At the same time, LH IIIC society was one of transition, in which new forms of socio-political and economic organisation and competition were developing. The emerging socio-political realities then would have been governed by specifics of genealogy, descent and ancestry. In this ideological framework fewer children would have meant fewer descendants for the competing elite families, thus fewer chances for claims of authority and succession to political power. In this case the death of a child could have been an occasion for competitive display. Thus, the offering of a wealth of burial gifts, of exotica, or of objects made of precious materials (as in the case of Perati, and Kamini, Naxos), and the elaborate construction of sepulchres for children and their direct association with graves of adult members of the local elite (as, for example, in the case of the two well-constructed child graves at Mitrou) would have been stage-managed to advertise the prominent social status of the living family within the community, and/or the involvement of the pater familias into the regional and interregional prestige exchange networks of the period, and/or the family’s ancestral links with the glorious palatial past (as may be reflected by the deposition of heirlooms in the graves of their offspring). The analysis of the surviving evidence suggests that it is possible to reach Mycenaean children and their world through archaeology. The LH IIIC response to the death of a child was not always simply emotional; a ‘tiny’ death would have also presented an ideal opportunity for the advertisement of power and social prominence, the (re) production of ideas of heredity, lineal descent and ancestry, and subsequently, the renewal, reinforcement and even reclassification of socio-political roles in a society in transition.
‘darkest dungeon’ and destroy the Lovecraftian abomination at its centre. These explorations are rewarded with items to upgrade the estate, to improve your roster of characters and generally make each expedition a little easier. These games often foreground the development of the player’s skills through trial and error experience, items obtained are invariably lost upon death. This lack of permanence – or ‘permadeath’ – is apt for a Lovecraftian setting, as in a nihilistic sense each avatar or character will have little or no consequence beyond their own existence. Yet such a format necessitates that there are both monsters to challenge the player and a number of objects which are in fact worth this risk. As previously mentioned, Lovecraft’s narrators acquire little, if any, material evidence of what they have witnessed. The drive of Roguelike games to find loot or treasure – to spend on items to improve the player’s chances of progressing further – therefore seems to overlook the apparent dereliction of these vestige spaces. Darkest Dungeon’s objects are given little narrative attention beyond acting as a form of currency and expenditure, especially as each acquired artefact or ‘trinket’ is given no background history or explanation of its own unique identity.
This of course rests on our conception of mind. If we accept the concept of an extended mind or indeed body, where the physical human structure is not a final limit, then one can arrive at ‘a cognitive landscape in which brains, bodies and things play equal roles in the drama of human cognitive becoming’ (Malafouris 2013, 2). For many archaeologists the power of the body extends beyond the physical frame, through the symbolism of objects, dress, perfume and so forth which are reconstructed from the material record, or presupposed, and even extends after life, as distributed body parts or reburials maintain the notion of the person and their power after death. Clearly this is largely metaphorical, but the persistence of memorials in the archaeological discourse is testament to the desire to extend power beyond the life of an individual, a desire which of course is easily harnessed and manipulated for present concerns. Anyone who doubts the enduring significance of the body need only consider the recent saga of the discovery in a Leicester car park of the body of Richard III and its reburial. Headstones embody memory and social persona, as well as enacting their own permanence.
After the death of Nathaniel Sylvester in 1680, his wife and their eldest son Giles main‑ tained the plantation, and when Grissell died in 1685, Giles took primary possession of the plantation. An account book (G. Sylvester 1680–1701) covering some of this period indi‑ cates that Giles Sylvester relied heavily upon day laborers in the operations of the planta‑ tion. Covering years between 1680 and 1701, these accounts note transactions with at least 50 individuals. Although many of the names that appear in the account book suggest the attribution of racial categories, for example “Squaw Hannah,” “John Indian” and “Black John,” or seem similar to names of known Native Americans, it is impossible to know for certain the ethnic or cultural identities of these laborers. Although frustrating, such doc‑ umentary obscurity may be less a failure to fully record the details than an indication of the fluidity and situational nature of such cat‑ egories for the historical agents. Analysis of the account book indicates that the workers per‑ formed a variety of services including cutting wood, collecting produce like pears, cranber‑ ries and corn, and most often receiving either cider or alcohol in return (Priddy 2002).
The average salary commanded in archaeology now sits at AUD$96,171, with a distribution ranging from AUD$0–$10,000 up to greater than $190,000 and a median salary range of AUD$80,000–90,000 (Figure 9). This average salary continues the upward trend previously observed (Ulm et al. 2013:37), increasing by 12% in the last 5 years (up from AUD$85,636 in 2010) but the upward trend is less pronounced than previous years when compared to the 31% increase between the 2010 and 2005 surveys (up from AUD$64,973 in 2005). The increase of 12% is also substantially below the nationally observed salary increase which has risen 21% from 2009 to 2014 (Australian Bureau of Statistics 2010, 2015). It should be noted that our archaeological average salaries are minima, as we did not collect precise income data for respondents earning above AUD$100,000 in 2005, above AUD$170,000 in 2010, and above $190,000 in 2015.
In the LR phase London remained a rather important adminis- trative centre and prestigious city but archaeology suggests that it had lost much of its commercial and social vigour. Interestingly, however, commercial activity in terms of exotic food plants appears to continue on current evidence, albeit on a reduced scale. The exotics' trade in Britannia also continues its regular in ﬂ ow, but now, an increased ac- tivity is witnessed again in the southern coast and the Mouth of the Severn and on the eastern south-north route passing through London (Fig. 3). London is not anymore the main port of entry of imports or the key centre in the exotics' distribution. Imports seem to be largely entering from the south, but the pre-existing transport network, as established during previous phases, may have encouraged transit through London to reach the centre and the north of the island. Thus, the acquired London transport network's high betweenness cen- trality seems to have contributed to the city's maintenance as an important node in this commerce (Orengo and Livarda, forthcoming). The disruption of the imperial economy in the LR phase and the recovered importance of the southern ports might have potentiated a change in the consumption of imports and other exotics, linked to the emergence of local, well-connected, individuals or groups, some of which may have been located in previously marginal areas of London, who took over the control of this commerce.
The theme of industrialisation is not exclu- sively concerned with changes in technology and consumption, but also with the new social relations of the period as expressed through buildings and the use of space, landscape change both in the countryside and through urbanisation, and the control and ownership (two different things) of monuments and landscapes and how this might reflect the movement of capital. As it is rooted in the survey and excavation techniques of British archaeology this new way of looking at indus- trial archaeology emphasises the primary nature of archaeological evidence drawn from monument types and material culture, whilst relating these back to the contempo- rary documentary, photographic, and oral evidence, thereby reuniting the production, consumption, and urbanisation aspects of post-1500 archaeology in Britain. This is an archaeological concept of Industrialisation which is not chronologically constrained but is culturally specific, and can thus be applied to any industrialising society around the world. It is what we might call the archae- ology of the industrial period, and as such a summary of some of the more specific research topics related to the theme of industrialisation might be as follows:
Volume 4, Issue 1, January – 2019 International Journal of Innovative Science and Research Technology ISSN No 2456 2165 IJISRT19JA262 www ijisrt com 558 Archaeology of Krishnagiri District, Tamil Nadu[.]
9. ASHBY, S.P. in press. How to Make a Good Comb, In L. Ten Harkel and D.M. Hadley (Eds), Social Approaches to Viking Towns. Oxford: Oxbow. 10.MACGREGOR, A. & CURREY, J. D. 1983. Mechanical properties as conditioning factors in the bone and antler industry of the 3rd to the 13th Century AD. Journal of Archaeological Science, 10, 71-77. 11.MACGREGOR, A, MAINMAN, A. J & ROGERS, N. S. H. 1999. Craft, Industry and Everyday Life: Bone, Antler, Ivory and Horn from Anglo-Scandinavian and Medieval York. The Archaeology of York 17/2., York, Council for British Archaeology.
The archaeology of coastal regions is rich and varied, but is facing increasing pressures from natural processes. Regardless of how the climate may change in the future, many coastal archaeological sites are threatened by erosion now. In order to manage this resource, it is essential to identify both sites and vulnerable stretches of coast. This paper introduces the Scottish situation and discusses recent approaches taken in Scotland, where a methodology has been GHYHORSHGWKDWLVDSSOLFDEOHWRDOOFRDVWDODUHDV7KH¿UVWVWDJHRIWKHDSSURDFKKDVEHHQWRXQGHUWDNHGHVNEDVHGDQG ¿HOGVXUYH\VLQRUGHUWRLGHQWLI\ZKDWLVDWULVNDQGWRJDXJHLWVYXOQHUDELOLW\7KHQH[WVWDJHKDVEHHQWRSURGXFHDQG review recommended actions for vulnerable sites. Finally, a shortlist of sites has been produced that prioritises actions according to the importance and level of threat posed to individual sites. Looking ahead, a new project will seek to further UH¿QHWKLVVKRUWOLVWE\KDUQHVVLQJSXEOLFRSLQLRQDQGORFDONQRZOHGJHLQRUGHUWRHQVXUHWKDWDFWLRQLVWDNHQDWVLWHVYDOXHG both by archaeologists and the wider public.
One of the strengths of the course that make it so popular is its focus on archaeology. Students examine public buildings, private houses, public spaces such as streets and the Forum, wall paintings, statues, mosaics, and organic and animal remains. They also delve into the scientific aspects of archaeology by examining volcanological evidence for the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 CE, and forensic studies of human remains uncovered at Pompeii and Herculaneum. Most importantly, students develop skills of critical thinking by exploring a range of controversial and ethical issues relating to reconstruction, ownership and custodianship of the past, such as conservation and reconstruction, the impact of tourism and the study and display of human remains.
In Poland, the surveys revealed that Polish people perceive archaeology as a science useful for discovering the human past, and typically associate it with excava- tions (Kobyliński, 2009; Marciniak, 2011; Marciniak et al., 2011; Pawleta, 2016). People recognize it as relevant, believing that archaeologists bring the past closer to modern society, and help local communities to understand it. Moreover, Polish people often associate archaeology not only with the distant, but also with the recent past (Kajda & Kostyrko, 2016). Polish studies also indicate that cultural heritage is seen as a product that may positively affect social and economic reality on a local and national scale (e.g. through tourism). The public considers itself stakeholders in the decision- making process concerning heritage man- agement. The majority of the respondents were of the opinion that it is worth invest- ing public money in heritage, yet no sense of public responsibility for heritage is evident; rather it is seen as the task of his- toric preservation officers and state bodies (Koziol = = = = =
In the Global West, our understanding of contemporary interactions, community, and participation in public life is changing rapidly, as we continue to morph and adjust to the affordances of technological developments and the transformative power of new modes of communications. As a result, the ethical frameworks for our work as digital public archaeologists need, and will continue to need, to adjust and expand to meet the ethical challenges pro- voked by present, as well as future, as-yet-unanticipated, technological, social and political developments. How can we ensure best ethical practices in digital public archaeolo- gies? How can these practices be cognizant of the complex- ities of community relationships online and offline, the intricacy of public engagement, power structures within the interactions within and between our discipline and the wider public, and indeed, our own theoretical stances with regards to ‘multi-vocality’? The range and quantity of devices, affordances and communications enabled by online and mobile technologies continue to expand at a rapid pace, unabated. Alongside the acceleration of com- municative possibilities, the deeply philosophical and provocative field of digital ethics continues to expand, with a developing breadth of literature (Heider & Massan- ari 2012). This paper will focus specifically on the ethical concerns of the digital public archaeologist, from the per- spective of someone working within an Anglophone and European context and associated practices. As Fernández (2015: 63) notes, our existing ethical codes are based on a universal assumption that everyone working in the field of archaeology possesses the same cultural experiences and values, and all support the desire to protect archaeologi-
Historical ecology is a field of inquiry that has come of age and currently finds itself at a cross- roads. After decades of interrelated developments in both ecology and archaeology, historical ecology is increasingly recognized as an inclusive intellectual hub for exploring a range of fundamental questions in disciplines such as ecology, biology, archaeology, anthropology, his- tory, geography, and ethnobiology. The term is increasingly cited in academic literature and researchers are beginning to use the label to identify themselves [1–6]. The appeal of histori- cal-ecological research is that it operates on multiple temporal scales and across disciplinary boundaries that have long separated the social and natural sciences [1,7]. It also generates applied research questions and data for historically grounded and socially just conservation programs, in which environmental initiatives consider the totality of human-environment interactions and foster a critical awareness of the imposition of “green” policy on communi- ties, many of whom may be marginalized [2,8–10].
.” She glanced at me with a knowing grin. “You weren’t about to make some nature-culture divide between archaeology and geology, were you? Besides, its an artefact now, part of your socio- technical practice as an ethnographer. Hand it over, and I’ll make it part of my practice.” She held out her hand for the stone and I placed it on her palm.
drawing on the “ordered anarchy” described by Sir E. E. Evans-Prichard in The Nuer, is a study of how decentralized power structures formed and functioned among Native American groups in precolonial California. Bettinger’s work can also be considered an anarchic study, since he seeks to understand how governance without government can be accomplished, yet does not draw on anarchist theory. And there is a host of other fellow travelers. These include the recent Punk Archaeology book published by Caraher and colleagues (2014); Sassaman’s (2001) work on mobility as an act of resistance to state building; Creese’s (2016) work on consensus-based, non-hierarchical polities in the Late Wood- land period of eastern North America; and complexity scien- tists within archaeology (sensu Maldonado and Mezza-Garcia 2016; Ward 1996 ). While not explicitly anarchist, these examples all demonstrate that anarchic ideas are more prominent than many realize. 2
What needs to be changed as well, is what we do with the results of archaeological work. So far, that has mostly been regarded as a scientific process. I don’t contest the scientific nature of archaeological research, but the results of that work must be communicated to the general public. The information about our history should not remain within a select group, and by that I don’t necessarily mean just the professionals. For me, this select group also includes the well educated, relatively wealthy and generally middle aged, native Dutch part of the population, which – as polls show - is normally reached by archaeologists. Categories such as our youth and the new immigrant population should be able to get in touch with the heritage more easily and more often. Education is the clue to that, and this is why I have made heritage education one of the spearheads of my policy. In addition, cultural tourism is also a field where archaeology in the Netherlands could be more developed. In this respect we can learn from other countries and new ideas such as the use of virtual technology in presenting the heritage.
A specific aim, in this research field, is to make archaeological science more accessible in order to improve its appreciation and engagement using digital tools (3D model, 3D reconstruction, VR & AR exhibition) as well as experimental archaeology. These kinds of technologies are effective for researchers or non-expert users for all kind of data and remains: single artefacts, archaeological complexes or cultural archaeological landscapes.