From science to art and back again: The pendulum of an anthropologist
10.7340/anuac2239-625X-2237
L’articolo guarda indietro quattro decenni di carriera da antropologo, iniziati con un orientamento fortemente sbilanciato verso le scienze naturali, per concludersi con un progetto che cerca di integrare l’antropologia con le pratiche artistiche, l’architettura e il design. È stato anche un periodo in cui la scienza è venuta perdendo sempre più il suo orientamento ecologico, mentre le arti lo hanno invece ulteriormente guadagnato. Nel tracciare il mio percorso di insegnamento e ricerca, mostro come sono mutati i punti di riferimento letterari, a partire da alcuni testi fondativi dell’ecologia umana e animale, ora per lo più dimenticati, attraverso tentativi di coniugare il sociale e l’ecologico ispirati al revival marxiano, fino alle scritture contemporanee sul post-umanesimo e la condizione dell’Antropocene. Era questa una scienza fondata sulla tacita meraviglia per la splendida bellezza del mondo naturale e in silenziosa gratitudine per ciò che ad esso dobbiamo per la nostra esistenza. La scienza odierna, tuttavia, ha mercificato la meraviglia e la gratitudine. Esse non guidano più le sue pratiche di ricerca, ma sono piuttosto invocate per pubblicizzarne i risultati. Finalità della scienza sono ormai la modellizzazione, la predizione e il controllo. Non è per questo motivo che ci volgiamo sempre più all’arte per riscoprire l’umiltà che la scienza ha perduto?
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Tim Ingold
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From science to art and back again: the pendulum of an anthropologist
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Tim Ingold
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From science to art and back again: the pendulum of an anthropologist
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                                                   2016 ⎸ANUAC. VOL. 5, N° 1, GIUGNO 2016: 5-23




From science to art and back again: The pendulum
of an anthropologist
Tim INGOLD
University of Aberdeen


ABSTRACT: In this paper I look back over four decades of my career as a professional anthropo-
logist, starting with an orientation that was heavily weighted towards the natural sciences, and
ending in a project that seeks to integrate anthropology with the practices of art, architecture
and design. This was also a period during which science increasingly lost its ecological bear-
ings, while the arts increasingly gained them. Tracing the journey in my own teaching and re-
search, I show how the literary reference points changed, from foundational texts in human and
animal ecology, now largely forgotten, through attempts to marry the social and the ecological
inspired by the Marxian revival, to contemporary writing on post-humanism and the conditions
of the Anthropocene. For me this has been an Odyssey – a journey home – to the kind of sci-
ence imbibed in childhood, as the son of a prominent mycologist. This was a science grounded
in tacit wonder at the exquisite beauty of the natural world, and in silent gratitude for what we
owe to this world for our existence. Today’s science, however, has turned wonder and gratitude
into commodities. They no longer guide its practices, but are rather invoked to advertise its res-
ults. The goals of science are modelling, prediction and control. Is that why, more and more,
we turn to art to rediscover the humility that science has lost?

KEYWORDS: ENVIRONMENTAL ANTHROPOLOGY, NATURAL SCIENCES, ART, TRUTH, GRATITUDE.




This work is licensed under the Creative Commons © Tim Ingold
From science to art and back again: The pendulum of an anthropologist
2016 ⎸ANUAC. VOL. 5, N° 1, GIUGNO 2016: 5-23
ISSN: 2239-625X - DOI: 10.7340/anuac2239-625X-2237
6                                                                              TIM INGOLD




                                            I
    Precisely forty years have passed since I began my career as a professional anthro-
pologist. The achievement of this milestone has prompted me to reflect on what has
happened to me and to anthropology over those four decades, from when I received my
doctoral degree and took up my first teaching position, to today, now that I am taking
my first steps towards retirement. What strikes me overall about these decades is that
while I began with an anthropological orientation that was strongly inclined towards the
natural sciences, I now find myself most closely aligned with the disciplines of art, ar-
chitecture and design. And while my position has of course shifted over the years, it
seems to me that the shift has been just as much on the sides of both the arts and the
sciences. On the one hand, natural science is not where it was forty years ago – and
here I am referring particularly to the fields of ecology and evolutionary biology with
which I have been most closely associated in my work. But nor, on the other hand, are
the arts where they were. Interpreted broadly to include architecture and design, it ap-
pears that the arts have shifted laterally to take up much of the field, and the position,
from which science has abdicated. Or to put it in a nutshell, the people who are doing
what I understood – forty years ago – to be science are now artists. What in the mean-
time has happened to science is an issue to which I will return.
    It is commonly supposed that anthropology is a centrifugal discipline that discharges
its practitioners into fields as remote and far away as possible, in order that they may
experience ways of life as different from their own as they could hope or expect to find.
Many anthropologists would agree, flaunting their encounter with “radical alterity” as a
badge of honour. But for me, it has always felt the other way around. Ever since I em-
barked on my studies of the subject, anthropology has been about finding my way
home. I had no settled point of origin from which to start. It was not as though, even
before setting out, I already knew all there was to know about myself and what I was
going to be. Like most apprentice anthropologists, I did go to a relatively distant place
to undertake fieldwork, and in my case this involved a prolonged stay among Skolt
Saami people in the far northeast of Finland. At the time, however, I had almost no
idea of whom I was or where I came from, let alone of where I was going. I had a name
and address, a passport, and next of kin to be contacted in case of emergency; I even
had a degree from a respected university and a scholarship to support my work. But the
voice with which I spoke, the hand with which I wrote, even the mind with which I
thought – these were not yet me. They were but habits I had borrowed or styles that I
had, at one time or another, sought or been trained to emulate.
    In that sojourn in Lapland, however, and through the moral education it gave me, I
took my first, tentative steps homeward. The road has been long and tortuous. I have
not arrived yet, and probably never will. But I am now more confident that it is indeed
my voice that speaks, my hand that writes and my mind that thinks. With voice, hand


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FROM SCIENCE TO ART AND BACK AGAIN                                                       7


and mind I now declare: This is who I am. And who is this person whom I am slowly
discovering myself to be? It seems to be a child. Raised in a happy household, where
his mother indulged his passion for model railways while his father pursued scientific
research into the mechanisms of spore dispersal of aquatic fungi, this child would
spend long hours immersed in the pages of D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson’s monu-
mental masterpiece, On Growth and Form (1961), of which his father possessed a copy
of the original 1917 edition, or investigating the mathematics of soap bubbles and the
traces of spinning tops. He would go for walks in the countryside, paying absolutely no
attention as his father would identify and reel off the Latin names of every plant and
fungus we would come across – he knew them all! At school, guided by inspirational
teachers, he sat at the edge of his seat in wonder at the mysteries of the universe as they
were being unravelled by science. He experimented with cloud chambers and grew
crystals in solution. It was obvious that he was going to be a mathematician and a sci-
entist.
   What happened? A year of studying natural sciences at the University of Cambridge
put paid my illusions. After the excitement of school science, lectures at Cambridge
were an intense disappointment. I found much of what was taught intellectually claus-
trophobic, dedicated to the regimented and narrow-minded pursuit of objectives that
seemed remote from experience. Unlike many of my fellow students, outraged by sci-
ence’s renunciation of its democratic principles and its surrender to the megamachines
of industrial and military power – this was, after all, a time when the war in Vietnam
was at its height – I never became radically hostile to the scientific project. But I could
see no future in it for myself. I wanted to study something in which there was room to
grow, where I could discover the world and myself at the same time. And that was what
led to anthropology. It appealed to me (rather as D’Arcy Thompson’s biology had done
before) as a kind of pure mathematics of real life, where experience and imagination
could come together as one. And so began my odyssey, my journey home. Proceeding
on my way, far from drifting ever further from the truths I had absorbed in childhood, I
found myself ever returning to them, and furthermore defending them, with all the
force that I could muster, against the onslaught of adult disciplinary oppression. I have
fought this campaign over the territories of biological and cultural evolution, human
and animal environments, the realms of thinking and making, and the competing
claims of art and science.

                                            II
   My father, as I mentioned, was a mycologist. His was a homely science, involving
walks along river banks where he would collect the scum that often accumulates in
brackish pools, bringing it home in glass phials to be investigated under a microscope
set up on our dining room table. He had improvised an elaborate contraption involving
a pile of volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, a glass plate, and an early version of
the anglepoise lamp, which allowed him to project the forms of the fungi revealed un-

                                             2016 ⎸ANUAC. VOL. 5, N° 1, GIUGNO 2016: 5-23
8                                                                                            TIM INGOLD


der the microscope so that they could be accurately drawn. This he did with the utmost
care, using a mapping pen, Indian ink and high quality Bristol board. Though he would
never admit to it, this was his way of honouring the forms of nature, of not just con -
templating their beauty but knowing them from the inside; and the results were true
works of art. He loved his fungi. But perhaps what I did not realise at the time was that
as a field of the botanical sciences, mycology is a deeply subversive discipline. Fungi,
you see, just don’t behave as organisms should. We typically describe the organism as a
blob-like entity with an inside and an outside, bounded by the skin, and interacting with
the surrounding environment across the boundary. But fungi are not like that. They
leak, they ooze, their boundaries are indefinable; they fill the air with their spores and
infiltrate the ground with their meandering, ever-branching and ever-extending fibres.
What we see above ground are merely fruiting bodies, like street-lamps which cast
their aerial illumination only thanks to hidden, subterranean circuitry.
    The mycologist Alan Rayner once remarked to me, in passing, that the whole of
biology would be different had the mycelium – rather than, say, a mouse or a sea-
urchin – been taken as a prototypical exemplar of the organism (Rayner 1977) 1. Many
years later, this thought would come back to haunt me, as I was developing a notion of
what I called the «mycelial person» (Ingold 2003)2. What if we were to think of the
person, like the fungal mycelium, not as a blob but as a bundle of lines, or relations,
along which life is lived? What if our ecology was of lines rather than of blobs? What
then can we mean by “environment”? People, after all, don’t live inside their bodies, as
social theorists sometimes like to claim in their clichéd appeals to the notion of embod-
iment. Their trails are laid out in the ground, in footprints, paths and tracks, and their
breaths mingle in the air (Ingold 2015). They stay alive only as long as there is a con-
tinual interchange of materials across ever-growing and ever-shedding layers of skin.
Thus, just as mycology subverts deeply held intuitions in the biological sciences, so – it
now seems to me – anthropology does the same for the social sciences. Anthropolo-
gists, mycologists of the social, are the awkward squad, the jesters, the fools, who sidle
up to power and chip away at its pretensions. And perhaps their awkwardness lies in
precisely this: that they see a world of intricately enmeshed relations rather than one
already divided into discrete and autonomous entities.
    We anthropologists are predisposed, therefore, to what could be called a relational
rather than a populational way of thinking, to a view of the world more topological
than statistical. And if anything, this has set us ever further apart from mainstream so-


1. Our conversation took place shortly before Rayner’s book was published. The extraordinary dif-
culties he experienced in finding a publisher for this volume says much about entrenched attitudes in bio-
logical science.
2. I first presented this idea at the 96 th Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association,
Washington DC, November 1997, and in the following month at a conference on “Nature Knowledge”
hosted by the Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti, Venice. More recently, the fields of mycology
and anthropology have come together in the work of Anna Tsing (2015).


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FROM SCIENCE TO ART AND BACK AGAIN                                                        9


cial science. Once again, this has its exact counterpart in bioscience. In the latter years
of his life, my father used to rail against the way, in his view, biological science had
lost touch with the reality of living organisms. He found much of the literature incom-
prehensible. It was produced by modellers who had never observed or handled anything
that lived or grew upon this earth, and who spent their time in laboratories or in front
of computers, analysing massive datasets spewed out by machines from the stuff fed
into them. In the spectacular and lavishly funded rise of e-social science we have seen
much of the same. Fuelled by the digital revolution, it has become an immense data-
processing exercise from which the people have effectively disappeared. In the social as
in the biosciences, qualitative field-based inquiries with living people or living organ-
isms are increasingly regarded as naïve or amateurish. It is as though science had
turned its back on the living, avoiding sentient involvement of any kind. In this brave
new world, life is disposable, and its forms – whether human or non-human – are mere
grist to the mill of data-analytics, the purpose of which is to produce results or “out-
puts” whose value is to be judged by measures of impact or utility rather than by any
appeal to truth.
    A datum is, by definition, that which is given. But what today’s scientists count as
data have not been bestowed as any kind of gift or offering. To collect data, in science,
is not to receive what is given but to extract what is not. Whether mined, washed up,
deposited or precipitated, what is extracted comes in bits, already broken off from the
currents of life, from their ebbs and flows, and from their mutual entailments. For the
scientist even to admit to a relationship of give and take with the things in the world
with which he deals would be enough to disqualify the inquiry and any insights arising
from it. Ideally he should leave it all to his recording equipment and exit the scene, only
to return to register the outcomes once the job is done and to transfer them to a
databank or storage facility for safe keeping. That this is impossible in practice – espe-
cially in the field sciences for which the laboratory is nothing less than the world we
live in, and from which there is no escape – is often considered a shortcoming, a weak
point in the methodological armoury that could compromise the objectivity of the res-
ults. For what is methodology, if not a shield to protect the researcher from direct sens-
ory contact with materials? The prescriptions of methodology treat the researcher’s
own presence not as an essential prerequisite for learning from what the world has to
offer us, but as a source of observer bias to be reduced at all cost. Any science that fails
in this regard is considered to be methodologically “soft”, and anthropology by that
measure – and mycology too, as my father used to practise it – is positively squishy.

                                            III
   Let us compare a hard object – say a ball – with a squishy one. The first, when it
comes up against other things in the world, can have an impact. It can hit them, or even
break them. In the hard sciences, every hit is a datum; if you accumulate enough data,
you may achieve a breakthrough. The surface of the world has yielded under the im-

                                              2016 ⎸ANUAC. VOL. 5, N° 1, GIUGNO 2016: 5-23
10                                                                                     TIM INGOLD


pact of your incessant blows, and having done so, yields up some of its secrets. The
squishy ball, by contrast, bends and deforms when it encounters other things, taking
into itself some of their characteristics while they, in turn, bend to its pressure in ac-
cordance with their own inclinations and dispositions. The ball responds to things as
they respond to it. Or in a word, it enters with things into a relation of correspondence.
In their practices of participant observation – of joining with the people among whom
they work and learning from them – anthropologists become correspondents. They take
into themselves something of their hosts’ ways of moving, feeling and thinking, their
practical skills and modes of attention. So too, my father corresponded with the fungi
as he drew their forms under the microscope. His hand, along with the pen it held, was
drawn into their formative processes, and as he drew the forms re-emerged on the sur-
face of the board. Correspondence, whether with people or with other things, is a la-
bour of love, of giving back what we owe to the human and non-human beings with
which and with whom we share our world, for our own existence and formation.
    Two centuries ago, in Germany, Johan Wolfgang von Goethe proposed a method of
science which demanded of practitioners that they should spend time with the objects
of their attention, observe closely and with all their senses, draw what they observed,
and endeavour to reach a level of mutual involvement or coupling, in perception and
action, such that observer and observed become all but indistinguishable. It is from this
crucible of mutual involvement, Goethe argued, that all knowledge grows 3. The paral-
lels with the much more recent injunctions of participant observation in anthropology
are striking: what we are exhorted to do with the people with whom we work – to
spend time with them, join in their activities of daily life, observe closely and record –
Goethe was already urging scientists to do with animals and plants, back in the eight-
eenth century. Yet contemporary attitudes to what is nowadays called “Goethean sci-
ence”, in the technoscientific mainstream, are telling. It is commonly regarded with a
degree of indifference bordering on contempt; its practitioners are ridiculed and its sub-
missions for publication systematically rejected. It has not always been thus, however.
Indeed I have a strong suspicion that the virulent repudiation of what we could call the
science of correspondence coincides in a way that is not accidental with the colossal ex-
pansion, over the last four decades, of globalisation and the political economy of neo-
liberalism. These, of course, were the decades of my career as a professional anthropo-
logist. What I have witnessed, over these decades, is the surrender of science to the
forces of neoliberalism. And to find a counter-movement in the contemporary world,
we have to turn not to science but to art.
    What might pejoratively be regarded as squishy science could, I think, be better and
more positively described as the art of inquiry (Ingold 2013: 6-8). In this art, every
work is an experiment: not in the natural scientific sense of testing a preconceived hy-
pothesis or of engineering a confrontation between ideas “in the head” and facts “on


3. Holdrege (2005) offers an excellent summary of the Goethean way of doing science.


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FROM SCIENCE TO ART AND BACK AGAIN                                                           11


the ground”, but in the sense of prising an opening and following where it leads. You
try things out and see what happens. Thus the art of inquiry moves forward in real time
along with the lives of those who are touched by it, and with the world to which both it
and they belong. Far from matching up to their plans and predictions, it joins with
them in their hopes and dreams. This is the very opposite of methodology. It is not to
wrap method up into an impregnable shell, protecting the investigator from having to
share in the suffering of those subjected to his hard-ball tactics, but rather to compare
method to a way of working, akin to a craft, which opens up the world to our percep-
tion, to what is going on there, so that we in turn can answer to it. We could call it the
method of hope4: the hope that by paying attention to the beings and things with which
we deal, they in turn will attend to us, and respond to our overtures. Anthropology, I
believe, can be an art of inquiry in this sense. We need it not to accumulate more and
more data about the world, but to better correspond with it.
    This, then, is where anthropology can join forces with art. But it is also to think of
anthropology in a particular way which, I have to admit, is not the way in which most
practising anthropologists currently think about their discipline. The majority of my
colleagues would insist that the primary task of the anthropologist is ethnographic: that
is, to give a richly detailed, accurate and nuanced account of life as it is lived for partic-
ular peoples in particular times and places5. There is absolutely nothing wrong with
this, of course, just as there is nothing wrong with a history of art that looks back on
how artworks have been made and received, again in specific times and places. For eth-
nography as for the history of art, understanding is about putting things in context. Yet
for all its manifest scholarly virtues, to put things in context is also to lay them to rest,
to silence them or neutralise their power, so that the things themselves cease to engage
our attention as active and ongoing forces in the world. They are, so to speak, accoun-
ted for, ticked off, put in their place. But people don’t act, nor do artists work, in order
that their deeds and works may be accounted for by future historians. They act and
work in order to make a difference in the world. Thus to create a work of art is to give
birth to a new being, a being that will have its own life, alongside the lives of those who
touch and are touched by it. The thing springs up, and like a rebellious child, refuses
the efforts of its elders to put it to bed.
    I too, as I mentioned earlier, have become a child. And speaking as a child, I do
wonder whether, as with art, anthropology should be in the business of understanding
at all, or at least of understanding others. The child who cries out does not want to be
understood. She wants to be, and to have the truth of her being acknowledged. She de-
mands to be observed and listened to. Should we not attend? Or do we tell her – as the
ethnographer tells the people or the historian tells the work of art – to get back into her
proper context and be understood? Could it be that understanding actually blinds us to

4. I have borrowed this expression from Miyazaki (2004).
5. On the distinction between anthropology and ethnography, see Ingold (2011: 229-43; 2013: 2-4;
2014).

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12                                                                              TIM INGOLD


the truth of what is there? Anthropology, for me, is not about describing the world, or
wrapping it up. It is, in the first place, about attending to presence, about noticing, and
responding in kind. It means acknowledging that persons and other things are there,
that they have their own being and their own lives to lead, and that it behoves us, for
our own good, to pay attention to their existence and to what they are telling us. Only
then can we learn. The same, I think, might be said for art. It too is an opening on the
world rather than an attempt at closure – an opening that exposes the practitioner to its
trials and to its gifts. That is why art combines well with anthropology but not with eth-
nography. For what art and anthropology open up, ethnography – like art history –
seeks to contain. But what, then, has happened to science? To answer this question we
need to take a step back, and pick up the thread of my own anthropological travails
from where I left off, having recently completed my doctoral fieldwork in Lapland.

                                            IV
   The year is 1974 and I have just spent twelve months at the University of Helsinki,
in Finland, while writing up my field material. With my dissertation almost finished, I
have recently landed my first proper job as a lecturer in social anthropology at the Uni-
versity of Manchester, where I am tasked with teaching a course that my predecessor
Basil Sansom, whose position I had replaced, introduced a couple of years previously.
The course was called Environment and Technology, and it was basically an introduc-
tion to the sub-field of cultural ecology, at that time almost unknown in the corridors of
British social anthropology. For me, at least to begin with, it was a heavily science-
based course. I wanted to show that any anthropology worthy of the name would have
to be at least consistent with what we know from the biological sciences about the evol-
ution and ecology of the human species. Accordingly, we read classical ecological stud-
ies such as Charles Elton’s Animal Ecology (1927), David Lack’s The Natural Regula-
tion of Animal Numbers (1954), based on studies of the breeding patterns of birds, and
the masterpiece by Vero Copner Wynne-Edwards, Animal Dispersion in Relation to So-
cial Behaviour (1962), in which he first proposed the idea of group selection.
   At that time there was much interest in how human populations, especially of
hunters and gatherers, maintained their numbers in balance with the resources of the
environment, and various social institutions and cultural practices were interpreted as
functioning to that end. The idea was that in the long course of evolution, any popula-
tion whose practices and institutions did not function to regulate numbers would have
wiped itself out through resource depletion, leaving the field free for better regulated
competitors. This did of course beg the question of why, if extant regulatory mechan-
isms worked so well, humans should ever have transitioned from their original hunting
and gathering way of life to the much more laborious business of farming. Not that this
deterred ecological anthropologists from applying the model of group selection to crop
growers as well, and a classic of the genre was Roy Rappaport’s Pigs for the Ancestors
(1968), a study of the relations between people, pigs and land in the Highlands of New

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FROM SCIENCE TO ART AND BACK AGAIN                                                           13


Guinea. Drawing on models from animal ecology, Rappaport attempted to show that a
complex of belief in ancestors, periodic warfare, and the raising and sacrifice of pigs
served as a an adaptive mechanism for maintaining a dynamic equilibrium, or homeo-
stasis, in the balance of human, animal and plant populations.
    For the students taking my course, Pigs for the Ancestors was required reading,
along with much else published in its wake. My departmental colleagues, however,
were suspicious. These, after all, were the days of the great sociobiology wars, and even
to mention such topics as evolution, selection and population-resource balances was to
risk accusations of genetic determinism or worse. The course was always considered to
lie on the edge of the known continent of anthropology. Not for nothing was Environ-
ment and Technology abbreviated to ET, drawing mocking comparisons with Steven
Spielberg’s celebrated Extra-Terrestrial. However in 1975, in only the second year of
my appointment at Manchester, the anthropologist Marshall Sahlins came to visit from
Chicago. He was completing the book that eventually became Culture and Practical
Reason (1976). Published in the following year, the book was an explicit critique of the
so-called neofunctionalism that had taken hold in ecological anthropology. Following
Rappaport’s example, the neofunctionalists were determined to show how every con-
ceivable practice or institution served to maintain not just the society or culture of
which it was a part, but the entire ecosystem. Without going into the details of the ar-
gument between Rappaport and Sahlins, it turned on the issue of whether natural sys-
tems have an intrinsic drive towards equilibrium or homeostasis, to which culture con-
tributes as an adaptive mechanism, or whether the conditions of adaptation are them-
selves laid down by culture, understood as an autonomous system of symbolic repres-
entations that is constituted quite independently of natural conditions. Rappaport took
the first view; Sahlins the second. With no compromise in sight, anthropology was ap-
parently left condemned to oscillate between culture and practical reason – as Sahlins
famously put it – like a prisoner between the walls of his cell.
    In the early 1980s, however, a possible solution arrived from another quarter. By
that time, due to the departure of a colleague, I had come to assume responsibility for
teaching economic as well as ecological anthropology, and the course title ET had
morphed into EE: Environment and Economy. Suddenly, and for what turned out to be
only a few years, French neo-Marxism became all the rage. Led by Maurice Godelier,
the neo-Marxists led an all-out assault on what they snootily called the “vulgar materi-
alism” of so much work in cultural ecology. I too was swept up in the tide, and it be-
came an important part of my teaching in EE. The question of the relation between
economy and environment was mapped onto the classic Marxian problem of the inter-
play between social relations and technical forces of production. And for me – follow-
ing Godelier6 – it became an inquiry into the dialectical interplay between two systems
of relations, respectively social and ecological, the one dominant, in so far as it drove
people’s productive activities, the other determinant in that it set limits on what the en-

6. See Godelier (1978) for a useful summary of his position.

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14                                                                                       TIM INGOLD


vironment could sustain which, once exceeded, would trigger a transformation on the
level of social relations of production, ushering in a new historical formation.
   In 1986 I put together a collection of essays, entitled The Appropriation of Nature,
entirely devoted to the exploration of this interplay (Ingold 1986). I tried to show, for
example, that human hunting can be understood both socially as a productive activity,
underwritten by relations of food sharing and the division of labour between men and
women, and ecologically, as an interaction between human beings as natural predators
and their non-human prey. As a social being the hunter is a person, relating to other
persons in society; as a predator he is an individual organism, relating to other organ-
isms in nature. Models from evolutionary ecology and the study of animal behaviour
might serve well enough to account for the interspecific dynamics of predator-prey in-
teraction, and even for patterns of cooperation and communication among individuals
of the same species which, like acrobats, can use each other’s bodies as mutually sup-
portive elements to achieve results greater than what each could achieve individually.
But on their own, I argued, these models are insufcient to comprehend the transforma-
tions of human history, which require some acknowledgement of the apparently unique
power of human beings, up to a point, to shape their own destiny, to determine their
productive purposes, and to bring about changes not only in their relations with their
environment but also in those relations among themselves constitutive of society. Yet I
was increasingly troubled by this splitting of the human into personal and organic com-
ponents, partitioned respectively into the separate domains of society and nature, and
in 1988 it all collapsed – a moment I vividly recall as a watershed when everything I
had argued until then seemed irredeemably wrong.

                                                V
   Looking through old files I came across my introductory lecture for the course on
Environment and Economy delivered on October 4th 1988. In it, I explained at great
length about how we might describe relations on the one hand as social, between sub-
ject-persons, and on the other as ecological, between object-individuals, and how this
underpinned both the difference and the complementarity between economic and eco-
logical anthropology. The whole lecture was written out, in longhand, until page 16.
Then I came across the following words:
      Ultimately, of course, the aim should be to transcend such dichotomies as economic
      versus ecological, social versus natural, person versus individual. Because human beings
      aren’t really made up of two semi-independent parts, as the Homo duplex model has it.
      That’s just a first approximation...

   And with those words the manuscript came to an abrupt end, followed by a blank.
For by that time I already knew deep down that my introduction was going nowhere,
and that there would be nothing for it but to start all over again. Everything would have
to be rethought. For it had finally dawned on me that the model of the human being as


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FROM SCIENCE TO ART AND BACK AGAIN                                                          15


one-part organism and one-part person was not even an approximation to the truth. It
was simply untenable. Person and organism, I realised, were one and the same; the or-
ganism-in-its-environment is a being-in-the-world. And to follow this through would
require a completely different kind of thinking, one that starts not from populations of
individuals but from fields of relations.
    In social anthropology, as I noted earlier, this kind of relational thinking was already
well established. Yet it was increasingly out of kilter with mainstream biology, which
remained – and indeed still remains – firmly wedded to the population model. If I was
to prove that person and organism are the same, I knew I would have to extend rela-
tional thinking to the biological domain as well, and that this would mean going against
the grain of what biologists call the “modern synthesis” in their discipline, a synthesis
forged from the combination of Darwin’s theory of variation under natural selection
with the mathematical theory of population genetics. In 1989, in a lecture presented to
the Royal Anthropological Institute entitled An anthropologist looks at biology, I
presented my first attempt along these lines (Ingold 1990). My aim was to restore the
person to the continuum of organic life, not in the reductionist fashion of sociobiology,
by putting it all down to genes, but by repositioning the organism as a locus of growth
within a continuous field, and by thinking of evolution not statistically but topologic-
ally, as the unfolding of that field. Life, I insisted, is not in organisms; rather organisms
are in life. Or in other words, living things are both generated and held in place within
the ever-unfolding matrix of relations to which they contribute in their activity. This
meant giving a central place to growth and development in the constitution of life-
forms, and here my inspiration came from the work of D’Arcy Thompson, On Growth
and Form, that had so inspired me as a child7. I was, at last, coming full circle.
    Over the next decade, of the 1990s, I devoted myself to working out this way of
thinking and exploring its implications. By that stage, my teaching for Environment and
Economy had reached an impasse, and 1990-91 was the last year in which the course
was taught, never to be revived again. In its place I developed two other courses, which
I taught in alternate years. They were Culture, Perception and Cognition, and Anthropo-
logy of Art and Technology. In the first, I set my sights against the view, supported by
an alliance between cognitive science and neo-Darwinian evolutionary biology – more
recently popularised under the brand-name of evolutionary psychology – that culture is
a kind of add-on, a supplementary programme acquired by a being that is biologically
programmed from the start, and that as such, culture undergoes its own evolution in
parallel with the evolution of the species. According to this view, to every human indi-
vidual is transmitted one package of traits at the point of conception, coded in the
genes, and another package on growing up, packaged in analogous particles of culture.
Once again, it was the child in me that rebelled against what I saw as an adultocentric
vision that casts the child as a creature of lesser worth by comparison to the more en-

7. An abridged edition of this work, with an introduction by John Tyler Bonner, is available as
Thompson (1961).

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16                                                                              TIM INGOLD


cultured adult, much as in an earlier era of anthropology, the primitive was ranked be-
low the civilised. It is to view children in their “early years”, like the “early man” of
textbooks in human evolution, as more biological in proportion, as closer to their ori-
gins in nature, than the people of “later” times who, in turn, have more of culture. And
it is to put scientists, who can allegedly “see through” culture to the reality of human
nature, at the top.
    This cannot be right. The child is an organism through and through, no more, no
less. But at no point, from cradle to grave, does this child either begin or cease to
thread its life together with other lives, from which those patterns we call “culture” are
continually woven. And if this is true of particular lives, it must be true of human his-
tory as well. Just as there is no breakthrough from biology to culture in the life of the
child, so there can be no breakthrough in the life of the species from evolution to his -
tory. We are all, and have always been, organism-persons (Ingold 2004). Why then did
I find myself writing about these organism-persons not as bounded entities but as sites
of binding, formed of knotted trails whose loose ends spread in all directions, tangling
with other trails in other knots to form an ever-extending meshwork? It was, of course,
because of what I had absorbed, as a child, from my father’s researches in mycology.
As I have already shown, this description of the organism-person would serve just as
well for the fungal mycelium. And for this reason I have come to question what we
mean by “the environment”, and eventually to see it not as what surrounds – what is
“out there” rather than “in here” – but as a zone of interpenetration in which our own
and others’ lives are comprehensively entangled (Ingold 2006). This puts paid, once and
for all, to the idea, still earnestly promulgated by many biologists and psychologists,
that the child is a product of “nature” and “nurture”, or of the interaction of genes and
environment, in varying and often contested proportions. For children are not products,
period. They are the producers of their lives with others, including grown-ups.
    And that, too, is why, in my course on Anthropology of Art and Technology, I sought
to erase the dichotomy between the two terms by appealing to classical notions of ars
(from Latin) and tekhnē (from Greek), both of which carried the primary connotation
of skill. All knowledge, I argued, is founded in skill, in the improvisatory exploration of
ways of doing things, under the watchful eye of more experienced hands. This is how
children learn: not through having knowledge first socially transmitted to them, and
then enacting in practice what they each have individually acquired, but by growing in
knowledge, as they do in strength and stature, by following the same paths as their pre-
decessors and under their direction. It is a process, if you will, of guided rediscovery,
in which every generation stands to find out for itself much of what its forbears already
knew, and possibly much else besides. Learning, as children know very well but as
their teachers so often do not, is a creative process in which knowledge is not so much
passed on as perpetually grown and regrown (Ingold 2007). And if people differ in
what or how they know, it is not because they have inherited different “packages” of
transmitted representations, but because their lives have been entangled in environ-


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FROM SCIENCE TO ART AND BACK AGAIN                                                       17


ments, and in communities of practice, that differ in what they afford, in the kinds of
attention they demand, and the responses that these demands call forth. Skill, in es-
sence, inheres in the coordination of perception and action, attention and response.
What we are used to calling cultural variation, then, consists in the first place in vari-
ations of skill. And to account for this variation we have to attend not to the content of
inherited tradition but to the dynamics of ontogenetic development.

                                            VI
    All that rethinking, with which I had been preoccupied throughout the 1990s, cul-
minated in a volume of essays entitled The Perception of the Environment (Ingold
2000). Throughout these essays I tried to develop a new synthesis, alternative to the
mainstream alliance of cognitive science and neo-Darwinism, which would draw to-
gether insights from developmental biology, ecological psychology and phenomenology,
starting from the premise that the organism-person is not a bounded, self-contained en-
tity, set over against the world, but a knot that is perpetually ravelling and unravelling
within an unbounded matrix of relations. I was still adding finishing touches to the
volume in the autumn of 1999 when, after 25 years at the University of Manchester, I
left to take up a new position at the University of Aberdeen, where I have remained
ever since. And it was here that my pendulum finally swung to the pole of art. In fact
the swing had already begin before I left Manchester, when I and a few others founded
a seminar to explore the relations between art, architecture and anthropology. It was a
rather remarkable seminar, distinguished by our practice of grounding discussions in
practical activity, ranging from making string to repairing a dry-stone wall, and on
moving to Aberdeen I was determined to follow it up. One way in which I did this was
through teaching a new course on Anthropology, Archaeology Art and Architecture,
known for short as “the 4As”. I taught the course intermittently from 2004 to 2011,
and finally converted it into a book, entitled Making (Ingold 2013).
    Once again, in this book, I found myself returning to childhood, this time in arguing
against the notion of material culture, and against the idea that it is in what they do with
objects that human beings make meaning for themselves. For me, there are no objects.
Child as I am, I see a world in the making, not a world already made. Making things is
not an imposition of form on matter, as though the end were already settled before the
task began. For how can form precede the processes that give rise to it? How can a
known and determined future precede the present and the past? In my childish eyes,
not knowing what the future holds, making is a never-ending task of world-weaving, a
correspondence of material movement and ambient vision. The model railway I built
when I was young was never finished: it was always work in progress, just as real rail-
ways are, right up to the time it was abandoned when other things in life took over.
Only occasionally, and not without hazard, did trains run on my line. The greatest
pleasure came not from that but from placing my eye at the level of the layout and al-
lowing my vision to enter into the little world I had created, to roam around the station

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18                                                                                        TIM INGOLD


buildings and on through the trees and meadows beside the tracks. The ground of my
landscape was papier mâché laid on chicken wire, the grass was cotton floss, and the
trees were lichens I had collected from the woods. No objects here! Just an assemblage
of materials whose pathways are as diverse as those we weave in in our quotidian lives
as we read our newspapers, sew our clothes, feed the hens and wander in the forest.
    Whilst writing the first chapter of Making, in the spring of 2012, I was also prepar-
ing an application to the European Research Council for what was to become a major
project. The chapter and the project both had the same title, Knowing From the Inside.
And thanks to funding from the Council, that is where I am now, once more trying to
understand what it means to pursue an art of inquiry from within the very world we
seek to know, and in doing so, to draw anthropology into conversation with the discip-
lines of art, architecture and design 8. This is not, I should stress, to embark on an an-
thropological study of these disciplines or their practitioners. We have had quite
enough of that! It is to study with them, or even by means of them. It is to think of the
practice of art as a way of doing anthropology, a speculative exploration that would
open up to possibilities of being and knowing that might otherwise go unheeded (Sansi
2015). It is to think of architecture as an anthropological exploration of the creative
processes wherein people shape environments, and environments people. Its questions
concern the generation of form, the energetics of force and flow, the properties of ma-
terials, the weave of surfaces, the atmospheres of volumes, and the dynamics of activity
and of rest (Pallasmaa 1996; Spuybroek 2011; Bille, Sorensen 2016). And in the emer-
ging field of “design anthropology”, it is to think of design as an aspect of a process of
life whose primary characteristic is not that it is heading to a predetermined target but
that it carries on. An anthropology by means of design is precisely this: about how an-
thropology, through experimental design practice, can help pave the way for sustainable
futures (Gunn, Donovan 2012; Gunn et al. 2013).
    In all this I seem to have come a long way from exploring the mechanisms of regula-
tion in populations of humans and non-human animals! But looking back, I’m not sure
that I have shifted my position that much. After all, it was only because I failed in my
attempts to hive off the social from the ecological, to place it beyond the bounds of
nature, that I ended up returning knowing to where it belongs, on the inside of being,
and returning being itself to the world (Ingold 1997). The pioneers of ecology whose
work we read in the early days of my course on Environment and Technology would
have considered it self-evident that we human beings are part of the “household of
nature” from which the field of ecology takes its name. They would be appalled – as
my father latterly was – by the narrowly gene-centric perspective of contemporary
bioscience, by its disregard for organic life, and by its obsession with data at the ex-
pense of a more holistic understanding of environmental relations and processes. And

8. Much of the inspiration for this approach comes from science studies scholar Karen Barad (2003,
2007): «We do not obtain knowledge by standing outside of the world», Barad writes; «we know be-
cause “we” are of the world. We are part of the world in its differential becoming» (Barad 2007: 185).


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FROM SCIENCE TO ART AND BACK AGAIN                                                                        19


they would probably find themselves much in sympathy with contemporary environ-
mental artists, architects and designers who are struggling to break down the boundar-
ies between the human and the non-human, to foreground lived experience, and to
highlight the sheer richness and complexity of a world which human beings have irre-
vocably altered through their activities and yet in which they are puny by comparison to
the forces they have unleashed. Welcome to the Anthropocene 9! Revisiting science and
art: which is more ecological now? Why is art leading the way in promoting radical
ecological awareness? The goals of today’s science are modelling, prediction and con-
trol. Is that why we turn to art to rediscover the humility that science has lost?

                                                    VII
    I remember the science of my childhood, grounded in tacit wonder at the exquisite
beauty of the natural world, in care, attentiveness, and in silent gratitude for what we
owe the world for our existence. Much of today’s science, however, has turned wonder
and gratitude into commodities. They no longer guide its practices but are rather in-
voked to advertise its results. Science has even enlisted art to promote its hard-sell, to
offer images that beautify its results, soften its impact and mask its collusion with cor-
porations whose only interest in research is that it should “drive innovation”. For in the
neoliberal economy of knowledge, only what is new sells. True, much scientific re-
search, in what is nowadays known as “academia”, lacks immediate application. It is
said to be curiosity-driven, or “blue sky”. Scientists have been vociferous in defending
their right to undertake blue-sky research. But in the land of academia, curiosity has
been divorced from care, freedom from responsibility. Academia’s income comes from
its exports of knowledge, but it is left to those who buy the knowledge to determine
how it should be applied, whether to build bombs, cure disease, or rig markets. Why
should scientists care? This attitude reveals the lofty appeal to blue skies to be little
more than a self-serving defence of special interests increasingly concentrated in the
hands of a global scientific elite which, in collusion with the corporations it serves,
treats the rest of the world – including the vast majority of its increasingly impover-
ished and apparently disposable human population – as a standing reserve of data to
feed the insatiable appetite of the knowledge economy.
    We should care, of course, because truth matters. And the responsible search for
truth demands that care and curiosity go together. They are really two sides of the same
coin. We are curious about the well-being of people we know and love, and never miss
an opportunity to ask them how they are doing. That is because we care about them.
Should it not be the same for the world around us? Is not curiosity a way of caring?
Not, it must be said, according to the protocols of normal science which require, in the


9. Much has been written on this controversial concept, and the roll-call of artists, architects and design-
ers who are addressing its challenges would be far too long to list here. But to get a flavour of it, see the
selection in Klingan et al. (2015).

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20                                                                                TIM INGOLD


name of objectivity, that we sever all personal relations with the things we study, and
remain unmoved and unperturbed by their condition. We owe them nothing, according
to these protocols, and they offer us nothing in return. It is a great mistake, however, to
equate the pursuit of objectivity with the pursuit of truth. For if the former prescribes
that we cut all ties with the world, the latter demands our full and unqualified participa-
tion. I may be being childish or naïve, but in my innocence I still believe in science as
the pursuit not of innovation but of truth. And by truth I do not mean fact rather than
fantasy, but the unison of experience and imagination in a world to which we are alive
and that is alive to us. It is a truth that comes not after science, in its proud record of
discoveries and achievements, but before science, in the more humble recognition that
we are ourselves beholden, for our very existence, to the world we seek to know. Thus
the movement from science to art, in my thinking and in my teaching, did not take me
further away from science but further into it, into the very conditions of its possibility. I
have gone from science to art and back again.




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FROM SCIENCE TO ART AND BACK AGAIN                                                          21




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22                                                                                 TIM INGOLD

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 Tim INGOLD is Chair of Social Anthropology at the University of Aberdeen. He has carried out
 fieldwork among Saami and Finnish people in Lapland, and has written on environment, techno -
 logy and social organisation in the circumpolar North, on animals in human society, and on hu -
 man ecology and evolutionary theory. His more recent work explores environmental perception
 and skilled practice. Ingold’s current interests lie on the interface between anthropology, archae-
 ology, art and architecture. His recent books include The Perception of the Environment (2000),
 ines (2007), Being Alive (2011), Making (2013) and The Life of Lines (2015).
 tim.ingold@abdn.ac.uk




This work is licensed under the Creative Commons © Tim Ingold
From science to art and back again: The pendulum of an anthropologist
2016 ⎸ANUAC. VOL. 5, N° 1, GIUGNO 2016: 5-23
ISSN: 2239-625X - DOI: 10.7340/anuac2239-625X-2237
