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Introduction to the Art of Ethnography

EDITH TURNER
Department of Anthropology
University of Virginia
PO Box 400120
Charlottesville, VA 22904–4120

SUMMARY The most human side of anthropology is its ethnography, that is, the
significant facts an anthropologist gives about a culture, the living events that the
researcher needs to relate to convey how that culture works. Where the researcher’s par-
ticipation in the culture has been vigorous and full, the style of ethnography is often
magnificent. This article discusses two kinds of writing, the kind that our field friends
would themselves appreciate and the kind that university examiners and grant givers
would appreciate. I explain the storytelling method as a tool for conveying a picture
nearer to the natural tenor of people’s lives. [Keywords: ethnography, participation,
academic writing, ontological inversion, storytelling]

The purpose of anthropology is to supply humankind with information about

itself. However, humanistic anthropology draws nearer to the living human
being. It seeks to give humankind an understanding of the heart of the human
being in relation to his or her fellows. Its goal is stated in the mission statement
on the inner front cover of Anthropology and Humanism:
[It] concerns the central question of the discipline: ‘What is it to be human?’
Humanistic anthropology seeks to bring out the intricate and contradictory
processes of life in other cultures—including those of the anthropologist. Whether
working with life histories or demographics, poetics or nutrition, artistic expression
or scientific writing, this journal strives to maintain a focus on the human actors
themselves. AH values writing that delights, writing that outrages, writing that
evokes the human condition in all its messiness, glory, and misery—writing that
reveals the blockages that are deleterious to our social and physical environment,
and is thus able to promote cross-cultural understanding.1

Here one can easily spot the distinguishing marks of humanistic anthropology.
It carries a load of feelings and passions unusual in the social sciences. One
may wonder what the words, “delight, outrage, glory, misery” are doing in an
instructional passage for the aspiring author of an anthropological article. One
finds such words in Renato Rosaldo’s Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social
Analysis (1989), Ruth Behar’s The Vulnerable Observer: Anthropology That Breaks
Your Heart (1996), and Duncan Earle’s article “Dog Days: Participation as
Transformation” (2007), in which Earle laughs at himself for being teased by
the Maya as “dog,” the lowest of the low in the Maya calendar. “You don’t
know what this beast might decide to do in the street” (2007:314–315).
Moreover, our journal-founder-editor Bruce Grindal said, way back in 1993,

Anthropology and Humanism, Vol. 32, Issue 2, pp 108–116, ISSN 0892-8339, online ISSN 1548-1379.
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Turner The Art of Ethnography 109

“We must, on occasion, risk doing and publishing the outrageous” (1993:46).
Not only that but Barbara Tedlock, in her article, “From Participant
Observation to the Observation of Participation” (1991) has assembled lists of
the great humanistic writers. These writers too were exceptional in their day
because they used true human warmth when they went about the task of
enabling readers to “get the hang of” another culture.

The Nearer to Participation, the Better the Writing

Where anthropological writing has been changing for the better, it is mainly
because of the growth of the subdisciplines of humanism, religion, and con-
sciousness, those concerned with human experience, often with a leaning to the
subjective. We have all noted how when a writer starts telling a story that is at
the core of her ethnography, her writing becomes delightful, lucid, and flow-
ing. Then, in the paragraphs that constitute the theoretical adumbrations that are
extrapolated in the required sequencing of the peroration, certain inexplicable constric-
tions become manifest, from which, owing to her approved, classical, academic disci-
plining, the aspiring scholar is subsequently unable to extricate herself. There it goes
again. Why didn’t they tell hopeful fieldworkers to take their courage in both
hands, stop this nattering, and get out there and dance with the people, to
wash the dishes for them (I did, see Turner 1996:26), to climb a date palm and
pollinate it like Smadar Lavie among the Bedouin (Lavie 1990:16), to get sick
and have a healer shoot them full of energy, to shoot others full of energy, to
really participate? Once in 1988 I saw a Soviet lady secretary in New Chaplino,
Chukotka, looking terribly nervous when our party of visiting Americans
began to dance along with the Siberian Yupik of that village. We encouraged
her to join in, too, but no. This “Communist” lady taught us a lesson, that we
Americans were more capable of being deeply “with” the people than their
educated classes were.

The Nearer to Participation, the Better the Writing

For instance, Lila Abu-Lughod, the anthropologist daughter of an Arab and a
Muslim, is the type of fieldworker who likes her research, working and gossip-
ing with the Bedouin of Egypt. There is a passage in her book, Writing Women’s
Worlds (1993), in which her encampment friend, Grandma Migdim, tells stories
of her wild girlhood, especially when the family wanted her to marry a paternal
cousin. But she didn’t like him. They kept pressuring her, so she went into the
gully and screamed for ten days. She also went into the tent prepared for the
wedding where there stood a black paint pot for painting the tent, and poured
the paint over herself. At this the family quieted down. The wedding was post-
poned; then was forgotten in the way things are. The arrival of any other suitors
brought on the same screaming. Eventually, her father’s brother’s wife relayed
the story to her brother, Migdim’s father’s brother’s wife’s brother, an old man
who had a son. This man always wanted Migdim as wife for his son because he
had noted that Migdim was energetic and smart. The son was a really good kid,
so Migdim married the boy (Abu-Lughod 1993:47–48).
This story was told with such simplicity, heart, and beauty—without any
trimmings—that it brought tears to my eyes and pride for our gender.
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110 Anthropology and Humanism Volume 32, Number 2

Abu-Lughod’s cunning throughout her whole book was to turn the received
ideas of Bedouin social structure upside down—like the paint pot. She over-
turned patrilineality, polygyny, patrilineal parallel-cousin marriage, honor and
shame—in fact the whole mechanistic system cranking away to itself. She
wasn’t having any of it. She saw what the people were actually like. This was
writing that was messy and outrageous, and it made a prize-winning book.

The Prime Directive

The apparent estrangement of humanistic anthropology from the “social sci-
ences” has also been accompanied by a small revolution against the old idea of
the “prime directive” (see also Earle 2007:312). This directive used to be the Star
Trek ideal: leave your aliens unchanged. We anthropologists also used to feel we
should leave our native peoples unchanged. We were ashamed of the way our
civilizations had messed them about; we should be there only as observers. But
according to the humanistic mission, they and we share “our social and physical
environment.” We have come to the realization that we are, in fact, working on
“ourselves” as a single global species, and this “ourselves” includes “them,”
“us,” all of us. What is more, the blockages in the sharing of our environment
may be “deleterious.” Here enter moral factors, moral concerns for the anthro-
pologist. In keeping with the developing trend in humanistic anthropology, a
wave of good writers of ethnography—for instance, the winners of the Victor
Turner Prize for Ethnographic Writing—have put themselves into the picture and
have sometimes even traced how their presence in an exotic community may
have set up different valences within it. One’s concern is not to prevent this
from happening but encourage it as it will happen anyway; always teaching our
research students to act with grace, courtesy, and human ease as the kind of peo-
ple they are, always attempting to learn the local language of words and man-
ners and, by doing this, delighting the hearts of their new friends. (Here we
have already struck gold with the word delight.) Even back in 1984 Edward
Bruner believed this was developing: “There is a freer spirit on the loose in our
discipline now, one that is more fun and more open, like a children’s story or a
mardi gras. We can be more honest with ourselves and acknowledge the force
of our emotions. We are at liberty to merge with our subject matter and open up
not only to anthropology but to ourselves . . . I believe we are moving toward a
more accurate representation of the world as it is” (Bruner 1984:15).
However, all is not well, even now. Notwithstanding this change among
actively publishing scholars, once again whole ranks and cohorts of nervous
new doctoral students are up and competing to prove their sophistication,
writing in bad imitation of Bourdieu, the Comaroffs, and Derrida, about whose
messages, I hasten to say, I have nothing but good to convey. But wherever
have the juicy, much appreciated, tear-jerking, pulse-beating words of human-
ism disappeared to, among the most recent generation? Edward Bruner
pleaded in 1984 to the upcoming students—and he was of course well aware
that we needed subtlety and honesty in our writing (we should not get rid of
either of these)—yet he warned us to work within some kind of normal human
range of understanding. Surely students can at last be taught not to write in a
clinical manner, not to use the passive voice, present tense, and sterile descrip-
tions in works that are really humanistic. It is disturbing that they are still being
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Turner The Art of Ethnography 111

deliberately educated not to use the first person. We have to reeducate them to
use it. Also, the habit of putting what an “informant” says in block quotes, as
if “he” were somehow on the witness stand—this is chilling and has spoilt the
rhythm of ethnographers’ stories. Let us make conversations sound more nor-
mal, and let us find a more friendly word for “informant.”
It took the Society for Humanistic Anthropology to loosen the tight hold of
“sophisticated,” pseudo-scientific writing on anthropology. I remember com-
plaining in 1995—12 years ago—in a panel at the American Anthropological
Association meetings on the writings of senior women in the 1970s, about the
peephole vision of anthropological writing in the 1990s. I hoped to have good
news for the panel, for there was a growing expectation that anthropological
writing might well become more comprehensible. “Let’s hope it’s going to be
easy and interesting,” I said.
“Some brilliant articles have come out on the topic,” I continued. “I have
famous writers agreeing with me. But the trouble is, those articles promoting
uncluttered writing are written in such a sophisticated and learned style that
you can’t understand them.” Even people standing at the back of the hall were
seen to laugh (Turner n.d.).
We have all been troubled by this, one cannot get away from the temptation.
In graduate schools, heavy writing, known as “sophisticated,” is a magnetic
force. “You have to be realistic: there are jobs ahead to be competed for,” we are
warned. So, in a climate of escalating fear, “sophisticated,” writing has become
a black hole that attracts us down with deadly power.
Dennis Tedlock also compares the two kinds of writing, the human and the
rigid. He loves the first: “Ethnographic writing in which native voices are
heard places the ethnographer on a more nearly level ground with native col-
laborators and with readers as well, bringing the relationship between readers
and the natives into something closer to a dialogue, one in which cultural dif-
ferences are not simply explained away. . . . [Then of the involved unreadable
kind he says:] Among the impediments to the production of ethnographic writ-
ing with a dialogical grounding are . . . the rapid conversion of dissertations
into first books which are addressed to the discipline and not to the public; and
the career movement from the world of discourse in the field to that of the dis-
course of an academic department that conceives ‘contributions to the disci-
pline’ as a purely internal matter” (Tedlock 2004:14).
Our aim can yet be a free-flowing dialogue among writers, other anthropol-
ogists, and natives, to bridge the gulf between scholars and the seething
humanity that is their subject. A major purpose of anthropological writing may
be to give a voice to the conscious minds of the subjects themselves. Just as
folklore through the good offices of folklife programs may actually stimulate,
nurture, and conserve the folk cultures and their arts, so anthropology might
well enrich and be enriched by its so-called subject matter. Anthropology may
be looked at as a kind of getting-in-down with the people, gradually absorbing
many details about their lives, their intentions, their techniques, and the depths
of their ways, and at the same time demonstrating that one is learning those
ways and does understand them, by reflecting them back to the people as inno-
cently as possible, like the moon reflecting the sun nonjudgmentally. We owe
this to them, this frank giving-back-the-people-to-themselves, an example of
which I will relate below. You choose the good—neither from sentimental nor
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112 Anthropology and Humanism Volume 32, Number 2

political motives—but just as a person’s own lifeblood chooses what it needs in

its oxygenating process. The anthropologist is contributing her own additional
human being’s vigor to the study—a simple social process, the social interac-
tion of the anthropologist in the field and in her work afterward.
The result can be interesting—often deeper than religious writing, more
down-to-earth than the writings of mystics, however poetic their metaphors,
because this is anthropology, not theology (those carefully composed holy
philosophies or dogmas, called “teachings”), nor poetry when it exists merely
for the thrill of its beauty, nor is it in any shape or form how the sociologists
like to label the anthropologists’ work,“anecdotal” (the anthropologist is far
from offering an after-dinner entertainment, an anecdote).2 Because the
humanistic anthropologist is also a healer, concerned with what the social body
cries out about—sickness, concerned with what parts need to be touched in
healing, if only by showing that we are conscious of them and that we want
that greedy pain removed. We are not detached. That is the difference.
The following is an example of the value of anthropologists’ and interlocu-
tors’ coreflexivity, in an encounter with two people in a foreign country.

The Story of the Two Dutch Policemen

I was always afraid of the police.
I’m English and here I was visiting the Netherlands for the first time in my
life. It was February 2007 and I was 85 years old. I vaguely thought I might
encounter some monument to Hans Brinkler and his skates, or perhaps see
Rembrandt’s Night Watch, which I did. When my student friend Angie and I
arrived in Nijmegen, a historic university town in the southern Netherlands,
we took a walk to the main traffic circle and then turned north. We found our-
selves in an ancient park with old Martello towers. We crossed it, and found
ourselves on a fair pavement, the Veemerkt, tiled in squares. The place was
large, some 300 feet across. In the middle of it stood a strange new concrete
erection, resembling a kind of road, only it was vertical, not horizontal, a vast
slab upright and reaching into the blue sky, supported only by itself. It had a
huge doorway cut through its ground level portion and, when you followed it
up with your eyes to the top, you could see that the slab took a sharp concrete
twist to the right like part of a Moebius strip. Beyond that again, the slab was
perforated by a round hole, so big it let through a vision of floating clouds.
Angie seized her camera and tried to catch a sense of the whole thing with its
clouds. Then, glancing at the base, we found an inscription in Dutch. It looked
like poetry, with a Dutch author’s name. I looked about for someone to trans-
late for us, but saw nobody on the left save two burly Dutch policemen who
had been standing around chatting. I went up to them.
“Excuse me, but could you tell us what the writing says, down here?” and I
pointed at it. “Can you put it into English?”
They approached. “Ah, yes.”
“Let me think about it,” said the less stout of the two, the youngest. “Let me
see. ‘After being away so long . . . ’” Then, “‘We knew we would always come
back.’” They looked solemn. I knew it was something to do with World War II.
The older one said, “Officer Krause here is German, and he happens to
know English better.” We smiled and shook hands all around.
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Turner The Art of Ethnography 113

I said, “I love this country, I love the Netherlands. It’s the first time I’ve ever
been here.”
“What do you like about it?” the old one asked earnestly.
“I’ll tell you.” I was getting a sense of these people. “You’re caring.” (Not just
obsessively clean, as I had thought.) “Look at the way Dutch people look after
their houses and the city. Look at this pavement. Beautiful with square paving
stones. Then you’re brave, pretty tough. And energetic, building all those
dykes and gradually creating the land.” I looked at the elder one’s burly figure.
“Solid. You tell us what you think. Plain spoken. I like that. You’ve been here a
long time. What a history—the Nazis. . . . ” I stopped to avoid the pain and sud-
denly said, “There’s Rembrandt! Rembrandt, my favorite painter—and Van
Gogh. I just saw the big exhibit in Amsterdam”—my eyes widened in memory,
now full of the sight of tiny flowering pear trees and old shoes. “I love that guy.”
We were still standing by the big monument.
The old one said, wondering, “I’ve never looked at ourselves like that. I’ve
never even thought about it before.” He walked about, almost bewildered,
then burst into a smile of recognition. “Dank U.”
We all smiled and shook hands again. “Dank U. Glad to have met you.”
“Have a good time here.”
Angie and I went on to see the bridge over the great river, with barges com-
ing down, just as I remembered them in my home town, Ely, when I was a
kid—a place called “Little Holland” and also known for its windmills, and that
was 80 years ago.

Thus occurred communitas in a tiny international moment, a simple “I-get-it”

moment, a moment of reciprocity and reflexivity, when we and they saw our-
selves and themselves as real ordinary people, really ourselves. Reflexivity,
recognition, made us conscious of the communitas when it came.
So, with a story, we try to address the urgent need to get rid of the black hole
danger. Then, as an ally on our side in the struggle, we have the body, and
we’re looking at the social body as an innocent healthy discriminating being in
itself, a body that can indeed blend with others and is permeable to an
unthinkable extent. Furthermore, we have anthropology’s calling, rooted in
reality and the wider realities of its zillion parts: a wondrous object, a calling
higher than any other recorded in the big library which is the planet—its call-
ing to live with people to the fullest extent of its humanity.
Anthropologists have indeed encountered similar situations, maybe in some
human dilemma or other in the field. No one, certainly not an inexperienced
fieldworker out for the first time, can predict what that “other” world is going
to say and show. It follows that serendipity is an essential part of anthropology.
As for elaborate proposals for Ph.D. research and the like, our new under-
standing makes nonsense of certain aspects of the preplanning for fieldwork.
Having mentioned the way a story clarifies an awkward or difficult concept
and redeems it from its dreadful fascination with the black hole of bodiless
philosophy, I find I can also draw on writers of anthropological fiction, with
their easy power of raising an atmosphere and their fearless depth of soul.
They have taught us to write proper conversations (dialogue) instead of the
clinical block quotes of bygone and even present anthropology. We learn the
power of the story from the fiction and poetry of Bruce Grindal (1993, 1999),
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114 Anthropology and Humanism Volume 32, Number 2

Kirin Narayan (1999), Alma Gottlieb et al. (1995, 1998), and Jeanne Simonelli
(2000, 2003, 2005). This knowledge has also released for us many personal true
ethnographies, called “memoirs” and such by publishers, but which teach pro-
found anthropological truths that could not be told any other way. I cite Paul
Stoller’s Stranger in the Village of the Sick (2004), and Barbara Tedlock’s scholarly
study set in personal ethnography, The Woman in the Shaman’s Body (2005).
Obviously, some people did listen to the “how-not-to-write” call of Edward
Said in Orientalism (1978), Johannes Fabian in Time and the Other (1983), and
Tom Beidelman in Colonial Evangelism (1982); and those who listened to them
have turned around and shown us “how to write.” I have a sense that among the
writers who make up this special issue, we are home free if we did but know it.

Conclusion
Storytelling is of high importance in anthropology. The writer has to make
that leap. Clifford Geertz apparently refused it: “We cannot live other people’s
lives, and it is a piece of bad faith to try. We can but listen to what, in
words . . . they say about their lives. . . . We gain [our sense of other people’s
lives] through their expressions. . . . It’s all a matter of scratching surfaces”
(1986:373). Bitter words. Nowadays we have often emptied ourselves. What is
strange is that Geertz himself did forget himself, fleeing from the police and
laughing with the Balinese after the cockfight. His story conveyed it.
A story can bring the past to the present, open readers up to understanding,
and enable them to grasp the deep and puzzling levels of the daily life of
another culture. Among the people themselves, the telling of the story of a spir-
itual experience transmitted by speech is the means whereby a spiritual fact can
be conveyed to another person “whole cloth” and entire, and can be received by
the listener as an actual experience and be counted as such in the memory. For
an anthropologist to join this process, one needs to be totally natural about it,
truthful and immediate, with no jargon. A trip to Africa showed me that there
were such things as spirits, for I saw one at the height of an Ihamba healing rit-
ual. My curiosity was hooked. I wrote about it, told the story, then realized how
much the story—the remembered facts—of such an event mattered. The story,
the awareness of it by the teller as the teller speaks and as the hearer incorpo-
rates it, is the second gift, after the gift of the original experience.
Ethnographic stories are like sacred stories in that they are told because they
are true and because anthropologists know they will throw light on humanity’s
knowledge of itself; I instance the famous story of the Azande killed under the
granary (Evans-Pritchard 1976:22–23), and the unbeliever Quesalid’s curious
success as a shaman (Lévi-Strauss 1963:167–185). Here I am intending to turn
upside down the former interpretations of ritual, religion, and symbol, theories
that regard the sacred as socially fabricated productions that honor the repre-
sentations of important personages worshiped as “sacred” at the head of some
social ranking system. When inverted, though, one can see the actual power of
spirits at work, and then the human responses encountered in our ethno-
graphic research do not seem “undeveloped,” nor anything to do with the psy-
chology of the individuals concerned.
So we are able to see the gift in the hands of anthropologists. They write, and
what they write is what ethnography really is, the fruition and manifestation
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Turner The Art of Ethnography 115

of all those little histories. Which is why we have to take note of how we write,
with the story that is the gift from whole persons to whole persons, with the-
ory that does not reduce someone else’s culture to phenomena to be analyzed,
but that broadens the scope of the discipline itself. Ethnography gives deep
respect to the origins of all experience and a language of respect with which to
convey the people’s teachings so that these may be received with recognition
and understanding.

Notes
Acknowledgments. I owe much to the leadership of Paul Stoller, Kirin Narayan, Ruth
Behar, Jeanne Simonelli, and Russell Sharman, also to the support given by Edward
Bruner, and editing help by Beth Bollwerk and Irene Wellman.
1. Alma Gottlieb supplied most of the wording in 2003.
2. Sociologists never really made use of Victor Turner’s concept of the “social
drama,” that is, outbreaks of trouble in local level politics, also meaning the “case”
around which many stories coalesce. The social drama, said Victor Turner, is no “anec-
dote” but a “window” into the social structure, a window as full of action as a theater
and more instructive (see V. Turner 1957).

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