writing before writing

An interview with Denise Schmandt-Besserat| By Joy Gallagher and Liz Lopatto

Denise Schmandt-Besserat is a professor of Art and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Texas. She is known for the groundbreaking books Before Writing, Volumes 1 and 2, and How Writing Came About, which have played a key role in theorizing about the birth of the written word.

Other works include The History of Counting, a children's book, Symbols at ‘Ain Ghazal, and numerous articles. She is the recipient of several awards and honors, among them a citation as an Outstanding Woman in Humanities by the American Association of University Women, and the Holloway Teaching Award.

At the time of this interview, Schmandt-Besserat had just returned from a year as a fellow at the Stanford Humanities Center at Stanford University. On November 8 and 9, 2004, she delivered two lectures at Kenyon College about the origins of writing and counting. While visiting, she agreed to be interviewed by two Kenyon Review Associates about her writing.

Kenyon Review: So when I was looking at your biographical information, I was surprised to see that you came from an art history background. Do you think that significantly helped you with your work?

Denise Schmandt-Besserat: No. What it needed was women’s qualities. Meaning, in anthropology, men are not known to be able to devote a lot of time to what seemingly is not very rewarding. Repetitive, repetitive work, where you need to sit there forever, and not for a grand goal, and so that’s what, in fact, looking back, that was—I found those little bitty things. Nobody knew where they were, what they were, and there was no big expectation. These little bitty things. But they were part of my study and I took care of them just because they were there, you know? And it paid off. But it was not to be seen at the beginning.

KR: What was studying in the Middle East during the '70s like?

DSB: It was always, from the beginning, and probably more at that time than now, exotic. It was exciting. I had intended to do my work from books, you know, looking through reports, what was made of clay. And thank God, the big clay person at Penn State, came to Harvard—which was where I was at the time, I was at the Peabody Museum at the time. Being at the Peabody Museum, I could ask him for an interview to ask him for advice because I was going to go into clay also, as he was. And he suggested that we have breakfast. And, gosh, that breakfast changed my life! I told him I was interested in clay. I was interested in what was made of clay before pottery—he was really more interested in pottery. And he said, “You are never going to get support if you say you are going to do it from books. If you want to get support, you have to say you are going to go see the collection in the Middle East.” Oh, wow! Sure!

So I did a proposal, and yes, I got the support, you know? I was at the Radcliff Institute at the time. So thanks to the Radcliff Institute, I got three thousand dollars, I think. At that time, with three thousand dollars, you could conquer the world, you know? So I went off and the collections were always bowls in the Middle East. Fifty percent of the collections were in the Middle East, and fifty percent were in the country that had done the excavation. So I had to go to the British Museum, I had to go to Canada, I had to go to France, I had to go to Copenhagen, all kinds of places. And then to the Middle East, to see the other part of the collection. I remember that arriving, disembarking from the plane in Lebanon was a little bit scary. I knew a Jesuit who was there, and he said he would come and pick me up at the airport. And I thought, “Oh, yeah, that would be nice.” There was a moment of anticipation. But no, it was not—the Middle East is welcoming. Wherever you go in the Middle East, people welcome you so warmly. So there is a moment of anticipation before you take your first step, but people are welcoming. Even today! I’ve just come back from Iran, I’ve just come back from Iran three weeks ago. And people see you look weird, and they say, “Welcome to Iran!” They make you feel very welcome. This is a position, taking care of the foreigners, taking the responsibility of the host. It has always been wonderful; I have only good memories of the Middle East.

KR: Did you encounter any difficulty in getting your theories heard or getting published when you were first starting out?

DSB: Oh, sure. If you have new ideas, you’re going to encounter difficulty. You’re going to encounter resistance. And resistance is because people don’t want to change, you know? Because there is an old rule somewhere that the people who are most reticent are the people who would most like to say that themselves. That’s how it is. You have to take the world like it is. Yes, you have, by definition, if you come with a new idea, people are going to fight you tooth and nail. You’ll prevail, if you have proof.

What makes me be very confident is that whenever I have brought one idea, I have the evidence. I have strong evidence. I have ten thousand tokens in my computer. I have two hundred of those envelopes. I have two hundred of the first tablets. So this is reading the evidence. It’s not—many theories, even excellent ones, have a hypothesis. “We have to think it must be that way.” But for me—it’s extraordinary, really—everything is perfectly clear. People can say what they want, but these are the facts. So it is comfortable for me.

KR: Your books seem to be becoming progressively more accessible to a general audience. Why did you choose to write for this general audience?

DSB: I’m going to say two things. I think I can do it, you know? I think I can talk about my work. It’s very simple. And I think I can use simple words also. I have been even tempted to write for children. I have one book for children, and I have a contract now for a second book for children. When I go home, I will start doing the revision for the manuscript I have now called “The Origin of Writing.” And I like to write for children. It is a challenge to be able to revise and revise and revise, always choosing the simpler sentence and simpler vocabulary, but not diminishing the information. It is an interesting challenge. I enjoy it.

KR: Which of your books has been the most challenging?

DSB: Oh, the first one. Before Writing. I had a shock just a month ago. So I went to California last year; I was invited to Stanford to come and do my work. And during the year, I wrote my last manuscript for a book. It’s done, finished. It is called “After Writing.” So I go to my chairman in art, and I say, “I have come back and I have a manuscript for you.” And he says, “Oh, well, you have learned to write fast by now!” Because the first book took twenty years. And in my department, they thought I was procrastinating. They thought I would never finish that book. They had completely given up on me. People did not understand what that first book took. That first book took going to—I forget how many museums. I have it somewhere in Before Writing. But I went to I don’t know how many countries. Just the collection of data was—and it was, you know, when I could go to Iran, to Iraq—the logistics were difficult. And it was taking care of the whole Middle East! It was a big chunk! The whole Middle East for five thousand years! Enormous data. And it was following the tokens, following the envelopes, following the tablets. These artifacts had never been studied. It was really like going through a forest and hacking your way. It is infinitely easier when the material has already been studied, and that man has said this and that woman has said that, so you can say “No, no, no.” Rather, you have to analyze yourself. You have to visualize what is the impact yourself . . . what that data tells you, what are the consequences. So it was an enormous study. It’s a miracle I ever finished it. I really needed twenty years to visualize, to understand.

I remember they wouldn’t give me tenure because I hadn’t finished hat book. And I see myself, sitting at the table at my faculty meeting. And somebody at the back was saying, “Finish it! Stop it where you are! Put it out!” And I said, “I will finish it when I say I finish it.” And thank God! Because the pressure to publish was enormous. Thank God I held on and finished a good product that I feel comfortable with. And, in fact, so far, nothing that has come out, nothing has changed. I am satisfied. It is the way I think it is.

KR: You’ve written for a number of audiences, from the very educated to small children. Who do you prefer to write for, and what challenges come along with that?

DSB: In theory, when I start a book, I always want to talk to a wide audience, to the Scientific American audience. And in fact, I really can’t. In fact, I talk to my colleagues. I want to convince my colleagues first. That means I go into the nitty-gritty, I go into the details, I put out my evidence. In fact, when you read it now, it is not for a wide audience. It needs a second look. I need to cut, cut, cut. The book I wrote for a wider audience, How Writing Came About, was a pleasure. I took it chapter by chapter and just hacked away. Wow! That is a big chunk. It took me, I think, a month, which is nothing, to give it a good trimming. And when I look at it, it still needs another hacking. It still demands more attention.

Recently, I met somebody who wanted to convince me I should write something very easy. You can’t jump over your shadow, you know? I think I can do it, but it takes effort. I would write it fully and then take out, take out, take out.

KR: So, as you said, your research first began on the uses of clay before pottery. How did you become interested in that?

DSB: I was at the Peabody Museum at Harvard. I was a research assistant or something like that. And I was in charge of exhibits of pottery collections, so I became quite familiar with the pottery sequence. And, as you know, pottery is very important for archaeologists. So I became quite good at the pottery sequence. Then I competed for the Radcliff Institute, and I had to have a proposal for a research project. I discussed it with my boss at the Peabody Museum, and he said, “Well, that could be interesting. There is a good book on pottery starting in 5000 B.C. But we have nothing on the new excavations that have gone deeper, earlier, et cetera. Nothing has been published on the earliest phase of pottery.” So I said, “Oh, OK.” And I wrote my proposal for doing a work complimentary to the other one. I got the fellowship. Then I started that, and I began to see, in fact, in those years before 5000, there was a lot of use of clay that was not pottery. I became interested in that while researching. Clay for pottery before 5000 became too narrow. It was more interesting to look at what clay was used for. There were a lot of cute little things, you know, little figurines, stuff like that. So that’s how it came about.

KR: Since so much of what you’ve studied was from Mesopotamia, which is now Iraq, how do you see the war affecting future research there?

DSB: Don’t make me cry. Many of my colleagues who had sites they were excavating in Iraq are inconsolable. What has been a catastrophe was the disturbance in the museum. So some objects have disappeared. That’s not the worst. That’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m talking about is that when I was looking for tokens in Iraq, in Baghdad, I was allowed to go into the storage of the museum. In the courtyard, there was a big warehouse where material was organized by sites, and then drawers for strata. And material like the tokens, they were so insignificant, many of them were not marked. Now, in modern excavations, every artifact is marked, has an excavation number in the records. But in the olden days, they didn’t do that. So when I was looking from drawer to drawer, the drawer was giving me what site it came from, what strata it came from, an idea of what it was. I understand—I saw the photograph of the mess in the middle of the storage place. I don’t think too many, but some drawers had been just dumped out. So that data cannot possibly be put back. You have to now be very wary; is it the right drawer, is it the right size, is it the right period? Now the data that was precarious from the beginning has become even more so. I think that is what I see as the tragedy. The mess. The data becomes questionable. And that data is never finished, you know? New generations, new questions. They could have gone there to check and get the answers. That was solid. The solid has become fluid. That’s what I think is the worst.

KR: How frustrating.

DSB: More than that.

KR: So would you like to tell us a little more about what you’re working on now?

DSB: Oh, yes. I’d like to do that. It is in two parts. The first part is how writing influenced art. For the first time, writing and art come together! So I worked hard. I have a new article out, and I wish I’d brought it; I could have shown you the pictures! I was in the plane and I thought “Oops.” So, before writing, if you look at pottery in the Middle East, the usual decoration is either geometric shapes, or it is little animals that are in line. Lines. And they don’t talk to each other, they don’t do anything to each other, they are just repeated, repeated, repeated. There are beautiful decorations that have several large animals in the center, long-legged birds, water birds, and long dogs, and here, beautiful ibex. So all of these are animals, but the birds don’t talk to the dogs, it’s all separate. And there are a lot of lines. The lines are dividing, no narrative.

When writing comes about, there are on vases, a story. For example, there is a chariot with two bulls and a charioteer, and a person saying good-bye, and there is an attendant, talking to the charioteer. I propose that this is because the paradigm of writing is applied to pictures. I mean, in a tablet, the place of the sign means something. If it is above, it is more important than if it is below. If it is to the right, it is more important than the left. So you have a code to give values to sums. So this is applied here. The guy in the center is more important than the guy behind. You immediately can read the story. Who is in the center, who is bigger, is more important. The charioteer is very big, the attendant is tiny, the woman saying good-bye is less big. So this system is used on pictures, and the pictures can now tell a story. And before, the lines were dividing, but now the lines are, on the contrary, bringing together. It becomes the floor, the ground. It means everybody who is on the same floor belongs together at the same time. It unites instead. I say, writing changed art, gave art the possibility of becoming narrative. So I look at pottery painting. And you see the same level of art. Before writing, it was very geometric. And then, boom! You have storytelling. Then I look at vases that are carved, and it is exactly the same thing. I look at paintings on floors and on walls. With each kind of art, you see the same characteristic, and after writing, narrative.

Then—are you still interested in the second half?

KR: Yes.

DSB: You tell me if it’s too boring. [laughs] Usually people only want to hear one part and say “Enough!”

So the second part is the reverse: how art helped writing. And that is fabulous! [laughs] Before 2700—writing is invented around 3200—and before 2700, that’s five hundred years, writing is only accounting. To recall what comes in the temple or the palace, and what comes out. So-and-so much gold, so-and-so many sheep, so-and-so many bushels of grain. It’s only numbers and the thing counted. And then, at some point, the name of who it belongs to. That’s it.

The first text that is not like that is a gold bowl that has just a name, no numbers, no thing counted, no problems. Just a name, Mesqualamduk. It was excavated at the royal cemetery of Ur. And that guy has three bowls, one he was still holding when he was excavated. So I was always wondering why does he have his name on there? And I think I found out. In Sumer, the names of people were very important. It was more than for us. For us, Joy and Liz are labels, you know? But in Sumer, it was your destiny. You had a good name, you had a good life. Giving you a name was giving you a destiny. So it was important after death, in order for the deceased to be happy ghosts, the family needed, once a month, during the new moon or on the day of the death, to utter the name in order to keep the ghosts alive. So somebody in the family was in charge of, once a month, uttering the names of the deceased in the family. So I think that Mesqualamduk thought that if he wrote his name phonetically, it would take care of uttering the name. I think the first use of writing beyond accounting was funerary, in order to keep the name, in order to be a perpetual utterance of the name. And that’s done on art. It was done on gold that cannot tarnish. It was forever. It was a beautiful support for the name. That was the first step of getting out of accounting; a new destiny for writing.

The next step is—you may have seen the little Sumerian statues. They have big, big eyes, and they are like that [clasps hands as though praying]. They have their hands folded. And they have their prayer on their shoulder. At the beginning, it was the same thing, just a name. But then it becomes name, and profession or title—So-and-so, assistant to the king, or whatever—and then a sentence. “So-and-so, son of So-and-so, profession, gives the statue to the god for life, for eternal life.” You have “So-and-so,” nominative, “gives,” verb, “statue,” accusative, “to the god So-and-so,” dative, “for eternal life,” genitive. Eternal life is an important thing. To be heard, writing modeled itself on speech, translated speech. The first sentences were done. And from there on, a hundred years later, you have texts on everything, law texts, medical texts, historical texts, you name it, you got it. It is the transition.

So the first use is funerary. The second use is a little bit more than unerary. And that, again, is on art. It is the little fellow who is given speech for his prayer. So this is art that helps writing get out of accounting and become what it is today, to just communicate. It helps to carry speech. So I think that’s exciting.

KR: Is this more like your first book? Longer and more technical?

DSB: No, it’s very tiny. It’s very little. On the whole, I don’t write long.

KR: So it’s more accessible?

DSB: Well, it still is very nitty-gritty. It is not going to be a popular book. Maybe, again, I can look at it and make it simple later. But at this point, I could not take one word out of it. It is not accessible. I analyze all this data, and for the writing, I use a lot of examples. So it’s not really so easily read.

KR: Is there another theory about early writing that your book is competing against?

DSB: No, there is no other theory. These are obvious things everybody should have talked about. These are things that people are going to see and say, “Oh, wow, yes.” The philologists are going to be very mad at me again because they should have seen that. Once you point to it, yeah, absolutely. But it has not been seen.

Joy Gallagher was a student associate at the Kenyon Review during the 2004-2005 school year. Liz Lopatto is currently a student intern at KR and will be a senior at Kenyon College this fall.

Work that appears on the KR web site is from The Kenyon Review and all applicable copyright restrictions apply.