I originally wanted this section of the blog to just be fieldwork musings. It was to be entitled “A day in the life” and consist mostly of my ramblings about the trials, tribulations and rewards of doing archaeological fieldwork. I quickly realized that I wanted these posts to be much more than this. I wanted this website to be a place to for people to come and learn more about my project, and to potentially receive feedback about my work. I wanted it to be a place where interested people could learn more about what the research I was doing than what my inept explanations could provide.
Conversations with new people tend to go like this:
Person: what are you working on?
Me: Music archaeology.
Person: What is that?
Me: It’s working with ancient musical instruments, music iconography and soundscapes
Person: oh. (changes subject)
At some point I need to create a succinct and interesting blurb about my research that I can quip at parties, but I am still not sure what even to designate myself, let alone a few sentence explanation of what I do. Contenders for a job title so far: archaeomusicologist; music archaeologist; acoustic archaeologist. All sound a bit lame and do not describe exactly what I do, so I will continue the search.
Additionally, I have a room in the Larco Museum in which I make audio recordings. Eventually this room will be an additional exhibition area for the museums warehouse collection, but at the moment it remains unfinished.
My recording studio
The room has no power, no lights and no air-conditioning, but it is quiet. A glass door separates this room from the rest of the warehouse exhibition space that people can freely access. This room and the glass door are not soundproof either, so as I am making recordings, in particular of the louder instruments such as trumpets and pututos, people walking around the museum, especially the warehouse section, can hear me. This produces a fishbowl effect of bewildered tourists peering through the glass at me, wondering what I am doing. I am hoping to post a sign soon, with this web address on it, so if someone is truly interested in what they are hearing, they can visit and contact me.
Anyway, I was chatting with Michelle H. on Skype last night about a lot of my fears, concerns and worries about this project. I just feel so alone and on my own all of the time, and that is both exciting and very scary. I am trying to do something completely unique, but the drawback of this is that I have very little precedent to draw upon when devising such important aspects of this project, such as methods. Basically I am making everything up as I go along, finding what works, what doesn’t work, and making huge amounts of notes about what I am doing, so I can at least look back on what I did and say “what the *bleep* was I doing?” in a year or two. I am collecting all the data aspects I can possible think of, but this list expands almost daily, which means certain sets of data will be more complete than others. This provides a constant string of worries: am I doing enough, am I spending my time wisely enough, am I focusing on the right aspects, am I collecting the right data, am I truly exploring the range of sounds these instruments can produce? If one works with the philosophy that any new knowledge is important knowledge, then any data I produce remains important, because it is all new observations. If one works with the philosophy that new knowledge remains worthless unless it is of interest or relevance to others, then I am not sure if what I do is worthwhile at all. I am having the most fun I have ever had doing archaeology working on this project. I spend my afternoons making music with 2000 year old instruments, literally re-awakening the past, making sounds no one has heard for 2,000 years and it is absolutely amazing. But the question remains, how can I translate this into something insightful and impactful to the wider archaeological community and the world of knowledge production in general?