Try to Remember: Commemorating and Forgetting the Past

The human need to commemorate is exemplified in cultures all over the world, inextricably tied to both the individual and communal search for meaning as well as the desire to overcome the limitations of mortality and to avoid the possibility—even the inevitability—of oblivion. Who and how we choose to commemorate reveals our cultural values and our understanding of the past. Commemoration provides a view of the past that necessarily reflects the values of the present; whether memorializing individual lives, the power of rulers, or historical events, commemorative artifacts reflect and reveal the motivations of their creators. At the same time, these artifacts communicate multiple meanings to different audiences. Thus, for example, the family members who know the deceased intimately will interact with a gravestone much differently than the passerby. This is the case even when memorials include specific instructions for the proper remembrance of the deceased in their inscriptions. So too, evidence from the ancient Mediterranean demonstrates awareness of the many interpretive challenges presented by memorials, as both those who constructed them and those who destroyed them in deliberate acts of memory sanction attempted to control the meaning of artifacts that they knew would be experienced in so many ways.

The Iliad illustrates the complexity of commemoration as it memorializes the names and great deeds of its heroes. The epic poem suggests that being known and remembered by name (kleos) is the only sure human route to immortality, while asserting its own role in obviating the very real possibility of being forgotten. After all (and setting aside the question of whether the poem reflects historical events), the poem has preserved the names and stories of Achilles, Hector, and other heroes in a way that their tombs did not—and, arguably, could not. For example, in Book 2, the epic narrator describes where the Trojans gather before battle:

There is steep hill, right before the city,
Out on the plain, with space for passage all around,
Which men call Batieia
but the gods recognize it as the tomb of light-stepping Myrine.
Here the Trojans and their allies set up their ranks 

—Iliad 2.811–815 (Author’s Translation)

In these lines, the poet points out that Myrine, known for her light steps, might be remembered (the poem does not say), but forgetting is so powerful that humans do not realize they are standing on her tomb; indeed, only the gods and the poet may know that the “hill” is actually a tomb. Within the world of the Iliad, characters show intense interest in grave markers (sêmata) and the treatment of the dead body, but the poem delicately reveals how the passage of time changes the significance of all memorials. Over time, memorials become objects to be observed dispassionately; they may even become mere points in the landscape through which we, unaware of their intended meaning, orient ourselves in space.

Yet, in defiance of these processes, markers were constructed, eulogies written, epitaphs inscribed. Indeed, the collection of ancient Greek and Roman artifacts housed in the Bowdoin College Museum of Art reveals how commemoration repeatedly played a role in many areas of ancient Mediterranean life: vases used in funerals honoring the dead, helmets dedicated after victories in war, vases awarded as prizes in athletic contests, coins broadcasting the accomplishments of an emperor, stelai (funerary monuments) commemorating a deceased family member or recording a civic benefaction, statues honoring a prominent citizen or a king. Such commemorations reflected how a family wanted their child to be remembered and honored, how a city wanted its victories and defeats to be interpreted, how rulers tried to control their own stories. Likewise, outside the doors of the Museum, these commemorative traditions echo across Bowdoin’s campus.

So Memorial Hall, the flagpole, and the War monument are among the many monuments that recognize the sacrifices of the dead while making claims to the righteousness of the causes they died for. Likewise, trophies honoring athletic victories and boards inscribed with the names of academic prize-winners, some dating back more than a century, still decorate corridors and classrooms. Elsewhere on campus, imposing portraits of the college presidents grace a single massive hallway; presidents or generous benefactors provide their names to buildings; plaques announce gifts given by grateful alumni and members of the wider community. People no doubt pass these artifacts every day without paying much attention to their commemorative purposes—a process that happens with commemorations over time—but looking closely at what is in the Museum prompts us to take notice of what is all around us, at Bowdoin and beyond. The direct encounter with texts or objects from the Greek or Roman past invites us toward an intimate understanding of the values—and disagreements—of the societies and individuals that produced them, and in so doing, asks us to scrutinize our own.