Ceremony Men

Making Ethnography and the Return of the Strehlow Collection

Jason M. Gibson

• Publisher: SUNY Press
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781438478548, 9781438478555
• eBook ISBN: 9781438478562
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Australian & Oceanian History
• Index: Social Sciences

Rethinks the role of Indigenous and non-Indigenous interactions in the production of ethnographic museum collections.

Winner of the 2022 W.K. Hancock Prize presented by the Australian Historical Association

Shortlisted for the 2021 Prime Minister's Literary Awards in the Australian History Category presented by the Australian Prime Minister and Minister for the Arts

Winner of the 2021 Council for Museum Anthropology Book Award presented by the Council for Museum Anthropology (CMA), a section of the American Anthropological Association

By analyzing one of the world's greatest collections of Indigenous song, myth, and ceremony-the collections of linguist/anthropologist T. G. H. Strehlow-Ceremony Men demonstrates how inextricably intertwined ethnographic collections can become in complex historical and social relations. In revealing his process to return an anthropological collection to Aboriginal communities in remote central Australia, Jason M. Gibson highlights the importance of personal rapport and collaborations in ethnographic exchange, both past and present, and demonstrates the ongoing importance of sociality, relationship, and orality when Indigenous peoples encounter museum collections today. Combining forensic historical analysis with contemporary ethnographic research, this book challenges the notion that anthropological archives will necessarily become authoritative or dominant statements on a people's cultural identity. Instead, Indigenous peoples will often interrogate and recontextualize this material with great dexterity as they work to reintegrate the documented into their present-day social lives.

By theorizing the nature of the documenter-documented relationships this book makes an important contribution to the simplistic postcolonial generalizations that dominate analyses of colonial interaction. A story of local agency is uncovered that enriches our understanding of the human engagements that took, and continue to take, place within varying colonial relations of Australia.

Chapter 1

Archive and Field

He who stands aloof runs the risk of believing himself better than others and misusing his critique of society as an ideology for his private interest … The detached observer is as much entangled as the active participant.

—Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia (1951)

It was with Anmatyerr people that I shared in the excitement of finding song recordings, films, and genealogies in the Strehlow archive. It was via their generous guidance and explanations that I came to appreciate what the archive meant for them. Our relationships deepened over the course of this exploration, but in many cases they did not begin there. Beyond this scholarly quest were times where we came together over the years to share in life’s larger joys and struggles; we celebrated births, mourned deaths, grappled with sickness and stress, and shared in new discoveries. But it was the very act of ethnography itself that created the bonds of connection, the “matrix of significant relationships” that otherwise may not have formed (Gergen and Gergen, 2002, p. 12).

In “the field” I did not simply encounter “a culture” and its representatives, but met with “the presence, personality and character” of individuals (Tamisari, 2014, p. 7). These acquaintances undoubtedly affected my comprehension of Anmatyerr social life, but it must be noted that they also influenced my handling of the historical sources. Although certainly informed by a rigorous reading of every element of Strehlow’s collection, my readings of this archive were always negotiated and tested within a field of interpersonal relationships. Field diaries, song recordings, films, and genealogies, for example, were read in ways that connected them to contemporary people, and as I discovered new items, I would quickly ensure that materials were shared with the relevant individuals or families. These affective qualities of research, whilst almost always present but seldom acknowledged by scholars (see Robinson 2010), motivated my pursuit of further knowledge. I enjoyed the frisson of knowledge and experience co-joined.

While the relationships ethnographers establish with their informants is now recognized as fundamental to most anthropological projects (Jackson, 1998; Behar, 2008; Madison, 2012), opinions vary about how critical they are to epistemological questions. Given that in many ways this book hinges on a critique and interpretation of another anthropologist’s work, it is important that my own motivations and influences are laid bare. All studies of people are, as Johannes Fabian reminds us, “questionable representations unless they show their own genesis” (1990, pp. xiv–xv). Having had a connection with Anmatyerr and Arrernte people for more than a decade, my experiences with them have provided important “headnotes” and given me reasons to delve into the details of Strehlow’s collection. Including this subjective and intersubjective dimension does not necessarily erode objectivity but stands as a “commitment to methodological description” (Watson, 1987, p. 31) and may in fact be regarded as “a key instrument for the establishment of objective knowledge” (Kapferer, 2007, p. 82). As the following chapters reveal, my active participation in the return of Strehlow’s collection in collaboration with numerous Arrernte and Anmatyerr men ultimately led to the type of “knowledge” that I have been able to produce about it.

Prior Interactions

I had known most of the men who agreed to work with me in this research for close to a decade or more. I first began working with Anmatyerr people in 2005 when I was employed by the Northern Territory Library to establish a digital archive of cultural and historical materials in the township of Ti Tree (see Gibson, 2007; 2009; Nakata et al., 2008; Gibson, 2008). Located almost at the center of the Australian continent and approximately two hundred kilometers from the nearest township of Alice Springs, Ti Tree is little more than a roadside stop on a remote stretch of the Stuart Highway. Positioned in the heartland of the Anmatyerr people’s traditional territory, though, it serves as an important service center for the Anmatyerr people living in a number of remote communities and outstations (family “homelands”) dotted across the region.

At Ti Tree, I came to know not just the Anmatyerr people who lived in the township or in the nearby communities of 6 Mile (Pmara Jutunta) and Nthwerrey (Nturiya), but also other Anmatyerr people who would pass by Ti Tree to pick up supplies or access services. I also came to know many of the older people who lived on the western fringe of the Ti Tree at “Creek Camp,” an unofficial camp consisting of makeshift iltha (humpies) made of mulga branches, corrugated iron, and other found objects. I spent four years working for the Northern Territory Library in a hands-on support role to the Anmatjere Regional Council’s establishment of its Anmatjere Library and Knowledge Centre at Ti Tree. Put simply, my task was to support the community at Ti Tree, but also the Arrernte community at Santa Teresa (Ltyentye Apurte), in the establishment of what the then Minister for Local Government, John Ah Kit, described as an “Indigenous Knowledge Centre.” Originally conceived as a service that combined museum, library, and archival functions, the centerpiece of the Knowledge Centre service eventually became a digital collection of historical and cultural materials relevant to the local community.

As I was engaged in the training of Anmatyerr men and women in the management of their collections, I reflected on the various practical and theoretical issues that arose (Nakata et al., 2008; Gibson, Lloyd, and Richmond, 2011; Gibson 2007; 2009). Developing these local compilations required not only extensive research into the history of the region but meant working with people to record their own stories. This led to the recording of oral histories, the mapping of key cultural and social historical sites and people’s commentaries on various archival materials: objects, audio recordings, photographs, and more. Given this focus on Central Australian Aboriginal history, my employers placed me in a spare office at the Strehlow Research Centre, one of the few research institutions in the Northern Territory and the place where the Strehlow collection was housed. This decision, though based purely on the best allocation of government resources, had long-lasting repercussions for me. Having an office here, whilst not being employed by the Centre, meant that I had a unique opportunity to observe how the collection was being used on a daily basis without being drawn into internal organizational affairs or local politics. I also worked closely with the Strehlow Research Centre staff in producing digital copies of some of the Strehlow collection materials for people at Santa Teresa and Ti Tree.

Knowing that the bulk of Strehlow’s collection consisted of ceremonial, and thus secret-sacred material, my research began with those parts of the collection that were classified as “open” or “nonrestricted.” In the main, this consisted of historical photographs and genealogies. The content aroused great interest from the Anmatyerr men and women that I knew in Aleyaw (Ti Tree), but in the predominantly Catholic community of Santa Teresa the Arrernte people associated with the library were far more guarded. For them, Strehlow was generally regarded as having exploited the trust of the old men, and thus anyone affiliated with the Strehlow Research Centre, or even anthropology generally, was to be treated with caution. In Ti Tree, though, Strehlow was remembered and discussed without fear or anxiety, partly due to his association with the Lutheran church that has been active in the Anmatyerr communities for over fifty years.

My keen interest in the collection deepened as Anmatyerr people helped me understand Strehlow’s anthropology and I became more adept at reading Strehlow’s orthography of the Arrernte language. Recognizing how fully engrossed I had become in the material, the Strehlow Research then asked for my assistance with producing detailed indexes for Strehlow’s field diaries. At the same time, I would occasionally travel with Anmatyerr people on hunting trips and visit important sites associated with the Anengkerr, and I spent my weekends learning about the Arrernte and Anmatyerr languages with my language tutor and mentor Malcolm Heffernan Pengart. I began to delve into Strehlow’s field diaries as part of my work and was often surprised by the similarities between Strehlow’s experiences with Anmatyerr people and my own. The language, the concepts, the people, and the places that I read about in the Strehlow collection and discussed with Anmatyerr and Arrernte people were not reified in the historical past—they were still existing in the lives and the landscape of the region. This perspective jarred with the oft-heard lament of historians and anthropologists in Alice Springs that knowledge of place names, songs, and stories among the younger generations was deficient, or perhaps even absent.

At the request of the then Chairman of the Anmatyerr Regional Council, Tony Scrutton Ngwarray, I began researching the restricted contents of Strehlow’s work. Initially, the Strehlow Research Centre staff seemed unsure as to whether the collection contained much Anmatyerr material at all, and we began searching the archives. The search nearly came to a stop when it was discovered that a researcher had annotated the so-called “Tjurunga Register,” Strehlow’s inventory of sacred objects, with the note “no Unmatjera material.” Yet it was evident from Strehlow’s published works that the Centre had to contain at least a small amount of audio, visual, and manuscript material of relevance to Anmatyerr people. Tony was particularly interested in discovering if Strehlow had collected any songs or stories that might be of relevance to him and his immediate family.

Continuing with my research in the archive, I soon came across an hour-long ceremonial film from 1965 featuring a large group of Anmatyerr performers at Alcoota Station. Thrilled by the discovery, I called Tony and invited him in to visit me at the Centre. As we read through the documentation, Tony quickly recognized the name of one the informants listed by Strehlow, “Kenny Ebmalamaraka” Penangk (Strehlow, 1965a, p. 157). Ken was now an elderly man, Tony explained, and regarded as one of the most senior and knowledgeable Anmatyerr men alive. His traditional country lay to the northeast of Alice Springs, an area on the Arrernte and Anmatyerr “border,” known as Atwel. Tony’s adoptive grandfather, Eric Penangk, came from this area, and Tony was obviously excited about alerting Ken to this archival discovery. Within hours Tony had returned with Ken and Ken’s son, Kevin, in tow.

Figure 1.1. At Arrarngkerlk hills with Jimmy Haines, Paddy Kemarr (hidden behind Jimmy), and Davey Presley (in background). August 2, 2008. Photo: L. Jordan.

For the first time, Ken watched all of the twenty-three film reels of silent color film without interruption. The films depicted a group of men proudly displayed with ceremonial prowess as they made highly complex ceremonial objects from all-natural materials. Leading proceedings was Ken’s father, Mick Werlaty, and a young Ken could often be seen on the film assisting his angey (father) and busily preparing ceremonies for the sacred place of Akwerrperl (Korbula). Muttering only the occasional commentary throughout the screening, Ken was transfixed. At times he lifted a hand to interrupt the viewing and instruct others in the room about the particular Anengkerr (Dreaming) ancestors being represented in the ceremonies, or to explain their connections to particular places, but mostly he remained silent. At the conclusion of the eighty-minute screening, Ken stood up, shook his head in disbelief, and thanked me for instigating the event. He left the building with Kevin and Tony, saying little else. From my office window, though, I could see the three men outside in the car park excitedly discussing the film, and I knew much more could be done with the Strehlow collection.

Ken returned intermittently to the Strehlow Research Centre over the next few years to work with the Centre’s anthropologist, Adam Macfie, on matching the silent, color film reels with the tape recordings made of the associated songs. Being able to identify the particular segments of song from the separate audio recordings, Ken helped Adam overlay excerpts from Strehlow’s recordings of the Akwerrperl songs to their relevant ritual sequences using digital editing software. Under Ken’s instruction, the silent singers on the film (including himself) were finally given a voice. This was the first time in the collection’s history that an Arrernte or Anmatyerr person had actively worked on piecing together Strehlow’s recordings. The potential for collaborative research into this collection was obvious.

Positioning

These early conversations and experiences fundamentally shaped the way I came to understand Strehlow’s work. But finding the best academic framework from which I could explore this collection and its import for people today was never an easy task. When discussing this material with Anmatyerr and Arrernte people, I was at times asked if I was an anthropologist. The question was never easy for me to answer. In addition to being acutely aware of the vexed history of anthropology and its associations with colonialism (see Starn, 2011; Wolfe, 1999), as well as its tendency to fetishize tradition and objectify people, I was also mindful of the fact that most anthropologists in Central Australia were engaged in far more pragmatic tasks. These anthropologists were usually employed by the Central Land Council, a large and bureaucratic representative body for Aboriginal people in this part of Australia, and needed to attend to pressing material and political issues, usually associated with people’s rights in land. These overworked employees usually had little opportunity to consider people’s engagements with historical collections or delve into the minutia of song or ceremonial traditions.

I mostly baulked at the “anthropologist” label and preferred instead to straddle the disciplinary boundaries of ethnography and history. I was thus pleased when senior Anmatyerr elder Paddy Kemarr would introduce me using the ambiguous category of a “culture man” or someone “belonging to tywerreng-thayt,” which I interpreted as meaning someone privy to aspects of men’s ceremonial content but also being beholden to the limits and parameters of this knowledge. His ascription allowed a skirting of professional boundaries and scholarly definitions and permitted for fairly free-flowing exchanges. The alternate label of “historian” also felt similarly ill-fitting given the potential value of this material to present and future generations. My experience with “historical archives” suggested to me that the clearly demarcated discipline of “history” never really gained much currency in these communities anyway. As anthropologist Fred Myers noted following his time with the Pintupi of the Western Desert, the dividing lines between the phenomenal and the noumenal were fundamentally blurred in these societies as the fundamental ontology of the Dreaming ensured that the provinces of “past” and “present” were not always clear cut (1991, pp. 48–54). The “Dreaming,” derived from a translation of the Arrernte word altyerrenge, referred to the concept of an eternal presence. The Ancestors of the Dreaming were eternally present in land, embodied in people, and reaffirmed in songs and ceremonies. Although Aboriginal people in Central Australia had certainly come to acquire a “history-consciousness” (Kolig, 2000, p. 27) and would engage with history-bearing media such as books, television documentaries, and the like, the localized narratives that explained links between people, land, and Dreaming remained critical.

The Strehlow materials had been recorded within recent lifetimes (between 1932 and 1971) and resonated deeply with people’s living memories, as well as their present-day interpretations. As Tony Ngwarray put it to me one day, “We still have our ceremony you know … we could do a ‘Strehlow part two”—meaning that we could record and document Anmatyerr song and ritual, just as Tony’s relatives had done with Strehlow in the past. Tony’s rhetorical invitation rejected the purely historical purview and spoke to a desire among Anmatyerr people generally, to declare, communicate, and demonstrate the import of their ceremonial knowledge practices today. As I came to realize, these were also often the motivations of Strehlow’s informants.

My work over the years had focused on the practical issues of improving access to cultural and historical materials, and it was clear to me just how cherished these items were. Historical and cultural resources such as photographs, song recordings, films, and genealogies were prized and rare documents in communities where heritage services such as museums, libraries, and archives were nonexistent. Only Ti Tree had a library facility; every other Anmatyerr community lacked local historical or cultural services. In return for providing access to this type of material, people would often encourage me to sit and listen to their interpretations and make a record of their rejoinders to the archive. These experiences greatly expanded my knowledge of Anmatyerr worldviews.

The cumulative effect of these exchanges was not lost on the people I worked with, who at times would comment that making an alhernter (white person) knowledgeable in these matters often worked in their favor by building sympathies or strategic alliances. As one younger man in his thirties noted during a discussion concerning people from another cultural group who were struggling to find evidence of their history in museum collections: “We’re all right, though. We’ve got you. You work with us, together.” Others would be more forthright in offering, “Unta Anmatyerrakin” (you are also Anmatyerr), a generous indication of my attempts to achieve a better understanding of Anmatyerr social lives.

Those less familiar, though, would occasionally refer to me with the generic appellation of “warlpal” (white person) or “alhernter” (lit. pink/red nose). With all its connotations of personal anonymity and cultural boundedness, the use of such a generic, racial description inferred a long history of interactions with a seemingly endless flow of transient “whitefellas” through Aboriginal communities. Working relationships like this have emerged as significant sites of cultural mediation between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal throughout Australia (see Batty, 2005) as a constant stream of “white” contract workers, anthropologists, lawyers, and “service providers” has meant that people often come to know each other only via their “institutionalized positions” (Tamisari, 2006, p. 21). The “anonymous power” of these institutions as well as the often closely associated Western categories of scholarship or professionalism that frame research with Aboriginal people have little currency in these remote Aboriginal communities. As much as institutional or disciplinary positions might create the initial conditions of interrelation, in these contexts it is the “social, rather than bureaucratic processes” that bind people together in meaningful ways (Eickelkamp, 2014, p. 417). Neatly divided professional domains do little to explain behaviors or establish expectations of one another.

According to anthropologist and linguist John von...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• List of Illustrations
• Acknowledgments
• Language and Orthography
• Introduction
• Chapter 1 Archive and Field
• Chapter 2 Early Alhernter Encounters
• Chapter 3 Strehlow’s Scope
• Chapter 4 A Balancing Act
• Chapter 5 Urrempel Man
• Chapter 6 Declarations of Relatedness
• Chapter 7 The Intermingling of Intimate Narratives
• Chapter 8 “You’re my Kwertengerl”
• Conclusion
• References
• Index
• Back Cover