The First Signs Read online

  Advance Praise for The First Signs

  “Few mysteries intrigue more than what the numerous abstract symbols they inscribed on cave walls actually meant to the gifted artists of the last Ice Age. In this wonder-filled book, Genevieve von Petzinger takes us tens of thousands of years back in time, and to some stunningly beautiful sites, in a fascinating attempt to penetrate the psyches of those ancient people.”

  —Ian Tattersall, author of The Strange Case of the Rickety Cossack and Other Cautionary Tales from Human Evolution and curator of the Spitzer Hall of Human Origins at the American Museum of Natural History

  “The fundamental elements of the art of the Upper Paleolithic remained essentially unchanged for at least 20,000 years, five times the chronological distance that separates us from the builders of the Great Pyramids at Giza. For generations, scholars have attempted to understand this slow unfolding of consciousness, this primordial flash of the human spirit that ultimately led to the creation of culture. Genevieve von Petzinger reveals that, beyond the figurative art, the iconic images of horses and bison so transcendent in their beauty, are thirty-two signs that may represent a vocabulary written literally in stone, symbols that offer an opening into the Paleolithic mind. If her findings prove out, this may represent one of the most extraordinary scientific insights of our time.”

  —Wade Davis, author of The Serpent and the Rainbow

  “If you love mysteries, you’ll love this book. Archaeologist von Petzinger acts as guide and sleuth in this fascinating, accessible, and fast-paced exploration of Ice Age artists and the evocative cave paintings they left behind. You’ll feel as if you’re with her as she plunges into caverns to examine the ancient and exquisite depictions of horses, mammoths, and bison. And you’ll puzzle with her over the strange, abstract symbols the artists often painted alongside the animals. Scientists have long debated these images. Now, von Petzinger offers a new way to think about why our distant relatives created this art, and what it means. You’ll come away with a deeper appreciation for these great artists, their love of animals and the natural world, and their connection to us.”

  —Virginia Morell, author of Animal Wise and Ancestral Passions

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  Contents

  The Geometric Signs of Ice Age Europe

  Introduction

  CHAPTER 1

  Two Red Dots

  CHAPTER 2

  Once Upon a Time in Africa . . .

  CHAPTER 3

  Glimmers of a Modern Mind

  CHAPTER 4

  Intermittent Signals

  CHAPTER 5

  Welcome to the Ice Age

  CHAPTER 6

  Venuses, Lion-Men, and Signs Beyond the Mundane World

  CHAPTER 7

  Life and Death in the First Villages

  CHAPTER 8

  How to Make Cave Art

  CHAPTER 9

  Signs Across the Ages: The Many Styles of the Oldest Art

  CHAPTER 10

  Of Animals and Humans and Strange Tableaux

  CHAPTER 11

  Patterns: Trading Signs and Sharing Symbols

  CHAPTER 12

  Chicken or Egg: A Brief History of Language, Brains, and Writing

  CHAPTER 13

  The Lady of St. Germain-la-Rivière and Her Mysterious Necklace

  CHAPTER 14

  Through the Eyes of the Ancestors: A Rock Art Epiphany

  CHAPTER 15

  Feather or Weapon: The Real-World Meanings of Cave Signs

  CHAPTER 16

  Seeing the Unseen World: Visions, Shamans, and the Seven Signs

  Conclusion

  Photographs

  Acknowledgments

  About Genevieve von Petzinger

  Notes

  Index

  For my husband, Dillon, my partner in love, life, and work.

  Without you, none of this would have been possible—thank you.

  And for my son, Marius, who was with me throughout this journey.

  You, more than anyone, have taught me what it means to be human.

  Introduction

  I love patterns. I guess you could say it’s in my blood—my British grandmother worked on the Enigma Project at Bletchley Park during the Second World War, and she was recruited by MI6 specifically because of how good she was at recognizing patterns.

  Identifying patterns can often help scientists make sense of large-scale phenomena that may be difficult to see at the smaller-scale, or local, level. We see this type of patterning being used in fields like medical science (e.g., to track down the origins of a new global epidemic) or macroeconomics (e.g., how a manufacturing slowdown in a province in China can affect unemployment rates in certain US states). Patterns can often help us find meaning where there seemed to be none.

  Patterns were what first attracted me to the ancient geometric signs of Ice Age Europe. I was in the last year of my undergraduate degree in anthropology when I took a course about Paleolithic (Stone Age) art. As I sat in class each week, looking at the slides of European cave art, I noticed that there were often geometric markings visible in the photos, but that they never appeared to be the central subject—the photos always seemed to focus on the animals. My interest was piqued when the instructor mentioned that the signs had yet to be studied systematically, and I became very intrigued when I started to get the feeling that I was seeing the same shapes at different sites.

  I was curious about how many different abstract rock art signs there were and whether these same shapes appeared at multiple sites across Europe. I wondered whether these signs spanned the course of the Ice Age, which was from 10,000 to 40,000 years ago. People have been studying European rock art for over a century, so I was certain that, even if there was work left to be done, someone must have researched this, but all my attempts to find information about the mysterious signs came up short. I asked my professor why I was having so much trouble finding material on this subject. The answer she gave me was not what I expected. She told me the reason I couldn’t find any information was because the signs had never been studied on that scale or in that particular way before. And so I embarked on that grand investigation.

  My first project focused on the geometric signs found at rock art sites in France during a time called the Upper Paleolithic. Dating from roughly 10,000 to 40,000 years ago, the Upper Paleolithic marks the arrival and settlement of Ice Age Europe by some of the first modern humans to leave Africa. This is also where we find some of the oldest art in the world. Using the available data from more than 150 French rock art sites, I was able to show for the first time that a very restricted number of abstract markings—such as triangles, circles, lines, rectangles, and dots—were in existence during this era and that these symbols did in fact repeat across space and time. Now I knew I was on to something. These images were not just the doodles or decorative embellishments that some researchers had dismissed them as. I wasn’t any closer to understanding what the individual signs meant, but the patterns told me that they were meaningful. Not only were these early artists carefully replicating the same symbols at multiple sites, but I could also see changes in popularity as some signs fell out of favor and new ones entered circulation. It was tantalizing, but to really get at what was happening I needed to expand beyond France to see if the same patterns were identifiable around the continent.

  The more time I spent studying this ancient chapter
of our history, the more fascinated I became with the art and the minds that had created it. Without a doubt the art is magnificent, but that’s not why I study it. Two hundred thousand years ago modern humans appeared on the African landscape for the first time. They had our bodies; they had our brains. But the real question is: When did they become us?

  When did they start to behave in a truly modern way, tapping into all the creative potential of the human mind? This is much harder to ascertain since we can’t physically gain access to their minds—their skeletal remains tell us lots of things, like their average height, health (malnutrition, injury, and diseases like arthritis leave evidence behind on the bones and teeth), and brain size, but they don’t provide us with any clues as to what they were thinking about. This is where the different art forms come in—they are undeniably nonutilitarian. There is nothing about their art that put a roof over their heads or kept them warm at night. And they couldn’t physically hunt an animal with art. So what led them to start creating it?

  Starting around 120,000 years ago in Africa, we begin finding little glimmers of modern thinking—an engraved bone here, a burial with red ochre and a necklace there. From 100,000 years onward, portable pieces decorated with geometric markings (lines, crosshatching, chevrons, etc.) begin to appear. With the passage of time, these abstract images—which could well be seen as the precursors to rock art—became more complex, and by 50,000 years ago, around the time that people began moving out of Africa to populate the rest of the globe, there was a sudden flourishing of rock art, figurines, necklaces, complex burials, and music.

  All of these artistic traditions reinforce the widely held view that spoken language was completely formed by at least 100,000 years ago. But what about written language, one of the most distinctively human behaviors of all? We use symbols in the modern world constantly, so why couldn’t our 25,000-year-old, or even 40,000-year-old, selves have been doing that, too? Is there evidence, buried here within these symbolic practices, of the first attempts at graphic communication—of attempts to send messages about identity or ownership, or possibly even to share more complex concepts?

  More than any other type of imagery, the geometric signs may hold the key to unlocking some of the mysteries of our ancient past. My first study raised more questions than it answered, and it led me to pursue several new lines of inquiry, including: Were the signs invented in Europe or are they the product of an even older tradition? Does the same small group of signs appear at sites throughout Europe? And what does this say about the movement of people and ideas during the Ice Age? And, finally, were the signs in fact a form of graphic communication, and if so, how can we prove this when we don’t know what language (or languages) they spoke?

  This book answers those questions. (So as not to leave you completely in suspense, the short answer to that question is that, barring a few outliers, there were only thirty-two signs in use across the entire 30,000-year time span of the Ice Age and across the whole continent of Europe. And that is a very small number.) But I don’t just want to tell you about my research, I want to show you. My work allows me to visit places that most people will never have the chance to see, to spend time communing in the dark with the silent images that bear witness to our ancestors’ dawning awareness of their own humanity. It’s an incredible journey, and I invite you to come along.

  CHAPTER 1

  Two Red Dots

  I am standing on the Camino de Santiago, the ancient pilgrimage route in northern Spain. This part of the Camino winds its way along the coast, passing through medieval villages on its way west. In the distance I can see the town of Comillas with its ancient yellow-gray stone buildings, their façades punctuated with vibrant splashes of red from the geraniums in their window boxes.

  It’s a blustery day in May of 2013, and white clouds dance across the sky, playing hide-and-seek with the sun. The Cantabrian Sea stretches out in front of me, slate blue topped with little whitecaps; it crashes against the shore below my feet and sprays my face with a delicate, salty mist. The sun breaks through for a moment, and the water becomes a translucent turquoise window, giving me a glimpse of the rocks and white sand beneath the waves.

  Two people stride toward me, walking sticks swinging purposefully, their backs slightly bent under the weight of their backpacks. A white scallop shell—the symbol of their sacred quest—hangs from each of their packs, marking them as pilgrims. For over a millennium people have made this spiritual journey to visit what many believe is the final resting place in Santiago de Compostela, Spain, of Saint James from the New Testament.

  But I am here on a different kind of pilgrimage. I’m with my husband and project photographer, Dillon, and we have just met up with Gustavo Sanz Palomera, an archaeologist with the Cantabrian government. We are here to explore a cave in the hillside behind us that is supposed to contain Ice Age paintings.

  Long before this country was called Spain, people lived in this land. They survived the challenges of an Ice Age world in the relative stability of this region. With its protected river valleys and abundant marine resources, this landscape provided ancient humans with a suitable environment in which to live and thrive. They first settled here over 40,000 years ago and occupied this territory almost continuously until the end of the Ice Age, 30,000 years later.

  We know they were here from the evidence they left behind: habitation sites scattered with stone tools and animal bones; human burials including “grave goods” and personal ornaments; and then, of course, there are the caves throughout this region that they decorated with the engravings and paintings that are, in many ways, their greatest legacy.

  Art presents us with a window into the minds of these people that other types of artifacts just can’t provide. It offers us glimpses into their world, their culture, and their belief systems; intriguing hints about their level of sophistication in thinking in the abstract and manipulating symbols; and insight into how far along they may have been in the development of graphic communication. While all of the art has this potential, the geometric imagery in particular seems to indicate a high degree of mastery of many of these uniquely human traits. This category of geometric signs is my passion. Sometimes they accompany the other imagery, and at other times they stand on their own. The signs are what I’m here to study.

  Dillon and I have spent the last month and a half in France documenting the art at eleven different cave sites, so in some ways today’s excursion feels almost like “another day at the office,” albeit a pretty interesting and ever-changing office. We’ve worked in massive caves with high, curved ceilings that give us the feeling of being in an underground cathedral; we’ve worked in others so narrow in width that photographing the art required contorting ourselves into some very awkward positions; we’ve worked in caves with collapsing floors and caves with steep muddy sections that required very careful maneuvering.

  But as I stand there in my hoodie, jeans, and hiking boots, watching Gustavo pull on a full-body waterproof suit and boots, I start to get the impression that my French caving clothes may not be entirely appropriate for this situation.

  “I really hate this cave,” Gustavo tells us as he’s getting ready. Dillon and I glance at each other; these are definitely not the words you want to hear before you’ve even entered a site . . . especially when your guide is getting seriously geared up!

  “Oh,” I say. “What’s so bad about it?”

  “Deep mud and very small,” Gustavo replies with a grimace. He speaks excellent English but I’m hoping in this case that something is being lost in the translation.

  We turn our backs on the Camino and the sea to face a lush, overgrown green hillside. As we start to hike up a gravel path, I quickly spot the entrance to La Cueva de El Portillo on our left. The entrance doesn’t seem too bad: a dark split in the hillside that’s about eight feet high, with enough width for us to walk through comfortably. We step over the threshold into a roundish chamber with an even higher ceiling. The chamber is about
twenty feet across at its widest point. The floor is pretty muddy, but my hiking boots have seen as much in French caves and survived.

  Maybe this isn’t going to be as bad as I thought.

  I look around the chamber, my vision adjusting to the gloomy interior. The floor plan I was studying for this cave earlier in the day showed a passageway continuing quite a bit farther into the hillside, but I don’t see any exit from the chamber other than the way we came in. Then, as I scan the solid gray walls, my eyes are drawn to a small opening low down on the back wall. It doesn’t even quite come up to my knees. Oh . . .

  “Gustavo, is this where we’re going?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “Much of the cave is like that. This is why I hate it.”

  Huh. I examine the narrow entrance more closely and notice that the passageway angles down sharply, and a small stream of water trickles across the thick muddy surface, its flow splitting to encircle jagged pieces of rock that rise like islands out of the mud as it continues downward into the darkness below. I see no sign of the passage broadening out, either.

  Dillon cradles his camera bag protectively and gives me a look. Even big, relatively dry caves can do a number on camera equipment, so having to drag his expensive gear through the conditions that El Portillo has to offer is not something he’s exactly thrilled about. We also have two battery-powered 500-watt LED banks of light with us, so I guess we’re about to find out how rugged everything really is.

  Gustavo leads the way as he slips the lower half of his body into the tight opening and begins to wriggle downward. As he vanishes into the dark, he tells us, “It only goes on like this for about fifteen feet, and then it levels out enough that you can crouch.”

  He calls up to let us know that he’s made it down, then flashes his light on the tight walls of the descending passage, giving me a glimpse of what is to come. I’m pretty sure I can see a spot about halfway down where it gets even tighter.