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Good intentions gone bad: When archaeologists play diplomats
Who owns antiquity?

In 1966, the University of Pennsylvania Museum bought a unique collection of gorgeous Bronze Age gold pieces from a private dealer in Philadelphia.
Penn's people had no idea about where or how these 24 gold objects had been found. They suspected that the trove had been dug up by looters. In their frustration they decided to prevent such "homelessness" for other antiquities. In 1970 they declared that the Penn Museum would no longer acquire ancient objects whose legal provenience couldn't be determined. Later that year, UNESCO declared a convention on cultural property that other responsible institutions have followed to this day.
Last month Penn declared a corollary. After negotiations with the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism, Penn returned the so-called "Trojan Gold" to Turkey on indefinite loan, to be displayed in a new museum near Troy itself.
Chemical analysis had determined that a speck of dirt lodged in the 2,600-year-old jewelry came from near Troy, although long before Homer's war there. Troy no longer exists, but the site sits on what is now Turkish territory. Ergo, the gold was declared Turkish property.
What did Penn get in exchange? Its museum will host shows about great Turkish excavations and enjoy privileged access to those digs.
Archaeologists as diplomats
Here, it seemed to many observers, was a civilized solution to a world that's globally shrinking as its intellectual heritage deepens.
Brian Rose, a Penn archeologist involved in these negotiations, argues that his museum, like others, is interested in the "archaeological narratives" that go with such objects. By that logic, he contends, artifacts should be displayed near the site where they were excavated.
He noted that Penn wanted to make a strong statement about looting and cultural preservation. "Archaeologists," he said, "have to be diplomats as much as they have to know the archaeology of the ancient world, because there's a political dimension to everything we do now."
Tinpot ambitions
But there's a downside to the tradition of repatriation begun at Penn. Great museums— even when they're located thousands of miles from an object's original home— often take better care of ancient masterpieces than private owners or governments.
The new guidelines play into the ambition of every tinpot U.N. member nation to possess any and all objects created within their current boundaries. The problem is that, over the course of centuries, a beautiful marble bust like the Cleveland Museum of Art's recently purchased head of Drusus Minor belonged to many different countries, not all equally qualified to protect the interests of the greater "nation" of art lovers.
Nationalist motives
James Cuno, now the head of the Getty Museum in L.A., has perhaps made the last and most credible judgment about "possession" in his classic book, Who Owns Antiquity? Cuno rejects the assumption that "modern nation-states own the cultural remains of antiquity that lie within their boundaries simply because they are found there."
These claims, he adds, "are motivated by nationalist politics intent on strengthening government claims of political legitimacy by appealing to racial, ethnic and cultural pride."
One could argue that in an intellectual struggle between individual groups and the entire human community, the larger trumps the smaller. We value great art because it civilizes humankind. And we value all human communities, regardless of their size or boundaries. All of us "own" antiquity when we freely learn from it and share our esthetic joys with others.
It's well and good that looters no longer enjoy carte blanche to peddle their artistic loot. But turning ancient treasures over to politicians is no solution either. In an age of non-governmental organizations, facilitated by the Internet, some more creative alternative is at least feasible.
Great art outlasts governments and nations— if it's properly cared for. So who, then— at the UN or elsewhere— will protect the interests of that larger global of art lovers?♦
To read a response, click here.
Penn's people had no idea about where or how these 24 gold objects had been found. They suspected that the trove had been dug up by looters. In their frustration they decided to prevent such "homelessness" for other antiquities. In 1970 they declared that the Penn Museum would no longer acquire ancient objects whose legal provenience couldn't be determined. Later that year, UNESCO declared a convention on cultural property that other responsible institutions have followed to this day.
Last month Penn declared a corollary. After negotiations with the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism, Penn returned the so-called "Trojan Gold" to Turkey on indefinite loan, to be displayed in a new museum near Troy itself.
Chemical analysis had determined that a speck of dirt lodged in the 2,600-year-old jewelry came from near Troy, although long before Homer's war there. Troy no longer exists, but the site sits on what is now Turkish territory. Ergo, the gold was declared Turkish property.
What did Penn get in exchange? Its museum will host shows about great Turkish excavations and enjoy privileged access to those digs.
Archaeologists as diplomats
Here, it seemed to many observers, was a civilized solution to a world that's globally shrinking as its intellectual heritage deepens.
Brian Rose, a Penn archeologist involved in these negotiations, argues that his museum, like others, is interested in the "archaeological narratives" that go with such objects. By that logic, he contends, artifacts should be displayed near the site where they were excavated.
He noted that Penn wanted to make a strong statement about looting and cultural preservation. "Archaeologists," he said, "have to be diplomats as much as they have to know the archaeology of the ancient world, because there's a political dimension to everything we do now."
Tinpot ambitions
But there's a downside to the tradition of repatriation begun at Penn. Great museums— even when they're located thousands of miles from an object's original home— often take better care of ancient masterpieces than private owners or governments.
The new guidelines play into the ambition of every tinpot U.N. member nation to possess any and all objects created within their current boundaries. The problem is that, over the course of centuries, a beautiful marble bust like the Cleveland Museum of Art's recently purchased head of Drusus Minor belonged to many different countries, not all equally qualified to protect the interests of the greater "nation" of art lovers.
Nationalist motives
James Cuno, now the head of the Getty Museum in L.A., has perhaps made the last and most credible judgment about "possession" in his classic book, Who Owns Antiquity? Cuno rejects the assumption that "modern nation-states own the cultural remains of antiquity that lie within their boundaries simply because they are found there."
These claims, he adds, "are motivated by nationalist politics intent on strengthening government claims of political legitimacy by appealing to racial, ethnic and cultural pride."
One could argue that in an intellectual struggle between individual groups and the entire human community, the larger trumps the smaller. We value great art because it civilizes humankind. And we value all human communities, regardless of their size or boundaries. All of us "own" antiquity when we freely learn from it and share our esthetic joys with others.
It's well and good that looters no longer enjoy carte blanche to peddle their artistic loot. But turning ancient treasures over to politicians is no solution either. In an age of non-governmental organizations, facilitated by the Internet, some more creative alternative is at least feasible.
Great art outlasts governments and nations— if it's properly cared for. So who, then— at the UN or elsewhere— will protect the interests of that larger global of art lovers?♦
To read a response, click here.
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