Alcman and the Cosmos of Sparta by Gloria Ferrari

AlcmanI wasn’t aware of this book till I saw a review appear on the BMCR feed. If you’re tack­ling any­thing to do with ancient Greece and Rome then it’s a good idea to keep an eye on BMCR as there’s a con­stant stream of reviews high­light­ing inter­est­ing books. I’m very glad I saw this as it’s spe­cific­ally use­ful to me because of a paper I’m pol­ish­ing for sub­mis­sion. How­ever it’s gen­er­ic­ally use­ful too because it’s a good book on the inter­ac­tion of astro­nomy, cos­mo­logy and reli­gion in archaic Greece.

The sub­ject of the book is the Parthenia (Partheneion) by Alc­man (Alk­man) a poet writ­ing in the 7th cen­tury BC. It describes part of a cere­mony to devote some­thing to a god­dess, pos­sibly Artemis though Bowra (1934:35) dis­agrees. He argues that ὀρθρίαι means at day-break rather than being a ref­er­ence to Artemis Orthia. This is pretty much the prob­lem with the Parthenia. It’s frag­ment­ary and even the frag­ments we do have are ambiguous.

There’s some astro­nom­ical ele­ment to the poem, but exactly what in the poem is astro­nom­ical and what is being offered is also debated. Everyone’s argu­ments about what the poem means stands or breaks on a sec­tion which Fer­rari calls ‘the most tor­men­ted pas­sage in this sec­tion of the song’. Thanks to Google Books, I can add the two rel­ev­ant pages below under Plei­ades, Hyades and Sirius so you can see what the prob­lem is.

The key pas­sage in near Eng­lish is some­thing like:

For as we carry ὀρθρίαι φαρος
The Πεληάδες rise and struggle against us
Like the star Sirius
through the ambro­sial night.

Depend­ing on how you trans­late the Greek words you get a dif­fer­ent outcome.

If you think φαρος is a robe or veil then you’re in good com­pany. This is known from other rituals. Usu­ally that means that people then trans­late ὀρθρίαι to describe Artemis Orthia, a vir­gin god­dess with an interest in chil­dren and child­birth. That makes Πεληάδες the Plei­ades. Many people then make this a spring fest­ival — and that for me is where this trans­la­tion breaks down.

The Plei­ades are not like Sirius. They’re stag­ger­ingly unlike Sirius. Sirius is the bright­est star in the sky and the Plei­ades are an open cluster of faint stars that are like a smudge of light to the naked eye. If your eyesight’s good you can make out indi­vidual stars. That would sug­gest that’s it’s not the appear­ance that mat­ters but the tim­ing of their appear­ance. In that light, the spring fest­ival makes sense. In this period the Plei­ades first appeared in the morn­ing sky in May. The prob­lem is the ref­er­ence to Sirius. Sirius was set­ting in the even­ing sky at this time. It didn’t rise till July. This is why I can­not see how the poem describes a spring fest­ival. The pres­ence of Sirius seems to rule that out.

The altern­at­ive taken by a smal­ler group of people is that a φαρος is a plough. This would be Ferrari’s inter­pret­a­tion and Mar­tin West’s too who gen­er­ally has a big brain when it comes to lyric poetry. If a plough is being brought then this becomes an autumn fest­ival. There were many har­vests through­out the year, but the agri­cul­tural year restar­ted each autumn after the last har­vest with the plough­ing of the fields. This is astro­nom­ic­ally bet­ter because Sirius would have been vis­ible in the morn­ing sky which very neatly ties to ὀρθρίαι mean­ing day-break. That’s essen­tial because Greek reli­gious ritual often happened in the morn­ing or just before sun­rise. This doesn’t give me so much of a head­ache, as it’s phys­ic­ally pos­sible, but I still struggle with the Plei­ades being like Sirius. That’s why I’ve ten­ded to like a third option that Fer­rari mentions.

Πεληάδες doesn’t just mean faint open cluster of stars. It also means doves. If were ser­i­ous about want­ing to solve this puzzle then I’d be look­ing at dove migra­tion and his­tor­ical and archae­olo­gical evid­ence for hunt­ing. Birds tend to migrate in autumn, that works with φαρος as a plough. Song­birds also tend to fly at night. Trav­el­ling through the sky like Sirius through the night would be a bad simile, but less so than the Plei­ades as stars option to my ears. This would tie in with the kind of astro­nomy Hesiod prac­ticed. He didn’t just look at stars, but also at eco­lo­gical signs, like the migra­tions of birds and the beha­viour of other animals.

Don’t go invest­ing too much in my belief though. This is an opin­ion formed from a fairly small amount of read­ing. One of the things that makes this book so use­ful is that it draws on an extens­ive amount of evid­ence. You don’t have to agree with Ferrari’s des­tin­a­tion to see that the trip is worth­while. She also pulls in evid­ence from archae­ology and art as well as drama, espe­cially Eur­ip­ides. I think it’s spec­u­lat­ive work, but it’s cer­tainly not base­less speculation.

How­ever, I’m not fully con­vinced by the explan­a­tion. Nearly all the sup­port­ing evid­ence post-dates Alcman’s work by a long way. Eur­ip­ides was writ­ing in the fifth cen­tury BC. I think that’s import­ant because I think some­thing hap­pens to astro­nomy in this period. The fifth cen­tury is when Meton pins down his luni-solar cycle. It’s also a time when there’s a stronger sense of Hel­lenic iden­tity, partly as a reac­tion to the threat from Per­sia. I think the book is extremely help­ful for explor­ing what people in the fifth cen­tury thought about the con­nec­tion between the heav­ens and reli­gion. I want to believe that we can take this evid­ence and apply it back to sev­enth cen­tury Sparta. It would make my life so much easier, but I don’t think there’s the cer­tainty in the evid­ence to fix the Parthenia to the autumn. My opin­ion might change in the future. I found the text a bit, ha ha, lac­onic. It means I’ll have to read it a few times to get a bet­ter idea of some of the more subtle argu­ments. It’s not a badly writ­ten book and def­in­itely not delib­er­ately obtuse, but it is concise.

All in all though it’s very thought-provoking. It puts some flesh on to mod­els that try and con­nect reli­gion and astro­nomy. It means that ritual isn’t just about the mater­ial, but also about how it’s used. It would be inter­est­ing to see if any­one else had evid­ence approach­ing the same prob­lem from the oppos­ite dir­ec­tion. A sur­vey of temples to see if there’s some sort of archae­olo­gical cor­rel­ate with the astro­nom­ical beha­viour might be useful.

Bowra, C.M. 1934. ‘The Occa­sion of Alcman’s PartheneionThe Clas­sical Quarterly 28(1): 35–44 []

The Antikythera Mechanism: Art or Science?

The Antikythera Mechanism. Photo (cc) Tilemahos Efthimiadis.

The Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism. Photo (cc) Tilema­hos Efthimi­adis.

This post was chosen as an Editor's Selection for ResearchBlogging.orgSome posts take quite a while to write. This is a response to Candy Minx and Mar­tin Rundk­v­ist who were dis­cuss­ing the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism back in 2006 (Anti­kythera, Time, A Reply to the Minx). Candy Minx thought that the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism was an expres­sion of what was already known and embed­ded in a soci­ety through things like myth and ritual. Mar­tin thought that the mech­an­ism was far more com­plex, indeed need­lessly com­plex, for an ancient soci­ety and so was some­thing quite dif­fer­ent to the folk astro­nomy of the time. Ori­gin­ally I planned to write a fence-sitting com­prom­ise. I thought that Candy Minx was right to an extent, there was no need for a device like this because rituals and folk obser­va­tion could allow people to time the year as well as they needed. At the same time I thought that Mar­tin was right to point out that the mech­an­ism gave res­ults with far more accur­acy than folk astro­nomy needed, or would even recog­nise. A dif­fer­ent sort of astro­nomy is vis­ible in the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism. I didn’t blog too much about the 2006 paper because I atten­ded a few of Mike Edmunds’ talks on the topic and heard that more would be pub­lished, which happened in 2008. Any­how in my own fluffy and fence-sitting way I’ll now offer my compromise.

Someone with an extraordin­ary ima­gin­a­tion built the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism and, if he were alive today, we wouldn’t hes­it­ate to call him a sci­ent­ist. I don’t know if the designer was in the same league as New­ton or Galileo, but he was cer­tainly the equal of Kepler, Coper­ni­cus or Brahe. It’s hard to over­state how extraordin­ary the device described in the 2006 paper is, but I’m going to give it a go.

If you’re the one per­son who hasn’t heard of the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism then Nature have a handy video introduction.

All that remains now is a col­lec­tion of cor­roded lumps found off the island of Anti­kythera. The 2006 paper described what the team dis­covered after x-raying the lumps to read the hid­den inscrip­tions without priz­ing apart the device and dam­aging it. Prior to this paper it was thought that the device could keep track of the Sun and the Moon. This is no small feat.

Epicycle et deferent. Image by Dhenry @ Wikimedia Commons.
Epi­cycle et defer­ent. Image by

The Sun would be mov­ing slowly against the back­ground stars, so over the course of a year it would pass through all the signs of the zodiac. The Moon how­ever is more com­plex. The Moon also moves in front of the back­ground stars, but it only takes about 27 days to do this. It’s called the sider­eal period. So you need a couple of gears to drive those two motions. But you wouldn’t really think of the sider­eal period as a month. For most people the syn­odic period, the time between one New Moon and the next or the time between one Full Moon and the next, is a month. This is around 29½ days. Throw in extra gears for driv­ing other dis­plays show­ing eclipse cycles and it’s clearly a com­plex device. The ori­ginal stud­ies found evid­ence of epi­cycles, gears moun­ted on other gears. Add other fea­tures like dis­plays for eclipse and lunar cycles on the back and it’s obvi­ous you have a com­plic­ated device. The 2006 research showed that in fact it was all a bit more com­plic­ated than that.

The Moon’s move­ment isn’t con­stant. It speeds up and slows down. This is because its orbit isn’t exactly cir­cu­lar. Instead it’s slightly egg-shaped. The point fur­thest from the earth is the apo­gee and the point closest to the Earth is the peri­gee. When it’s near the apo­gee it travels slowly, but when it moves closer to the Earth it picks up speed until it passes peri­gee and then it slows down again. This is called the first lunar anom­aly. The dif­fer­ence is notice­able by the naked eye, if you’re will­ing to make sys­tem­atic obser­va­tions. This is all simply explained by Kepler’s Laws of Plan­et­ary Motion. There’s small prob­lem. Kepler used ellipses.

You can’t use ellipt­ical gears. The point of gears is that they must have inter­mesh­ing teeth. An ellipt­ical gear would lose con­tact with the driv­ing gear as its axis changed. Instead it seems that the mech­an­ism used two gears, one slightly off-axis from the other. The rota­tion was con­nec­ted by a pin-and-slot arrange­ment, so that the one gear wouldn’t turn at quite the same rate as the other gear. The on-axis gear can then be turned reli­ably by the drive gears, while the motion of the moon can driven by the off-axis gear. So you have a device that can track the sider­eal, syn­odic and anom­al­istic months, all while the Earth is spin­ning round the Sun. If that’s caus­ing your head to spin you might want to skip the next paragraph.

There’s another prob­lem. The lunar anom­aly describes the Moon’s travel from one apo­gee to the next. This apo­gee is also rotat­ing around the earth. If the apo­gee is in Aries then two and a bit years later it will be in Can­cer, and another two and a bit years to move into Libra until it too has trav­elled through the zodiac over about nine years. So now we have a device which tracks the Moon around the Earth, and its phases and it’s vari­able speed and vari­ations in that vari­ab­il­ity, while also keep­ing track of the Sun’s pos­i­tion, poten­tial lunar and solar eclipses and inter­cal­a­tion cycles so you know when to stick an extra month in to keep the lunar months in step with the solar year round gears, some moun­ted slightly off axis to cre­ate a pseudo-sinusoidal vari­ation using cir­cu­lar gears to replace ellipses. If you have funny feel­ing near the back of your head right now, that’s prob­ably your brain try­ing to crawl out of your ears. The Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism is insanely com­plex. Still just because it’s insanely com­plex, that doesn’t make it sci­entific.

In fact you can argue about whether or not Sci­ence exis­ted in the ancient world. Cer­tainly a lot of ele­ments like test­ing ideas with exper­i­ments didn’t really become pop­u­lar till after Galileo. On the other hand some nat­ural philo­sophy of the time was based on obser­va­tion. There was cer­tainly tech­no­logy which was the res­ult of applied know­ledge. With those kind of pro­visos a lot of ancient his­tor­i­ans would be happy with the idea of ancient sci­ence, albeit a sci­ence dif­fer­ent to post-Renaissance sci­ence. In this case, the sheer intense obser­va­tion and cal­cu­la­tion involved in mak­ing the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism marks it out as a work of ancient sci­ence. There’s also another factor which might make it more sci­entific than artistic.

To some extent the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism Research Pro­ject have been inter­ested in hanging a name on the device. It was thought to have ori­gin­ated in Rhodes and sunk on its way to Rome, which would have con­nec­ted it to the home city of Hip­par­chus, one of the great astro­nomers of antiquity. The 2008 paper has examined the parapegma on the mech­an­ism and dis­covered it may be con­nec­ted to Syra­cuse, home of Archimedes.

A parapegma is a cal­en­dar, usu­ally with holes for stick­ing a peg into for mark­ing the days. In the case of ancient Greece they’re inter­est­ing when they tell you what day of the month it is, because each Greek city had its own set of months. The months were usu­ally named after reli­gious fest­ivals, and this was tied into local polit­ics. That meant hav­ing your own cal­en­dar was a good way of show­ing your inde­pend­ence. The best match for the months men­tioned on the mech­an­ism is Taur­omenion, mod­ern Taorm­ina, in Sicily. This is likely to have shared some months with Syra­cuse as it was re-settled from there in the fourth-century BC, so Syra­cuse is a strong pos­sib­il­ity for the home of this device. Archimedes is said to have inven­ted a plan­et­arium accord­ing to Cicero and is thought to have writ­ten a lost book on astro­nom­ical devices. How­ever he could not have made this device. Archimedes died in 212 BC. The Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism is cur­rently thought to date to the second half of the second cen­tury BC, but that might change. But it was very likely to have been made after Archimedes death and that’s what makes it scientific.

Art can be col­lab­or­at­ive, or it can be per­sonal. Sci­ence in con­trast is built on cumu­lat­ive know­ledge. The per­son who inven­ted the gear­ing did not have to be the per­son who made the astro­nom­ical obser­va­tions. He didn’t even need to live in the same cen­tury as the astro­nomer. In fact the maker of this device might not have done either. He could have fol­lowed a kit and added his own per­sonal touches on the cas­ing. There’s a core to this device which, once expressed, is inde­pend­ent of per­sonal vis­ion. Archimedes didn’t have his own per­sonal Moon which moved in a dif­fer­ent way to every­one else’s, while an artist can have a per­sonal inter­pret­a­tion of the Moon.

A reason people might think the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism is a work of art is that it’s clearly the res­ult of a lot of ima­gin­a­tion. Great art requires ima­gin­a­tion, but so too does great sci­ence. It requires the kind of ima­gin­a­tion that can look at a tool­box full of circles and see ellipses. The kind of ima­gin­a­tion that can watch wheels turn within wheels as bod­ies waltz to the music of the celes­tial spheres. Another com­mon factor between art and sci­ence is that great art can show a new way of look­ing at the world, and great sci­ence does this too. That’s why I dis­agree with Candy Minx when she says “Sci­ence is always play­ing catch up with the poets.” Sci­ence can reveal beauty too, as a visit to the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism Research Group’s homepage would show.

Freeth, T., Bit­sa­kis, Y., Mous­sas, X., Seirada­kis, J., Tse­li­kas, A., Mangou, H., Zafeir­o­poulou, M., Had­land, R., Bate, D., Ram­sey, A., Allen, M., Craw­ley, A., Hockley, P., Malzbender, T., Gelb, D., Ambrisco, W., & Edmunds, M. (2006). Decod­ing the ancient Greek astro­nom­ical cal­cu­lator known as the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism Nature, 444 (7119), 587–591 DOI: 10.1038/nature05357

Freeth, T., Jones, A., Steele, J., & Bit­sa­kis, Y. (2008). Cal­en­dars with Olympiad dis­play and eclipse pre­dic­tion on the Anti­kythera Mech­an­ism Nature, 454 (7204), 614–617 DOI: 10.1038/nature07130

Crowdsourcing Fieldwork: A Neuroarchaeology Project?

How should an exhibit be lit?

How should an exhibit be lit?

This is a devel­op­ment of an idea I had last year after read­ing a post by Christina on a visit to the National Museum in Copen­ha­gen. In short most museums I go to seem to have much darker gal­ler­ies for pre­his­toric mater­ial that clas­sical mater­ial. That has to have a psy­cho­lo­gical effect, but does it also have a physiolo­gical effect? Is the dif­fer­ence in light enough that there’s a dif­fer­ence feel­ing to observing pre­his­toric mater­ial to clas­sical mater­ial because of the room and not the con­tent? You could also ask sim­ilar ques­tions of European and Rest of the World exhib­its. Are African exhib­its in more dimly lit rooms, and if so what does this say about ‘world museums’.

It should be an easy enough ques­tion to answer; simply visit a range of museums in exotic loc­a­tions with a light-meter and then number-crunch to find the answer. That’s not very effi­cient though. It means arran­ging per­mis­sions, trav­el­ling to the museums, and log­ging the data. It could take three or four days in terms of travel to some places to log 50 num­bers. When it comes to num­ber crunch­ing more is bet­ter so is there a way round this? I sup­pose I could hire people to wander round museums for me with light­meters, but that would be expens­ive and my bank is already exper­i­ment­ing with new shades of red to print my bal­ance. It’d be handy if I could just find the data I want lying around the net some­where. Reg­u­lar read­ers will know I’ve been think­ing about Flickr’s API a lot, and they won’t be sur­prised to hear that’s where I might have found the answer. A lot of people have been tak­ing pho­tos in museums and I think they could help.

It might sound bleed­ing obvi­ous that all of Flickr’s pho­tos were taken with a cam­era, but in the case of digital cam­eras Flickr can also store a lot more data. Attached to a lot of the pho­tos is EXIF data. If you visit a photo like this one, you’ll see there’s a more prop­er­ties link on the right side of the page. That takes you to a page like this one. It tells you the ISO set­ting, aper­ture and shut­ter speed for a photo. ((Usu­ally — HDR pho­tos won’t because the have mul­tiple expos­ures)) If the cam­era is auto­matic then it will pick what it thinks are the best set­tings. The cam­era is set to manual, then the pho­to­grapher is still prob­ably going to choose what it thinks are the best set­tings. There­fore this gives a way to cal­cu­late rel­at­ive changes in light.

For example ISO set­tings come from the days when people used film for pho­tos. ISO 200 would react to light one ‘stop’ faster than ISO 100. ISO 400 was one stop faster than ISO 200 and two than ISO 100. So the ISO set­ting will let us cal­cu­late how many stops down the film speed is. The aper­ture is an odd scale because it relates to the size of the aper­ture of the lens rel­at­ive to the focal length. But it can be cal­cu­lated, f/22 is a stop up from  f/16 and f/11 is another stop down and so on. The same can be said for shut­ter speed You can go from 1/800 to 1/400 to 1/200 and so on.

There­fore, if you fix a datum you can meas­ure how many stops up or down from that datum a photo is from the EXIF data. This is related to the light in the image and the cam­era lens look­ing into a gal­lery or dis­play is a proxy for the human eye. It’s not per­fect, you’d want a lot of pho­tos but one thing Flickr has is a LOT of pho­tos. It also has the API, which makes it very easy to trans­fer the rel­ev­ant meta-data into a data­base for interrogation.

One reason I’m inter­ested in doing this pro­ject is that I have no idea what the res­ult would be. It could be emphatic, ambigu­ous or show that I have a very select­ive memory when it comes to light­ing. It might sound obvi­ous that you’d want to research some­thing you don’t know the answer to, but to gain fund­ing you have to show a like­li­hood of a pos­it­ive out­come — or that the meth­od­o­logy is at least sound. I don’t know if this is the case, so the pro­ject won’t attract fund­ing, but the API makes it cheap. Cer­tainly cheaper than fly­ing on budget air­lines round Europe.

In terms of pub­lic­a­tion it seems like a good fit for Inter­net Archae­ology. Inter­net Archae­ology is mov­ing in steps towards open access. Given the… umm… eccent­ric atti­tude the AHRC takes to digital media, and the cur­rent eco­nomic cli­mate that’s a dif­fi­cult move they’re mak­ing. The fact they are mov­ing to Open Access makes it one of the most attract­ive ven­ues to pub­lish in aca­demic archae­ology. In this instance a data­base which can link back to the source files at Flickr would fit neatly into their hyperlink-friendly model. A bit of ingenu­ity with the SQL quer­ies and data­base fields and it should be pos­sible to make it a use­ful applic­a­tion for fur­ther research.

The biggest prob­lem I see at the moment is whether or not estim­at­ing rel­at­ive light levels from the ISO, aper­ture and shut­ter speed will be enough to dis­tin­guish between genu­ine dif­fer­ences in light­ing. There are other non-trivial ques­tions. If pho­tos are of the exhib­its rather than the gal­ler­ies, then will the arti­fi­cial light neg­ate any meas­ur­able dif­fer­ences? It would cer­tainly lose dark­ness in the peri­pheral vis­ion. How do I gather the data? Can I pull it straight from the EXIF files from any photo on the site, but would this be reas­on­able if the photo itself is set to copy­right? Would set­ting up a Flickr group for the pro­ject and try­ing to herd in volun­teers, or stick­ing to CC licenced pho­tos be better?

I think I could prob­ably set up a small-scale test of this over the autumn and then take it from there, Still, it would be help­ful if someone could spot all the flaws in this plan for me, rather than leav­ing me to stumble into them, so feel free to leave your com­ments below.

A tomb is a machine for remembering

marsala

Some blog posts are a long time in the writ­ing, but this sets a new record for me. Around May 2000 I was try­ing to think of a way of rip­ping off Le Corbusier’s quote A house is a machine for liv­ing in with regard to tombs.

It’s not a pos­i­tion I’d strongly defend. Tombs do other things as well. They mark ter­rit­ory to new­comers who may not know the local land. They’re a way of appro­pri­at­ing resources and pos­i­tion for the indi­vidual, if they plan their funeral while they’re alive.

If you want to be poetic, they also could be time machines. Once you have a set­tle­ment with a concept of deep roots, then it becomes pos­sible to think about pro­ject­ing your influ­ence bey­ond your own life­time. You can touch the future from a dis­tance, but if that works, it only works in the memor­ies of the liv­ing. It’s might seem a fanci­ful idea, but it’s spelled out in the earli­est sur­viv­ing history.

This is the dis­play of the inquiry of Hero­dotus of Hali­carnas­sus, so that things done by man not be for­got­ten in time, and that great and mar­velous deeds, some dis­played by the Hel­lenes, some by the bar­bar­i­ans, not lose their glory…

One of my super­visors has already writ­ten some­thing along sim­ilar lines about reach­ing out bey­ond the human life­time. The archae­olo­gical record is messy and often not in fine enough res­ol­u­tion to dis­tin­guish between one gen­er­a­tion and the next. Find­ing those dif­fer­ences is going to be harder when you start think­ing about how people tried to blur those bound­ar­ies.

It’s an idea I’d like to return to, but for now I’m just mak­ing this as a note to myself.

Starlight Expressed

This very briefly intro­duces the stat­ist­ical method I used to ana­lyse the Greek temples of Sicily for astro­nom­ical align­ments. It’ll be the basis for a paper On the Ori­ent­a­tions of Greek Temples in Sicily. The whole thesis will be made avail­able later via Open Access some way or another. I would say via the Brit­ish Library’s EThOS sys­tem, but I’ve had no luck with that.

Astronomy and the Oracle of Delphi

This is (what I hope is) the final ver­sion of the Delphi present­a­tion. It briefly cov­ers the ground that formed the basis for Know­ing when to con­sult the oracle at Delphi. There’s more unpub­lished mater­ial, but rather than try­ing to pro­duce Delphi II, I’m going to make it part of the forth­com­ing Calendrical Cal­ib­ra­tion paper.

The Lunt

I’m still busy work­ing on re-formatting which is prov­ing to be very slow and tedi­ous. I’ve also found out the ver­sion of Pho­to­matix I was using to develop my pho­tos was out-of-date. Here’s some pho­tos I repro­cessed to test the new ver­sion. They were taken at the Lunt, a recon­truc­ted 1st cen­tury AD Roman fort near Cov­entry. It was one of those days it was either about to start rain­ing, or else it was rain­ing or both. If you’re won­der­ing about both, I got to the car while it was rain­ing. Then it really star­ted to rain.

Speculations on the sex of the Moon

I may be busy, but not too busy to point and laugh. You’ve prob­ably seen this story in the Exam­iner about the Japan­ese crash­ing an orbiter into the Moon. If you haven’t then it’s Satya Har­vey com­plain­ing that sci­ent­ists will be pen­et­rat­ing a female moon without first ask­ing her per­mis­sion. Lots of people have found it a remark­able pub­lic dis­play of ignor­ance. In fact she’s elev­ated ignor­ance to an art form, because she is also clearly unaware that, in Japan­ese myth­o­logy, the Moon is male and the Sun is female.

If you live in the West you might think that makes the Japan­ese freaks. I’ve got a book, The Moon: Myth and Image by Jules Cash­ford, which picks up on this. The Second World War alli­ance between Ger­many and Japan was blamed (only in part I hope) on the two nations both per­ceiv­ing the Moon as male. She found Laurens van der Post on one of his off-days writ­ing: “…[S]ome omin­ous per­versity of the abori­ginal urgings of both Ger­mans and Japan­ese, was rendered into a fixed and immut­able mas­culin­ity.” If you’re keen to sample some per­versity then you may not need to travel that far. Cash­ford also has an incom­plete list of cul­tures with male lunar deit­ies which includes, Ainu, Anato­li­ans, Armeni­ans, South­ern Ara­bi­ans, Aus­tralian Abori­gines, Balts, Basques, Canaan­ites, Eski­mos, Finns, Ger­mans, Geor­gi­ans, Green­land­ers, Hindus, Hittites, Hur­ri­ans, Japan­ese, Lithuani­ans, Melane­sians, Mon­go­li­ans, Per­sians, Phrygi­ans, Poles, New Guineans, North Amer­ican Indi­ans of Brit­ish Columbia, the Machiv­anaga of Peru, Scand­inavi­ans, Slavs and Tar­tars. With the Moon being a rock, and the Sun a nuc­lear implo­sion there’s no reason to assume the genders have to be fixed one way or the other.

If you’re after a more adven­ter­ous myth­o­logy you don’t even need the Sun and Moon to be oppos­ite genders. For example the Bororo of South Amer­ica have the Sun and Moon as twin broth­ers who ascen­ded from the Earth. A male Sun and Moon myth­o­logy might be use­ful if you want to have a cos­mic example of Men going out and doing stuff while women… umm… don’t. If you want some­thing more soph­ist­ic­ated, the Aztecs and the Egyp­tians saw the Moon as male or female or both as the mood took them.

In fact it’s the female Moon which may be odder than a male Moon. If you want oppos­ite genders for the two bod­ies, a female Sun might make more sense because it drives life. The reason the Sun is male in astro­logy (and I assume Ms. Har­vey means spe­cific­ally Graeco-Roman Astro­logy) is because it was asso­ci­ated with Apollo in reli­gion. Thanks to the Roman Empire that’s the basis for Astro­logy which sur­vived in the West. Indian Astro­logy is some­what dif­fer­ent. Where does that leave the Sun’s role as a life-force? The Greeks saw the male as the source of life. The womb was where you depos­ited the seed to grow, the credit for the fin­ished product belonged to the man. Did that belief come from the same root as a male Sun? I wouldn’t know; it’s pos­sible one caused the other. In any event it would seem reas­on­able to ask how the gender of celes­tial bod­ies affected the way people saw the universe.

It’s the fact that sci­ent­ists see the Moon as gen­der­less that helps open up new ways of look­ing at the uni­verse. We can ask new ques­tions, find new answers and dis­cover new mys­ter­ies which we couldn’t even just fifty years ago. In con­trast Satya Har­vey offers a narrow-minded and blinkered view of the moon which cas­u­ally dis­misses any­thing which doesn’t fit her own pre­con­cep­tions. A uni­verse where women are tied to 2000 year old gender roles seems a claus­tro­phobic little place. If a Japan­ese probe can help smash a way out of that, I’m all for it.

And while I’m at it, I’ll crow­bar a link into Steven Renshaw’s page on Japan­ese Astro­nomy.

Social Astronomy and Intentional Inaccuracy

FullMoon
Can you spot the Moon in this photo? Photo (cc) Andréia.

One of the reas­ons I’m put­ting up more stuff recently is that it’s a spin-off from pol­ish­ing the thesis. Reas­on­able ques­tions would be: What do is Social Astro­nomy? and Why is that Archae­oastro­nomy and not His­tory of Astro­nomy? The answers to both ques­tions are connected.

Social Astro­nomy is the study of astro­nomy as used for social pur­poses. This fits very neatly with Archae­oastro­nomy which these days tends also to be referred to as Cul­tural Astro­nomy. In con­trast His­tory of Astro­nomy, espe­cially in the ancient world, has ten­ded to be the story of how Astro­nomy in its mod­ern sense grew from ancient prac­tices. An example of very good His­tory of Astro­nomy in an ancient con­text would be James Evans’s book The His­tory and Prac­tice of Ancient Astro­nomy. It’s a very good book cov­er­ing the math­em­at­ical basis ancient astro­nomy and how people got pro­gress­ively more accur­ate at pre­dict­ing the move­ment of the plan­ets. I think that’s going to be a defin­ing work on ancient astro­nomy for a gen­er­a­tion, but there’s still things it misses. The quest for accur­acy is the under­ly­ing nar­rat­ive of a lot of ancient astro­nomy books. It misses the factor that people, espe­cially the ancient Greeks, might have also wanted and aimed for inac­cur­ate astro­nomy. That is an odd claim, after all isn’t astro­nomy a sci­ence?
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Caerleon

Audio and pho­tos from my recent trip to Caer­leon. It’s past of the test I did of Audioboo.

Caerleon Amphitheatre HDR
Caerleon Amphitheatre HDRCaerleon Amphitheatre HDRCaerleon Amphitheatre HDR


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