Year: 2022
Type: article
Abstract: Classifications, typologies, labels, and other organizational tools help us wade through complex cultural contexts and specificities. They may be a point of departure that suggests clarity, providing a veil of reassurance. Yet, if not subject to renewal in terms of temporal and spatial considerations, they can become static mechanisms that constrain and obscure the wealth of changing and seemingly anomalous factors that are essential features of dynamic cultural realities. As Gonseth et al. have stated, “the world cannot be defined solely in terms of classifications … it has to be looked at through, between, over, and above the expressions of our codes” (2013:19).In the domain of art, the naming and labeling game (attribution, provenance, identification of object types) is a major concern, with very different issues preoccupying scholars and those in the private sector. Where the monetary value of art works remains the fundamental driver, perennial “stylistic” criteria of authenticity related to ethnic labels are repeatedly evoked and maintained to preserve easily recognizable market indicators.In scholarly circles, Renée Bravmann definitely “opened the frontiers” in 1973 by showing “avenues of mobility” beyond the “frozen cultures” of William Fagg's 1960s “one tribe, one style” ethnic paradigm (Bravmann 1973: 9, 10; Fagg 1965: 11), yet the “single stories” approach, to which Gagliardi and Biro (2019: 1) have recently referred, in which an object is attributed to “a whole group of people or a geographical area,” is still currently used. Maxime de Formanoir (2019) has shown how the so-called Kota label, for example, applied in a 2017 major Paris exhibition to no fewer than 102 “reliquary figures”—aesthetically aligned simply on the basis of morphology and style—has obscuring their exact regional provenance and context of production and use.My concern here goes beyond the preoccupation with style and ethnicity, two vast topics of debate (see Gagliardi et al. 2020: 16–21) which remain prime Western art historical and art market concerns, that are at times a little too intertwined. What interests me has to do with the reading of interethnic visual forms, their local performative and ritual use, interpretation and labeling. To exemplify this I will deal with a cultural feature of the Congo-Gabonese Atlantic coastal region, but essentially from the Congolese sector of Kwilu province of Congo-Brazzaville, where I undertook research in the 1990s. As I have not conducted research north of the Congolese border, this research note unpacks an unbiased and hopefully useful southern view of local specificities that characterize a part of a more extensive, variegated landscape of practices and beliefs.My study of the literature and field research conducted in Congo-Brazzaville has led me to realize the extent to which intertwined, changing realities may be confusing to those unfamiliar with the terrain (Hersak 2001). In the absence of historical evidence and collection data about specific objects, as well as the anonymity (whether chosen or imposed) of carvers and users, selective readings appear as the only avenues of possible interpretation simply because they are easier to deal with. I have referred previously to the homogenization and simplistic interpretation of the vast Kongo-speaking complex, a sociocultural entity that stretches from southern Gabon to northern Angola (Hersak 2001). This “single stories” misrepresentation may be due in part to the difficulty of dealing with an overwhelming amount of documentation that exists on the region, dating from the sixteenth century onwards, but also to the sparsity of more recent field investigations.In reading synchronic and diachronic cultural features of a region, identification of object types has been subject to constraining academic taxonomies. For example, having dispensed with the admittedly vague term “fetish” (at least in English), which had been applied since the contact period in the early literature to any manner of fabricated construct (see Pietz 1985: 5–11), the term “power object” was introduced by Anglophone scholars in the 1980s to designate an object empowered by the introduction of substances that “magically” animate it, bringing into play spirit forces for good and/or evil purposes. Such objects may be natural ones (shells, horns, pots, bottles, etc.) or anthropomorphic or zoomorphic sculptures. Whether called “power figures” or “fetishes” (as is still the case in the Francophone literature), these objects have been distinguished from ancestral figures and guardians of ancestral relics because their internal and secret empowering ingredients, composed of animal, vegetal, or mineral components, concocted by the diviner-healer (nganga), solicit a host of common spirits of the dead rather than those of the ancestors. But, as Allen Roberts has shown with the Tabwa people (1985: 14), and I with the Songye (both peoples in DRC), sociopolitical factors have contributed to shifting identities through time with magically endowed community pieces soliciting and acquiring ancestral power, status, and prestige (Hersak 2010: 40).To make things even more confusing, the indigenous term nkisi continues to be used widely by academics for a material power figure in the Kongo-speaking region. But, in the northwestern Equatorial Atlantic sector of the Kongo world, the empowerment source is not defined locally in the same manner. The nkisi, repeatedly defined in the literature as a magical power object, belongs in this region to the domain of nature spirits, which are environmental and territorial entities (Hersak 2001:618-20).1 A magical object or figure is referred to as nkosi (pl. sinkosi/tsinkosi) not nkisi; and it is not empowered by familiar or ancestral spirits as among the Songye (DRC) but instead by enslaved human spirits that become agents of sorcery. It is this very difference in vernacular terminology that draws attention to a distinction that exemplifies the underlying complexity and changing reality of the label “power figure” or the Kikongo term nkisi. To art historians and other cognoscenti of African art, certain labels evoke visually distinct categories of historical objects but, as we can see, these are but schematizations that conceal historical changes and nonvisual factors relating to power and agency that are more significant to indigenous users.In looking further at issues of object classifications, typologies, terminologies, and regional provenance attributions, I now turn to my field work in the Kwilu province of the Republic of Congo. I came to this region to retrieve data relating to the vast number of extraordinary examples of power objects such as those collected by German museum expeditions in the latter part of the nineteenth century and the early part of the twentieth (Fig. 1). But I was armed with the previously mentioned misleading or obsolete vernacular terms and seeking information on material culture that had itself mutated and been redefined. Significant power objects were obviously no longer the well-known museum types of the past; rather, they were familiar and even mundane forms that I initially overlooked (e.g., tourist carvings from the local market, rubber dolls, and tin cans; Fig. 2). As one elder told me, it is of little importance where the object came from, who made it, or what it really looks like; its use and effectiveness are what matter. This explanation relates to the familiar story about borrowings, adaptations, and integrations of novel visual forms from elsewhere also emphasized by Open Frontiers (Bravmann 1973: 9–22).There is an interesting case in point relevant to this discussion of power objects which has a more longstanding historical trajectory and whose significance I had not recognized at the outset of my field research. It is not a singular, freestanding, portable sculpture but a particular fixed village building type where varied sources of power may be concentrated, displayed, and performed, reflecting the movements of peoples and ideas. It is a dynamic, polyvalent space of encounter and potential innovation, adaptable to different religious beliefs and practices. This perspective broadens my discussion to a more meaningful contextual framing in which salient, individual elements (unlike sculptures perched on pedestals in museums) are inseparable from the entirety of the lived space.My focus here is on an architectural structure, namely the men's meeting house or mwanza (pl. myanza)2 and especially its indispensable, defining feature, the central pillar—which has received attention far afield (Fig. 3). The mwanza is, in fact, a regional, multiethnic phenomenon and a conspicuous sight in the Kwilu region among Kongo peoples, namely the Vili of the coastal stretch, the Yombe in the rainforest to the east, the adjoining Eshira-related Lumbu to the northeast, and the mosaic of these populations clustered around forestry sites and main railway stations such as Les Sara in the Mayombe rain forest. But the mwanza features well beyond national frontiers into Gabon, DRC, and Angola. As Jan Vansina pointed out, the prevalence of mbanja village temples for men's associations spread far north into Gabon to the Ogowe Delta and beyond with the expansion of the Loango kingdom through trade that began around 1600 (1990: 158–59, 348). Those of the Tsogo and Fang in Gabon, which served the Bwiti (or Bwete) religious association, have undoubtedly received the most attention due to interest in the ritual proceedings of this movement and the elaboration of their sculptural elements (e.g., Raponda-Walker and Sillens 1962; Swiderski 1970; Fernandez 1982).Among Vili, Yombe, and Lumbu peoples in the Kwilu these roof shelters, usually occupying a central position in the village, are fairly airy structures, generally supported by at least six to nine pillars, and sometimes enclosed halfway on three sides by planks or an arrangement of more widespread poles. While quite simple and modest, these shelters were of prime importance in the village. Invariably constructed by the founding chief, the first arrival to the village site, the mwanza represents the “family,” the matriline (dikanda) or the “house” as Vansina would say (1990: 153); hence, the potential presence of several such structures in a village displays the complexity of lineage alliances that have been drawn to a sharing of communal land. Apart from receiving visitors, the mwanza is, in principle, an exclusively male space where food is shared and palavers are held. But, in addition to feasting and judicial matters, it may also be a place of dance and healing with transformative ritual activity that nowadays draws in male and female participants.In several villages, relief carving was present on the central pillar, at the front of the mwanza (Fig. 4).3 After subsequent research, I found that Father John Weeks published a photograph of such carving dating from about 1889 in the region of Boma, now DRC, which he referred to as “fetishes” on the “king post” (1914: 20). And, much later, a host of publications and illustrations focused on the carved pillars of village council houses of the Bwiti association mainly among Tsogo and Fang peoples (Millot 1961: 72–74; Raponda-Walker and Sillans 1962: 70, 71; Balandier 1966: 122; Swiderski 1970; Gollnhofer and Sillans 1978: 226, 228; Fernandez 1982: 396–97; and others). The representations in the Kwilu in the 1990s, though not always of extraordinary manufacture, often comprised snakes, crocodiles, male and female figures, and Punu- and Lumbu-style mukudj type masks (Fig. 5), some of which were simply attached to the pillar (Fig. 6). Their significance was initially dismissed as purely decorative by my respondents but, as my investigation continued, it transpired that this central pillar was not only of prime importance but also it embodied a particular power signaled to by these visual representations. Interestingly, some of these icons in relief that reference the same context of beliefs can also be seen on cement tombs in the region (Fig. 7). Alisa LaGamma noted, in her study of Punu mukudj masking in Gabon, that images of these masks placed at the entrance of homes appear deceptively decorative, but they are in fact protective devices. They create a “psychological barrier that inhibits ill-intentioned intruders,” both human and spirit. They may, however, also be “worked on” by a magical expert to enhance their power (1995: 118–19). That seems to be widely known in the region, though perhaps not to the foreign newcomer. Some people I spoke to—especially in villages close to or along main routes—confessed that the relief carving on their pillar was absent so as to evade suspicions about the potential power housed in their mwanza, yet the same importance and significance was attributed to the pillar.The central pillar, or bumbuli, as it is called in the Kwilu, is said to be the stronghold of the mwanza and is associated to the power of the chief and his mystical auxiliary, the chinkoko/kinkoko/ikou,4 a so-called nocturnal animal housed in the pillar. The latter is referred to somewhat misleadingly as their “totem”5 and said to be the “wealth” and “heritage” of the family, maintained by the eldest in the matriline. The chinkoko is a mystical, hybrid creature that thrives on family blood and is created through what Hagenbucher-Sacripanti calls an “imaginary surgery,” or transmutation with the head of a human grafted on to the body of an animal (1973: 152; 1983:207). The importance of this auxiliary that provides its proprietor with extrahuman capacities has received particular attention from Hagenbucher-Sacripanti (1973:151-63; 1983) and was similarly an aspect of invisible powers that I was repeatedly told about. MacGaffey, writing about the BaKongo of Lower Congo and drawing on Karl Laman's information, does refer to an “animal familiar,” though without major elaboration (1986: 163). Laman, in his own publication, actually provides a lengthy description of a “magic animal” called a kinkonko among the Sundi Kongo peoples (1962: 37, 211). Among earlier unpublished sources, Father Christophe Marichelle, writing at the outset of the twentieth century, drew attention to what is certainly a chinkoko, which he referred to as a démon familier (1909: 27). He noted that it was an indispensable power source for the workings of a nganga (diviner-healer) and he further describes the initiatory procedure for the creation and affiliation with such an auxiliary (1909: 35).It is said that the chinkoko is not an autonomous creature and can potentially be used aggressively and abusively but, if used justifiably, it is protective of its members. The chinkoko belongs clearly to the domain of sorcery, as defined in this western Atlantic Equatorial sector by Peter Geschière, for example, who emphasizes the ambiguity encapsulated by a singular expression for sorcery (1995: 20–21). Such perception, definition, and practice of sorcery finds parallels from Cameroon well into Gabonese and Congolese regions.6The central pillar, the bumbuli, is therefore not just a fixed feature of an architectural ensemble. It is unquestionably a prime power object—and in particular a nkosi—the first to be erected upon the construction of a new mwanza and, like power figures and other bundles, bottles, etc., it is ritually activated during the impandi ceremony. Symbolically potent substances of animal and human matter (bisemo) are implanted at its base and liquidized with libations and sacrifices. This is “like the petrol in a car,” I was told. But it is also the moment when the chinkoko is drawn to the pillar, as this auxiliary needs “a bed”; it must be grounded in something material and subsequently “fed” with blood from the matriline to keep it active. As one Vili elder noted, “in the old days, the chinkoko was kept in an nkosi,” namely an anthropomorphic figurai carving (Fig. 8). I encounter examples of figures placed at the of the (Fig. pillars composed of figurai forms and also a like the Tsogo examples referred to by (1985: (Fig. though not of those that my attention and that I were the conspicuous representations to be found in more Lumbu villages and the forestry sites that and were of Bwiti Their maintained that these were the of chinkoko, which the clearly and any ancestral for those relating to or as in the Bwiti context its among the and Tsogo Bwiti the of whose relics were at the of the central pillar and Sillans 1962: But, during the of its and into the ritual has local and with has to issues of sorcery that are now at the of As the even to a ritual can to that become features It would that the temples in the Kwilu that visual from the Gabonese Bwiti have in practice to local nkosi power figures and the is upon of sorcery, they both deal with human and The and invisible but it is its essential a defined space of that to of varied of village as Fernandez has with reference to the Fang the mwanza, and often into its healing may place that nowadays into manner of spirits, those of the dead and those of The dance is one such ritual during which forces and the his body and on a mystical to a whose own has been enslaved by a As Father at the of the twentieth century, during the dance the the of his chinkoko (1909: his animal with which he his in the of The a term that from the whose and are an essential of in the Bwiti in Gabon and Sillens 1962: is a of power and by Lumbu into the where it was to local But the mwanza can also in who the forces of nature for of healing and (Fig. While by the and is their they are also now of their chinkoko, they to to As such the mwanza can be seen as an as in Gabon where male and female both and where their mystical and also nature spirits are Some of these practices with those beyond the northern Congolese In fact, people I spoke to referred to “fetishes” and namely and practices that in southern Gabon, like the dance said to be from the specificities of their the terms and related beliefs more local Congolese contexts and and the of objects and and have contributed to a of regional frontiers” and this have on novel and local Such contexts into classifications, and which to into historical as well as and other that do not into As the in and far from but of the part of et al.
Source: African Arts
DOI: 10.1162/afar_a_00654
Author: Dunja Hersak
Language: English
Subfield: Museology
Field: Arts and Humanities
Domain: Social Sciences
Open Access status: bronze
OpenAlex ID: W4285268781