narrowly specified hypothesis. In-

stead this must be some overall hypothesis compiled ofall possible hypotheses with respect to the essence ofthe problem, hypotheses practically necessary and re-alistic. A problem implicitly contains in itself such aset of potential hypotheses – something of the kind ofthose ‘‘multiple hypotheses’’ of Lloyd Chamberlain orK. Popper’s ‘‘theories in themselves’’, ‘‘that werenever produced or understood by people’’ but poten-tially exist (Chamberlain 1944; Popper 1963, vol. 2:237). This is like a matrix of hypotheses. Naturally, theproblem-oriented scheme of ARD, though not freefrom limitations either, nevertheless possesses the verybroad applicability to studies of the three schemes.

Of course, an experienced archaeologist is able todirect the expedition so that, among evidences found,more of those appear which are necessary for provingthe hypothesis specified, or, for solving the problemoutlined. Yet the material will surely be richer andwill present surprises. It would be unforgivable dog-matism to ignore this with appeal to a boundlessnumber of possible observation aspects and to the im-possibility of describing everything. Plans of researchstudies are like plans of battles: they are normallythoroughly worked out only to be shoved aside assoon as the battle has begun. However the modernbattle, though far from regular, is not a rough-and-tumble affair. In real scholarly practice, with respectto every potential source, a limited and not even verylarge set of actual problems always exists. A similarset of programs for the collection of evidence corre-sponds to it.

For many sources these problems and programsconditioned by a leading theory are common. A poolof problems and programs comes to hand, if not uni-versal then at least rather widely applicable. It gravi-tates towards forming a broad but standard programthat would describe methods and could serve as abasis for particular modifications. One such pool, ora few of them, are present in the mind of every wellprepared archaeologist, and it is these that providethe possibility of working with alien material drawnfrom outside.

8. STRUCTURAL COMPARISONAll three kinds of ARD can be applied, each kind inits corresponding conditions. The validity of this

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usage and the existence of the standard program ofdata collection encourage the assumption that thereis some common invariant scheme that reposes in thebasis of all three schemes of ARD and contains anobjective criterion of completeness of research pro-cess. It is like a generalised stratigraphic sequence thatis more complete than any of the initial profiles. It isnot difficult to observe that the root structural differ-ence between the generalisations considered by theschemes of ARD lies in placing the train of operations(one step or several steps) connected with the advanc-ing and developing of the hypotheses.

In the inductive procedure, this train follows thelong succession of operations dealing with the widecollection and processing of the material. So the re-sults of the processing are considered as the premiseof the hypothesis and an object for its application.Independent facts for its proof are to be drawn fromoutside. In the problem-oriented procedure this trainof operations is dismembered and only the matrix ofhypotheses is replaced, to the forward position. In thedeductive procedure this train is moved in full to aforward position, so that acquiring and processing offacts is narrowly oriented on the proof of the specifiedhypothesis. However, what serves as the factual prem-ise of the hypothesis, what is the object of its appli-cation? Apparently, according to the last analysis, it isinformation on facts already known before. Thus inall cases one and the same cycle is present. It consistsof 4 trains of operations: (a) preparation of initialfacts, (b) procuring a hypothesis, (c) engaging inde-pendent facts, and (d) proving the hypothesis.

In the case of the inductive procedure, fresh ma-terials are regarded as initial facts, while the results ofprevious studies are taken as the engaged facts. Inother cases everything is to the contrary: results ofprevious studies are the initial facts, while fresh ma-terials are the engaged facts. The difference tells ofthe character of free material processing, of the pro-cessing of new data. In the first case (the inductiveprocedure) there is an endeavour to collect as appliedto any possible hypotheses, and to collect very widely.The problem-oriented procedure is for a certain ma-trix of hypothses, and in the third case, the deductiveprocedure, is applied to a single specified hypothesis(i.e. collection is narrow and selective). It is naturalthat the nearer the study to the field work, the more

dangerous is such selectivity and the more preferablethe shift to the opposite procedure.

With regard to a common basis and limitations,in each of the three cases, two mutually independentgroups of facts are present (LeBlanc 1973). Withoutfail one of them consists of fresh facts. It undergoeselaboration in the study being proceeded, and theelaboration is aimed at verifying the hypothesis, be ita particular hypothesis or some total indeterminatehypothesis. Anyhow these facts should be obtainedand processed so that it would become possible theircomparison with other systems of knowledge, and soit would become a possible translation of the infor-mation (through hypotheses and their proof) intoother systems of concepts: sociohistorical, anthropo-logical or ethnological.

It is clear (the first limitation) that all three types ofprocedure are anticipated only to a particular, mainlyempirical study, but also to a theoretical interpreta-tion study. A procedure of an archaeologist’s generaltheoretical and methodological study is as yet not dis-cussed. Unfortunately none of the authors mentionedstipulated this limitation.

The second limitation is that the ideal nature of thescheme of ARD means the overall processing of thematerial, the outside transformation of the evidencesextracted from it, running the information throughall the steps of the archaeological and historical (orsociological, or culture-anthropological) study. Yet inresearch practice particular studies are completelypermissible and reasonable too, which are conven-tionally closed in the frames of one of these disciplinesor of even one or a few levels of some of them. Ac-cordingly, on the scale of ARD, such study will takeonly a narrow cut off: one or a few steps.

The third limitation of all the schemes of ARD con-sidered imply an archaeologist’s work with fresh orig-inal sources, with material objects collected by thearchaeologist, and not elaborated previously. Thereare rather many studies however that are carried outon the basis of the so called ‘‘engaged’’ material, i.e.‘‘alien’’, selected long ago and processed on the basisof the literary data. The procedure of such investiga-tion must envisage a regressive proof of the part ofoperations made by other research workers.

Finally, it is necessary to stipulate a circumstamce:ARD regulates the run of the research, the execution


of the research, but not necessarily its exposition. Re-cently however, a trend is observable of approachingthe scheme of ARD with the plan of the exposition,or at least to explain to the reader the applied schemeof ARD as well as the other structural components ofthe research. In Russia, the trend was expressed by‘‘autoreferates’’ (authors’ abstracts) of dissertations forcandidate degrees, where the free plan of exposition(according to chronology or following the survey ofculture components) was changed and came nearerto the conventions used in natural sciences. It becameroughly as follows: (1) The task of the investigator, (2)The significance of the study, (3) Methods of thestudy, (4) Factual basis of the study, (5) The executionof the study, (6) Results of the study, (7) Discussion ofthe results (estimation of the results and their in-clusion into more general systems), (8) Structure ofthe exposition in the dissertation paper, and (9) Publi-cation of the results.

Thus, what is the logical core and epistemologicalbasis of the full archaeological research study? It isthe process transfiguring the information and leadingfrom the factual material (the immediate objects ofarchaeology) to its interpretation in terms of history,sociology, cultural anthropology etc. This is the way

from sources of sociocultural phenomena throughtheir deposition as archaeological materials to theirreflections in scholarly literature. Of course an ar-chaeologist receives the information in its last stagesand converts it by going the other way round. Asingle plot lies in the basis of all the three sequences:inductive, problem-oriented and deductive. It is clearenough that the choice of any one of these sequencesis determined by the character of the study, whileexaggeration of some of them is conditioned by thephilosophical position of the archaeologist.

Yet what is it that provides the structure of the plotitself, the general number of the steps, their qualita-tive set and succession, and how is all this connectedwith the philosophy of science? We must not forgetthat this is conditioned by our understanding of thenature of the archaeological fact, of its epistemologicalcomplicity, depth and multi-stage structure (Klejn1975b, and the preceding chapter here). Beneath ofall these varieties of procedure the common base isreposed – the process of conversion and reconversionof information through these 14 filtering floodgates.Since this structure is as straight as a ladder, the in-variant scheme of ARD is on no account arbitrary.

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PART VI. CONCLUSION

12. Panorama revisited

1. SUMMARYIn the first part of this chapter I wish to sum up inbrief what has been exposed in this volume.

I evaluate theory as an important component ofarchaeology, and the locus where real scientific revol-utions take place. I argue that theoreticians are a dis-tinct specialisation in archaeology and that they needto receive the relevant training from an early stage.My definition of theoretical archaeology is not par-ticularly broad for it does not include all methods andall ideas, but neither is it very narrow as if it were aspecial logical scheme. Within this notion I embraceall philosophical, methodological, logical, theoreticaland in part historical problems that concern thewhole of archaeology. I also make a distinction be-tween theoretical archaeology and archaeologicaltheory. As to the structure of theoretical archaeologyI divide it into three parts: metaarchaeological, en-doarchaeogical and paraarchaeological.

In defining what the subject matter of archaeologyis, I had to choose from three main points: (1) An-tiquities exclusively as the subject matter. If so thenarchaeology is merely an auxiliary discipline of his-tory. (2) Past historical events and processes as thesubject matter, which would make archaeology a kindof or a part of history. (3) Both of the fields, but raisingthe question whether it is one integral discipline? Tome the archaeological subject matter includes ma-terial antiquities per se, their links and relationships inthe system of culture (presumably material culture)and the regulations and causal mechanisms in thebasis of all these links and relationships. Yet not causalexplanations of the historical events and processes –they are the business of history, while archaeology isa source-studying discipline.

The important task of a theorist in my opinion isto define the specificity of archaeological sources sincethe validity of separating archaeology into a specialdiscipline reposes on it. I hold that the specificity ofmaterial antiquities as archaeological sources consists

of a double break between them and the past histori-cal reality, breaks which must be restored by the ar-chaeologist. The two breaks are 1) the break in thecoding of information (between ‘‘the language ofthings’’ and ordinary language) and, 2) the break intradition (antiquities are things which have no linkswith or in living culture). All other kinds of sourceshave one of these breaks but only archaeological oneshave both.

As concerns the methodological nature of the disci-pline, archaeology as a source-studying discipline isneither pure science nor a humanity, but an appliedscience, although it is in working contact with the hu-manities. Like history it has a task to restore historicalprocess and also like history it cannot reconstruct itin particular details. Yet for history this means thatthe realisation of the task is impossible without thehelp of the imagination, and so every historian makeshis own narration, paint his own picture. Archaeologyreconstructs only typical features and structures, butreconstructs them in full, reconstructs the culturalprocess with exact methods, yet of course not withsuch completeness as history, not to such level of par-ticular realisation.

Like Clarke, one of my intentions was to axiomat-ise archaeology, if not to make it into an analyticalmachine. Yet having this in mind I soon discoveredthat the set of principles at the basis of the wholediscipline was split in two parts, each consisting of sixprinciples, with both sub-sets opposing each other,and both valid in archaeology! Each principle has itscounter-principle, which is valid too. So contradic-tions are inherent in the discipline, hidden in its verybasis.

On turning my attention to archaeological theoryI first tried to define what empiricism in archaeologyis, what its main hallmarks are. Then I listed theexisting definitions of archaeological theory (the sys-tematisation of facts, the ordered totality of concepts,a set of methods, an imposition of philosophical


theory onto archaeological material etc.) and sug-gested my own definition; a program for the pro-cessing of archaeological information, a programwhich is based on some fundamental explanativeidea. By transforming the mechanism of the pro-cessing into a stereotype, theory evolves to become amethod. Components of theory build a set of oppo-sitions where ‘theory’ is an intermediate chain. Forinstance, object – theory – metatheory, or, empiricaldata – theory – idea, and so on.

The structure of archaeological theory in its dy-namics, the way it functions, is rather complex. It isbased both on the theoretical and the empirical basis,yet they serve only in the testing of theory, as hypoth-esis. The main path of information processing doesnot stem from these two premises but from the funda-mental explanatory idea that is created in the con-science of a researcher, and created not by deductionor induction, but by abduction. Then a system of lawsis derived from it, and using the language of theory,they feed into an operational apparatus and into amathematical apparatus of theory. The result is thenconfronted with the facts and old theories etc., andfinally is transformed into confirmed knowledge anda new method.

The functions of theory are a rare subject of theor-etical consideration. Yet it deserves some attentionsince many functions are usually ignored or wronglyunderstood. So the explanative function in archaeol-ogy, the one commonly considered most important,is more connected with interpretation than with ex-planation. The predictive function is closer to the re-constructive one, for what is prediction when speak-ing of the past?

The problem of fact has been tackled to a greaterextent in history than in archaeology. Philosophersand historians discovered the deep structure of scien-tific fact. In archaeology fact also has a deep struc-ture – it is structured according to the levels that in-formation passes through going from the past througharchaeological records to the researcher’s mind. Ihave listed 14 levels with filters between them, infor-mation being changed in each, distorted and losingsome elements, with new additions occurring too.The cognition that operates means reconversion ofthis information occurs.

The general research design – the research model,

research procedure, algorithm of the investigation –depends crucially on the understanding of this prob-lem. It concerns the realisation of the multistage re-conversion of information and the depth of archae-ological fact. However, this is the nature of the gen-eral research design. There are three competingalternative models of research design: inductive, de-ductive and problem-oriented, all reliable in archaeol-ogy. All three can be reduced to the general researchdesign.

2. VIEWS IN A WIDER CONTEXTMy theoretical views have formed over a long period,the main points chiefly in the 1960s and 1970s, fol-lowed by some expansion and restructuring later. Idid not aim for sensational innovations, my intentionwas to obtain sound and systemic theory suitable forpractical needs and based on solid grounds. I gradu-ally find less to add and to change, not implying thatI believe it is perfect, but simply that I have tried todo what I can.

When I worked out the main points of my theoreti-cal views in the 1960s New Archaeology was in theweather. American New Archaeology searched forlaws and archaeological methods to discover real sys-tems of the past, while the British branch hoped tobuild an analytical machine able to process archae-ological material that would lead to the past reality asthe output of the system. Something of these goalsand convictions entered into my system, and some-thing grew in opposition to the ambitions of the NewArchaeology.

In the 1970s a new trend evolved in the New Ar-chaeology, marked by the Behavioral Archaeology ofSchiffer, Middle Range Theory of Binford and byClarke searching for the path of information from thepast (and to the past) in his ‘‘innocence trial’’. In factthis was Post-Processual Archaeology since the atten-tion to laws of the cultural and historical process wasreplaced by the attention to the formation of archae-ological sources. Independently of these events – butnot independently of German comparison of archae-ological sources with written sources – I developedalong the same direction.

In the 1980s another new trend was once again thefocus of attention, in which three different traditions

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were oddly linked together, three traditions whichearlier had seemed incompatible: (a) Neo-Kantianideas and an attractive indeterminism (in the spirit ofR. Collingwood, G. Daniel and W. Taylor) as well ascontextualism (of the type of Chang) grown up on thisbasis; (b) structuralism from C. Levy-Strauss; and (c)Western university-reared Marxism issuing from G.Lucacs, G. Markuse a.o. In this new trend, pieced to-gether from older ones, a reliable academic wing ap-peared, exemplified by the creation of Ian Hodder(1982; 1986; 1987 a.o.) and a more journalistic wing, ifnot purely declamative, that of Shanks and Tilley(1987; 1989). Practically the whole of this trend was notpost-processual but post-postprocessual, yet let us notto be too pedantic. This trend also arose mostly in themidst of the New Archaeology, this time in its Britishbranch, as a reaction against its extremities – such asthe belief in the possibility of full and absolutely objec-tive reconstructions, the hopes upon strength and self-dependence of archaeology and its theory.

The main positive contribution of this trend, I sup-pose, is the undermining of the exorbitant enthusiasmof the New Archaeologists for the regular linking ofmaterial-culture elements with social and spiritual ap-pearances of once living societies. Hodder and his fol-lowers show that ideational systems and social systemshad and still have considerable freedom of choiceamong forms for their expression in material culture –and of course not only in it – and this introducessignificant alterations into the current notions aboutregularities of the cultural world.

Yet Hodder’s post-processual archaeology has someproblems, which have already been highlighted inseveral known publications. What seems to me insuf-ficiently discussed is the dismissal of archaeology as aunified subject with a unified theory, and the loss ofcriteria of validation.

Childe said archaeology is one. But for Ian Hodderthis has turned back to front: ‘‘The idea of a unifiedscience of archaeology, still held to in North Americaand briefly glimpsed in Scandinavia and Britain inthe mid 1970s, is now in total disarray in Europe. Thenotion that archaeology should have unified theory,method and aims is widely rejected’’ (Hodder 1991a,19). Hodder explains this diversification with social-political enmity in the contemporary world. For post-processualists archaeology has little means of objec-

tive cognition of the past and the investigation isdoomed to dependence on worldviews and politicalviews of the investigator, on its class position. Thisview is the post-processual extraction from Marxism.

The New Archaeology, especially the Americanfamily, dismissed connections of archaeology with his-tory. In Britain however, as well as ‘‘Throughout Eur-ope, archaeology’s closest intellectual ties are with his-tory’’ (Hodder 1991a, 10). Archaeology here ‘‘is fun-damentally historical in emphasis, is strongly Marxsistin orientation, and is undeniably social in construc-tion’’ (Hodder 1991b, VIII).

Yet Hodder’s approach is eclectic; it manages tojoin together various, hardly conformable, traditions.Hodder writes on the self-dependence of archaeologytoo, ‘‘... Over recent decades ... (archaeology) has in-creasingly been able to define itself as a discipline in-dependent of history and Classical studies’’ (Hodder1991a, 7). And ‘‘While it is argued that archaeologyshould reassert its European ties with history, it is alsoimportant to see the differences between archaeologyand history’’. He admits that ‘‘archaeology is part ofhistory’’, but since written sources are created fromsome material substance like paper and ink, it can beadded that ‘‘history is part of archaeology’’ (Hodder1991c, 12).

Hodder recounts with sympathy Taylor’s expres-sion that ‘‘archaeology is neither history, nor anthro-pology’’ and David Clarke’s statement that ‘‘archaeol-ogy is archaeology is archaeology’’. Yet to Hodderthere is insufficient contextualism in Taylor, while inClarke it is absent altogether. As to Hodder himselfarchaeology is distinguished from antiquarianism bythe stress on the context of every object (1991c, 190f).Thus, the subject matter of archaeology according topost-processualists is things and their context. Archae-ology is a historically oriented discipline on materialculture, while the latter is understood foremost as asystem of symbols or meanings, which one can readlike a written text. Reading the past, Hodder’s well-known book, was first published in 1986 (1991c). Theproblem of the ‘‘reading’’ of material remains is morecomplicated than it seems to post-processualists. Be-sides this, their determination of the subject matter ofarchaeology is realistic, although it has not actuallymoved very far from its position of one hundred yearsago, the position of Sophus Müller.


Is archaeology not one? This is refuted by the veryresult of the present survey. All theories and methods,the whole of metaarchaeology, are relevant to allbranches of archaeology. And in viewing the otheraspect of the split, Trigger’s once astonishing state-ment (1978, 196f) of the striking likeness between So-viet and Western archaeological discussions, inferredfrom reading my ‘Panorama’ (Klejn 1977a), todaycan surprise nobody. The world is no longer split intotwo camps, for the ideological opposition, artificial toscience including archaeology, ended in natural fi-asco. And archaeology as a discipline, now as well asthen, is one. By the whole span of ideological diver-gence, by the entire variability of its schools andtrends, it has the same problems and a shared set ofpossible solutions.

As to the issue of validation criteria my position mustnow be clear to the reader. Both archaeological factsand confirmed theories are criteria of validation. Theidea is ascertained both from Binfords hypothetico-de-ductive scheme of validation and from Hodder’s posi-tion. ‘‘Theory cannot be proved by means of data’’ saysHodder (1986, 16). He rejects the concept of MiddleRange Theory proposed by Binford as it is based onpresumably very regular correspondences betweenmaterial culture and social behaviour. The mentality ofthe past people and their freedom of choice, he states,influenced the specimens created by craftsmen, speci-mens to be restored in the present, and this introduceduncertainty in their appearance. Besides, it also de-pends on how we restore them, on our theory and prac-tice of research. In turn, they are determined and con-ditioned by our own ideology, and our ideas depend onour social interests and political orientations. So farHodder and his followers.

Theory in this understanding is interweaved withpractice, not only with an archaeological but also withan ideological and political one. No talks on mutualinfluence of facts and theory will save us from thestatement that in the writings of Hodder and his ad-herents, derived knowledge of archaeology loses itsclear dependence on facts, theory loses its dependenceon proof by facts and begins to reflect simply the ideo-logical position of the archaeologist and of his or hersocial milieu. Theory turns into a simple reflection ofsuch a position. Facts as validation criteria aredropped, while confirmed theoretical knowledge (old

theories) is replaced by politics and political theories.This is a dangerous directive for archaeology. Herethe followers of western Marxist intellectuals becomeunited with the zealous and die-hard Mohicans ofMarxist orthodoxy who still remain somewhere inpost-Soviet archaeology. As the saying goes in Russia,we have studied this already ...

The philosophical and political preferences of anarchaeologist are reflected of course in his scholarlyproduction. Large trends in archaeology are undoubt-edly conditioned not only by accumulation of factsand by the logic of scholarly discoveries, but also bysocial shifts in the surroundings, which influence ar-chaeologists. However, scholarly cognition is dis-tinguished from other spheres of production by thepresence of its disciplining rules of proof and self-proof, of control and self-control, by its strictmethods, by means to reveal and eliminate the sub-jective component and biases, be they individual orcollective ones. Theory is, of course, present in facts,and biases stick fast in our heads, but that we areaware of this is exactly the point. We are scholarsexactly because we are aware of this and can copetherewith. And we are scholars to the extent that wedo cope therewith. The only necessary stipulation isthat for coping therewith we should not need to knoweach bias by sight and to be able to see its roots,which would be interesting in other respects, but wedo need to have a regular filtering mechanism whichscreens any bias in general.

3. SELF-IDENTIFICATIONDuring a series of lectures that I gave in Turku (Åbo),I wanted to confront my attitude with that of Hod-der’s. Having in mind his ‘‘Reading the past’’, under-stood as ‘reading the monuments’, I decided to callmy philological lecture on the Homeric epic ‘‘Diggingthe Text’’, for I applied typically archaeologicalmethods (typification, stratification, correlation) to thephilological analysis of the Iliad. I must admit this wasnot only in opposition to Hodder but at the same timein support of him in some respect, since a matchingbetween the two fields was nevertheless present. Al-though my attitude in this case was precisely the con-trary to Hodder’s.

It may seem from this discussion that my main op-

131Metaarchaeology

ponent is Ian Hodder. The illusion is produced onlyby the time aberration; his works are the closest intime to my course of lectures that led to the publi-cation of this book, so I should stress the differencesbetween us (and especially my criticism of the writingsof Shanks and Tilley). But Hodder, as well as Binford,or Taylor, or Montelius, are in a broader sense justas much my collaborators as they are my opponents.This is all the more, that in my own system of theor-etical views there are both agreements with ideas ofNew archaeology, Behavioral Archaeology, Post-Pro-cessual Archaeology, etc., as well as there are oppo-sitions to them.

I reiterate that I am not only in opposition toHodder, but simultaneously in support of him, assome ideas of his are equally important in my ownwork. During a session one day I sharply criticised ayoung Moldovan archaeologist for a typically post-processual dissertation he had written, entitled ‘‘Ar-chaeology of freedom’’, and I suspect he had not readHodder before. He objected, claiming that his mainideas were derived from me. After raking backthrough my own work, I observed that there wereindeed some points in it that strongly resembled post-processual archaeology. As early as in my ‘‘Archae-ological Typology’’ of 1981, which means I cannotsay that I was influenced by Hodder at that stage, themain idea was that it was impossible to crush archae-ological material into small particles and then, unitingthem with the help of correlation, to obtain reliablecultural types. The ultimate step would be to arriveat cultures. I insisted that the route must be just thereverse: to grasp the sense of cultures first, then toreveal types in them, and only then to divide the typesinto attributes for checking the whole picture. It wasof course a post-processual idea.

Then I came to the idea of dialectics of principles,located at the basis of all of archaeology. Most surelya post-processual idea. First I advanced with this ideain my First Clarke Memorial Lecture, Cambridge

1993, which I read by invitation from Ian Hodder.He was very kind in general and looked very happywith the lecture. Now I realise that the content of mylecture at the time might well have been to his liking.Yet the post-processual ideas do not determine thegeneral outlook of my work. And neither do Structur-alist or Post-Structuralist ideas, though they also arepresent. I have already indicated that I borrowedsome ideas from Marxism but even early on I becamecritical in my attitude to its cardinal failings. In thissense my own position was Post-Marxist. However,this negative term, like all ‘post-’ types, indicatesnothing except the time and the departure. It doesnot reflect my own positive ideas, and neither doesthe term Post-Processualism. For Post-Processualismmeans that in its armoury one cannot suggest someremarkable idea that is new and determining. Con-textualism was no candidate for it had been aroundearlier. Post-Processualism searched for a new and de-termining idea but in vain.

When I wrote ‘‘Attainments and Problems of So-viet archaeology’’ (1982, later revised as ‘‘Phenom-enon of Soviet Archaeology’’, 1993), I called my posi-tion ‘‘Echeloned Archaeology’’, with the implicationthat the path of archaeological investigation must bemethodically divided into subsequent steps, none ofwhich can be dropped. I had in mind precocious his-torical conclusions typical then of some Soviet archae-ologists. This path of archaeological investigationhowever is too general a feature. Now after workingon my ‘‘Principles of Archaeology’’ I am inclined tocall my system of views Dialectical Archaeology, forinherent contradictions and paradoxes were the fea-tures I always tried to reveal, beginning with ‘‘Archae-ological Sources’’, 1978. I know that there are alreadysome Marxist archaeologists that call their works Dia-lectical Archaeology, but to me Marxism and Dialec-tic are different things. Yet the label is usually coinedby adversaries or historiographers. If indeed therewere something to hang the label on!


APPENDIX

The ‘‘Commandments’’

COINED DURING THE YEARS 1964–1995TO THE MEMBERS OFL. S. KLEJN’S SEMINARSThe aphorisms listed here, named Commandments,were hanging on the walls as humorist devices formany years during Klejn’s seminars in Leningrad-Petersburg, making long discussions a more joyousoccasion. Participators would copy them down fromthe wall in their notebooks and eventually they werepublished in 1999 by pupils of Klejn’s former pupilsin Chisineu in the journal Stratum, without the per-mission or knowledge of the author. The conflict wassettled however, as the publication was made withgood intentions. As the subject was already published,the author recognised the fact and agreed to its trans-lation and republication here.

(1) Archaeology is not history armed with a spade,but a detective story in which the investigatorhas arrived at the scene a thousand years late.History is pronounced later by judges. So youmust decide: to go in for one or for the other.

(2) Do not be similar to the historian, for whomwork is already settled in two steps: collection ofmaterials and the writing of a text. Betweenthese two you must take the third – the research.

(3) Where there is a law, there is no problem. Inevery set of facts do not search for laws, but forcontradiction to law. Behind contradiction aproblem is hidden, behind the problem a dis-covery.

(4) State the question as a question. With nomina-tive sentences a theme is set but not a problem.A problem is set only when it is formulated by aquestion. The real question begins with ‘‘who’’,‘‘what’’, ‘‘where’’, ‘‘when’’, ‘‘whence’’,‘‘whither’’, ‘‘how’’ and ‘‘why’’.

(5) The scholarly world is not a team of friends.What is your discovery is a loss for someone else.And this someone is usually a prominent and

powerful person. Therefore having made a dis-covery do not expect universal delight. Be readyfor tough resistance, sudden attacks and a gruel-ling and lingering war. A scholar needs talentsecondly and courage first.

(6) Research is a threefold struggle – with the ma-terial, with adversaries and with oneself. The lastpart is the hardest.

(7) Every scholar has a right to mistakes – if hemakes mistakes correctly.

(8) If an experiment fails once, the experiment isguilty, if it fails twice, the experimenter is guilty,if three times, the theory.

(9) Do not check facts with your tongue, but withyour teeth; do not search for something tasty,search for something true. Indeed what you needto recognise is not raisins but gold.

(10) Argue skilfully and vigorously, but rememberthat one does not believe your skill or your ragebut your facts.

(11) Beware of assumptions. Probability is a ladderwith rolling steps, an escalator. Before you knowit you find yourself on the next floor. Apparentmeans probably, probably means possibly, poss-ibly means may be and may be not. But whetherit was present or absent, issue from the point thatit was absent rather than present.

(12) Forget the phrase ‘‘for instance’’. Examples cansubstantiate whatever you want. There is alwaysa counter-example for every example. An ex-ample is permissible only when it represents ageneralisation.

(13) Classification is like a piano, do not try to strikea chord with one finger. You need a sufficient setof concepts and terms.

(14) Weigh pros and cons on the same scales.(15) If the complex truth does not consist of simple

truths, it is not a truth.(16) The scholarly position is not a chair, but re-

doubt. It is only a position when it is attacked

133Metaarchaeology

and defended. Thereafter it is no longer a posi-tion but a pose. Do not confuse a position witha pose.

(17) Do not hunt for a fashionable position. In thediscipline, not every word said last is the lastword in the discipline. Contemporaneity is notdefined by the moment of a work but by theproductivity of methods, completeness of ma-terials, and cleverness of ideas.

(18) Do not hope for chance and luck. The law ofgravitation was created in Newton’s head andnot in the apple.

(19) Do not suppose anything is apparent. Collectproofs as much as possible, then people will per-haps understand that your idea did not needproving.

(20) Be brief. However, firstly every one of yourterms should be defined, every concept reasoned,every sentence grounded, every conclusionlimited, every fact accounted for, proved andmeasured.

(21) When you substantiate, it is important what, stillmore important with what, but most importantlyhow.

(22) The crowning proof is the one which the authorhas ditched and allowed the reader himself tofind.

(23) The ‘‘golden middle’’ between two extremes isonly the third extreme. It must be proved espe-cially well.

(24) Do not argue until you get a frog in the throat.You cannot out-argue your adversary, no matterhow right you may be. The task of every schol-arly argument is not to convince your opponentbut to check yourself, to believe in yourself andto gain supporters.

(25) Even if a gold coin rings on a copper coin, thering nevertheless is golden. Inequality is not ahindrance to fruitful communication.


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