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LEMONNIER, P. The Blending Power of Things
LEMONNIER, P. The Blending Power of Things
BOOK SYMPOSIUM
Perisso-what?
Without pertinent field observations, formulas are merely another way to put the
cart before the horse. In itself, uttering the magical words “agency,” “affordance,”
“mapping,” or “materiality” does not explain anything. On the other hand, some
dense formulations fit with one’s ethnography and questions. Such is the case with
Mauss’ remark that “technical actions, physical actions, magicoreligious actions
are confused for the actor” (Mauss [1934] 2006: 82), which fits my description of
Ankave people preparing eel traps, an activity in which separating “technique” from
recognizable in the very fabric of these objects … is decidely not apologetic” (e.g.
Coupaye 2013).
Moreover, what was previously proposed for “ritual symbols” is also now in-
vestigated for objects that “are not necessarily referential, but recall by manifesting
what cannot be experienced, and yet makes sense of the world as thought construct
and feat of engineering” (Küchler) and à propos of nonritual situations. I should
therefore add a few words on the reason why resonators are neither only “symbols”
nor “ritual.”
Küchler’s remark about Gell’s (1975: 236–43) discovery that an Umeda “casso-
wary-dancer” mask actually looks like a tree, not like a cassowary, is in line with
Turner on ritual symbols that “are at one and the same time referential and conden-
sation symbols” (1967: 30–31). However, although the Umeda mask-tree might be
“a generalized structural model of society itself ” [Gell 1975: 242]) and is therefore a
sort of symbol, it is not comparable to the objects in Mundane objects, the possible
symbolic dimension of which is secondary to the processes in play with resonators.
As an hourglass-shaped instrument, for instance, the Ankave drum is undoubt-
edly some kind of iconic representation of a double funnel indicating the passage
of the spirits of the recent dead through the vortex (another funnel) that is the mo-
mentary doorway between this world and that of the ombo’. But does it “symbolize”
or echo any of the relations that converge during the ceremony, the maternal origin
of life, or the ambiguous and horrible maternal identity of the ombo’, and so on?
No. Except for its being funnel-like, which is only partly related to what’s going on,
there is nothing to be “read” from it. Moreover, one could spend days specifying the
symbolic operations by which cordylines, clays, bones, or cowries are embarked in
the perissologies that are brought together by a resonator; but, whether these ma-
terials and things are qualisigns, indexes, or icons would not explain the decisive
blending power of the resonator of which they are a part. A Massim canoe (Damon
2008), an Abelam ceremonial yam (Coupaye 2013), or a Baruya fence also com-
municate crucially in ways that cannot be reduced to identifying which of Peirce’s
ten classes of sign is at work in a given context. That’s why to Ingold’s claim that
“[w]e have had more than enough of both agency and materiality,” I would venture
to reply that we may also have had enough of the systematic and single focus on the
indexicality and iconicity of particular things.
Let’s continue with the remarks of two reviewers about my so-called “mun-
dane” objects, which, I agree, are “hardly trivial” (Küchler) or “pseudo-ordinary”
(Ballard). Besides my will to concentrate on objects that would not end up in mu-
seum displays (although some might, as Graves-Brown remarks about classic cars)
and that were not necessarily “ritual,” “of art,” or “imbued with power,” my quali-
fying them as mundane was driven by my zeal to tackle the difference between
ordinary things and far less ordinary other things. A Baruya fence is a New Guinea
fence, an Ankave drum is a most common-looking thing, and the highly sacred
objects manipulated by the ritual experts of Anga male ritual are also basic magical
hunting pouches. Mundane objects results from my inquiry into these similarities
in objects that could be tagged as agricultural devices, art production, or ritual
tools; and blurring anthropological categories was therefore part of the exercise. I
did not intend to reopen any old files on the definition of ritual or religion or on
the continuum between technique and ritual, or to explain why, as “symbols,” the
(Küchler), I fully understand Bruno’s provocative sentence. But does that mean that
I must get rid of the “matter” in my Westerner’s sense?
As Latour reminds us, there is still a lot to to be done to fight “against colleagues
ignorant of technology” (as study of techniques), not to mention the growing dis-
crepancy between complex theoretical considerations on “things” and an ethno-
graphic information too often reduced to the smallest share. So many times I (and
many others) have heard something like “Baruya fences have something to do with
relations between brothers-in-law? Well, let’s jump to kinship and skip the [boring]
description of fences,” that mentioning actions on matter is a welcome reminder
of Mauss’ program concerning techniques. That is why I consider that we have to
set material action apart as a temporary field of inquiry—a view surely shared by
archaeologists too!
Without my consideration of the mechanical reinforcements of traps and fen
ces, the materials in a magical pouch, or the spatial setting of a ritual site, I would
not have paid attention to the not-so-mundane objects that appeared so only in
comparison to other things through the lens of Western physics, mechanics in par-
ticular. Such is also the case with my current analysis of Anga male rituals con-
ceived as operational sequences—because this method is a means to forget as few
entities as possible in a description and because these complex actions are sup-
posed to do something to the novices, from both an emic then an etic point of
view, the combination of which indeed raises immense questions (Ingold). Faced
with the well-known dilemma that is the sequencing of a continuum of actions, it
is material settings, indeed in a Western sense, that tell me how to delimit the series
of operations that are combined, actually hundreds of operations involving dozens
of materials, objects, and gestures. For instance, wooden corridors are remarkable
(what happens in them are particular ritual operations delimited as such by the
Anga and myself) and appear to me as a series of sticks, ligatures, and leaves, in
which the boys are beaten. They are also narrow, so that the novices and their spon-
sors are mechanically obliged to progress slowly. Novices are often beaten, in or
outside corridors. But in that case, my starting point in the comparison of similar
sequences of beating is the corridor, materially defined as such.
Keeping “material” in mind is also what allows me to identify which entities
are crucially woven with a tight knot, to focus on the strong pulling on liana, on
the choice of a snake’s skin, as well as on sweat and puffing and panting. It also
enables me to discern which “affordance” (Knappett 2005), or rather “perceived
affordance” (Norman [1988] 2002: 9), is made to a mechanical and physicochemi-
cal phenomenon. The sort that strikes one as a long, controlled transformation of
substances from strong to soft (or vice versa), when, for example, I compare, on
the one hand, the disappearance of the flesh of a corpse in an amita’wa’ basket set
in a garden because the ombo’ feast on it with, on the other, the transformation of
almonds of Pangium edule into a sauce in a wooden device also called amita’wa’.
of the short sentences in which they refer to exciting research avenues and to years
of yet-to-come efforts by series of scholars. Küchler regrets that I have not “gone
the extra mile to unpack the assumptions and misconceptions that separate the
material from language and cognition.” Ballard rightly notes the need to contextu-
alize the “engagement with material objects within a comprehensive description of
Anga aesthetics across each of the senses.” Among other questions, Graves-Brown
expresses the very tricky one I have so many times asked myself without yet glimps-
ing an answer, and could be rephrased as: “Where have the resonators gone in our
own society?” Ingold’s nice suggestion to associate the propositions of the book
with his own questions is a brainteaser, too. As for Latour, I already said that I
clearly understand his distancing of “technical” and “material,” but it may at first
complicate my task considerably in my current struggle to invent a description of
Anga male rituals.
I willingly espouse Ballard’s and Küchler’s request for a better understanding
of the multisensorial interactions of the individual with mundane-looking resona-
tors or other objects. Feld’s (1982) “acoustemology,” recalled by Ballard, or Revolon
(2014) on “iridescence” among the Owa illustrate that direction, not to mention
Ingold’s (2013) or Malafouris’ (2013) proposals. Similarly, inquiring into our inter-
actions with computers might help us explore how “a logic of composition and an
aesthetics of texture, implying partibility, proportionality, and scaling” (Küchler)
are at work. Back to fieldwork, that’s a bit puzzling, but computation is probably
involved in Anga male ritual sequences, the principal aspect of which is the striking
abundance of elements (materials, all sorts of built structures, decorations, speech-
es, artificial sites, displays, etc.), for instance that of the material practices explicitly
aimed at warding off the risk of infection, septicaemia, and death that might follow
the piercing of the novices’ nasal septum. (Incidentally, the visiting anthropologist
will immediately link that richness to an obsession with the possibility that the rit-
ual fails. However, from my interactions with Anga ritual experts, and men in gen-
eral, I strongly doubt that any of them would acknowledge the possibility of failure.
Indeed, whether or not this reflects the visitor’s “sovereign perspective” [Ingold],
the anthropologist may have access to a fear that the actors do not articulate.)
Ballard’s question about “who gets to learn what, how, and from whom, about
the roles of verbal and nonverbal instruction, and about the ways in which the
operation of condensation gels for individuals over time and with experience” not
only reminds us of the need to account for the “opaque interactions at the heart
of condensation”; it also introduces history into the picture. But I am afraid that
“mapping communication or transmission through space” (and time) is wishful
thinking when it comes to Anga territory. As far as I know, we have no way to
reconstruct how the Baruya landscape was reshaped with takola fences. We can
only predict (that’s bold!) that these particular fences will disappear when coopera-
tion fades with the reduction of the obligations related to sister exchange and male
initiations (as it did among the neighboring Sambia). However, although I cannot
say “when” and “why” a fence, a drum, or a composite magical bundle becomes a
strategic object for the stability of a system of thoughts and practices, I have offered
some hypotheses about how resonators might be paradoxically involved both in
the stability and in the breakdown of such a system. On the one hand, the peris-
sologies at hand allow marginal changes to take place without jeopardizing the
particular set of relations people have with a resonator that characterizes a given
time. For instance, the Ankave may someday no longer remove the floor of a dead
person’s house, but the shamans will nevertheless detect the presence of ombo’ all
around. On the other hand, if a Christian church were to replace strategic mortu-
ary drums by guitars (a pure hypothesis), then all that is gathered together during a
songen ceremony would vanish, and the Ankave might start going to Heaven… At
any rate, Ballard is right: a new mythology is needed to send Ankave people to God
rather than among the ombo’, or to make Baruya people agree that “God’s mobile
[phone] is in their belly” instead of relying on the ancestral powers of a kwaimatñe
(Lemonnier 2013: 164).
Now, is the documentation of resonators limited to strange-looking things in
situations of tremendous change, such as the shift to Christianity in New Guinea,
or “when things fall apart” (Ballard)? Of course not, but harder is the endeavor
when it comes to identify such objects in our modern industrial world. What about
mass-produced objects in which “our personal engagement with the practicalities
of [their] manufacture [is] more abstract and remote” (Graves-Brown), or “when
the connections they make palpable are not extended to subjects, but to other ob-
jects” (Küchler)? And is it the case that “the very disposability and mutability of our
material culture prevents it from accumulating what Lemonnier terms ‘perissologi-
cal resonance’” (Graves-Brown)? I can hardly comment on that, but an allusion by
Graves-Brown to the durability of Victorian industrial machines, which “were built
to last and presumably conveyed a social message not dissimilar to that of New
Guinea fences,” reminds me of a paper by Stourdzé (1980) on washing machines in
the France of the 1950s.
By that time the heaviness and solidity of those were in line with the durabil-
ity praised by the bourgeoisie. Also from what I remember—our 1953 “Lincoln”
washer lasted so long that I have a vivid memory of it—the physical interactions
with this novel thing were many: from lighting the gas that heated the laundry,
moving the taps as well as the levers that made the drum move, to the extraction of
the wet linen through a small and ill-disposed hatch. Washing machines may have
had more consequences for society at large than, say, that of the TSR2 or Aramis
(two stars of Actor-Network Theory), yet I doubt they were ever resonators in the
sense of an Ankave drum or a Baruya fence. Understanding the place of particu-
lar objects in the stability of a given world cannot be reduced to the durability of
things. In passing, in a forthcoming volume edited by Lipset and Handler (2014)
on “metaphors of moral imagination,” all sorts of interactions with a series of cars
and planes from very different places in the contemporary world exemplify pre-
cisely the process of blending of thoughts and emergence of new nonpropositional
messages. So the question of modern resonators is only half-opened. History has
obviously its say here, not only because it may lead us to modify our view on the
speed of change in the present world (Edgerton 2007 demonstrates the contrary),
but also because historians have amazing information on objects in rituals of the
past (e.g. Bartholeyns 2012 on the coronation of French kings).
I feel gratified that Mundane objects gave rise to so many questions and hope
that future research may take on the unfolding of the notion of resonator exposed
by the reviewers. Here Ingold’s general proposition is welcome, although hard as
yet to transform into an ethnographic means of inquiry. In the case of Anga rituals,
paying attention to objects and affects, artifacts and materials, communication and
participation would indeed be a promising challenge and the subject of long, long
ethnographic fieldwork, as well as requiring a lot of theoretical elaboration. For
instance, together with the difficulty of getting “mere” ethnographic information—
would what an Ankave drummer says about his exhausting all-night experience be
enough for us to understand what he is “making” (Ingold 2013)?—we would still
have to resolve the not-insignificant dilemma of bridging individual phenomena
with collective ones, exposed by Devereux a long time ago (1956). A gifted musi-
cian, he, too, would probably have concurred with the limits to the anthropology of
techniques as once summed up for me by Lévi-Strauss (pers. comm.): “You will not
be able to account for a violinist’s pizzicato.”
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Pierre Lemonnier
Centre de Recherche et de Documentation sur l’Océanie
Aix-Marseille Université
3, place Victor Hugo
13003 Marseille, France
pierre.lemonnier@univ-amu.fr