Monday, January 16, 2017

Of Cats and Caravans

One of my Big Plans after I retired was to get back into the habit of blogging--not so much because I'm aware of any large fan base who might be missing my witty takes on recent events, but rather because it's a way of keeping my brain from turning into mush. Not having to update course material, keep on top of new and interesting happenings in the art world, and find new and engaging ways of trying to enlighten my increasingly less interested students holds the very real possibility of my losing myself in house porn of the escape-from-Texas variety. Writing is one way to maintain my sanity, and to ensure that not everything we do descends into the fog of fleeting, aged memory.

Since the end of the Spring term last year, when I forever severed my ties with the for-profit academic world,  I've managed to find more to do than I'd ever imagined.  Not many of the projects have been completed, but many (such as filling up the family tree on Ancestry with as much information as I can locate, and providing photos to accompany names) are well underway.  And in addition to enjoying last summer essentially goofing off with the Beloved Spouse, I got to enjoy the more recent winter holiday in its entirety without having to rush back to work on January 2. Alas, he returns to teaching tomorrow, but when he's finished with the Spring semester, we hope to be heading west in our little fake Shasta Airflyte (2015 reproduction) to visit relatives and my ancestral homeland of Owens Valley, California.

On the way, we mean to do a bit of scouting for new digs in New Mexico and Arizona, or even somewhere near the old homestead in Lone Pine. With the trip in mind, we've been taking care of recall issues with the Shasta, and have been spiffing her (tentatively called "Lola," but also more recently referred to as "The Folly") up with a comfy new mattress and a bit of vintage trailer decor. We're trying not to get too cute about it all, but did put new "baby moon" hubcaps to make up for the absence of the whitewall tires it came with. We got new tires before we had a problematic axle replaced, but kept them because they ride better than the originals.  We've opted to keep the bed made up permanently, rather than keeping the dinette in place, figuring that most places we camp will have a picnic table, and we're on the lookout for a couple of '50s era TV trays.  A two-inch memory foam mattress makes for a much more comfortable sleeping experience, so we'll keep it made up for now.

Last week, during the teeter-tottering weather cycle that moved us from balmy to frigid and back again within less than a week, I decided to spend the afternoon reading my favorite British shelter publication on my iPad whilst enjoying the pleasant weather and a glass of Kombucha.  I was a bit surprised when my cat Emma decided to join me. She's not the most companionable of cats, and not really an out-door feline (she loves it out, but only gets her way when I can keep an eye on her), but I hadn't even quite settled onto the bed when she hopped up and lay down next to me.

It wasn't long before the sun started warming her up more than she apparently wanted to be warmed, so she moved over to the other side and proceeded to look more comfortable than any being should be allowed to look.

After a good long snooze, she decided to see what was going on outside, and perched on the edge of the bed, exposing her broad side.

She soon decided to abandon me, but not completely. For quite some time she surveyed her domain from the cedar porch the Beloved Spouse made (to make it easier for the dog to get in and out), and which has become one of her favorite spaces.

All of this cuteness is somewhat unusual for Emma (also known as Mrs. Peel). I adopted her when her former person opted to give up the cat to marry an allergic husband.  Originally a Hurricane Katrina survivor, Emma is tough and opinionated, and not particularly affectionate--unless she wants something. Like being let out. But she did help us solve our mouse problem last spring, and since our dog Woody died last summer, she serves as a some-time companion to Arlo when he's outside. He would like to be friends, but she's too aloof to be chummy. Tolerating his presence is about as good as it gets.

I don't mean to go on about cats (and no, I am not becoming a crazy old cat lady!), but I'm usually so grumpy myself (especially over on Owl's Farm) that I thought I'd post something mildly amusing to help me get through this week. January 20 is coming far too quickly, and this little bit of escapism seems well placed.

Addendum: Our sanguinity was somewhat disturbed a couple of days ago, when--during another spell of reading in the trailer--the rear window (opened to enjoy the warm afternoon) abruptly shattered and fell onto the gravel driveway that my husband had so carefully constructed last summer. This particular window was one of the aforementioned recall issues, and we weren't the first to experience the problem. But this was supposed to have been fixed. We're not sure quite what to do, but it looks as though we'll take matters into our own hands and replace the glass (as we've done temporarily) with plastic, a solution others seem to have used successfully.   Sigh.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Under Construction

The Farm (and activities discussed thereupon) has kept me busy of late, but I am also painfully aware that the Cabinet needs attention.

To wit, the new banner and perhaps the layout are temporary, until I can spend more time on the basics, and start writing about all the intriguing stuff that's going on here and in the world.

So, in a way, I'm building: clearing out, tidying up, dealing with technological ignorance (on my part). I thus thought it best to go back to nature for illustrations. The nest is from the copse next to where we park our Shasta (no undergoing repairs in Sherman, but who's been dubbed Lola), and was taken in 2014. Although this one's gone, there's another nearby now; having been constructed from plastic and other reminders of the impact of human beings on the neighborhood, however, it's not really worth a photo. I'll undoubtedly take one for a future post, but when I was looking for something to use for this one, nothing else popped up. It also reminds me that the back yard isn't always a furnace, and there are times during which one can actually enjoy it.

And since  I've realized that these entries are really for me, and perhaps for my children, to be used as memory devices, my future scribblings will probably focus on the local, rather than the universal.

Coming soon: a compendium of backyard mycology, domestic still-life compositions, Romantic science/exploration, and some catching up on museology in the blogosphere.

Addendum: The new banner photo is a composite image of a large chunk of North America taken from low orbit on 4 January 2012 from the VIIRS instrument aboard NASA's Earth-observing satellite, Suomi NPP--via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, November 28, 2015


November: The autumn harvest of acorns, on which pigs are feeding
As part of my effort to get back into the habit of posting things I find interesting, I thought it prudent to alert readers to appropriate sites newly discovered. I hope to do this at least twice a year in order to keep up, rather than stashing the "pellets" in some irretrievable file on one of my devices. Only yesterday I'd read the November chapter of Tom Hodgkinson's Brave Old World: A Practical Guide to Husbandry, or the Fine  Art of Looking After Yourself (in print)--in honor of which I chose the opening image--and was reminded of his magazine, The Idler, to which I once subscribed in a digital version. That disappeared from both my Exactly account and my iPad, and I only think about it occasionally. The web page is still active, though, and the contents as eclectic as ever. But this all made me think of the other brain-enhancing offerings available through the digital universe--the ones that make me not altogether sorry about the technological state of the universe. 

Lapham's Quarterly describes itself as "a magazine of history and ideas," but it's rather more than that. I had to stop subscribing to it in print because I'm running out of room on the bookshelf it occupies, but don't know how long I can stay away. Founded eponymously by the American writer Lewis Lapham (who edited Harper's Magazine on and off for some thirty years), on the surface it may seem rather like an intellectual's Reader's Digest. It does present snippets of texts from anywhere and anywhen, arranged topically (this quarter's focus is Fashion); but it also features charts and graphs of interesting phenomena (Abandon All Hope: Punishments meted out to sinners in Dante's "Inferno") and maps (Beaten Paths: Brief Histories of Four Famous Routes). The website is quite complete, and could take weeks to wade through--especially if one wanders off on tangents, as I am prone to do.

An old friend/former spouse recently reminded me that I hadn't included The Public Domain Review in my blog roll--an oversight I will immediately remedy. Billed as "a project of the Open Knowledge Foundation," the Review is a compendium of essays on every imaginable topic (culture & history, art & illustrations, philosophy, science & medicine, &c. &c.) and collections arranged by medium (images, books, film, audio), time (pre-16th century through 20th), and topic. This is where I direct my art history students to gorgeous scans of the Très Riches Heures of the Duc de Berry, the November calendar page of which introduces this post. One of my favorite image collections centers on Colour Wheels, Charts, and Tables Through History, and another on The Maps of Piri Reis (an Ottoman navigator who collected them in his Book of Navigation (the link is to a downloadable scan from the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore); two of the maps appear below.

Map of the island of Bozjah (Tenedos) off the coast of Anatolia 

 Map of the Calabrian coast from Catanzaro to Siquillace

Once again, it would take ages to plumb the depths of this true cabinet of wonders. As soon as I've finished this post, in fact, I'll be back at it, having forgotten about its utter richness.

Fairly recently I've run across two off-beat journals, one from Australia, one from Britain, with some aspects in common and some not so much. Both are interesting and entertaining, and offer lovely editions for the iPad.

Smith Journal has a blog that offers an idea of the eclectic range of its content, which can, indeed be wondrous. It was a little difficult to make it past the cover of the current issue (an Elvis impersonator), but once inside there are articles on the Halley VI research station in Antarctica, Astronaut patches, preserving scientific knowledge in anticipation of the apocalypse, and a tightrope walker. Previous issues have explored the fates of lost explorers, cardboard architecture, and small, rural Australian museums. It also features interesting products, some of which are obtainable outside of down under. The digital edition is easy to navigate and looks lovely. I subscribed to this through the iTunes store rather than Zinio (which is where I get most of my 'zines).

The newest of the lot is Ernest Journal, which combines three media: biannual print journal, blog, and iPad magazine. There's also a Pinterest board, which I'll undoubtedly follow (making two boards I actually look at besides my own). It was mentioned in an article from the online version of the British edition of Country Living (the most important source of house porn in this family), and because digital editions come with links, I was able to connect immediately. I don't think I've been back to the original article in CL yet. This one, too, is obtainable through the iTunes people. On the cover it notes a focus on Curious Histories, Workmanship, Slow Adventure, Timeless Style, and Wild Food.  This may well define what "eclectic" actually means in practice. At any rate, I started with issue 5 and immediately purchased issue 1 as well (at half price). The subscription rate for the digital edition is about 20 USD per year, but worth it.  Contents of issue 5 include the science of terrariums and the history of Diableries (3D stereoscopic photos of devil-related dioramas). I found this latter article especially interesting, having just finished a Coursera MOOC devoted to Victorian Photography.

For those of us who haven't completely abandoned the past, I highly recommend Pretty Nostalgic, not only because it collects interesting things, but because it's actually grounded in a unifying set of principles (centered on spending wisely, wasting less, and appreciating more). Most of the content has to do with the 1940s (primarily war years and rationing), but includes vast amounts of information on how folks lived in the past without insisting that we give up the present. It also unabashedly celebrates Britain and British history. The digital copy is available through iTunes or Exactly. The most recent issue is a Yearbook, packed with pretty pictures, paintings, old printed stuff, curiosities, and articles related to the seasons. Just the thing for the third dank, damp, wretched day in a row, to hold me over until the sun comes out and I can get back to sorting out the garden for winter.

Finally, there's Brain Pickings. On the Google search page it's described as "an inventory of cross-disciplinary interestingness, spanning art, science, design, history, philosophy, and more." It's another serendipitous find, this time from a review of Lisa Randall's new book, Dark Matter and the Dinosaurs: The Astounding Interconnectedness of the Universe in the New York Times, by Maria Popova who edits Brain Pickings. (The link is to her review on the blog.) The Times always posts its authors' credentials, and Popova's included this organization. The articles on the page are interesting and seductive, and many of them are imaginatively illustrated. In fact, there's even a chart of 7 Life-Learnings from 7 Years of Brain Pickings, Illustrated. And by now, you all know how fond I am of charts and maps.

Image notes: all images were acquired from The Public Domain Review, as noted above.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Beginning Again

Over the last few years I've had little time for messing about in blogs, and this one has suffered more than the others. But I "retired" at the end of the Spring Quarter, and am now teaching part-time where I've spent the last twenty years as a full-time faculty member.

What this means is that I'm out of excuses. And because my interests in the oddities of human materialism hasn't abated one single bit, I fully intend to get back to documenting my discoveries in the Cabinet. I keep running into amazing, interesting, troubling, astonishing (enter more adjectives here) things in my often random travels through the 'verse--especially since I've become a full-fledged MOOC junkie. The most recent effort was a course on Sagas and Space sponsored by the University of Zurich through Coursera.  It focused on Norse sagas and the concept of space recorded in them; the material was fascinating and did more to kickstart my aging brainwaves than anything in recent memory. The opening image is a tribute to the experience: a sea monster (a whale being attacted by orcas?) from Olaus Magnus's very early map of the north, the Carta Marina.

I loved the course's structure (it was only eight weeks long) and the fact that I got to learn stuff I never really imagined was out there.  It tied in well with both my interest in William Morris (he translated a number of Icelandic sagas) and in maps, and reminded me why I started writing this blog in the first place. Not only that, it will help me set my students straight about Marvel's version of the Norse cosmology when next I get to teach the Myth class (maybe once a year now).

So now things are really coming together. I've spent the last couple of hours cleaning up the rolls on the sidebar, and have eliminated a couple of categories and several now-defunct blogs.  A few I was reluctant to eliminate altogether, even though they're no longer active, so I created an archive to house them. In future I'll update the lists with some of my new discoveries, but will leave you with this morsel discovered during the Sagas and Space adventure: The Monstrous Sea Pig from Idols of the Cave (recently added to the blog roll).

More sooner, rather than later. 

Image credit: Wikimedia Commons, uploaded by OlofE.

Monday, July 15, 2013

Personal Typology

This is the third in my series of essays for my Coursera adventure in "Archaeology's Dirty Little Secrets."  This exercise asked us to classify ourselves based on what we collect in particular places:
  1. Take your backpack, purse, the contents of a desk drawer, or any other personal assemblage.
  2. Dump it all out on a table or other flat surface and think about possible ways to 'organize' this material into types.
  3. Arrange the objects in four different ways, employing four different criteria.
  4. Describe each criterion you selected and explain why you chose it. Which do you think is most effective and why? What do you think you learned about yourself from this exercise?

We had a 750-word limit, which (coincidentally) is about what I average in a blog post.

This is the original assemblage.

I'm a college teacher, so I dumped my bookbag (absent its books, since I'm on break) on the dining room table, and the contents looked more like those of a purse.  Classifying the contents proved to be a real challenge. In one way, things had already been classified, because I had four zipper-bags with separate uses (personal hygiene--lipstick, brush, lotion, etc.; meds--drugs, medalert tag, antacids, NSAIDs; tools--eraser, pencils, scissors; change). At first I emptied them and their contents into the following categories, sorted by composition:  paper, plastic, mixed metal & other, mixed plastic & other. These were the broadest ones I could come up with.

Mostly plastic (composition)
After that, it became harder.  There were several obvious possibilities, such as "recreation" (stuff left over from last Friday's baseball game, including tickets, receipts, etc.; geeky science fiction stuff like Star Trek communication badges--don't ask; a Firefly keychain; a ticket to the latest Star Trek movie; a lifetime pass to Science Fiction Land from a Kickstarter project; a Tardis medallion), "school-related" (note pads, moleskin, pencils, eraser, scissors, planner, ID lanyard, conference badges, list of stuff to do next quarter), "personal" (med stuff, makeup). Upon some considerable reflection, these seem to fall into a general category of use.

A third category, based on design elements (form) emerged: rectangles (most of the paper stuff, most of the zippered pouches, money, some ginger sweeties; cylinders and round things (lotions, lips balm, pill bottles, eraser, pencils, one of the zippered pouches); rectangles with rounded corners (eyeglass case, wallet, mirror, planner, makeup container, paper clip, small powder bottle, gift card and key-chain perks cards); mixed (scissors, rectangular/cylindrical lipstick case, ear buds, brush, medalert tag, Star Trek badges, car/house keys--attached to keychains that might fit in other categories).

This is the "rectangle" pile in the form category.

A persistent anomaly is a grackle feather.  I pick up feathers for no earthly reason except that I like them, and this one has been in the bag, apparently, for some time. I can't seem to make it fit in any category except possibly the last. (It doesn't appear in any of the photos I uploaded.)

The final, very general, category (which might be considered in terms of meaning) is economy (in the true sense of the word--"rule/law of the home"). This would include the school-use, hygiene, and meds-related subcategories, but also citizenship-related elements from the paper pile such as jury summons instructions, a card with directions to my polling place, a collapsable reusable tote bag (environment), and the conference badges (academic citizenship), and the receipts, checkbook, and cash bits from other piles, as well as my wallet and perks cards. It might also include the recreational elements, including the geeky science fiction stuff and the baseball stuff because both pretty much rule our home. So do birds and nature--not much of which are represented outright in the assemblage, except for the grackle feather.

This is the geeky science fiction stuff that fit into a couple of categories (recreation, from use, and also economy)
It's  hard to tell which of these would be most effective in figuring out who I am or what I do--although the amount of plastic (gasp!) in the assemblage would be helpful in determining my profession because it would probably survive for quite some time. It would not, alas, indicate much about my environmentalism (although one of the pouches is made of recycled plastic, and another is to keep me from taking home plastic bags).

Of possible interest to this exercise is the pervasive instinct to classify that seems to come with certain human activities--such as teaching, or gardening. Over the last week, for example, we spent a significant amount of time clearing out our garden/storage shed. As we moved things outside, it became clear that we were classifying as we went: stuff to recycle, stuff to take to the tip, garden tools, mechanical tools--and, yes, pots.  Lots of pots (plastic and ceramic). And even potsherds (which we've been collecting to use to make a mosaic garden bench.  I had studied archaeology in my youth, and it seems that you can take the girl out of archaeology, but you can't take the archaeology out of the girl.

Again, the comments were pretty positive, and students I "graded" in the peer review (not all of whom chose this option) provided interesting insights with their responses--which seem to be getting better. I'm beginning to wonder if the cream is moving to the top as the course goes on. The amount of work involved may not appeal to everyone.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

What Survives

Note: if you'd like to comment on this series of posts, please do so below--rather than in the course's peer review.  My criteria for illustrating the essays for the course are different than for this blog.

The assignment: select TWO artifacts that are composed of different types of material, both organic and inorganic. These can come from your home, from a book, from online, from a museum—you don’t necessarily need to be able to touch them. Then:
  1. Describe the artifacts. If possible, take a picture and upload it with your assignment.
  2. Imagine these artifacts were buried in three different places: a) Egypt, b) where you live, and c) anywhere else on earth you choose.
  3. Describe the general environmental and climatic conditions, and the possible specific matrices in which they would be found.
  4. Assess what you think would survive from these artifacts and what would disappear in those three different environments after 100 years.
  5. Compare the two artifacts for durability.

I chose two related artifacts, not unlikely to be found together, and that might prove interesting to a budding archaeologist.  I thought of using these because although it has been more than thirty years since I spent any time in the field, my Marshalltown masonry trowel is still in use--as my favorite gardening tool. Back then we had to buy a regular mason's trowel and have it sharpened, and no holster was available. Modern-day archaeologists have more options.

Marshalltown now makes pointed trowels especially for archaeological use (in two styles, "London" and "Philadelphia") and a belt-holster to keep one handy. Because each is made of a combination of organic and inorganic materials, I thought they would make appropriate artifacts for this exercise.

The trowel is made of high carbon steel and hardwood. The wooden handle is probably attached to the metal with acrylic carpenter's glue. The holster is stitched leather, with unspecified metal rivets and a "long-wearing protective insert" which looks to be some kind of heavy plastic. The organic wood and leather, and possibly the stitching, coupled with the inorganic metal bits would react differently to different conditions. The context I'm applying to all of the conditions described below is a dig--one logical place for these objects to be found--but the environmental conditions of the imaginary digs differ.

If found in Egypt, say at Abydos, it's likely that the metal parts of each would survive quite well, as would the leather, plastic, and the stitching around the holster.  The wooden handle, however, could succumb to the termite problem mentioned in the "What Survives" video. The desert conditions would probably make the leather holster less supple, but it shouldn't decay significantly. If an archaeologist had left the trowel and holster behind in Abydos, the termites would probably obliterate the handle while leaving the metal bits relatively unaffected. If the "protective insert" is made of plastic, that might become brittle and perhaps crack, but not disintegrate. Does plastic ever truly disintegrate?

If the trowel and holster were found at a dig in the Dallas area of north Texas, where I live, the environment is less stable, subject to extremes of drought and precipitation, tornadic activity, and floods.  The soil is typically dense clay, covering caliche (hardened calcium carbonate; Texas spent a significant part of its natural history under water). When it rains heavily, the soil gets saturated and dries slowly, but then hardens and cracks. These processes over time would probably drive the objects deeper into the soil than where they were deposited, and cause deterioration in the organic materials and rusting of the metal bits. My house is ninety years old, and periodically the garden produces bits of glass and metal, but never any organic materials.

The third environment I'd like to place my trowel and holster in is the Owens River Valley in California, where I was born.  It lies in the high desert between the Sierras and the Inyos, and most of the surface soil is decomposed granite overlying volcanic materials.  It is quite dry, and if the objects were to be found near the surface, the conditions might resemble those at Abydos. However, the area also lies above several fault lines, and the lower part of the valley consists of a large fault block which could disrupt the matrix significantly were a major earthquake to occur.  While it's unlikely that such an event would break the trowel, it might separate the handle from the metal--and it might move the artifacts lower into the more moisture laden substrate. An earthquake might also alter the course of the river and disrupt the Los Angeles aqueduct, adding much more water to the context than now exists.

Both of these artifacts are potentially quite durable. My own trowel, thirty years later, is a bit rusty, but the handle is still attached and the only apparent damage is to the tip, which has been broken off (at a dig in New Jersey) and worn smooth.  If I wanted to use it seriously, I'd have to have it resharpened.  The holster's durability would be the most in question, and depend more on environmental conditions than anything but the wooden handle of the trowel.

Further note: this essay drew positive comments, including one from another lapsed archaeologist who also uses his/her trowel for gardening. The photo was taken this morning with my iPhone--after I'd been doing a typological exercise (sorting through twelve years of detritus in the shed). I went out to look for the trowel, got involved in clearing out the shed and garage so we can convert the latter into a studio, and didn't find the trowel until five hours later, when I was too hot and tired to do any more excavating.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Exploiting Archaeology

For the next eight weeks, I'm participating in my first MOOC (Massive Open Online Course) through Coursera.  It's called "Archaeology's Dirty Little Secrets," and taught by Brown University archaeologist Sue Alcock.  The first week's material and assignments have done more to stimulate my little grey cells than almost anything I've done in the last year.  So: I've decided to post any writing assignments for the course here and (when appropriate) on The Owl of Athena--not just because I don't have much time to write these days, but because the fist assignment, at least, seems to fit right into the scope of the Cabinet; it's also about education, at least obliquely, so The Owl seems like another suitable venue.

Of the three available exercise topics for this week, I chose one called "Archaeological Expressions," which asks students to "Find one form of artistic expression (poetry, film, literature, trash fiction, music) that draws on archaeology and archaeological uses of the past" and write a reaction piece; Indiana Jones is proscribed, and I don't blame the course team for forcing us to think of something else.  I chose the original version of The Mummy, and here's my response:

The discovery and excavation of Tutankhamen’s tomb in the early 1920s, helped create a wave of Egyptomania in the United States and Britain. It probably acted as the midwife to the horror film genre as well, with all the media hype about curses, and the first Mummy movie, now a classic, was produced in 1932.  I use this film to open a discussion on popular perceptions of archaeology in my Intro to Humanities classes, and compare it to other films, such as Raiders of the Lost Ark, Stargate, and Tomb Raider. Film clips and a trailer are available on the Turner Classic Movies page, and a special edition DVD is available for anyone who’s never seen the film.

In the first segment of The Mummy, starring Boris Karloff in the title role, a brash young archaeologist, Norton, expresses impatience with Sir Joseph Whempel’s insistence on strict archaeological method (dealing with each find in the order in which it was uncovered,  etc.), noting that the only item that would earn the expedition any “medals from the British Museum” would be “that fellow over there.” Leaning against the wall is a casket, containing a rather robust linen-wrapped mummy.  There’s also a small chest, inscribed with a hieroglyphic message.

A sign over the tent reads, “British Museum Expedition 1921.” Members of the team include not only Sir Joseph, a renowned archaeologist, and his assistant, Norton (a newly-minted Ph.D.?), who can decipher hieroglyphic text, but also Professor Muller, an “expert in the occult sciences.” Muller himself interprets the inscription on the chest as a curse on anyone who opens it, and thinks it contains the “Scroll of Thoth, which can bring the dead back to life.” He proposes that they rebury both the sarcophagus and the chest, refusing to participate in “sacrilege.”

When Whempel and Muller (who discovers that the mummy has not been embalmed in the traditional manner, and that there are signs indicating a live burial) leave the room to discuss what to do next, Norton is left alone to piece together fragments of inscribed stone. But the young punk can’t resist the temptation, and withdraws the scroll—reading it aloud as he translates it. In a long, brilliant shot, the camera focuses on the mummy’s face, catching the gleam of an opening eye and the slow recovery of movement in its arms. Norton watches, incredulous, as the mummy awakens, takes the scroll, and leaves.  The scene ends as an hysterical Norton announces that the mummy “went for a little walk.” We later find out that he has died mad.

The film is well worth watching, especially for those who were under-impressed by the most recent remakes.  The clips available on the Turner Classic Movies web page include several telling moments that illustrate many of the presumptions Sue Alcock outlines in her first lecture: All real archaeologists want to find “goodies,” have to be lucky, and are white, male, and macho.

In later films like Raiders of the Lost Ark and its sequels, and Stargate, the archaeologist characters combine different aspects of those from The Mummy: brash, greedy daredevils or iconoclastic scholars. The earliest female version of this character I can think of (besides Marion Ravenwood) is Vash, who appeared in a couple of Star Trek franchise episodes.

Despite the stereotyping of archaeologists as tomb-plundering adventurers, it’s the archaeologist-as-occult-scientist aspect that’s done the most damage, I think.  Even as women like Lara Croft come into the picture, the emphasis of their explorations seems to focus on mysterious, supernatural forces as generators of all those important artifacts.

What these pop-culture, somewhat iconic figures do is to perpetuate the “our ancestors were dummies” perception which produces the consummately unscientific view that the aliens must have done it.

The unfortunate result of all this is that the movie-archaeologists engage in pseudoscience and suck in gullible youngsters already starved of solid science education.  Using these films to expose the myths and set the record straight may be a sleazy way of attracting attention, but if, like The Mummy, it provides a platform for discussion, perhaps the enjoyment we get from watching them is something of a reward for our diligence in promoting a healthier view of history.

I’d highly recommend The Mummy to anyone who teaches introductory archaeology, or who explores the impact of film on culture.  The first twenty minutes exposes a number of popular misconceptions, and offers a starting point for a more accurate exploration of archaeological method.

Image credit: The theatrical poster for The Mummy, via Wikipedia's article on the film.