The Past Is Present
By Caitlin C. Earley
I spend a lot of time in the past. Between my research on ancient American Indigenous art and teaching art history classes at the University of Nevada, Reno, (UNR), my head is anywhere from 3000 BCE to the present.
My students are sometimes reluctant to meet me there. I find this is particularly true when it comes to the art history survey. You may know this particular animal: a survey of art from the past to the present, often divided into two semesters. Lately, I have been teaching the first half, which spans Paleolithic cave paintings to Gothic cathedrals—but I often hear from students that they don’t take the class because it doesn’t feel relevant. It’s old stuff, they imply. Why does it matter now?
It’s a fair question, and I’ve recently redesigned my introductory class to answer it—because everywhere I look these days, the past is elbowing in. The way we think about history is ever-shifting. We see past thoughts, ideas, and actions through lenses that reflect our contemporary world. And we use the past in specific ways. It’s not that we’re getting closer to an objective truth; it’s that studying history helps us understand our place in an almost immeasurable universe of creation, experimentation, and experience.
Photo/Caitlin C. Earley, Mackay Stadium Entrance, University of Nevada, Reno.
So we learn about iconoclasm—the destruction of images—in the Byzantine Empire. But I also show them the Bamiyan Buddhas, destroyed by the Taliban in 2001. We learn about Greek and Roman architecture, and they find examples on the UNR campus, considering what it means to see Classical architecture in the American West. (My favorite example: the entrance to the football stadium at UNR, modeled on a Roman triumphal arch.) Closer to my own field of study, we consider Ancient Aliens, the History Channel show that attributes the monuments of ancient societies to intergalactic visitors. It may seem harmless at first, but look closely: most of the artistic and architectural feats the show covers are those created by Indigenous peoples. By chalking those accomplishments up to aliens, the show implies Indigenous peoples were not capable of creating monumental works. In doing so, it denies them their own histories.
The past takes on particular urgency in light of the rising tide of white supremacist hate groups. When I poll the class about Vikings, they often cite Thor—hero of the Marvel universe—or How to Train Your Dragon. White supremacists have appropriated Viking imagery, spurred by 19th- and 20th-century racist writings, as a symbol of a “pure race.” The DNA studies, though, suggest “Viking” was more of a job description than a cultural or racial designation—no Scandinavian DNA required. Greek and Roman sculptures, too, have appeared on recruitment posters for white supremacist groups. But many of these statues were originally brightly painted, with a variety of skin tones. Why the misconception? Historically, scholars from the United States and Europe have preferred them to be white, belying the diversity of the ancient Mediterranean.
We make the past into something that serves the present. When we study history or art history, then, it’s not about knowing all 99 theses or what flank collapsed in this battle or the year Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel. It’s also about how we know those things—and how we use that knowledge today. How do works of art and architecture, in particular, present specific ideas, and how are they reinterpreted over time? This question is at the heart of the debate over Confederate statues across the United States. As social justice movements gained momentum in 2020, wide audiences considered what these sculptures communicated about the legacy of the Civil War, and how they reflect American priorities in the 20th century and today. Shifting consensus about whether these sculptures belong in public view illustrates the malleability of history—and the forces that shape that history in the United States, especially structural racism and political power. History is painful, but also powerful. The sculpture of Robert E. Lee was towed out of Charlottesville, Virginia on the back of a flatbed truck recently, a searing reminder that through the past, we can remake the future.
Photo/Caitlin C. Earley.
Caitlin Earley is Assistant Professor of Art History at the University of Nevada, Reno. She specializes in the study of ancient Maya sculpture, and she is the recipient of recent fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities and the American Council of Learned Societies.
Thank you for visiting Double Down, the Nevada Humanities blog. Any views or opinions represented in this blog are personal and belong solely to the blog author and do not represent those of Nevada Humanities, its staff, or any donor, partner, or affiliated organization, unless explicitly stated. All content provided on this blog is for informational purposes only. The owner of this blog makes no representations as to the accuracy or completeness of any information on this site or found by following any link on this site. Omissions, errors, or mistakes are entirely unintentional. Nevada Humanities reserves the right to alter, update, or remove content on this blog at any time.